The Last Pier (13 page)

This boy was only a year younger than her.

‘I’m not strictly speaking an evacuee,’ he said as though reading her mind. ‘My father knows yours and he wanted me to have some fresh air after our horrendous trip back to England.’

‘What trip?’

‘Oh haven’t you heard? We left Germany more or less overnight. Left all our things, our house, everything behind.’

Cecily swallowed. The question had to be asked.

‘Are you
German
?’

‘No, of course not!’

There was a further silence during which Tom looked at Cecily expectantly. When it was obvious she wasn’t going to ask him anything else he sighed deeply.

‘Your father and mine used to work together. My father owned a factory that did business with this country. But with Hitler in power we didn’t want to stay in Germany. As I’m sure you can understand.’

‘Oh yes,’ Cecily said, quickly.

It was too soon to be giving him advantages.

‘You don’t have to worry, he said, seeing her expression. ‘I am
not
German. The government wouldn’t have taken us in if we
were! We used to own a factory in Germany and of course now there might be a war we decided to come home again.’

‘All right,’ Cecily said, making up her mind.

Perhaps they would be allowed to go to the fair together.

‘I’ll ask Mummy if we can go to Molinello’s.’

‘Wizard,’ Tom said.

Clearly he believed it was settled. He smiled and she saw his crooked teeth. She saw that his chin, though stubborn, had become more relaxed and that he did in fact look a good deal younger than her. She noticed there was a hole in his sweater as if a large moth had attacked it.

‘I’m going to change my shoes,’ he said. ‘See you down here in ten minutes.’

And he went.

Leaving a memory of himself that would outlast many things.

I SHOULD NOT
have come back, decided the adult Cecily, clutching her bag of translucent fruit. But hadn’t she been told to do just that, when she had finally caved in, and begged for help?

‘Go back to the beginning if you want to get rid of the voices. Find out what really happened.’

What nonsense,
the voices themselves had protested at the time.
We will never leave you. Promise!

‘It’s your only hope,’ she’d been advised. ‘Uncover that summer, peel your memory back.’

History isn’t about facts,
the voices had screamed.

But she was here now.

Continue,
they commanded her.
What happened next?

Tom, Tom!
they added, beating an invisible drum.

Out in the meadow under the old oak where the pony grazed, Joe appeared to be talking to Franca. They stood very close to each other but when Cecily crept up they weren’t talking, just smiling and looking. Then Joe leaned towards Franca and Franca swayed slightly as if she suddenly felt faint. But she didn’t stop smiling. The light was wonderfully clear and liquid, making both of them appear sallow.

‘Oh!’ Cecily said, clasping her hand over her mouth, remembering the letter, not wanting to mention it in front of Tom who was watching them with interest. ‘Oh, I forgot!’

‘What?’ asked Tom.

Franca laughed.

‘Never mind. You won’t lose the job,
cara
postie! As you see I’m here. Zio Lucio brought me.’

Franca hugged her so hard that it made Cecily wonder if it was really Joe she wanted to hug. And when Joe laughed and
ruffled Cecily’s hair she just
knew
he was thinking of something else.

But where was Rose?

‘Over there, somewhere,’ Joe said waving in the direction of the trees. ‘Fooling around with Bellamy and hoping mother doesn’t notice!’

Tom opened his mouth to ask another question.

‘Hello, old chap,’ Joe said, forestalling the question and shaking hands. ‘Welcome to Palmyra Farm. I’m Joe and this is Franca!’

Wonderful Joe, suddenly looking, not ordinary old Joe, but someone grown-up and serious. And Franca, why, Franca looked wonderful, too. And Carlo? Where was he?

‘On his way, Cecci,’ Franca said.

Tom had changed into a pair of shorts and now wore a shirt of a grey flannel. Cecily thought he looked hot. Franca must have thought the same thing too because she asked him if he didn’t have anything lighter to wear.

‘It’s one of the few things we brought with us,’ Tom said.

Cecily tried not to stare and Franca and Joe exchanged amused looks but then the looks changed into something going on between them with laughter in the mix. There was a pause.

‘And the rest of your family?’ Franca asked. ‘They’re in London. But you were sent here because of possible raids?’

Tom shook his head.

‘There won’t be any daylight raids,’ he said. ‘Because of the expense. So they’ll be safe.’

In spite of herself Cecily was impressed.

‘Actually I would have stayed in London too but my parents wanted me to have fresh air after my illness.’

‘What illness?’ Cecily asked, interested.

‘Appendicitis. Nearly developed into peritonitis,’ he said importantly.

‘Oh you poor thing. That could have been dangerous,’ Franca said.

‘Fatal,’ Tom said, rather too loudly. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he added turning to Cecily. ‘I’d like to eat some of that Italian ice cream you promised.’

‘Eh…’ Joe said warningly for Agnes was heading towards them. ‘Just a minute… I think you’d better ask Mummy first, C.’

‘May we?’ Cecily asked cautiously.

‘You must not be a nuisance when you get there,’ Agnes said, picking something sharp from her shoe.

She sounded a little subdued. Had she stopped loving Cecily altogether?

‘Perhaps Zio Lucio can take them,’ Franca suggested.

‘Oh, he’s gone, Franca,’ Agnes said, in a funny voice.

It was plum and wasp time.

With hindsight, Cecily saw that all summer had been contained within those few brief days. All summer, burning, blazing, turning in the bluest of skies, while the temperature hardly changed.

But you do understand Tom was the problem,
insisted the voices in Cecily’s head.
He was trouble from the start. You do see that?

‘No,’ Cecily replied. ‘That’s too simple. I was the older one, I should have known better. And Rose was my sister.’

Tom’s family had fled from Hitler’s grasp. When the Nazi
putsch
came, their Jewish sympathy made it too dangerous to stay. They had left in the nick of time, via Switzerland. And when their visa arrived they were going to America.

Oh really!
mocked the voices.
That’s his story.

On Sunday afternoon Joe began to scythe the rough grass in the meadow. Then Partridge got the old hand mower going. The stubble was coarse by the time he’d cut it and there were large patches of naked earth here and there, but everyone said it didn’t matter. When the visitors arrived for the party they would park their cars in the meadow.

Bellamy had refused to join in, saying Sunday was his day off, but really it was because of Carlo’s presence in the meadow. Carlo meanwhile, unaware of this, evened out the bumps on the tennis court with the roller. The net was up, the lines marked out. Now all they needed to do was find the old racquets in their wooden presses. Agnes had brought plates of ham and bread for them to eat.

Selwyn, present for once, smiled a welcome to Tom. Aunt Kitty, looking pretty as a picture, carried the blue enamel can of tea across the field. Selwyn’s eyes followed her progress across the field for a fraction of a second before he turned away and lit his pipe. The sun was at its highest, the bees dipped in and out of the clover and in the distance, over the rattle of the lawn mower, Partridge’s voice could be heard laughing at something Rose was saying.

Pigeons deep in the woods were calling out to each other, saying, ‘I love you Lulu’, before ending with a sudden abrupt, ‘yes’.

Rose emerged through the trees, white dress a crumpled surrender flag.

‘Have you been talking to that wretched boy again?’ asked Agnes.

‘Who?’ asked Rose rudely and, seeing Carlo, smiled at him. ‘You are going to be my tennis partner, Carlo, at the match. You’re the only one worth playing with.’

‘Charming, I must say,’ said Aunt Kitty.

‘Bellamy’s gone to the ironmongers on an errand for me,’ Selwyn said.

‘Honestly, Selwyn,’ Kitty said, ‘you didn’t trust him with money did you?’

‘Who’s Bellamy?’ Tom asked.

‘You’ll see,’ Rose said, looking at him for the first time.

‘He’s the tinker’s son,’ Agnes said. ‘I don’t really like him. There’s something… something…’

‘What?’ Rose demanded, voice silky, eyes ready to cause a blaze.

‘We’ve known him since he was a boy,’ Selwyn said, not wanting to call the fire brigade. ‘At least Rose has!’

‘Rose most certainly has,’ agreed Rose.

Cecily laughed but Selwyn held his hand up peaceably.

‘Come now all of you, stop this prejudice. Bellamy is fine.’

‘Better than any of you,’ muttered Rose.

Like all grown-up rows this one was going nowhere. The heat made the air thick and heavy.

‘My father is organising the Kagran Group,’ Tom told them. ‘I mean he’s
advising
them.’

Cecily yawned and closed her eyes against the glare.

‘Cover your mouth when you yawn, C,’ Agnes said, but she too sounded half-hearted.

‘An agricultural training school is a good idea,’ Selwyn agreed.

‘My parents are keen on rural crafts,’ Tom continued. ‘When this is all over they believe Germany’s future will depend on it.’

Joe frowned.

Rose pulled a face. And Carlo laughed. The two of them were sharing a joke as though it were an egg and cress sandwich. There was none left for Cecily.

‘Who knows how it will work out,’ Joe said crunching down hard on a pickled onion, reaching for another bottle of ale.

‘You’ll fall asleep,’ Aunt Kitty observed.

Joe ignored her.

No one said anything. There was a ladybird sitting motionless on Rose’s yellow dress, pretending to be a brooch. Surely she would be too tired to go out again tonight?

Selwyn shook his head and the scent of his pipe smoke curled in the summer air, driving the bees away and filling the afternoon with an unexpected simple happiness.

The others must have thought so too because they stretched out on the rough-cut ground and Agnes said, in a happier voice,

‘There won’t be a war. I’m sure of it!’

And then Aunty Kitty, who had been silent, laughed again, a shimmering, light laugh like the lemonade bottle after it had been shaken up, and she squeezed her sister’s hand so hard that Cecily, watching, decided that yes, she had finally stopped loving Selwyn and everything would now be all right.

But turning back the pages of those years, walking away from Shingle Street, Cecily thought, I can’t go on with this. Surely it would just be easier to put up with the voices in her head?

That depends,
said one voice, naughtily.

On how we behave!
added the other.

A greengage, bright as a jewel, fell from Cecily’s bag and rolled into the gutter. Passers-by stared hard at her before hurrying on and still she didn’t notice the stranger tailing her.

She who had wanted to know everything now saw nothing.

It was time to return to Palmyra House and take an overdue pill. She needed to keep calm but the voices were pestering her.

What happened next?

After Sunday lunch, when Joe was piling up the cut grass in readiness for a bonfire and Selwyn was looking for his tools, and Rose had done her disappearing act, Cecily took Tom around the farm.

‘How many days are there before the tennis match?’ Tom asked.

‘Twelve.’

‘And who does your sister love?’

Cecily thought he sounded like a policeman. All he needed was a notebook and a licked pencil.

‘Is it Carlo? Or the tinker’s son?’

‘He’s called Bellamy,’ Cecily told him.

Large blackberries, looking like shoe buttons, were scattered amongst the mauve pink and white flowers.

‘A hard winter lies ahead,’ Tom remarked.

He had begun to get on Cecily’s nerves.

They crossed the field where flies settled in clusters on the horses’ eyes. Unanswered questions swarmed around Cecily like the flies. One uppermost in her mind had to be asked first.

‘Have you met Hitler?’

Tom looked at her sideways.

‘Have
you
met the King?’ he asked, sarcastically.

They reached the end of the field and the barn, when they went in, was dark. In the beam of light and the fly-clouded afternoon, the cows appeared restless. Sunlight came in hot spears through the cracks in the roof to lie on the straw and milk-sprinkled dung.

‘Is this the barn you dream of?’ the counsellor had asked her, years later when she had come to her, heavy with hopelessness. It was.

And there was Pinky Wilson’s car parked in the damson lane.

‘Hello Cecily,’ he said, smiling. ‘Is this your new friend?’

‘I’m Tom,’ the boy said and held out his hand.

‘Yes. Nice for Cecily to have a friend, eh Cecily? Oh and don’t worry… I meant to tell you, your secret is safe with me!’

Cecily stared at him. The damsons were getting ripe. Some of them had already fallen and dark purple skins, split golden by the wasps, lay scattered on the ground.

‘What secret?’ Tom asked.

‘Oh nothing,’ Robert Wilson said. ‘Nothing a little cycle ride to the pier wouldn’t cure!’

‘You saw me!’

Robert Wilson laughed easily. Then he took out a packet of cigarettes and tapped one on the packet before putting it in his mouth.

‘
You
saw
me
!’ he said.

Cecily opened her mouth but then thought better of it.

‘Have you taken Tom to the Hokey-Pokey Parlour yet?’

‘I arrived last night,’ Tom told him.

‘Ah! Well you must get Cecily to take you there. You’ll find the best ice cream in the whole of England there. In fact…’ he reached into his pocket, ‘here, buy yourself some on me.’

He handed Tom a sixpence.

Tom eyed him doubtfully.

‘Do you have a spare bicycle?’ he asked Cecily.

Cecily, still winded, could not answer. And then Robert-Pinky-Wilson did another unexpected thing. He gave Cecily a hug.

‘Gosh! You’re so like your older sister,’ he said. ‘Soon you’ll have all the boys after you, just like your sister.’

Cecily swallowed. In the hard glitter of the August day, Pinky Wilson’s face looked cruel and shadowless.

‘Stop looking so worried,’ Pinky Wilson said. ‘I shan’t breathe a word. Your mother has quite enough to think about! In any case you children ought to have a bit more freedom.’

All around, the wheat was rising heavy and dark in the sultry air. Soon it would be time for the harvest. Pinky Wilson told them he had to go into the town himself, on some important business. He drove his car across the rough track flanked by golden-crested stonecrop in flower. And apart from the low hum of the engine it was impossible to detect his big beetle from the house.

Maybe it was the sixpence or maybe it was his knowing her secret but to Cecily’s surprise, she saw Tom distrusted Pinky, too.

‘He spied on you?’ he asked. ‘And now he’s blackmailing you? That’s against the law.’

Impressed, Cecily nodded.

‘You can tell from that,’ Tom added with the same grown-up loftiness as Rose, ‘the sort of man he is. He promised to keep your secret just so you’d trust him. He’s being provocative.’

Under the weight of evidence she could not disagree and the subject was dropped.

At suppertime Kitty had another bunch of sweet williams. They had been delivered by a boy from the flower shop in Eelburton. Replacing the others that weren’t even old yet.

‘Lovely!’ she said, and she hummed a little tune.