Peter Lovesey - Rough Cider

“Them? They’re hard people,” said Sally, “Did you speak to them?”

“Only Bernard, the son.”

“He farms it all now, the main farm as well as Lower Gifford. The old couple look after the vegetables behind the house, and that’s all.”

“Do you keep up with them?”

She shook her head. “Barbara was a real pal, rest her soul, and her mother has been here for a coffee, but I’ve no time for the men.”

“You visit the village sometimes?”

“Whenever I can. I know so many people there. Harry picks up a certain amount of business through the pub. He’s never off duty.” She fidgeted with the lapel of her housecoat.

“I miss the old days.”

“Like picking the apples?”

“Mm. The fun we had.”

“Telling fortunes with apple pips.”

She smiled at me. “Do you remember that?”

“Vividly. Barbara sliced the apple and got three pips. Tinker, tailor, soldier.”

Sally’s face changed. “And she split the soldier pip with the knife, poor love. She was terribly upset, being pregnant and everything.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

“We had no secrets from each other. They were going to be married.”

I said gently, “I’m afraid he already had a wife and child.”

Sally shook her head. “That can’t be true.”

“Back in America.”

There was an agonizing silence, ended by a creak of floorboards as Harry approached.

Sally snapped out in a small shocked voice, “You’ve got it all wrong.” With an abrupt change of manner she turned, raised her voice, and addressed the open door. “We had a regular downpour here this afternoon, didn’t we, Harry?”

He gave no answer. He seemed to ignore her most of the time.

I was in no shape to pick up the conversation. Sally’s last comment had left me reeling. I wanted to ask more, but judging from her reaction to Harry, this wasn’t the moment.

We were handed our drinks. Sally looked at hers and said, “What’s this?”

“Grapefruit juice,” said Harry without looking at her.

“The ladies are drinking fruit juice.”

“You’re kidding!” said Sally, starting towards the door.

“With vodka, maybe.”

He grabbed her wrist in a surprisingly agile reflex and said, “Without.”

She glared at him and said, “Prick.” Then she tugged herself free and ran from the room.

Harry smugly called after her, “I locked it.” He explained to us superfluously, “She isn’t allowed alcohol.”

An awkward silence ensued. The onus was on him to start a new line of conversation, and I didn’t feel like helping.

It paid off. He said, “So you remember Duke?”

I nodded.

“Regular guy,” said Harry. “Too bad.”

I waited for more, and when it came, it was as sensational as anything Sally had said.

“He should be alive today.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Alice in a whisper. She was wound up to the snapping point.

“Just that, sweetheart. Duke was innocent. I could have saved him.” Harry picked a cigar out of a ceramic pot on the mantelpiece and made us wait while he went through the ritual of lighting it.

Making it obvious that I’d need plenty of convincing, I commented, “You say you could have saved him but you didn’t.”

Harry glared at me through the smoke. “How could I? Where was I in 1945 when they put him on trial? Somewhere this side of Berlin, mopping up. I didn’t see Duke after Normandy. Our units were separated after the landing. The first I heard of it was August ’45, a piece of gossip over a beer. This padre from way back says to me, ‘remember Duke Donovan, the tall New Yorker who wrote songs?’ Did I know they took him back to England and hanged him for murder? Did I, hell!”

Skeptically, I said, “You think you should have been the star witness for the defense?”

“Am I getting through to you now?” said Harry, trading sarcasm.

Alice was hunched forward on the edge of the chair, pressing her whitened knuckles against her jaw. “How do you know that my daddy was innocent?”

So much for our ground rules, but who could have blamed her? The precise words she used weren’t planned. She was so keyed up that the mention of her daddy was automatic.

Harry was on to it like a terrier. “Just who are you?”

Alice stared at him in a petrified silence. I doubt if she was capable of speech.

I answered for her. “She’s the daughter of Duke and Eleanor Donovan.”

He gave a quick, nervous laugh. “You don’t say! Elly’s child? This is Elly’s child? Why didn’t you tell me, for Christ’s sake?”

I said truthfully, “We didn’t know how you’d react.”

He was busy adjusting, torn between anger and, I think, a residue of sentiment. “Can you beat that? I married her mother, did you know that? I’m her stepfather.” He took a couple of steps towards Alice in recognition that some paternal gesture was wanted and actually put out a hand towards her shoulder without quite making contact. He let it down slowly and asked, “Tell me, is Elly still-”

I spoke for Alice again. “She died.”

“No,” said Harry with the awkwardness of an ex-husband with a nonexistent record of concern, “That’s terrible. How?”

“A car crash earlier this year.”

He rolled his eyes upwards. “Nobody told me.”

I said unsparingly, “Is that surprising after you abandoned them?”

He turned away from me. “Alice, honey, if there’s anything you need…”

She said without looking up, “Just tell me about my daddy.”

Harry nodded, picked up his glass, and said, “First I need another drink. Anyone else?”

He left us alone.

I offered my Scotch and soda to Alice. “Want a sip of this?”

She shook her head.

I warned her, “Don’t expect too much from Harry. He could be stringing us along.”

I don’t know if he heard my opinion, but he was back in the room a second after I’d given it, ready to go, like an actor on a second take. This time with more attack. “Okay, if you want to know the truth about your daddy, Alice, you picked the right guy. He and I were buddies from way back. We belonged to a boys’ baseball club in Queens. Does that surprise you?” He mimed the pitcher’s action. “And your mom used to come and watch. She was in high school with Duke. Eleanor Beech. Blonde like you and just as pretty. Well, almost. I could show you pictures.”

I said acidly, “The words will do.”

“Whatever you want. Elly Beech was Duke’s girl, and I used to date her sometimes.” He smiled at the memory. “Date her? I mean buy her an ice-cream soda at the drugstore and walk her home after. Duke was bigger than me, better-looking, a lean, dark Irish look that impressed girls.” Harry paused to let us appreciate how golden-hearted he was, then added, “But I was a couple of years older. A man of the world. I could do voices and make her laugh, I may be shorter than average, but I never had problems relating to women.”

No, I thought, you never had problems, you bastard, but you gave your wives plenty.

Harry was on to his service career. He’d enlisted in December 1941, the day after America entered the war. “I was smart. The first volunteers took quick promotion. Inside eighteen months I was made up to sergeant. I told Duke, and he signed on as soon as he reached the age, in ’42. He needed the pay to marry Elly, which he did, sometime in ’43.”

Alice supplied the date: “April fifth.”

Harry flashed her a broad smile. “Thanks, sweetheart. You must be right, because they weren’t married more than a couple of months before it was June and we were drafted to Shepton Mallet, England. Great name, crummy place. A stone cross, a prison, and five thousand GIs bored out of their skulls. Is it any wonder that I got reduced to the ranks for bringing girls onto the base at night?”