Dubious Legacy Read Free

reached up and took hold of a basket. ‘What are you doing up there, anyway?’
    ‘It’s the war, my dear, what’s called “doing your bit” and all that jazz. John says I must get used to it.’
    ‘Always was a bully,’ said Henry, guiding tentative feet down the ladder. ‘Easy does it. You might have got stuck up there all night.’
    ‘No, no, he’s coming presently. Tip the basket into that barrow. We have so many apples we are feeding them to Hitler and Mussolini.’
    ‘And how are they?’ Henry watched the legs descending rung by rung until the whole man appeared to skip the last rungs and, risking a little jump, landed beside him.
    ‘Terra firma,’ exclaimed the man with relief. ‘Ham and sides of bacon next week, pork chops, sausages, chitterlings, the lot. Sad when one knows them so well, but there it is and here you are. Oh, dear boy, it’s good to see you!’ Almost as tall as Henry, the man put his hands on Henry’s shoulders and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘my appley hands have sullied your uniform.’ He stood close, smiling at Henry, wiping his hands against his shirt as he scrutinized Henry’s face at close range with warm brown eyes. He was a heavily-built man, older than Henry, hair brown where Henry’s was black. His nose was longer than Henry’s; his mouth, not so wide, showed excellent teeth. He was clean-shaven, with little tufts of hair on his cheekbones. He studied Henry’s face, whispering, ‘You did come. It’s a long time—we really thought—we—’
    Henry smiled, saying nothing. Pleasure, seeping in, erased his ugly mood. They were silent in the orchard where the air was still. They could hear the soft thump as apples dropped from trees on to the wet grass.
    Henry sighed. Then, aware that he was being scrutinized, he braced his shoulders as the other took stock of his tanned skin, face thinner than when last seen, older, sad.
    Making no mention of Henry’s bruised eye the man looked him up and down as he wiped sticky hands on his shirt, did up a button, tucked the tail into flannel trousers which had seen better days and said, ‘Well. Shall we go up to the house and find John? It’s his day for making scones.’
    Henry said, ‘Yes, Jonathan. All right, let’s go and find him.’ He threw the basket into the barrow. ‘Let’s go, then.’
    Since Henry did not speak as they walked, Jonathan, too, kept silent, but now and again his lips pouted forward with an unspoken word, a throttled question, before pursing into silence. He ran his hands through his hair, absently teasing out a twig, discovering a leaf which he pinched before dropping it. Then he said, looking down at his feet, matching Henry’s stride, ‘We thought—well we—we heard, of course—and then when you wrote—but then nothing. And you didn’t and—well—so.’
    Henry, tacking away, said brusquely, ‘You’re now John and Jonathan? Not both Jonathan, as you were christened?’
    ‘Well yes, yes.’
    ‘You are the elder?’ questioning.
    ‘We suppose so.’
    ‘You must know,’ bullying.
    ‘We do, it’s a fact.’
    ‘Really?’ Henry mocked.
    ‘Parish registers,’ said the other, ‘don’t lie.’
    ‘Oh ho! Parish registers.’ Henry laughed.
    ‘Of course.’ The other was hurt. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Henry, ‘honour.’ Then he said, ‘Depends how you interpret honour.’
    Jonathan said, ‘No need to be sarcastic, it’s what he wanted.’
    ‘No proof of that.’
    ‘No need to sneer. We both like the name, but I’m the oldest.’
    They moved up the orchard in single file, Henry walking behind Jonathan. ‘You’ve got flat feet,’ he said, observing the other man’s walk, large feet outwardly pointing in clumsy boots.
    ‘Always have done. Haven’t you ever noticed?’
    ‘Can’t say I have.’
    ‘Quite an advantage these days; no good for marching.’
    ‘Aren’t you too old, anyway?’
    ‘Verging on it,’ Jonathan