Lorna Cook - The Forgotten Village

Whistling as he descended the stairs two at a time, he realised the house was eerily quiet. He stopped and listened, twizzling the cricket bat around in his hands as he reached the front hall. There was the faint sound of scribbling in Bertie’s office and Freddie knocked and entered.

Bertie looked up from behind his desk and glanced at the cricket bat. ‘Found something?’

Freddie looked down at his prized bat. ‘I brought two suitcases with me, thinking I’d fill them up. But there’s just this.’

He walked over to the large brown leather chesterfield settee that was situated in front of Bertie’s desk and sat down. He stretched his legs out in front of him lazily and looked around the study. Bertie watched him.

‘Sad to see the old place go?’ Freddie attempted conversation.

‘Absolutely bloody livid,’ Bertie exploded. ‘I had no idea they were going to take the house.’ Small bits of spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.

‘It’s war, they can do what they like,’ Freddie reasoned. ‘You and I are lucky though. We’re both of us here, still alive, not dying in some foreign field.’ Freddie looked around at the shelves wondering why the account ledgers hadn’t yet been packed away. Bertie obviously really believed he could put the requisition off and hadn’t yet packed the smaller items. ‘We’ve got to make sacrifices somewhere.’

‘What sacrifice have you made exactly?’ Bertie put his fountain pen down on the table and stared at his brother square in the eye.

Freddie narrowed his eyes. I left this house, I stayed away and I didn’t fight hard enough when you stole Veronica from me. There was no point hashing all that up now. She’d made her choice and it hadn’t been him. Instead, Freddie said, ‘I got shot, remember?’

‘Oh yes, the famous bullet that put you out of the war on day one,’ Bertie said, looking down at his papers again.

Freddie shook his head disbelievingly and rubbed self-consciously at his chest. The bullet he’d taken fighting in France in 1940 had nearly killed him.

Bertie looked as if he was spoiling for a fight and as he opened his mouth to speak, Freddie quickly interjected. ‘How’s Veronica? She seems … different.’

‘She is. She’s not the same woman I married,’ Bertie said sourly.

‘Is it the requisition?’ Freddie volunteered.

‘No. It’s been happening ever since we got married. Slowly, here and there, I’ll notice small things about her that make me more than a little curious about her sanity.’

Freddie’s mouth fell open. The Veronica he fell in love with all those years ago had been a vivacious, energetic woman, full of life and love. He’d fallen head over heels instantly, but he was too slow off the mark at proposing. That had been his undoing.

‘I sometimes wonder if I should have just let you have her back?’ Bertie mumbled.

The grandfather clock chimed in the hallway, breaking the silence that had fallen in the room. Freddie knew better than to reply. This was not the first time Bertie had alluded to his less than brotherly behaviour. After six months of stepping out with Veronica, Bertie had used his position as the older brother to full advantage with her father, convincing him to turn Veronica’s head. The lure of Bertie inheriting the estate and the London house was too much for Veronica’s father. No matter which way it was dressed up or justified, Bertie had stolen Veronica – and Veronica had obviously been willing to go.

Freddie often wondered how different his life would have been if he’d been the older brother; if he’d have held more sway. He blamed himself for Veronica’s switch of affections. He should have proposed the moment he knew he was in love. But he had been too late. Freddie remembered the words Bertie had used when he’d broken their engagement news to him, slapping him on the back. ‘It’s the greatest compliment, old chap. She wanted you. Only better.’

Choosing not to engage, Freddie stood and picked up the cricket bat. ‘I’m going to pack this and then I’ll walk around the grounds for a bit. Visit my old haunts. Is the beach hut still there?’

Bertie was writing again and looked up impatiently. ‘What? I wouldn’t know. I’ve not been down there in years.’

After an hour of walking around the formal gardens and the wood, Freddie decided he needed sea air. He walked towards the long cliff path that led to the estate’s private cove. He stopped at the top of the cliff and peered over the edge. The steps were still there, naturally formed unevenly into the cliff face. He stared out to sea, listening to the waves crashing down below. Glancing around the coastline, he could see across towards the next bay, where a square stone observation post had been built in readiness for preventing a German invasion. His heart sank as he looked below and saw the stone ‘dragon’s teeth’, ruining the beach but forming a necessary part of the coastal defences.

He stretched lazily and looked about. As a boy, he’d played here with Bertie in summer, had rowed the dinghy to the rocks and they had thrown their fishing nets out, catching nothing. Freddie smiled, remembering how they used to steal bottles of Father’s port from the cellar when no one was watching and throw the empty bottles into the sea, returning back to the house drunk and happy. God, they were tearaways. They’d been so similar back then. Or had they really? It had always been Bertie encouraging Freddie to steal the wine. But somehow it had always been Freddie who got the blame.

If the little beach hut was still there, it would probably be a miracle. His mother had installed it where the steep cliff met the sand so they could store their belongings, deckchairs, parasols and fishing paraphernalia. It had been Freddie’s safe haven when life in the shadow of his brother got too much and he needed some peace and quiet.

Freddie descended the steep cliff steps, which wound down to the pale sandy beach, and went to look at the dragon’s teeth. Waist-height, they resembled stone pyramids that had been squared off at the top. How things had changed since he’d last been here. Still, he’d rather look at his beloved cove braced for war than covered in Germans. He’d seen enough of them in France while he was narrowly escaping with his life. The dragon’s teeth were a small price. These will certainly stop a few tanks , he thought as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the low December sunshine.

He stopped, bending over to catch his breath and to try to alleviate the pain that exercise brought to his ravaged chest. Scrambling up and down the cliff path wasn’t easy at the best of times. He damned the German who had shot him three years ago as he ran towards the beaches at Dunkirk. That was the last time he’d been on a beach. Until today. Feeling the soft sand underfoot brought back memories of men screaming in pain, along with the madness of the songs being sung by the troops as they waited for the long-promised boats to arrive. He thanked whichever God it was that had seen fit to save him. He’d been one of the lucky ones, even with a bullet lodged inside. He’d survived. He rubbed his chest. It always hurt more in the cold.

Across the sand, the beach hut was still there. And Freddie was pleasantly surprised to find it was prettier than ever. The wood had been scrubbed and painted fresh, not too long ago by the looks of it. It used to be a yellowing beige colour, the wood on the verge of rotting when he’d last seen it. But now it was cream and varnished to a shine. The little porch had a brass hurricane lamp hanging from it with a candle inside. The wood of the decking was a brilliant white. He smiled. Someone had been taking care of his little hut.

He walked closer to it and wondered if it was unlocked. As the beach was private to the estate, there had been no need to lock it in his day. But times changed and who knew what orders his brother had put in place in the last few years since his parents had passed away and Bertie had inherited the lot.