woman’s voice from inside called, “Who is it, Harry?” and Sally appeared in the hall in a white housecoat and swansdown mules.
I assumed it was Sally. She wore dark glasses, and her red hair had taken on a synthetic orangey hue. Unlike Harry, she’d shed weight since the apple-orchard days. Too much: I’d say she looked gaunt.
Harry held on to the door and said over his shoulder, “You don’t have to come out. I can deal with it.”
Sally, bless her, ignored him. “Anyone I know?” she asked, shuffling up behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder.
“What did you say your name is?” Harry asked me with each word sticking in his throat.
I told him.
He repeated it to Sally as if she were deaf, adding, “He was the kid evacuated to the Lockwoods in the war.”
“That little boy with the fringe and the front teeth missing?” Sally laughed. “Well, what a funny old world this is. And he’s brought his young lady to meet us. What are you doing, keeping them on the doorstep, Harry? Let them in, for God’s sake, and let’s all have a drink.”
Harry decided not to make an issue of it. He shrugged and stepped back, allowing Sally to shake our hands. I introduced Alice, using just her forename. I’m certain that Harry didn’t recognize her. She was a small girl of eight when he’d last seen her.
I’d expected grandfather clocks and rosewood tables, but the drawing room we were shown into was furnished in steel, glass, and white leather. Only the marble fireplace and molded ceiling were antique. Sally, obviously used to people gaping, explained, “Everyone thinks we’re puggoo-headed, filling a room like this with modern furniture, but Harry likes to get away from his business.”
“You have a shop in Bath?” I asked.
“Nope,” said Harry, making me wish I hadn’t inquired.
Sally explained. “He has three warehouses. Two in Bristol, one in London.”
“What do you drink?” Harry asked me.
He’d ignored Alice, so I turned to include her in the offer.
She gave me a twitchy smile. She was extremely nervous.
“Fruit juice would be fine, if you have one.”
“Gallons,” said Harry, as if it were someone’s fault. “And yours?”
“A Scotch and soda.”
He started to leave the room. Sally called. “Get me a vodka and…” She didn’t finish because he’d ignored her. She waved us into chairs and offered us cigarettes, taking one herself and standing by the fireplace with a length of unstockinged leg protruding from the housecoat. “Harry’s a big wheel in the antique world,” she told us. “You’re lucky to find him at home. He travels all over. Buys up the contents of houses and exports most of it to the States.” Her eyes traveled to my shoes. “So you’ve had a day in the country.”
I’d noticed the white carpet as we entered but failed to remember the state of our footwear. There were tracks to my chair.
Alice saw that I was literally wrong-footed and responded for me. “Yes, we went to see the farm where Theo stayed.”
“You’re American!” said Sally. “Harry will be delighted.”
I couldn’t imagine it. I pitched in again, taking the lead from Alice. “Yes, the farm hasn’t changed much.”
“Except for the orchards,” commented Sally, drawing on her cigarette. “They grubbed out all the trees.”
“Understandably,” I said. “Frankly, I was surprised to find the Lockwoods still in occupation.”
“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
