Dying in the Wool by Frances Brody Read Free Book Online Page A

that sort of thing. Dad painted a picture of us once.’
    ‘So he didn’t entirely lock himself away in his work, if he found time to paint?’
    ‘Mills can be monsters – eating up lives – but he did sometimes paint.’
    In as neutral a tone as possible so as not to seem critical, I asked Tabitha why she had left it so long before deciding to search for her father.
    ‘Mother said everything that could be done at the time was done. But you see, I didn’t do anything, being off in the VAD. And I must do something, otherwise it’ll haunt me forever that I didn’t try.’
    ‘Have you made any enquiries?’
    ‘People are so close-mouthed, or they say what they think I want to hear. I’m hoping you’ll be better at getting the truth than I’ve been. Someone must know what happened to him.’ She turned to me. ‘Here I am rabbiting on and I haven’t even asked how you are yourself. You had a telegram too, just as we had for Edmund.’
    ‘Not quite the same.’ I kept my voice steady, feeling foolish to let hope betray me. ‘Mine was a missing telegram. I tried to find someone who saw Gerald on that last day. The nearest I got was a sighting in the late morning, before the big bombardment, a sighting of Gerald walking along a road.’
    I didn’t say all those mad things about waking in the night and imagining that he walked to safety; that he lost his memory; that he works as a peasant in a remote spot, not knowing who he is and that one day …
    The Braithwaites’ elegant stone villa was of an unusual design. The centre comprised four storeys. Adjoining either side were extensions of two storeys, giving an impression for all the world like a person resting on her elbows. Shutters, the same dark green as the front door, framed latticed windows.
    ‘Grandma had it built around 1900,’ Tabitha said. ‘It was terribly modern at the time.’
    To the right and left of the house stood outbuildings, stables and garages. Neatly planted flowerbeds and a bare-looking rose garden flanked the drive. A fountain in the Italian style played in the centre of the beds.
    ‘We’ve a tennis court round the back, if you’re braveenough to bear the April breezes.’
    ‘Where shall I park?’
    ‘Oh just any old where. Briggs will see to your car.’
    I brought the car to a stop and stepped out. Tabitha followed, pausing on the running board.
    ‘I wasn’t entirely truthful when I told you Mother knew you were coming.’
    ‘I’m not expected?’
    ‘I didn’t know if you’d come.’
    ‘But I said I would.’
    ‘I know. I’m so … I’m such a big baby about some things. I can’t explain it.’
    ‘Do you think she won’t want me here?’
    ‘It’s not her. It’s me. I thought you might change your mind, or have an accident, or find something better to do and then I’d look a fool and she’d say, “Oh that’s Tabitha all over, makes a plan and nothing happens.”’
    ‘I wouldn’t just not turn up.’
    Tabitha suddenly looked like what my mother would call a bag of nerves.
    ‘I know, I know. I want my head examining. I always expect something terrible to happen. I so much wanted you to come, but was afraid to count my chickens. This is going to sound mad, and like wedding nerves, but I don’t believe anything good will ever happen if I don’t find Dad. My life will just unravel.’
    I’d seen this sort of response before. In 1919 I was maid of honour for a girl I was at school with, and it was touch and go in the end. She and her childhood sweetheart had come through the most terrible times with great strength. Then, when life promised happiness – a wedding for heaven’s sake – she went to pieces, saying that she knew for certain that nothing in life would ever go right again and to pretend otherwise was tempting fate.
    I touched Tabitha’s arm lightly. ‘Better tell your mother about me.’
    ‘At least your room is ready. Becky knows you’re coming. She’s very reliable and will look after you.