Last Letter Home Read online

  ‘We know that’s not true,’ the lawyer said heavily. ‘You saw him. How would a man in his condition be able to escape? He was beaten, you saw that for yourselves. Frau Hartmann, I beg you, take Paul and leave Germany. There’s no future for either of you here and it will become dangerous to be English if there’s war. It is best if you go home.’

  ‘Home! My mother’s parents were dead and she had lived in Germany since she was eighteen, when she’d been sent to live with a German couple to learn the language. Lady Kelling’s mother was my mother’s cousin,’ Paul went on, ‘and in the end she wrote to them. The Kellings have been kind to have us.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ In fact, Sarah thought he had spoken stiffly when he mentioned the Kellings and wondered if they had not treated this little German branch of the family in distress with as much kindness as they might. However, she’d still not met Sir Henry and Lady Kelling, so maybe it was too early to form such an opinion.

  Instead she said, ‘Do you intend to continue being a gardener?’

  He slowed the car to let some schoolchildren cross. When they set off again, he answered her. ‘My plan eventually is to finish my doctorate. There’s a botanist with my specialism at Cambridge University I might write to, to see if he’d be my supervisor, but I need to save some money first. We were able to bring nothing out of Germany . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I expect you would worry about leaving your mother, too.’

  ‘That’s it exactly. You understand.’ He glanced at her and smiled. ‘It’s been dreadful for her losing my father and she grieves deeply for him. Maybe when it’s warmer she will start to feel a little stronger, and if I move to Cambridge perhaps she would come too. At the moment, though, the arrangement here suits her and she won’t think of going anywhere else.’

  He sighed, and Sarah saw how much the situation frustrated him. At twenty-six, a year older than he was, she knew a little of how he felt, that life and youth and the possibility of a future were ebbing away. Her parents’ generation had lost so much in war. Would it soon be the children’s turn?

  Fourteen

  All Saints’ Westbury was as different from the church in Tuana as it was possible to be. Where the latter had been bleached by the glaring Mediterranean sun, this grey stone hulk with its stubby tower stood hunched up against the cold wind on a graveyard mound that grew wild with grasses and flowers.

  Inside, out of the wind, it felt much warmer and the sun falling through the windows cast colourful patterns over the flagstones. Briony was wrapped in quietness as she wandered about, breathing in the musty scents of aged wood and leather and stroking the carved ends of the ancient pews. Halfway down a side aisle she came to a console table and opened a slim calf-bound volume that was lying there. The creamy pages whispered of the past as she read the beautifully handwritten names of the dead of two world wars from the parish, frowning as she tried to recognize any. It was a shock to come across her grandfather’s name, Harry Andrews, but then she saw the date of death was 1916. Perhaps this had been a young uncle who’d died of wounds during the Battle of the Somme. No name from the Second World War entries leaped out at her. No Hartmann, no Andrews or Bailey. She’d almost come to the end when she heard a sudden snore and nearly jumped out of her skin.

  The sound came from a choir stall where an elderly man with sparse white hair dozed, a newspaper open on his lap. He was so still that, but for the rise and fall of his chest, he might be taken for a painted wooden carving. There was something familiar about him.

  He must have sensed her watching, for his eyes fluttered open and when he saw her he straightened and gave her a smile that shook his wrinkles. ‘Bless you, my dear. I must apologize.’ His hand groped for the stick leaning against the seat beside him and she realized: this was the old man she’d seen sitting in the walled garden on the day she arrived.

  ‘There’s no need. It’s a good place for a nap,’ she said, taking a concerned step towards him as he rose unsteadily. He wore a clerical collar, she saw, though he was surely too ancient to be vicar here.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m quite all right. Simply a little stiff. I see you’ve been examining our memorial register.’

  ‘Yes, I hope you don’t mind. I’m Briony Wood and I’ve recently discovered that my grandfather’s family came from Westbury. My grandfather moved to Surrey after the war, which is where I’m from. I’m trying to find out a little about him.’

  ‘You’ll only find the names of the war dead there, of course. Who was your grandfather?’

  ‘His name was Harry Andrews. Not the one in the book who died in 1916. Grandpa was born in 1915. And died in 1988. I tried looking him up on the internet,’ Briony went on, seeing his interest, ‘and found he was in the Norfolk Regiment. I think he joined up in 1939 or soon after, anyway, and I know he served in Italy.’

  ‘Andrews, yes, that’s a name I recognize.’ The old man stopped to clear his throat. ‘Though I haven’t actually met any living ones here. This was never my parish, you see. They don’t let you retire in the place where you’ve been vicar. They think you might cause trouble with the new regime, I suppose.’ His faded blue eyes glinted with humour.

  ‘I didn’t know that. Have you lived in Westbury long?’

  ‘Fifteen years, it must be. My final parish before I retired was near Ipswich. Westbury has an interesting history, you know. One of Charles the Second’s mistresses is said to have been born at the Hall. But Andrews, Andrews. Let’s try the graveyard record.’ Briony followed as he shambled over to a table near the door where, with quivering hands, he opened a plastic folder lying there. ‘I drew this up for the rector soon after I arrived. It might offer some names that are familiar’

  He fumbled past the typed pages and from a pouch at the back slid out what turned out to be a meticulous hand-drawn plan of the graveyard with Revd George Symmonds, 2002 written in tiny letters at the bottom. ‘That’s you?’ she asked when he showed it to her and he nodded with a modest smile.

  ‘The list is alphabetical by surname, then you cross-check the grave reference on the plan.’

  Briony pulled the folder towards her and began to read the columns of names. ‘There are lots of Kellings and Foggs round here, aren’t there? But not many Andrews.’ Then she saw with sudden surprise. ‘Oh, there’s a Hartmann. Here. Barbara Hartmann. I’ve seen some letters to a Paul Hartmann.’ There was no Paul listed, though.

  ‘I’d forgotten about her, poor lady. From the state of her grave I fear everyone has. Except God, of course, and I suppose that’s the most important thing. Would you like to go out and look? I don’t remember mention of any Paul, though.’

  Barbara Hartmann’s grave was in a secluded corner, shaded by an overhanging tree that scattered tiny shell-like blossom. The engraving on the stone slab was weather-worn, but Briony could make out most of the detail. Barbara Ann Hartmann was the lady’s full name. Then a date, 1940, and, below that, a reference to a husband.

  ‘Klaus Hartmann,’ George Symmonds said, peering through his spectacles. ‘According to the documents, he’s not buried anywhere in this churchyard.’

  ‘Maybe they were Paul’s parents.’

  ‘Tell me about this Paul.’

  ‘I was given some letters which were written to him during the war by a woman called Sarah. I think her other name was Bailey. She lived at Flint Cottage. Do you know a Flint Cottage?’

  ‘I do, yes. It’s further up to the left, on the other side of the road. A couple with a young family moved in recently. Nice people. He’s a GP and she’s a consultant something at the hospital.’

  ‘They probably won’t know about Sarah if they’re new.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Do you live near here?’

  She explained that she was staying at Westbury Lodge.

  He nodded. ‘I drive up that way sometimes. Pastoral visits, you know.’

  ‘Then it must have been you I saw. Sitting in the walled garden a couple of days ago.’


  ‘I confess it was! I love it there. It has a particular atmosphere which I find very conducive to thought. Though I find the line between meditation and sleep to be a fine one these days.’ His eyes twinkled.

  While Mr Symmonds picked the moss from Barbara Hartmann’s memorial stone, Briony wandered round the graveyard, examining the inscriptions. The centre was dominated by a large, plain catafalque fenced round with black iron palings. ‘That’s the Kelling family tomb,’ the old man called, seeing her interest. ‘What a monster, eh?’

  The Andrews graves were scattered about. She bent to read the stones. Hannah, Elizabeth, Percival – the names and dates meant nothing to her, but she enjoyed a pleasant sense of connection to these possible shadowy ancestors. Despite the brisk east wind this was a beautiful place to end up, she thought, with its dancing trees and the dreaming stones.

  Thanking George Symmonds, Briony walked slowly back up the lane towards the Hall. On the way, she passed a large cottage with a garden behind a flint wall. A small oblong concrete plaque set in the wall, which she hadn’t noticed on the way down, read Flint Cottage. So this was where Sarah Bailey had lived. She stopped and listened to the sounds of children playing somewhere behind the house. Then a young spaniel appeared at the gate and yapped at her, so she set off once more. She’d call in another time.

  Walking under the gateway with its Great Dane statue, she heard a car turn in behind her and glanced back. It was a silver saloon with an expensive-sounding engine and when she stood to one side to let it pass, the driver stopped and lowered his window. The man was a few years older than her, with dark, unshaven looks, a little tousled, but his crisp navy jacket was as sleek as his car.

  ‘Morning. I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ he said, in a well-spoken voice that while polite was used to being obeyed. ‘You have business here, do you? It’s simply that this park is private.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’m staying close by.’

  ‘Oh, I see. My apologies then. We’ve had problems lately with tourists treating the place as a picnic spot and leaving litter.’

  ‘I’ve rented Westbury Lodge. I promise not to drop any litter.’

  ‘Ah. Now I’m embarrassed.’ He flashed a friendly smile, showing even white teeth. ‘In that case, hop in, let me give you a lift up the hill.’

  ‘It’s all right, thanks,’ she said, folding her arms in mock umbrage. ‘I was brought up not to get into strangers’ cars. Anyway, I’m enjoying the walk.’

  His forehead crinkled and then he decided she was teasing and grinned again. ‘Sure, though I’m perfectly safe. Nice to meet you, anyway.’ She watched him drive away, but instead of going to the Hall, as he’d implied was his intention, he took a left turn, hooted his horn and waved at her, before the car was swallowed up by a thick grove of trees.

  ‘That’ll be Greg Richards, my boss.’ Kemi in reception at the Hall was dressed in a deep blue skirt suit today, striking against her raven hair and sparkling dark brown eyes. ‘He’s usually only down at weekends now the building work’s done.’

  ‘Does he stay here?’

  ‘In the Hall? No. He has a house in the wood down there.’

  That seemed to be the extent of Kemi’s knowledge about the man, or what she was prepared to say about him, anyway, but the thought of his attractive, good-humoured face, his dark hair and shadowy beard, stayed with Briony for the rest of the day.

  It came almost as no surprise, therefore, when the following afternoon she answered a knock on her door to find him waiting on the path. He wasn’t as tall as she expected, was her initial impression.

  ‘Hi. We met briefly yesterday. Greg Richards. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ His smile was as charming as she remembered.

  She looked at him and then down at the cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers he’d taken out from behind his back.

  ‘What are these for?’ she asked, taking them from him with a frown. They were pretty, bright gerbera and gypsophila, what was its other name, baby’s breath? But she wasn’t used to getting flowers and found herself questioning the motives behind these.

  ‘You must have thought me rude yesterday,’ Greg said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be. This is by way of amends.’ He appeared sincere in his penitence.

  ‘Thank you. You shouldn’t have worried,’ she said, softening. ‘I wasn’t offended really. Having strangers leaving rubbish on your property must be horrible and I don’t blame you for challenging me.’ She smiled. ‘Come in for a moment. I was sitting in the garden, having failed to muster the energy to do some work. I’m Briony, by the way. Briony Wood.’

  She led him through to the back of the cottage where a small pear-shaped lawn was edged by flower borders. Hollyhocks and foxgloves grew up against a wooden fence.

  ‘All very English country garden,’ he remarked, looking round. ‘Nice. I haven’t been out here since our tenant left. Kemi deals with everything.’

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it? I’ve been trying my hand at some weeding, but I’m not very good at telling which the good plants are.’

  ‘Hmm, well, don’t ask me, I don’t know either. I wish I did. I’d like to develop the gardens here. Put the place on the map a bit. Haven’t quite decided what yet. It’s difficult as I’m up in the City all week.’

  ‘So Kemi said. I’m a Londoner, too, an academic, though.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re Professor Wood.’

  ‘Just Doctor, so far.’

  ‘What subject?’

  ‘History. At Duke’s College. I specialize in the Second World War, but a great deal of my time is spent teaching students. While I’m here I’m going over the draft of a book I’m writing,’ she said, and changed the subject because she didn’t feel like pouring out all the details to a stranger on a lovely warm Sunday afternoon. ‘It’s just the place to do it,’ she went on quickly. ‘I’ve fallen in love with the Hall. Do you own the whole estate? Kemi said you were her boss, but I didn’t think what that meant.’

  ‘I am the owner, yes.’

  ‘Has it been your family home? It must have quite a history.’

  ‘I haven’t owned it long. It came onto the market several years ago. It belonged to the Kelling family for centuries, but they ran out of money.’

  So he was simply a property developer making a buck. That was a shame, she’d hoped he’d be more involved than that.

  ‘I do care about the old place, though,’ he said, smiling, as though he’d read her thoughts. ‘There’s a family connection. My great-grandfather, one Hector Richards, was the estate manager here between the wars. I live in his house.’

  Briony found herself warming to Greg now. He was being very friendly, she thought. There was no sign of his bossiness of yesterday.

  ‘That’s wonderful. Apparently I have connections round here, too. My grandfather’s name was Harry Andrews?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know any Andrews. So is that why you chose to come here? A little foray into family history?’

  ‘Sort of,’ she said. There was a sharpness about his question that made her guarded. ‘Mainly, I want to get this writing done and it’s difficult to concentrate in London in summer.’

  ‘Yeah, kind of enervating, isn’t it? And if you go out, everywhere is full of tourists. I’ll tell you what, though, I’m seeing my old dad tomorrow. He lives out on the coast at Blakeney. Bit of a sailor, my dad. I’ll ask him if he knows of any Andrews.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be brilliant.’

  After she’d shown him out, Briony arranged his flowers in a vase and placed it on the kitchen windowsill. It pleased her that she would see them every time she entered the room.

  She made a mug of tea and, with a deep breath, went into the dining room, where she’d set up a working space in the window looking out at the front. She sat down, brought up her manuscript on her laptop and began to scroll down until the editor’s first comment appeared. Evidence? it said.

  A movement outside made her glance up to see an old, v
ery stooped lady walk slowly past the house tugging an equally ancient pug dog on a lead. For a moment she watched their agonizing progress, the dog swaying like a barrel on its stiff little legs, then she addressed herself again to the screen in front of her.

  The Auxiliary Territorial Service was by far the biggest of the women’s services, she read in her introduction, and had its origins in the First World War. She supposed it was a bit vague. She moved the cursor to the beginning of the sentence and inserted: Totalling 200,000 by 1945.

  She worked solidly for an hour and a half, stopping frequently to consult one or other of the books and paperwork she’d brought with her or to find a reference online, but when she stopped to remove her reading glasses and rub her tired eyes she saw she had addressed only the comments in the first three-quarters of the introduction. Beyond the window the slanting sun was making shadows of the trees across the lane. She felt hungry.

  In the kitchen she filled a roll with ham and salad, arranged it with a slab of carrot cake on a plate, made another mug of tea and carried the whole lot outside. She went to the front this time, and through the door into the walled garden, picking the bench where she’d seen the old man.