The weather in Coventry was much cooler than West Berlin, low clouds casting gloom over the crematorium, and spots of rain threatening to dampen an already sombre occasion.
When he’d read the letter, Harry had thought twice about coming back, but during the telephone conversation Arthur Rowland had left him in no doubt he had a duty and it was the least he could do. Harry had been mildly irritated by the rebuke from his father’s solicitor but concluded his mother would have wished him to be there and in any event, it had provided him with an opportunity to take some time to think through his plans and defer any arguments with Webb over his future. Rowland had insisted that, as the last surviving member of the family, Harry should be briefed on the contents of Reg’s will, without actually revealing whether or not he was a beneficiary or indeed whether there was anything left in the estate of any value. Harry had never considered what would happen in the event of Reg’s death. He had no perspective on his own future. But even now he harboured no illusions that his father’s estate amounted to much, especially not after twenty years living off an army pension, the last thirteen in an expensive nursing home.
There had been no church service; Reg had never been a religious man and nor was Harry, and Rowland had kindly made what few arrangements were necessary to deal with Reg’s body and give him a respectful send-off.
Harry, Rowland and Reg’s friend Eric, medals on show, regimental beret in place, standing as straight and rigid as his withered body would allow, listened to the resident vicar saying a few stock words about the afterlife and then, to the accompaniment of mournful music, they watched as the casket, lying unadorned on the plinth, was slowly enveloped by red velvet curtains. Harry noticed Eric’s crisp salute and felt a wave of remorse that he’d not made a greater effort to see his father in his final years or tried to mend bridges. But then emotion and sentimentality had been strangers to him for a long time and had never featured in his father’s life.
On the way out, Harry shook hands with the vicar and Eric and watched the old soldier hobble off down the driveway to the bus stop where he’d catch a bus back to the veterans’ home. A return journey for Eric this time; both would be wondering how many more of those there’d be.
“Thank you for all you’ve done, Arthur. I appreciate it.”
“All part of the service, young man.” Harry guessed Arthur was around seventy but old enough, on a day like today, to be feeling his age. “How long before you have to be back in Berlin?”
“They gave me a week although to be honest, there’s nothing much for me to do here.” Harry knew it was unusual for the department to grant as much as a week in circumstances such as this. More likely, Webb had already decided on a period of suspension while he worked out what to do with him and Reg’s death had been a useful excuse. “Can I buy you some lunch?”
“Thank you but no. I need to get back to the office. Would you be able to pop by tomorrow, say about ten, and we can go through the paperwork?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can I drop you somewhere?”
“No, thanks, Arthur. I could do with a walk.”
They shook hands and Rowland headed off to the car park. He climbed into a claret-coloured Bristol and waved as it trundled down the driveway. Harry looked up at the crematorium chimneys, expecting to see wisps of smoke, but there were none. He felt a few drops of rain and immediately his leg began to ache. He pulled up his coat collar and put his hands in his pockets. Maybe a walk was not such a good idea after all.
***
He’d checked into his accommodation at The Red Lion Inn the previous night but had arrived too late for dinner.
“Chef goes off at eight thirty, but I can do you a cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps?” The buxom landlady Veronica had made no attempt to make it sound appealing so he had no expectations and it was just as well. A thin slab of Kraft processed cheese between two slices of soggy white bread slathered with margarine made him yearn for the Ostenkeller or even the Kronestube but he was hungry and didn’t complain. Compensation came in the form of two pints of Everards ale and the pretty young waitress in tight trousers and a low-cut blouse who brought him the curled-up sandwich, garnished with a single leaf of limp lettuce and a segment of orange tomato.
“Cook, more like,” she’d sniffed. “Fat old bastard. Ex-army catering corps. Does bangers and mash and fish and chips and that’s about it.”
“Sounds wonderful to me,” he’d replied and just to provoke a reaction “as an ex-army type”.
“Ooh, you don’t look like him, that’s for sure,” she’d said. He’d spotted the flirtatious tone immediately and any lingering doubt had been dispelled when she’d leaned over his table and given him an eyeful. “Staying here, are you?”
“Yes, just for a couple of nights, then off back to Berlin.”
“What? Germany?” It would have sounded exotic to most people around here. “Ooh, I bet that’s exciting,” she’d said, swaying like a fashion model and touching a hand to the back of her beehive.
“Not really, just a desk job. But someone’s got to do it.”
“I’d love to go to Berlin,” she’d gushed. “Anywhere other than this dump. Maybe you could show me round?” They’d been interrupted by a shout from the bar.
“Mandy!”
“Strewth!” Mandy had raised her eyebrows, shrugged and trotted off. “Yes, Mum.”
Mum? He’d been letting his mind run away. Regrettably he’d had to concede that inviting the landlady’s daughter into his room was crossing a line, however keen he might imagine her to be. He’d swiftly decided Veronica was not one to be trifled with and Mandy, therefore, definitely off limits. But he felt an urge he hadn’t experienced in a while and the indecent thoughts gave him a frisson of pleasure.
He got back to The Red Lion at four, having had lunch in a greasy spoon café full of leather-clad bikers and then taken a walk in the park, but the rain had started in earnest and he spent the rest of the afternoon reading in his room. He came down for dinner at six thirty and was delighted to find Mandy behind the bar.
“What can I get you, soldier?” she said with a big smile, thrusting her uplifted pointy breasts in the direction of his eye line.
“Pint of Everards please, Mandy, and can I order the fish and chips?”
“Course you can.” She winked at him and he smiled sheepishly. “Brian!” she hollered over her shoulder while pulling his pint. “Fish and chips!” And then, as an afterthought for her customer: “Do you want peas with that, darlin’?”
“Yes please.”
“Peas an’ all!” she shouted and then quietly, “I’ll put it on your bill, shall I?” She winked again.
***
The fish was fresh from the freezer, shaped like a small brick and tasted of cotton wool wrapped in a greasy brown overcoat. The chips were soggy and cold in the middle and the peas, fresh out of the tin. He doused the lot with ketchup and washed it down with three pints of Everards. One of the dishes he’d craved the most while perched on a bar stool in West Berlin, bemoaning the lack of “proper” food, had been a bitter disappointment. Either his memory had played cruel tricks or he’d just been unlucky in his choice of hostelry. It didn’t matter. He’d check out tomorrow, go and see Rowland and get on the next train to London. He’d be back in Berlin by Friday and he could make plans.
***
A secretary showed him in.
“Good morning, young man.” Rowland got to his feet and proffered a hand, peering over the top of his glasses.
“Morning, Arthur.” Harry laid down his small suitcase and overcoat.
“Are you heading back then?”
“Yes. Provided there’s nothing else you need me for. I’ve checked out of the inn and was hoping to get the two o’clock to London.”
“Yes, quite. Won’t take long, just a signature or two so I can get probate underway, then it should be three or four weeks before I can distribute the estate.” Rowland lifted a file from a stack and placed it in front of him. “Your father was not a wealthy man,” he opined and Harry shrugged.
“I don’t doubt it, Arthur.”
“You may recall we sold the house back in fifty-one. Needed cash to fund the home.” Harry didn’t recall, but then why should he? He hadn’t been consulted, and even if he had he wouldn’t have raised any objection; it was none of his business. “It was sold for just over nine thousand pounds. Of course, his living expenses exceeded his pension so that pot of money reduced over time. But your father was also fairly active in stocks and shares.” Harry frowned in surprise. Reg had never said anything to him, but then why would he? They barely knew each other. “A little here and a little there, starting just after the war. He built up a tidy little portfolio, mostly blue chip, reinvested the dividends and at current values we’re looking at around twelve thousand after fees and commission.”
“Wow,” said Harry, genuinely surprised. The dark horse.
“I estimate that after death duties we are looking at a net value for the estate of around fifteen thousand.”
Harry nodded his understanding but suddenly felt compelled to ask. “And who are the beneficiaries?”
Rowland looked up as if startled and removed his glasses.
“Why, you are, my boy. You are the sole beneficiary.”
“Oh, my goodness.” He did some mental arithmetic. That’s about four years’ salary!
“What did you think? Do you think I’d have dragged you out here otherwise?”
“I didn’t think. I suppose I imagined he might have left it to the Veterans’ Association or the Masons or something like that.”
“He was very proud of you, Harry. He told me so, on many an occasion.” Harry’s heart sank. His father had been proud of him? Reg had never said and he never knew. Reg had concealed his true feelings behind a façade of restrained belligerence, the innate disciplinarian in him precluding the demonstration of sensitivity towards his family, forbidding any show of weakness. But how he felt and how he behaved were two different things. Harry could empathise with that. Maybe they were not so different after all? He felt himself welling up then stifled it quickly; his father would have gone berserk. He struggled to find the right words.
“Right. Okay. Thanks, Arthur. Oh, by the way,” said Harry, suddenly remembering an important detail. “I’ve moved apartments.” He retrieved a slip of paper from inside his jacket. “Here’s the new address.”
***
He watched the English countryside flash by through the train window, but he didn’t see it. He was far too preoccupied with his own thoughts: the surprise revelation of Reg’s will, memories of childhood tinged with guilt for what he had or hadn’t done, had or hadn’t become, opportunities squandered, deferred or postponed until ultimately lost. Memories of his parents, young people themselves once, living through the most difficult of times, raising their son the best they could. Memories of birthdays and Christmases, hardly celebrated, and his father refusing to take him out on Bonfire Night. Memories of being eight, saving up his pocket money for Guy Fawkes and bringing home a small box of fireworks, wanting to set them off in the back yard, his father shouting at him, and throwing the box in a bucket of water and him crying and screaming “I hate you!” and his father slapping him. His father disappearing upstairs on Guy Fawkes Night and his mother looking mournful – “Your dad doesn’t like the noise” – but the following year going looking for him and finding him, curled up under the bed, sobbing and shaking as the rockets, bangers and jumping jacks went off in the street outside. Memories of presenting himself in uniform for the first time; his father shaking his hand, his mother weeping – “Control yourself, Kathleen” – and the relief he felt at finally getting away and the shame he was made to feel getting back from Dunkirk – “We didn’t have the luxury of retreat”. Memories of his mother’s funeral, his father stiff and silent, the suppressed rage and fear threatening to blow at any minute. Where did our lives go?
Whatever was done was done. He was looking to the future now and although that involved revisiting the past one last time, his father had made sure his son was equipped for the journey.