Dubious Legacy Read Free Page A

said, leading the way across an unkempt lawn. ‘Mind the goose mess on your posh shoes,’ he said as a group of geese hustled aside, hissing. ‘They lay masses of eggs, which make wonderful omelettes. Here we are.’ He led the way into a long cottage, kicking off his boots in a stone-flagged passage. He called out, ‘Look who’s here! Look who I found! He didn’t go without seeing us after all.’
    Wiping his feet on the mat, Henry breathed the smell of baking. He entered an airy kitchen. ‘Just in time for tea,’ exclaimed a man dressed also in grey flannels and white shirt, but wrapped around the waist by an apron which almost reached the floor. He was as tall as Jonathan but slim as a whippet, with thick dark red hair, immense brown eyes and a bristling moustache. ‘Just in time for my scones,’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, it is good to see you. Oh, dear boy, let me kiss—I won’t touch—I’m all floury.’ And, holding his arms back as though about to dive, he leaned forward and kissed Henry, saying, ‘There. You are really here. You didn’t forget us.’
    Henry said, ‘No. How could I? I wouldn’t,’ as he thought, But I almost did, I had to force myself. I had meant to get on the train.
    The three stood close together. Jonathan and John smiled at Henry, their eyes glistening with pleasure, lips parted in joy. John said, ‘Come, sit down, we are bursting to hear all about it. Come on, tell all.’ His eye shied away from Henry’s bruise. ‘It’s such an event. Such an excitement in our humdrum lives.’
    Henry said, ‘Those scones smell delicious, I am starving. Any tea?’ The smiles faded as he remarked, ‘Bugger all to tell.’
    John said, ‘Yes, of course, tea. Sit here between us. Get the butter, lovey, and there’s honey. Or would you rather have jam?’
    Henry said, ‘Honey would be wonderful, but I won’t eat your butter ration.’
    ‘Oh my dear!’ they said together. ‘We’ve got lots.’
    ‘Flourishing system of swap round here, black market to you,’ said John. ‘All the neighbours who are hoping for a slice of Hitler or Mussolini have been generous lately, afraid of being forgotten. Though they do say war brings out the best in people, don’t they?’ He let his eye linger on Henry’s bruise. ‘Got yourself quite a shiner,’ he whispered into his moustache.
    Henry sat at the table and watched his friends find cups, saucers, plates, knives, put honey and butter on the table, jostle the kettle to hurry it up, wash their hands at the sink, exchange worried and anxious glances. He did nothing to dispel the sense of unease which replaced their initial enthusiasm, but sat with teeth clenched and lower lip thrust out, waiting.
    As though conscious of the change of atmosphere, several cats who had been asleep, balled up against the stove, detached themselves and slunk in a ripple of black and tabby out of the window.
    Still Henry waited.
    John poured tea and passed cups. ‘You will stay the night?’
    Henry said, ‘I have to catch the late train. I go to France tomorrow.’
    ‘France?’ they said, interested. ‘France?’
    Henry said, ‘The south-west.’
    ‘My mother was French,’ said the heavily-built older man.
    ‘A French governess,’ said the thin friend. ‘She was only a governess.’
    ‘French, nonetheless,’ riposted the other. ‘Your mother,’ he said to Henry, ‘was very fond of France.’
    ‘Though not necessarily of the French,’ said the other man, catching his friend’s eye while concealing a smile under his moustache. ‘One wonders,’ he said conversationally, ‘whether the French are really pleased to be liberated?’
    His friend, seizing this lead, carried on. ‘All that mess in the north; smashed villages, bridges blown up. There never was much love lost—’
    ‘And the Americans! Bulls in china shops in the south; we hear they blew up the red light district in Marseilles. That won’t be popular! You may have to do a lot of