if he was spoiling for a fight and as he opened his mouth to speak, Freddie quickly interjected. ‘How’s Veronica? She seems … different.’
‘She is. She’s not the same woman I married,’ Bertie said sourly.
‘Is it the requisition?’ Freddie volunteered.
‘No. It’s been happening ever since we got married. Slowly, here and there, I’ll notice small things about her that make me more than a little curious about her sanity.’
Freddie’s mouth fell open. The Veronica he fell in love with all those years ago had been a vivacious, energetic woman, full of life and love. He’d fallen head over heels instantly, but he was too slow off the mark at proposing. That had been his undoing.
‘I sometimes wonder if I should have just let you have her back?’ Bertie mumbled.
The grandfather clock chimed in the hallway, breaking the silence that had fallen in the room. Freddie knew better than to reply. This was not the first time Bertie had alluded to his less than brotherly behaviour. After six months of stepping out with Veronica, Bertie had used his position as the older brother to full advantage with her father, convincing him to turn Veronica’s head. The lure of Bertie inheriting the estate and the London house was too much for Veronica’s father. No matter which way it was dressed up or justified, Bertie had stolen Veronica – and Veronica had obviously been willing to go.
Freddie often wondered how different his life would have been if he’d been the older brother; if he’d have held more sway. He blamed himself for Veronica’s switch of affections. He should have proposed the moment he knew he was in love. But he had been too late. Freddie remembered the words Bertie had used when he’d broken their engagement news to him, slapping him on the back. ‘It’s the greatest compliment, old chap. She wanted you. Only better.’
Choosing not to engage, Freddie stood and picked up the cricket bat. ‘I’m going to pack this and then I’ll walk around the grounds for a bit. Visit my old haunts. Is the beach hut still there?’
Bertie was writing again and looked up impatiently. ‘What? I wouldn’t know. I’ve not been down there in years.’
After an hour of walking around the formal gardens and the wood, Freddie decided he needed sea air. He walked towards the long cliff path that led to the estate’s private cove. He stopped at the top of the cliff and peered over the edge. The steps were still there, naturally formed unevenly into the cliff face. He stared out to sea, listening to the waves crashing down below. Glancing around the coastline, he could see across towards the next bay, where a square stone observation post had been built in readiness for preventing a German invasion. His heart sank as he looked below and saw the stone ‘dragon’s teeth’, ruining the beach but forming a necessary part of the coastal defences.
He stretched lazily and looked about. As a boy, he’d played here with Bertie in summer, had rowed the dinghy to the rocks and they had thrown their fishing nets out, catching nothing. Freddie smiled, remembering how they used to steal bottles of Father’s port from the cellar when no one was watching and throw the empty bottles into the sea, returning back to the house drunk and happy. God, they were tearaways. They’d been so similar back then. Or had they really? It had always been Bertie encouraging Freddie to steal the wine. But somehow it had always been Freddie who got the blame.
If the little beach hut was still there, it would probably be a miracle. His mother had installed it where the steep cliff met the sand so they could store their belongings, deckchairs, parasols and fishing paraphernalia. It had been Freddie’s safe haven when life in the shadow of his brother got too much and he needed some peace and quiet.
Freddie descended the steep cliff steps, which wound down to the pale sandy beach, and went to look at the dragon’s teeth. Waist-height, they resembled stone pyramids that had been squared off at the top. How things had changed since he’d last been here. Still, he’d rather look at his beloved cove braced for war than covered in Germans. He’d seen enough of them in France while he was narrowly escaping with his life. The dragon’s teeth were a small price. These will certainly stop a few tanks, he thought as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the low December sunshine.
He stopped, bending over to catch his breath and to try to alleviate the pain that exercise brought to his ravaged chest. Scrambling up and down the cliff path wasn’t easy at the best of times. He damned the German who had shot him three years ago as he ran towards the beaches at Dunkirk. That was the last time he’d been on a beach. Until today. Feeling the soft sand underfoot brought back memories of men screaming in pain, along with the madness of the songs being sung by the troops as they waited for the long-promised boats to arrive. He thanked whichever God it was that had seen fit to save him. He’d been one of the lucky ones, even with a bullet lodged inside. He’d survived. He rubbed his chest. It always hurt more in the cold.
Across the sand, the beach hut was still there. And Freddie was pleasantly surprised to find it was prettier than ever. The wood had been scrubbed and painted fresh, not too long ago by the looks of it. It used to be a yellowing beige colour, the wood on the verge of rotting when he’d last seen it. But now it was cream and varnished to a shine. The little porch had a brass hurricane lamp hanging from it with a candle inside. The wood of the decking was a brilliant white. He smiled. Someone had been taking care of his little hut.
He walked closer to it and wondered if it was unlocked. As the beach was private to the estate, there had been no need to lock it in his day. But times changed and who knew what orders his brother had put in place in the last few years since his parents had passed away and Bertie had inherited the lot.
The wooden decking creaked gently under his feet and he reached out for the door handle. But as he looked through the window of the door, he caught a sudden movement from within. Veronica was sitting inside, staring at the floor.
He wasn’t sure what to do. She was probably here because she wanted to be alone. Would his intrusion be welcome or not? After a few seconds he decided he couldn’t stand out here all day in the cold, so he knocked gently. She looked up sharply. A flash of worry hit her face and then it faded as fast as it had appeared, replaced with a smile that reached her eyes.
Freddie opened the door. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No. Not at all.’ She gestured for him to come in. The hut was small, the majority of the room having been given over to a small daybed on which Veronica sat.
Freddie leant against the doorway, his muscular frame filling the space. She was entirely aware of him.
‘Did you find anything in the attic?’ she enquired.
‘Not much. You’ve made this look nice,’ he said, looking around at the books on the little shelf and the daybed with a cream eiderdown printed with little blue flowers. ‘I assume it was you? I doubt very much it was Bertie.’
Veronica laughed. It sounded alien to her. It was the first time she’d laughed in weeks. She was almost surprised she still could. ‘No, I don’t see Bertie as the floral eiderdown type, do you?’
Shuffling along the daybed, she made room for Freddie. He sat down slowly, awkwardly, as far away from her as possible. She wondered suddenly if this was entirely appropriate. He was well built and she could feel his proximity to her even though he was at the other end of the seat.
She slid a bit further along until she reached the metal bars of the headboard and then cursed herself for her obvious retreat. She watched him turn slightly so he could see her better. She felt stiff all of a sudden and he looked the same. What had he been doing all these years? Had
