Barbed Wire and Roses Page 11

  It was good to be returning south. The towns in Picardy were where Stephen Conway had served his war. Patrick wanted to revisit the museum on the river at Peronne and have a last meal at Tommy’s, the friendly café with its collection of battle relics, where everyone on a tour seemed to gather.

  While the Menin Gate had been superb, the bugle notes poignant in the clarity of the night, it was a staged ritual. Each evening the traffic stopped, tourists gathered, trumpeters played. Claire had shed tears — there I go, he thought, thinking of her again — but the tears, she’d said later over dinner, had been as much for the poet Siegfried Sassoon as for her sixteen-year-old relative. Sassoon, she explained, had hated the memorial. He felt it mocked the dead and wrote a bitter poem about it, of which she could only remember one corrosive line: ‘Here was the world’s worst wound.’

  ‘Sassoon?’ Patrick had been startled by the link. ‘My grandfather wrote a verse of a Sassoon poem in his diary.’

  ‘Bet you can’t remember it,’ she’d challenged.

  ‘You lose. Surprise coming,’ he’d said and quoted it:

  I died in hell,

  They called it Passchendaele: my wound was slight

  And I was hobbling back; and then a shell

  Burst slick upon the duckboards; so I fell

  Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.

  ‘Surprise indeed,’ she’d said, and seemed glad they’d met.

  Patrick went to the Internet cafe in the town of Albert. Email had accumulated over several days. One was from his mother, saying what a superb spectacle the Olympic opening ceremony had been. Sally had managed to get them tickets, such good seats, and she wished he’d been there with them. Now the Games were in full flow and she was staying home each night to watch. How was France, and had he found any places where Grandfather Stephen had been?

  He replied saying he felt he’d trodden in Stephen’s footsteps but the trail was elusive. He told her of the memorials and the children singing, and how northern France was a revelation — so welcoming to Australians. Next in his inbox was word from Sally, dated several days earlier.

  Dear Bro,

  No news your end or I’d have heard. Meanwhile I’ve met someone. Don’t freak out, he’s not like that last limp dick in the rabbit warren. Charlie (he prefers ‘Charles’, but stuff that) has promised to teach me golf. Yes, golf! You read it here first. He plays off a handicap of two which is a bit of a worry, but says I have the right kind of body for a good swing, and doesn’t think my tits will get in the way. So I’m off to borrow Dad’s clubs which he left to you. I promise not to smash them. Or lose them. Much love, Moi!

  xxxx

  There was a long email from Joanna to say she only had four days’ filming to go, and she and the editor had put together a rough cut that looked terrific. As for France, she hoped his detour there wouldn’t distract him from the main game at the BBC. He should remember he’d written a script that was different — a clever, original comedy — whereas searching for traces of his granddad, while it seemed a nice notion, was really a bit of a romantic wank.

  So fingers firmly crossed for this one with the Beeb, darling, it could be important. Keep me up to date on progress. I’ll look forward to seeing you in a few weeks. Amoroso, remember? Can’t wait for that, and hope you feel the same.

  Love, Joanna.

  He was about to reply as his mobile rang. Everyone gazed at him reproachfully, particularly the severe madame behind the desk.

  ‘Monsieur, please! It is printed in large letters. All mobiles should be switched off, or it may affect the satellite reception.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and started towards the door.

  ‘But Monsieur, you have not paid. Thirteen Euros.’

  While Patrick fumbled for notes he realised this was close to thirty dollars, and could barely restrain the impulse to declare it highway-bloody-robbery. He hurried out before his message bank could intercept the call. It was Sally.

  ‘I just finished reading your email.’

  ‘Forget that, it’s already out of date. I’ve got important news.’

  ‘You and Charlie have eloped.’

  ‘Fat chance!’ she shrieked with laughter. ‘Charlie’s a dill! He’s about to become a pharaoh, which, you might remember from when we were kids, means ancient history.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Hopeless. A fantastic golfer, brilliant tennis player and so far up himself he’s almost out of sight. I can pick dickheads.’

  ‘You said it.’

  ‘You’ve said it often enough. Do you want the news or not?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ve found the letter! The letter we looked for, the one that came with Stephen’s diary.’

  ‘Sally! Where did you find it?’

  ‘In Dad’s golf bag! The one I borrowed. With a bunch of cards, souvenirs of the best rounds he ever played. Remember his level par at the Lakes? And the pro-am with Greg Norman? The cards were in the pocket of his golf bag and the letter was hidden with them.’

  ‘Hidden? You mean intentionally?’

  ‘Hidden,’ Sally insisted. ‘And I do mean intentionally. I’m sure of it. He didn’t want us to find it. But being Dad, he couldn’t bring himself to chuck it away, so he put it in a spot no one would look. Anyway, Pat, I think we’re wrong. Way off beam. I don’t believe our grandfather died in the war. In fact I’m bloody certain he didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon, be serious…’

  ‘I’ll fax you a copy. I’m sure he died about the time this was sent. More than forty years after the war ended.’

  ‘But how is that possible?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about those letters of condolence his battalion padre and the medical officer sent to his wife?’

  ‘Well, wait until you read this one. Then tell me what you think.’

  It was quiet in the hotel dining room. One battlefield tour group had left that day for Belgium; another was expected in the morning. Patrick found a table by the window and ordered a demi-carafe of Beaujolais and an omelette. While he sipped his wine, he again read the letter Sally had faxed him that afternoon. The notepaper had a printed Surrey address. The handwriting was firm and clear.

  The Lodge

  Shepherds Green

  Leatherhead

  Surrey

  25th May, 1964

  Dear Mr Conway,

  I do hope I have found the right Richard Conway, for I went to Australia House in The Strand and they provided an address from the Sydney phone directory. I believe this is a diary that belonged to your father, and which he kept during the First World War. I don’t think I should go into details, but I found it among his belongings, and felt that even after so long it should be returned to you. He was a good man, despite what may have been said, and I shall miss him.

  Yours faithfully,

  (Miss) Georgina Rickson

  He called Sally.

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘You agree he survived the war?’

  ‘Sure looks that way.’

  ‘Never died in 1918? Despite the letters of condolence?’

  ‘Seems not.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ Sally asked. ‘He must’ve deserted.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that, and hoped you wouldn’t.’

  ‘What other answer is there? A few months before the end of the war. After that last entry in his diary. I mean, how else could there be no grave, or any mention of his death or discharge? I wish I didn’t think so, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘But if he deserted, that would surely be on record.’

  ‘Would it? Don’t forget what was said down in Canberra. We had those officials admitting papers do go astray. Patrick, he survived, that’s for sure. And never came home to his wife and baby son. He just pissed off and abandoned them. What an absolute bastard!’

  ‘Now, don’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘It’s not a con
clusion, it’s a simple bloody fact. He shot through on his family. On our family. His wife and our dad.’

  ‘It is starting to look that way,’ Patrick had to admit reluctantly.

  ‘No wonder Granny Jane never wanted to talk about him.’ Sally was unforgiving. ‘Perhaps she knew. Obviously Dad must have realised from the letter, which I suppose we have to accept is why he hid it.’

  Patrick told her that since reading the letter he’d changed his plans; there was nothing more to be achieved in France. He’d booked a British Airways flight and would leave for London late tomorrow. Once there he’d rent a car, drive to Leatherhead, and see if he could find Miss Rickson.

  The coast of Normandy gave way to sluggish grey waves of the channel and the distant land haze of the English coast.

  It had been a busy last day in France. In the morning he had fulfilled the promise to himself to drive early to Villers-Bretonneux again and have breakfast at the cafe in the Rue Victoria. After the children arrived, he listened to their liquid voices singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’, and experienced the same emotional response as the first time: surprise and pleasure that on this side of the world there still existed this daily ceremony in a village school that bore its unique badge of gratitude: NEVER FORGET AUSTRALIA. He wondered if some of the people back home — xenophobes who railed at asylum seekers and upset people like his mother, or just the majority of Australians who had never been here — would believe it.

  After that there was just time to drive to Pozieres and use the remaining film in his camera. No matter what news he would bring home about Stephen Conway, he wanted a photo of the tribute at The Windmill. There, while traffic on the adjacent road sped past, he focused on the words:

  THE RUIN OF THE POZIERES WINDMILL WHICH LIES HERE WAS THE CENTRE OF THE STRUGGLE IN THIS PART OF THE SOMME BATTLEFIELD IN JULY AND AUGUST 1916. IT WAS CAPTURED ON AUGUST 4TH BY AUSTRALIAN TROOPS, WHO FELL MORE THICKLY ON THIS RIDGE THAN ON ANY OTHER FIELD OF WAR.

  Heathrow was packed. Long queues of foreign nationals waited while Britons and citizens of the European Union walked through a special gate showing their distinctive passports. There was some grumbling about the delay and lack of immigration staff. Near him, Patrick heard a Kiwi voice airing a complaint.

  ‘How things change! We fought with Britain. Now we’re bloody aliens, while the Luftwaffe strolls past. Welcome to London, Mein Herr. Did you come to see where your bombs landed?’

  There was laughter around them.

  ‘Be quiet,’ a woman patrolling to keep charge of the queue snapped. ‘Delays are unavoidable. Complaints don’t help.’

  ‘Extra staff might,’ a well-groomed American woman said.

  ‘Honey, take it easy,’ her male companion advised. ‘Don’t you know it’s afternoon tea time? We’re in England, babe.’

  The official gave them both a searing look, then strode off.

  ‘Who the hell does she think she is?’ someone asked.

  ‘Hitler’s daughter,’ Patrick said, amid renewed laughter.

  It took almost another hour before he wheeled his luggage past crowds waiting for friends and relatives at the customs exit. There was a long queue for taxis. I hate Heathrow, Patrick thought. I’ve always hated it, and the more terminals they build the worse it gets. Gatwick Airport was a paradise in comparison. Best option of all would have been the Eurostar to Waterloo, which made him think of Claire.

  It was steamy hot, and there was a squall of rain as the traffic slowed near Chiswick on the M4. Patrick had been fortunate enough to hail a cruising mini-cab. The driver, a cheerful Pakistani, talked about the weather and its vagaries until discovering Patrick’s nationality; after that it was non-stop Olympics for the rest of the journey.

  ‘Such a spectacle, sir, such a wonderful opening ceremony. I am fortunate that I record it, and already my family have watched it several times. Superb. The parade of horsemen, all those children dancing, so much surprise and entertainment, then the great moment when your Catherine Freeman ran up the steps carrying the flame and lit the cauldron.’ Patrick was able to contribute to the driver’s enthusiasm by relating that his mother and sister had been in the stadium to see it.

  The Clayborough Hotel in Bayswater was one he’d selected from the Internet, trying to find a tariff that wouldn’t blow his slim budget while remembering that London had become one of the world’s most expensive cities; the current exchange rate was an exorbitant three Aussie dollars to a pound sterling. The hotel was modest but convenient, close to the Lancaster Gate tube station and across the road from Hyde Park. He checked in, and to his surprise there was a small package waiting for him.

  ‘It was left this morning, sir, awaiting your arrival.’ The desk clerk had a practised welcoming smile. ‘Splendid to have you with us, Mr Conway, and if you wish to dine we have an excellent chef. The dining room is open from seven-thirty each evening.’

  Patrick followed a porter to the elevator, and was taken to a room on the third floor. Like the hotel itself, the room was modest. He had forgotten to acquire English coins for the expected tip, and the only option was his smallest currency: a five-pound note. A moment’s mental arithmetic made him realise, to his alarm, that he had just tipped the man fifteen Australian dollars. The elderly porter was most appreciative. Patrick tried to look as if it was normal. Before leaving the porter said that while it was none of his business, he must warn against the dining room. He hoped Mr Conway would keep it confidential, but in his opinion the chef was highly overrated, and the prices there were outrageous. Mr Conway assured him it would remain off the record, and the porter added that the forecast for the next few days was for more of this warm Indian summer weather, and wished him a pleasant stay.

  Patrick unpacked before he remembered the package left at the desk for him. It was wrapped in bookshop paper. He assumed it must be from the BBC, but inside was a slim volume of War Poems by Siegfried Sassoon. There was a note with it that read: Welcome to London. Claire.

  TEN

  Finding the market town of Leatherhead in Surrey was no problem. During the two years he lived in London Patrick had often attended plays at the local theatre there. After picking up his rented car it was familiar territory across Hammersmith Bridge to Roehampton and Robin Hood Gate, then down the Kingston bypass. There was no difficulty until he reached Shepherds Green. But finding the Lodge was a different matter.

  The Green faced onto the river, an area affluent with pseudo-Tudor and Georgian houses. It was a lengthy cul-de-sac. He drove slowly to the end of it and back, hoping for someone to ask for help, but the homes seemed shuttered against the unusual September heat. The temperature was predicted to reach eighty Fahrenheit, and the surcharge for renting an air conditioned car already seemed worth it. While Patrick drove, he thought about Claire.

  His first impulse had been to pick up the phone to thank her for the gift. Then other thoughts began to intrude. There had been no doubt in France of an attraction between them as the evening progressed. He’d made the excuse to drive her to Lille the next morning, and was acutely aware he’d been constantly thinking about her since then. Her ready smile, her sense of fun. The gift of this book, including as it did the very poem she’d spoken of, was an overture and required a response. As she was unaware he was in London a day earlier than expected, it gave him time to think about just how to respond.

  Ahead of him Patrick saw a tall young woman intently watching him from imposing entry gates. As he pulled up and stepped from the car, she remained standing there. The house behind her was substantial. A watering system was soaking expansive lawns and flowerbeds, while two small children shrilled as they ran through the spray.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Patrick said, ‘I’m looking for the Lodge.’

  ‘You’ve been driving up and down here for some time,’ the woman replied, ‘and we’re wondering why. I’ve never heard of the Lodge.’

  ‘Isn’t this Shepherds Green?’

  ‘I’m sure you know it is. I should tell
you I’ve asked my au pair to call the police unless you can explain what you’re doing. All I need do is signal her.’

  Patrick saw a blonde girl inside the house waiting at one of the bow windows.

  ‘Please don’t. I can show you my driving licence, or an Amex card, if that reassures you. Better still, I have the copy of a letter.’ He fumbled for it in his shirt pocket. ‘It’s from a Miss Rickson, who lived there in 1964.’

  ‘But that’s nearly forty years ago. I wasn’t even alive!’

  ‘Nor was I,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Do I call them, Missus Meredith?’ The au pair had opened the front door. She wore a sun top and very tight shorts. She was tanned, and judging by her looks was Scandinavian.

  ‘No, I don’t think it’ll be necessary, Karen.’

  ‘Swedish?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Not even close,’ Mrs Meredith said. ‘Northern Italian.’

  ‘Oh well.’ He smiled. ‘Miss Rickson’s name was Georgina. English, without a doubt. She apparently was acquainted with my grandfather.’

  ‘Which is why you’re casing the neighbourhood? That seems too implausible not to be true.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘Do you think there’s anyone around here old enough to remember 1964?’

  ‘You’d best come in out of this heat,’ Mrs Meredith said, relenting. ‘I’ll ask Karen. She knows everyone in Shepherds Green. She jogs each day in those very brief shorts. Some old codgers around here have taken to walking their dogs at the same time, wanting her to teach them Italian.’

  Andrew Gardiner arrived twenty minutes later. A jovial man in his mid-eighties, he was tall and erect with a ruddy complexion and neatly brushed white hair. He shook hands firmly with Patrick while his eyes seemed to slide wistfully towards Karen’s slender legs.

  ‘Of course I remember the Lodge,’ he said. ‘It was a grand old place. Pulled down in —’ he hesitated over the date, ‘can’t swear on the Bible, but I’d put my money on 1975.’