Where the Heart Lies (29 page)

‘Have you got a full team for the rugby?’ she asked, testing him.

‘Absolutely,’ he replied. ‘Even managed to get old Dr Whittaker to come and referee, though I doubt he’ll last more than ten minutes – he
is
over seventy.’

‘So you weren’t having a private talk about William?’

‘William is fine,’ he said firmly and turned to head down the corridor. ‘You heard what Sam said. We’re not hiding anything from you, I promise.’

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, catching up with him, ‘but I can’t help worrying when two doctors get their heads together.’

‘Cynic,’ he teased.

She grinned back at him. ‘It’s what comes of dealing with you lot day in and day out. You can’t blame me.’

They reached the entrance hall and he helped
carry the pram down the steps. ‘What if I give you a free ticket to the rugby match? Will that convince you?’

‘It might,’ she said and giggled. ‘But I prefer going to the football. Now there’s a game I understand.’

‘My dear girl, your education is sorely lacking. I shall make it my personal charge to bring you up to standard before I can allow you to set foot on the sidelines.’

She laughed. ‘My dad supported West Ham all his life, and if it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. Rugby’s for toffs.’

‘I might have known you’d think like that.’ He sighed dramatically as they crossed the forecourt and reached the pavement. ‘Just give it a chance, Julie. You might find it’s far more exciting than any silly football game.’

She smiled up at him. ‘Seeing as how kind you’ve been to me and William, I can’t really refuse, can I?’ As he shook his head and grinned down at her, she reached for his hand. ‘Thanks ever so, Michael. I really appreciate what you’ve done today.’

He squeezed her fingers. ‘Glad to be of service. And if there’s anything else I can do, you only have to ask.’

They stood outside the hospital, their hands still linked. ‘Oh, I think teaching me the rules of rugby will be enough for now,’ she murmured, warmed by his friendship and the easy way they could talk to one another.

‘Rugby has laws, not rules,’ he replied, his smile teasing. ‘There you are, your education has begun already.’

Neither of them saw Eunice Beecham come out of the newsagent’s further down the street. She stood on the pavement, her expression venomous as her narrowed gaze fell on the linked hands and the intimate way they were looking at one another.

She watched them until she couldn’t bear it any longer, then turned and fled back to her flat at the bottom of the High Street. Her heartache and bitter disappointment were nothing compared to the urgent, driving need for vengeance. She had loved Michael for five years. After he had been betrayed by his childhood sweetheart, she had bided her time in the hope he would finally notice her and realise they were meant to be together.

Michael belonged to her, and only her. One way or another, she would have to get rid of Julie Harris.

RON HAD NO
idea how Frank had managed to drive his delivery truck to Beach View without killing himself. He’d certainly been in no fit state to get it to the station to pick up Pauline and take her home to their fisherman’s cottage in Tamarisk Bay, and had put up little resistance when Jim had insisted upon getting behind the wheel.

It was a tight squeeze with the four of them packed in the small driver’s cab, made even more uncomfortable by the sound of Pauline’s heart-rending sobs and the pall of grief that hung over all of them. The winding, steep track between Cliffehaven and Tamarisk Bay was pitted and rutted by the army lorries that went back and forth between the gun emplacements and lookouts, and it was clear that Jim was finding it hard to concentrate, for the wheels seemed to find every lump and pothole.

Ron stared out of the window at the sparkling sea beyond the tank traps and rolls of barbed wire that stretched across most of the bay, his thoughts continually returning to his two grandsons whose loss was like a terrible weight round his heart. They’d been bonny wee lads, growing tall and strong
like their father as they’d learned the vagaries of the wind and tides in the family fleet of fishing boats. The sea had become their life, and now it had claimed them, taking them away from those who loved them, and from the shores of home, where they would never sail again. He could only pray that Brendon would make it back, and made a silent covenant with God that if He spared the boy, he would attend mass again, repent all his many sins, and try to be a good Catholic.

They arrived at the row of pretty little cottages which overlooked the small bay, and Frank carried Pauline indoors, taking her straight into their bedroom. Ron and Jim silently made tea and sat in heavy contemplation, staring out at the row of fishing boats that lay at anchor on the short stretch of cleared shingle as the bedroom door remained shut and the sound of sobbing continued. Eventually, feeling useless and intrusive in such tragic circumstances, they decided it would be best to leave the couple to their private grief and come back tomorrow. Now they faced the long trek over the hills to get back home.

Ron felt the weight of his years and had to will himself to put one foot in front of the other, as the chill wind bit into his bones and his muscles ached with weariness. But the vengeance in his heart kept him going. He glowered at the evening sky, which was ominously clear, the sickle moon floating over the water. The bombers would be back, shattering
the tranquillity of the hills with their deadly thunder, but he would be waiting for them from now on. He would demand a post in one of the gun emplacements, so he could shoot them down and make them pay for all those lost young lives.

He was startled from his dark, angry thoughts by Jim’s voice. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘What was that?’

‘I said, I can’t begin to imagine what Frank must be going through.’ Jim was panting as they tramped up the final hill and reached the top. He came to a halt and tried to get his breath back. ‘The poor wee man was broken, so he was.’

‘Losing those two boys is enough to break the strongest man. All we can do now is support him and Pauline and pray to God that Brendon will be sent home. Frank needs his family round him more than ever now.’

‘Aye, he does that,’ murmured Jim, staring out at the moon’s silver glow on the rippling sea.

Ron eyed his youngest son thoughtfully. ‘It’s time to forget whatever set you apart, Jim, and be his brother again.’

Jim nodded and sighed. ‘But it won’t be easy, Da. We’ve exchanged hard words over the years, and the cut of them went deep – perhaps too deep for either of us to ever forget or forgive.’

‘There’s enough trouble in this world without brother fighting brother,’ Ron muttered as they began to walk again. ‘I think you’ll find Frank is
willing to let bygones be bygones in the light of what’s happened.’

‘I don’t know that he will, Da. The trust between us was broken a long time ago – and once that’s gone . . .’

Ron pulled his pipe out of his coat pocket and spent a while tamping in the tobacco and getting it going satisfactorily. ‘What was it you fell out about, anyway?’ he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

Jim dug his chin into his coat collar, his hands rammed deep in his overcoat pocket, as they continued along the headland, the silence stretching between them. ‘Something happened in France at the end of the last war,’ he said finally. ‘And every time I see Frank, it brings it all back.’

Ron frowned, but said nothing. This was the first time either of his sons had shed even a glimmer of light on the feud that had lasted over twenty years, and now it seemed that Jim was ready to talk. Perhaps he needed to talk, as a balm to his conscience, or as an atonement to his brother, whose family had been ripped apart by something none of them could change.

They reached a copse of trees which had once been part of an ancient orchard on the edge of Lord Cliffe’s estate, and Jim drew to a halt, slowly sinking to the grass, his back resting against the rough bark of a gnarled apple tree. He lit a cigarette and then hugged his knees, his gaze fixed to the horizon, his expression unreadable.

Ron sat beside him and smoked his pipe, willing to wait for as long as it took for Jim to speak.

‘We were in the middle of nowhere, making our way north,’ Jim said softly. ‘It was towards the end of the war, though we didn’t really believe it then – there were always rumours, as you know.’

Ron grimaced. They’d been told that damned war would be over by the first Christmas, but it had lasted four soul-destroying years – and here they were, fighting another one.

Jim smoked his cigarette, his gaze still fixed to the horizon. ‘A group of us had been detailed to go on ahead of the rest to flush out any remaining pockets of the enemy and clear the mines or booby traps they’d left behind. We came to this village,’ his voice faltered, and he took a moment to steady himself. ‘The Huns had rounded up the women, children and the elderly and were lining them up against the church wall. As we watched, they opened fire and killed every last one – even the babies in their mothers’ arms.’

Ron looked sorrowfully at his son as he fell silent. Jim’s eyes held the haunting shadows of atrocious memories. Ron understood, for he too had witnessed the craven depths to which men fell when blood-lust and violence ruled.

‘The bastards never saw us come out of the surrounding woods. They’d turned from their killing and had raided the nearby bar, drinking and laughing as those poor defenceless people lay dead in the
shadow of their little church.’ Jim fell silent again and ran his fingers through his hair in agitation, then went on. ‘I’d never believed in seeing red until that day, but as I watched those brutes and saw those bodies, it was as if my eyes and my head were full of blood. I’d never known such rage.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I learned afterwards that everyone felt the same – even Frank. We marched into the village square as one and opened up our guns, killing the lot of them, firing over and over again, even after we’d run out of bullets.’

Ron could imagine the scene, for he’d known such rage himself, though his training with the special ops unit had taught him to rein it in and use it only when there was no other option. His sons had only done what any other man would have done in the circumstances.

‘You did what you had to,’ he murmured. ‘There’s no shame in that.’

Jim scrubbed his face with his hands and tucked his chin back in his coat collar. ‘I feel no shame for it,’ he admitted. ‘They were the enemy, and they’d committed a heinous crime against women and children. It was what happened afterwards that is shameful.’

Ron felt a flutter of unease. He’d wanted to know the reason behind his sons’ feud for years, but now he wondered if he really wanted to hear what had happened. His imagination took flight and he had to struggle to keep the images at bay. ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ he said quietly.

Jim’s dark, steady gaze settled on his father. ‘It’s time, Da. Frank and I have kept it between us for too long.’

Ron bit down on the stem of his pipe, his heart pounding in dread.

‘That red mist was like opium, and the adrenalin was pumping as we tried desperately to find any survivors amongst the villagers. But there was no one alive, so we found picks and shovels and dug a mass grave behind the church, which we marked with a rough wooden cross. Young Sapper Jones always carried a Bible, so he said a few words over them, and then we ransacked the bar for brandy and wine and set about getting drunk.’

‘Aye, it would seem the thing to do,’ Ron murmured.

‘I had a terrible thirst, Da, and wanted to blot out the horrors by drinking myself into oblivion. But no matter how much I poured down my throat, I stayed sober. Frank and most of the others soon passed out, and I was sitting among them staring at the bullet marks on that church wall when I caught sight of Phil Todd emerging furtively from the ruins of a nearby house.’

Jim grimaced. ‘Todd was a weasel-faced, light-fingered Cockney who had an aversion to soap and water, and thought nothing of stealing from kitbags while his mates were asleep. The abandoned houses and the sight of all those bulging pockets on the dead Germans had obviously proved too tempting.’

Ron eyed his son and shivered with apprehension. Jim had always been drawn to crooked deals – and he himself often walked the fine line of the law – but had his son stooped so low as to rob the dead? It was unthinkable – but then the unthinkable often happened in war, as proven by Jim’s terrible story.

‘I went and told him to put the stuff back. Looting was forbidden, and if he was caught, he’d probably be shot. Not that I cared a jot if he had been shot, but the honour of our group was at stake.’ Jim’s lip curled in disgust. ‘He just grinned back at me and showed me what he’d taken from the houses as well as the dead Germans’ pockets. He even offered to share it with me if I kept my mouth shut. I told him in no uncertain terms where he could stick his loot and then punched him.’ He grimaced. ‘There was a certain satisfaction in feeling his nose crunch under me fist, and seeing his blood spill.’

Ron experienced a wave of enormous relief that was tinged with shame for ever thinking his son might be complicit in stealing from the dead – even if they were Huns. He knew in his heart that Jim was a better man than that.

Jim’s expression was grim as he stared out over the cliffs to the sea. ‘I left him lying in the dirt and went back to my place beside Frank and started working on a fresh bottle of brandy. I needed to get the taste of death out of my mouth.’

Ron remained silent, for he couldn’t figure out
why this short, very nasty little episode should have caused such a rift between his sons.

Jim smoked his cigarette in silence for a while, his gaze on some horizon far more distant than the one before him. ‘The brandy finally kicked in and I fell asleep, only to be woken some time later by the familiar sound of British tanks approaching. Todd was sprawled in a heap next to me, so I checked my pockets to see if I still had my wallet.’

He ground the cigarette butt under his heel as if it was Todd’s head he was crushing. ‘It was there, but so were two wedding rings and a roll of German banknotes. I stuffed them back in Todd’s pocket, checked he hadn’t left any other nasty, incriminating surprises and then turned to Frank, who was just coming to. Major Brown was now entering the village with the rest of the men. He took one look at the state of us and ordered everyone to stand to attention.’