THE FORGOTTEN VILLAGE
Lorna Cook

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Lorna Cook 2019

Cover design by Becky Glibbery © HarperCollins Publishers 2019

Cover photograph © Shutterstock

Lorna Cook asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008321857

Ebook Edition © [month] 2019 ISBN: 9780008321864

Version: 2019-02-22

Dedication

For Stephen

Thanks for doing everything and being everything.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Tyneham, Dorset, December 1943

Chapter 1: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 9

Chapter 10: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 11: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 12: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 13

Chapter 14: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 15: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 23: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 24

Chapter 25: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 26: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 36: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 37: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 38: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 39: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42: Tyneham, December 1943

Chapter 43: Dorset, July 2018

Chapter 44

Chapter 45: Requisition Day, December 1943

Chapter 46: Dorset, Autumn 2019

Epilogue: Scotland, December 1948

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
Tyneham, Dorset, December 1943

Lady Veronica stood shivering in front of the crowd of over two hundred faces in the village square. She desperately hoped none of them had heard the events of last night. Each one of the villagers was a familiar face, and each looked expectantly at her and the handsome man at her side, who was gripping her hand so tightly it hurt. He was expected to say something; a few words of encouragement were all the villagers needed to assure them that they were doing the right thing. It was something they could be proud of – leaving the village, giving it over to the war effort for the troops to use for training. They were doing something that would go down in the history books as an act of incredible sacrifice for the war and for their country.

‘Sir Albert?’ the vicar prompted, indicating it was time to speak.

The man at her side nodded. He stepped forward a few paces and Veronica moved with him. He gripped her hand tighter. Her fingers felt the thick gold band of the wedding ring he was wearing and she shuddered.

Feeling dizzy, she put her free hand to the back of her head to touch the large lump that had formed. She had managed to wash away most of the blood – of which there had been plenty – but a few traces of thick, oozing red liquid still appeared on her fingers when she pulled them out of her hair. She wiped it off on the black fabric of her dress. Black for mourning. She felt it appropriate given that today marked the death of the village.

He looked down at her, adjusting his grip, his expression blank, as if to check she was still there, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what was happening. And then he looked back towards the crowd to speak.

‘Today is a historic day,’ he started. ‘Today the people of Tyneham sacrifice our village for the good of the nation; for the good of the war. We leave, not forever, but until this war is won. We leave together, united in our separation, united in our displacement. This war will only be won by good deeds carried out by good people. You are not alone in sacrificing your home and your livelihood. Each tenant farmer, each shopkeeper, every man, woman and child, including us at Tyneham House – we are all in this together. And when this war is won, we will return together.’

His short speech was met with a sea of subdued faces, but applause started the moment he had finished, despite the sadness of the occasion. Veronica was glad. She knew the speech had to be rousing enough to console the villagers into leaving without a fight, although there was nothing they could do to stop the requisition now. As the residents of Tyneham prepared to gather their few remaining belongings, Veronica closed her eyes, reliving the events of last night over and over until she thought she might scream. But she only had to keep up her façade for a few minutes longer. She would not miss this village and she would not miss Tyneham House.

We will return together, he had said. No, thought Veronica. They would not. She never wanted to see this place again.

CHAPTER 1
Dorset, July 2018

Melissa didn’t know why on earth she was doing this now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. When she’d read about the ‘Forgotten Village’ in the local paper, it had sounded romantic: a village lost in time, dramatically stolen from its people in 1943 and given to the troops to prepare for the D-Day landings. And now it was being handed back, in part, all these years later. This vast expanse of derelict land, pub, houses, church, school, shops, and a plethora of other buildings should have been returned as soon as the war had finished, so The Purbeck Times had said that morning, but it never was. The villagers had been all but conned. And now Melissa was sitting in a painfully slow mass of traffic on her way to the grand reopening of the village of Tyneham, along with at least two hundred other vehicles – all of which were crawling along. She hadn’t been the only one eager to see the latest tourist attraction to open on the Dorset coast.

Melissa adjusted the fan in the car, which she despairingly realised was already at maximum chill factor. It was having no effect on what had to be the hottest day of the year so far. Perhaps it was simply the sitting still, or perhaps it was sitting still in the unbearable July heat. As she felt her sunglasses slide down her nose, she cast them off and threw them onto the empty passenger seat. They bounced off the fabric and clattered onto the side of the door’s interior. Melissa reached over to grab them again and shoved them back on her face. The heat was making her grouchy.

‘Why is this taking so long?’ she asked, thumping the steering wheel with the palm of her hand.

It wasn’t really the heat, or even the traffic, that had annoyed her. It was more the fact her boyfriend, Liam, had promised her a romantic fortnight away in Dorset, but he had in fact spent every waking moment so far knee-deep in surf and rip tide, or whatever else he did while paddling in and out of the coast on his board. Where was her romantic holiday? Melissa had tried to understand; agreeing that it was wonderful the weather was so excellent for surfing. Of course he should go and enjoy himself. After all, he’d paid so much money for his weekend pad in Kimmeridge, which he’d bought as an escape from his boring but overpaid job in banking. He deserved to let loose. But she hadn’t expected to be alone every day. She’d tried surfing with Liam when they’d first got together eight months ago, but he had no patience with her, especially when it became apparent she was never going to be able to even stand up on the board, let alone master catching a wave. He’d put up no fight when she suggested she leave him to it. But Melissa was a bit surprised that every day since they’d arrived, Liam had gone surfing.

When she’d asked this morning if they should do something together, something touristy, he’d simply said ‘maybe another day’. Alone and bored and on the umpteenth walk around the chocolate-box village of Kimmeridge, she’d popped into the newsagent, hoping to pick up a couple of glossy magazines to read while Liam was out. The woman behind the counter had been reading the story on the front page of the local paper.

‘Not before time,’ she’d said as Melissa approached the counter. ‘Utter disgrace, keeping it out of bounds this long. They’re still not allowed back there to live.’

‘Who aren’t?’ Melissa had enquired, simply out of politeness.

‘The residents of Tyneham, of course. Ex-residents, I should say.’ The woman tapped the front cover. ‘The village is reopening today.’ She shook her head. ‘After all this time. That’ll be a sight to be seen.’

The bell above the door had sounded as another customer entered and queued politely behind Melissa. And so, without really thinking, Melissa reached over to the newspaper rack and took a copy out for herself, glancing quickly at the headline: Forgotten Village Returned. She paid for her magazines and the paper and stepped out into the sunshine to read the lead story. She was no longer interested in the celebrity gossip and overpriced fashion; instead it was the potted history of a long-abandoned village that kept Melissa’s eyes on the page. Perhaps it wasn’t her usual kind of holiday activity, but it was something to do.

Armed with the paper and the crumpled map she kept in the glove compartment, Melissa had ventured into the countryside expecting a quiet day wandering around the so-called forgotten village, perhaps with a handful of pensioners doing the same. But by the time she finally parked, guided into a makeshift parking bay, Melissa fancied she might have made a mistake coming to Tyneham. If the hundreds of cars were anything to go by, it was going to be busy.

The launch day was evidently a big deal to the local area. She wondered if anyone here had been among the people who, the paper had reported, had felt robbed every single day since the winter of 1943 when the army had requisitioned the entire village, every single home and all the surrounding farmland.

Melissa fell in to step with the other tourists along the gravel path and down to a small stage, where she was handed a leaflet and welcomed warmly by a kindly elderly man wearing his luminous yellow jacket with an air of pride. She returned his smile as she took the leaflet and he moved on to the myriad people behind her to offer the same.

Melissa looked past the stage and saw a large red ribbon stretching from one new-looking gatepost to another. She sighed, realising there was going to be a big song and dance going on before she’d be allowed in to have her five minutes nose around the few decrepit buildings. After that, she’d leave. Maybe Liam would be back from the beach early today and they could go out for dinner or just sit in the cottage garden and drink wine, watching the sun go down. They hadn’t done that once since they’d arrived in Dorset.

She was pulled from her thoughts as a man walked on to the stage. The riotous round of applause that accompanied his entrance stopped her thoughts of make-believe wine and sunsets.

Melissa stole a glance at the leaflet she’d been handed. Tyneham will officially be reopened to the public, for daily summer visits, by TV historian Guy Cameron, it said. Next to the text was a smiling black and white photo of Guy Cameron: floppy brown hair and laughing eyes. She folded the leaflet up and thrust it into her jeans pocket, none the wiser as to who he actually was – some kind of celebrity, apparently.

History on TV wasn’t really up her alley, except maybe in the form of a costume drama. Bonnets and corsets and strapping gents striding in and out of lakes in white shirts were far more her thing.

Clapping along with everyone else to welcome Guy Cameron onto the stage, she slowly edged her way out of the crowd and stood to one side, grateful for a bit of space in the heat.

It seemed this historian was a popular choice as the clapping went on a bit too long in Melissa’s opinion. While he talked, Melissa pulled her hair off her sticky neck and up into a high ponytail and pushed her sunglasses back up her nose.

‘For so many years I’ve heard tales about Tyneham and it’s always intrigued me,’ he started. ‘The people who used to live here, what happened to them? Where did they all go? What did they do? How did they react when they were told they had only a month to pack up and leave, not knowing when they’d be allowed back? Not knowing that they wouldn’t be allowed back. A whole community, displaced …’ He paused for a few seconds and the drama of his sentence lingered over the entranced crowd.

Melissa looked around briefly as he cast a spell over his audience.

‘The village was requisitioned in its entirety,’ he looked down at his notes briefly, ‘with a promise to be returned during peacetime. Perhaps there should have been a tad more contractual detail about exactly when in peacetime.’ He gave a smile and the crowd laughed enthusiastically. Melissa pressed her lips together, stifling a smile.

‘Tyneham holds a special place in my heart.’ He was sombre now, and the crowd’s mood changed with him. ‘I was brought up only a few miles from here. My grandmother came from Tyneham, and she was here when the announcement came that she, her friends, family, and employers would all have to leave. I’ve heard first-hand how she felt, but for everyone involved it was different. I’ve always thought the coming together of a community as it was being ripped apart was tragically ironic.

‘But now we get to see the village once again, not as it was, but as it is now. While you can walk the streets, the buildings are damaged by time. Only the church and school are intact and open to the public and I encourage you inside both, to see photographs of the way the village used to be and other exhibits. But for now, seventy-five years after it was requisitioned, I’m happy to declare Tyneham Village officially open.’

With the sound of clapping once again, he stepped off the stage and a young woman, visibly overjoyed to be part of the proceedings, handed him an enormous pair of ceremonial scissors. He looked taken aback at the sheer size of them and said something to the woman, which made her roar with laughter and flick her hair. He snipped the ribbon and it fluttered to the ground.

At that, the surge started and visitors were shown through by guides in luminous yellow jackets. Melissa watched the crowd head through the gate, but waited for the bottleneck to disperse before she entered the fray. She watched the TV personality as he chatted affably with a handful of visitors. He posed easily with people for photos and signed copies of books, which Melissa assumed he must have written. He smiled throughout and she thought it must be exhausting being a celebrity: the permanent smile and the demands on you by the public. As soon as one doting fan left Guy Cameron’s side, another appeared. Melissa cast him a final glance before she slipped past him and through the gates, into the forgotten village.

An hour and a half later, a golf buggy whizzed by Melissa and took a turn ahead past the derelict village square. She was rifling inside her bag looking for a non-existent bottle of mineral water to quell the beginnings of a headache. Her head snapped up to see the historian, whose name she had already forgotten, on the buggy, looking incredibly embarrassed as he overtook the tourists. He gave a few of them a little wave of recognition and Melissa laughed, half wondering why he didn’t just go the whole hog and give them a royal wave.

Melissa trudged on up the hill and stopped to look at her map. She was now ragingly thirsty as she wiped stray strands of her ponytail off her neck. All that was left up here was Tyneham House, more affectionately known as the Great House, the leaflet told her. The note against it simply stated that it had been home to the Standish family, who had owned it for over three hundred years until they, like the villagers, had found their home commandeered from underneath them. They had been given a month to leave.

What’s good for the goose, Melissa thought as she folded up her map and tucked it into her back pocket. She’d been walking for ages and had become ridiculously hot while looking inside the farm buildings and dilapidated cottages. Many of the ramshackle buildings were hidden within the woodlands that surrounded the village and the whole atmosphere was proving deliciously eerie. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand she chastised herself that in the impromptu act of getting in the car for a day out, she had forgotten water. Her mouth was dry, but there wasn’t a café or gift shop on site from which to buy a drink. She couldn’t believe what an oversight it was given the amount of tourists present. They were never going to make any money this way. She resigned herself to giving the church and school a miss and calling it a day – just after she’d had a little peek at the manor house.

Two tourists on their way back passed Melissa as she arrived at the end of the tree-lined avenue that led to the house and she smiled at them politely, envying them their bottled waters. There was no one else up here and she was grateful for the peace and quiet. She was ready to soak in the atmosphere, undisturbed.

As with most of the other houses in the village, a permanent display board had been placed at Tyneham House, positioned by the entrance to the front drive. There was a potted history of the house and where the bricks used to build it had come from, which Melissa skipped over.

There was very little detail about any of the prior residents, which seemed odd. But there was a picture of the last owners, Sir Albert and Veronica Standish. At least that’s what the picture caption said. There was no information printed about them other than the fact they had been the last residents of the house, and with the image printed crudely onto the strange plastic board they could have been anyone.

Melissa stepped forward to look closer. The couple in the small black and white photograph looked unremarkable. But, despite the heat, she shivered. Her mum would have said that someone had walked over her grave. Melissa wasn’t sure she believed in that sort of thing.

She pushed the thought away and walked through the wide red-brick entrance into the front drive. She could see holes in the brick walls on both sides where wrought-iron gates would once have been fixed but had long since been removed. She put her hand against the warm brick wall to steady herself for a minute or two as the sun beat down on her head. The heat was making her nauseous and she fanned herself with her leaflet for a few seconds before ploughing on. She wasn’t usually this feeble. Just a few quick minutes glancing in the windows of the house if they weren’t boarded up, and then she’d head off.

But as she let go of the wall and walked towards the large pale-bricked Elizabethan building in front of her, her vision blurred and her stomach churned. Melissa reached out to grab the wall again, but it was too far behind her and her fingers grabbed pointlessly at the air. She started to stumble forward, her legs gave way and the ground rushed up to meet her. As her eyes flickered shut, she was only vaguely aware that a strong pair of arms had grabbed her, breaking her fall.

CHAPTER 2

Melissa opened her eyes slowly and looked up into a man’s face.

‘Are you all right?’

It was the historian. He was crouched over her; his face full of concern, laced with a hint of panic. He was very attractive up close, but then Melissa wondered why he was so close. And why was she on the ground?

‘Are you all right?’ he repeated. ‘I could see you falling from all the way back there.’ He pointed over her head towards the avenue. ‘I don’t remember the last time I had to run that fast.’

Melissa nodded. ‘I’m fine,’ she said out of good old-fashioned British politeness, although it was clear she wasn’t fine at all. Her head still hurt and her raging thirst hadn’t diminished. And she was still on the ground.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Hmm. Stay still for a few minutes at least,’ he said. ‘You just passed out. There must be a first-aider here who can take a quick look at you.’

She sat up slowly, ignoring his protestations. ‘How long was I out?’

‘Not long. About thirty seconds or so.’

‘Oh.’ Melissa coughed dryly.

‘Here, have this.’ He offered her his chilled bottle of water and Melissa sipped, then offered it back. He shook his head. ‘It’s yours.’

She put it on the ground, where it rolled to one side and came to rest against a piece of fabric. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘My sweater. I put it under your head when I laid you down.’

‘Did you catch me?’ She looked into his eyes. They were a startling shade of blue that the photograph on the leaflet hadn’t done justice.

He nodded. ‘When I caught sight of you wobbling, I ran so fast I almost careered into you.’

Melissa spied her sunglasses a few feet away. She felt lucky they hadn’t smashed. They must have fallen off her face as she passed out.

He looked in the direction of her gaze; stood and scooped them up, then handed them back before looking at his mobile phone.

‘There’s no signal out here. No phone mast for miles; the village never needed one. So I can’t summon any help. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid, until you feel well enough to walk.’

‘I feel fine now,’ she said, only half-fibbing. ‘I think I was just a bit dehydrated.’

Melissa looked around, hoping the golf buggy might return for its celebrity passenger so she could hitch a lift, but she didn’t mention it.

He sat down next to her and eyed her carefully. ‘OK. Well, we’ll give it a while before we move. Just rest for a bit.’

Melissa nodded and reached for the water again before taking another sip. ‘That’s much better,’ she said, screwing the cap back on. She looked at the house properly and felt a strange kind of sadness.

‘Are you interested in this sort of history?’ Guy nodded towards the house.

‘Not usually,’ Melissa admitted and then felt a bit guilty admitting this in front of a historian. ‘I was curious about this though and I had the day to kill. I seem to have accidentally come on a surfing holiday, but I hate surfing, so I’ve been finding other things to do with my days. I’ve never even been to Dorset before. I had no idea about Tyneham.’

‘I’d imagine you wish you hadn’t come now,’ the historian said.

She turned to look at him. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, you passed out for one. And you look pretty down. Although that’s possibly on account of the fainting.’

‘I don’t know how anyone could be anything other than sad here. It’s just so … abandoned,’ she said. ‘Although this house has fared better than the rest. It’s still got a roof for a start.’

‘It’s a beautiful building.’ He pointed at the top floor. ‘My gran used to work as a maid here, up until the requisition.’

Melissa made an appropriate noise and looked at the gabled servants’ quarters on the second floor. It was the only level that didn’t have any window boards. Every window on both the first and ground floor had metal sheets with Danger, Keep Out emblazoned across them. The studded dark wooden front door inside the arch was still in place and looked original. And uninviting. It all gave off a depressing and cold air, even in the heat of the summer sun. But Melissa was sure that in its prime this house would have been something else entirely.

‘I’m not sure Gran really enjoyed her time here,’ the historian said. ‘I must remember to ask her if she lived at the house’ – he lifted his gaze towards the second-floor windows – ‘or if she walked up from the village every day.’ He snapped back from his meanderings. ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked.

‘Better, thanks.’ Melissa wondered if Liam would be back from surfing and worried as to where she was. No, of course he wouldn’t. But with no phone signal she couldn’t tell him she’d be late. In fact, she hadn’t even told him where she’d gone.

She stood up slowly and then reached down for his sweater. She handed it to him and he thanked her, putting it over his shoulders and tying the arms loosely round his neck.

‘I’ll walk you back,’ he offered.

Still feeling woozy, Melissa didn’t argue. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve completely forgotten your name.’

He smiled and introduced himself, holding out his hand.

‘Thanks for taking care of me, Guy.’ Melissa shook his hand and then introduced herself before continuing to walk beside him.

‘Nice to meet you, Melissa.’ Guy laughed. ‘It’s been one of the more interesting ways I’ve made a new acquaintance.’

The church came into view. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine from here.’ Melissa pointed towards the car park.

‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Are you not coming into the church? There are meant to be loads of great photos of the way it all was. And a talk, not given by me this time, you might be pleased to hear.’

Melissa laughed and looked towards the old stone church. ‘Maybe another day. I’d better be getting back.’

One of the guides appeared at the stone wall dividing the churchyard from the lane. ‘Excuse me, Mr Cameron. We’re starting the talk now if you would like to join us. We waited for you.’

‘I’m not speaking am I?’ he sounded concerned.

‘No, no. But we didn’t want you to miss it.’

‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll be right there.’

The guide walked back towards the church and Guy turned to look at Melissa.

‘Bye.’ She gave him a small wave as she moved towards the car park. ‘Enjoy the talk.’

He nodded. ‘Bye. Take care of yourself, Melissa.’

As she drove to Liam’s cottage, Melissa glanced at her watch. She’d been wandering around Tyneham for the best part of the day and she had only meant for it to be a flying visit. She was tired and hungry.

Melissa opened the front door expecting to hear something along the lines of ‘Where the hell have you been?’ But Liam was leaning on the arm of the sofa. A sports channel was on in the background broadcasting a surfing competition somewhere warm and sunny. He was playing with his phone and didn’t look up when she entered.

‘Hi,’ she said from the door.

‘Y’aright?’ he mumbled, his fingers tapping away on his mobile.

‘Yeah. Good day?’ Melissa asked, but Liam didn’t answer. The tapping on his phone continued.

She went towards the kitchen and downed two glasses of tap water. Finally feeling better, she glanced up at her boyfriend, who hadn’t even looked at her yet, and she wondered why she had bothered rushing back. She grabbed a yogurt and a spoon from the kitchen.

Were they in a rut? How had this happened so soon? Admittedly they’d not been going out that long, but at eight months, this was Melissa’s longest relationship yet. It was a fact she wasn’t exactly proud of given she was twenty-eight and felt she should probably have worked out how to hold down a relationship long before now. But at this relatively early stage, wasn’t it still supposed to be a bit more exciting? She had no idea what she was doing. She wondered if she was messing it up, playing it too cool, but she knew from watching the breakdown of her parents’ marriage that men didn’t like women who nagged. Her mum had found that out the hard way, leading to perpetual arguments. But maybe Melissa had gone too far in the other direction. When she and Liam had first got together, they’d been great – or so she’d thought. They’d met in one of those awful bars in Canary Wharf where bankers drink champagne costing £160 a bottle. She hadn’t been used to that kind of flamboyance on her admin assistant salary. She’d only been there to celebrate a friend’s birthday after work. Maybe she’d been out of her depth from the start.

She toyed with telling him she’d passed out today. But what would be the point; to make him look up, to force him into paying some attention to her? Melissa cringed thinking about it. There were other ways, surely, to try to save a relationship and the sympathy vote wasn’t it.

‘Shall we go out for dinner?’ she asked when she’d finished the yogurt. She was holding the fridge door open and enjoying its cool temperature.

‘What?’ He sounded harassed. ‘Oh, I’ve already eaten.’

Melissa was taken aback. ‘Really?’ She closed the fridge. ‘I thought we would eat together.’

‘We didn’t say we would, did we?’ The tapping had resumed.

Melissa’s eyes widened and she looked at the back of his head. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose not.’ She folded her arms, trying not to rise to the argument. ‘What did you have?’

‘Crab cakes, those sexy skinny chips, sticky toffee pudding. And a fabulous bottle of Sauvignon.’

‘Wow. Where’d you get all that?’

‘The Pheasant and Gun.’

‘Oh.’ Liam had eaten at the swanky gastro inn a few miles down the road that Melissa had been wanting to visit since they’d driven past it at the start of the holiday. ‘I thought we were going to go there together?’ she asked pointedly.

He finally put the phone down and turned to her. ‘I was hungry.’ He shrugged. ‘We can still go there another day. We’ve got plenty of time before real life beckons and we head back to London.’ He picked up his phone again, indicating the end of his participation in the conversation.

Melissa shook her head. Unbelievable. She was too livid to speak. When it was clear Liam wasn’t going to look back up and engage, Melissa stalked over to the table where she’d thrown her car keys, grabbed them and slammed the front door behind her. She needed some thinking time.

Her stomach rumbled. In a fit of annoyance, she decided that, for the first time in her life, she was going to have dinner in a swanky restaurant by herself.

On the drive over to the Pheasant and Gun, she tried to work Liam out. Who goes to a top gastro pub on their own, on a Saturday, when they are on holiday with their girlfriend? What on earth? It was like she wasn’t really there. Like she wasn’t actually on holiday with him. He didn’t seem to care what she did with her days or whether they actually spent any time together at all. This was turning out to be the worst holiday she’d ever been on, but, as she thought this, she remembered two weeks in Magaluf with her parents when she was eighteen. Perhaps this week in Dorset was coming in a very close second.

By the time she pulled into the car park of the Pheasant and Gun, Melissa was starting to question her impulsive move. She was nervous. Other than a quick sandwich in a café, Melissa had never eaten out by herself before. Catching sight of herself in the rear-view mirror, she pulled out her make-up and made her face presentable.

On the walk across the gravel car park, she hastily pulled the band out of her long brown hair and let it fall down around her shoulders, fluffing it up a little for good measure. She’d never walked in anywhere and asked for a table for one. Maybe she could eat inconspicuously at the bar. She wished she’d brought one of her glossy magazines so she had something to read.

As she pulled open the door of the inn and walked through, she regretted her decision to dine solo. The bar was heaving with drinkers and all the dining tables were full. What was she doing? She should have just gone to the fish and chip shop.

‘Can I help you?’ the lady behind the bookings desk asked.

‘Table for one?’ Melissa asked uncertainly.

‘Have you booked?’ The woman eyed Melissa’s outfit of jeans and T-shirt with a look of disdain.

Melissa’s face fell. ‘No, sorry.’ Oh, what was she doing here?

While the hostess spent a long time looking through the diary in front of her trying to find a vacant timeslot, Melissa looked around self-consciously, mentally preparing herself to leave. As she did so, she caught the eye of a man sitting at one of the window tables. She glanced back and did a double take when she realised it was the TV historian.

Guy waved hello and gave her a look that said ‘what are you doing here?’

‘We don’t have anything available until 9.30,’ the fierce woman behind the desk said.

Melissa looked at her watch. That was hours away. ‘Okay, don’t worry.’ She turned to leave, shrugged, mouthed a goodbye to Guy and gave him a small wave in return.

He shook his head and mouthed, ‘No, come here.’

She stopped, confused, and gave him an awkward look.

He stood up and said loudly, ‘Yes, come here.’ Melissa saw him visibly cringe when he realised he was drawing attention.

She approached his table, feeling equally awkward.

‘Hello,’ he said, still standing.

‘Hi,’ Melissa replied, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

Guy looked behind her. ‘Are you on your own?’

‘Yes, but they’ve got no tables for ages, so I think I’m going to have to head to a takeaway.’

‘Well, I’ve got a spare seat here and I’ve not ordered yet,’ he said, glancing at the dark wooden chair opposite his.

‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ she returned. That would be too weird. She tucked her hair behind her ear again, wondering why she’d taken it out in the first place. She hated her hair being down. It just got in the way and she longed to shove it back in a ponytail again.

‘Have dinner with me? What’s the absolute worst that can happen?’ he asked. ‘You get a decent meal while being bored rigid by history chit-chat?’

Melissa laughed but couldn’t think of a valid excuse. Plus she was really rather hungry now. ‘Okay. Thanks,’ she said on impulse.

They both sat down and a waitress appeared instantly. She fawned over Guy as she discussed their drinks options and thrusted Melissa a menu. The waitress looked at Guy almost the whole time, even when asking what Melissa wanted. Melissa ordered water and Guy ordered a glass of Sauvignon.

‘Are you having one?’ Guy asked.

‘Why not?’ she said, then added, ‘I’m driving, so just the one.’ Something struck her then. Liam had said he’d had a bottle of Sauvignon at dinner earlier. Who orders a whole bottle of wine to themselves? Why had it not occurred to her to ask Liam if he’d had dinner alone or if he’d been with someone? And had he driven the little car he always kept in Dorset or had someone else driven him home?

No. She was being silly. He hadn’t mentioned dining with anyone. And it was perfectly feasible to drink a whole bottle by yourself. She’d done it, more times than she cared to admit. But then drive home? No way.

‘I take it you’re feeling better now?’ Guy interrupted her thoughts.

She nodded. ‘Thank you for walking me back down the hill. How was the presentation?’

They were interrupted by the waitress again, who came back to give them their drinks and take their food order. With no time to look at the options, Melissa panic-ordered what Liam said he’d eaten. ‘Crab cakes and skinny chips please.’

‘That was quick,’ Guy mumbled. ‘You haven’t even looked at your menu.’ He quickly looked at his and ordered a steak.

When the waitress had gone, Guy continued, ‘The presentation was good actually. Fascinating. Even for someone like me, who thinks they’ve heard it all before.’

Melissa studied him while he spoke. His brown hair fell over his eyes and he pushed it back every few seconds. Melissa thought he was good-looking – in a posh boy kind of way.

‘I didn’t get to look at the schoolhouse though,’ he said. ‘I didn’t leave enough time. I think I might nip back tomorrow, just to satisfy idle curiosity. What did you think of the school? There’s meant to be some of the children’s work still on the walls, exercise books and coat pegs with their names on. It sounds rather moving.’

‘I didn’t see it either actually. I was rushing around quite quickly to get back for …’ Melissa trailed off. Why exactly had she been rushing around to get back for Liam? He hadn’t been bothered. It occurred to her now that he hadn’t even asked where she’d been all day.

Guy waited for her to finish her sentence and when she didn’t, he asked, ‘Come with me tomorrow if you like? The photos in the church are wonderful too. A real eye-opener. You should see them before you finish your holiday.’

What would she be doing tomorrow, waiting about for Liam to grace her with his presence after surfing? And she did want to take a better look around.

‘All right then, yes,’ Melissa said, ‘if you don’t mind me tagging along?’

He beamed. ‘It would be a pleasure.’

She looked at him and wondered how she’d got into this position. She was sat having dinner with a minor celebrity, albeit one she’d never heard of, who she’d only met a matter of hours ago and she was arranging to meet him again tomorrow.

Melissa felt a stab of guilt about Liam and then tried to quash it immediately. Liam was making her feel, well, a bit crap actually and Guy Cameron was making her feel very at ease. They were only going to look at some photos. It was hardly a date.

They ate their dinner and talked. Guy revealed he lived on the fringes of London where town just about met country and she confessed that she lived in a very unsexy part of town where London met Essex.

‘And what do you do, when you aren’t holidaying in Dorset?’ he asked while they waited for pudding.

‘I’m currently in between jobs,’ she said, trying not to sound too embarrassed. She didn’t really fancy telling him she’d jacked in her job in a fit of idealistic madness and was now temping.

‘Oh right?’ He was clearly waiting for more.

‘Just office work. Admin really. Nothing very exciting. How did you get into TV presenting?’ Melissa asked, attempting to move the conversation on quickly. She just couldn’t admit to this incredibly successful and rather good-looking man how much of a failure she was.

The waitress brought their pudding over. They’d decided to share one of the restaurant’s famous soufflés. Guy didn’t have a sweet tooth, but he was happy to make the meal last a bit longer. He was enjoying Melissa’s company. It was the first time he’d been out with a woman in a long time.

‘I don’t know, really. I suppose I sort of fell into it. Someone suggested I’d be good on a radio segment and it all spiralled from there.’

‘I’ve got to confess that I’ve never actually watched any of your programmes,’ Melissa said, pushing her spoon into the soft, pillowy pudding and obviously avoiding his eye contact.

He smiled. ‘Well, thank you for being honest.’ He was so used to people approaching him because he was in the public eye, believing they already knew him. It was refreshing talking to Melissa. She didn’t gush compliments at him.

‘And also, until I read your name on the leaflet this morning,’ Melissa continued, ‘I hadn’t actually heard of you either.’ He watched her spoon soufflé delicately into her mouth.

He laughed now. ‘Believe it or not, that’s music to my ears.’

‘Really?’ she asked. ‘I did wonder if it was exhausting being a celebrity?’ Guy grimaced at the word celebrity and Melissa continued. ‘Whether you had to watch your back all the time in case someone papped you; whether you could go on a real bender in the pub without someone telling the Daily Mail?’

‘Ah, no one cares about a Z-lister like me,’ he said. ‘I get photographed a lot by lovely middle-aged women who just want a nice picture to show their friends. And I’m far too clean-cut to have anything I do end up in the gossip rags,’ he said with a wink.

‘Shame.’ She gave him a sideways smile. They looked at each other for a few seconds before she turned to signal the waitress for the bill. ‘I should be getting back.’

‘I’ll get this,’ Guy said. ‘I insist.’

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded, pulling out his wallet.

Melissa put her purse away with a reluctant look. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘But you have to let me buy you lunch tomorrow then. Even if it’s only a plastic sandwich from a service station after we’ve been to Tyneham.’

‘It’s a deal.’

Melissa stood to leave and he held out his hand to shake hers to seal the deal.

She shook it with a smile. ‘Erm, 11 a.m. okay for you? At the main entrance?’

‘See you then,’ he said.

She turned and gave him a little glance from the door. He waved goodbye and then sat down and cringed at himself when she was out of sight, pushing the rest of the pudding away. Who shakes hands after a nice dinner like that?

He glanced around him. A few people had recognised him and were smiling as he caught their eye. He nodded to politely acknowledge them. One lady was taking a sneaky picture of him on her phone. Oh well, not giving Melissa a friendly kiss on the cheek had perhaps done him a favour.

Melissa stood by the bookings desk for a few seconds, rifling in her bag for her car keys. The keeper of the bookings diary was off wielding her power over someone else and so Melissa did something she knew she was going to regret. She grabbed the diary and scanned through the list of names. She found what she was looking for in seconds and then put the book back before leaving the restaurant.

As she walked to her car, she felt cold and it wasn’t due to the temperature. Liam’s name was in the book, listed against an earlier booking. Table for two.

CHAPTER 3

Melissa knew what she had to do. She and Liam needed to have ‘The Talk’.

But the idea of speaking to him about it created a hollow feeling in her stomach. This kind of thing had never gone down well at home. As a child, she’d spent far too much time in her room listening to her parents fight, listening to her mother plead with her father over one thing or another. The muffled tones rarely gave away what the argument was about, but her mother’s crying at the end of almost every row had certainly been audible. But Melissa was stronger than her mother. She was sure of it. And at least there were no children hiding in an upstairs bedroom if a fight did break out between her and Liam.

She stood in the shower the following morning, thinking for far too long, letting the hot water run over her. Melissa considered her track record with men. It wasn’t great. She knew that. Before Liam, six months had been her absolute personal best when it came to relationships. She knew it must be something she was doing. Or not doing. Perhaps that was a throwback to watching her parents kill their own relationship one fight at a time.

Liam had been asleep by the time she’d got in last night and Melissa was secretly grateful that he’d already left to go surfing by the time she’d woken up this morning. Although whether they spoke about their issues, including Liam’s mystery restaurant booking, tonight or tomorrow, this delay was only putting off the inevitable. Things weren’t working and Melissa wanted to know why.

She had hoped this holiday was going to fix whatever it was that had already gone so horribly wrong, but it was only highlighting that they really weren’t very compatible at all. Somehow, none of it seemed quite so horrific during the daily grind of working life when they only saw each other a few evenings a week.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he’d lost respect for her having jacked her job in. But she hadn’t been out of work for that long and she was on the hunt for something more suitable. It certainly didn’t help that Liam was silent a lot of the time these days and that Melissa did most of the talking, often to fill the silence. He’d never been a big chatter and his silent brooding was one of the things that Melissa had originally found attractive about him. But now his inability to actually talk about anything meaningful was doing neither of them any favours. She sighed and turned the shower off, knowing that when they did eventually speak, she couldn’t expect much from Liam. It would be her doing most of the talking anyway.

The clock on the car radio showed 11 a.m. by the time Melissa was finally on her way through the country lanes, passing quaint traditional white fingerpost signs every few miles. In the distance, over the green hills littered with sheep, she could see the coastline and out to sea as she drove. The sun glinted off the water brightly. She was going full pelt in her hatchback, eager to keep the appointment she had agreed to. It felt like an old-fashioned sort of meeting; the kind people made before mobile phones and email meant you could casually cancel moments before and hope it would be okay. Why hadn’t she taken Guy’s mobile number? With her outrageous timekeeping, she wasn’t going to be there for at least another fifteen to twenty minutes. And that was assuming she didn’t get stuck behind a tractor.

As her car eventually skidded to a halt in the car park, kicking up a bit of turf, Melissa could see Guy leaning against the gatepost. She smiled. He had waited.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said as Guy pointed to his watch and raised his eyebrows with a grin. ‘I couldn’t find my car keys and I thought my boyfriend might have moved them and then I almost forgot I promised to buy us some lunch. But it’s not from a service station. Oh no, it’s from a lovely little deli, so I think you’ll like it. But I don’t have a picnic mat, so we’ll have to just sit on the grass, which I don’t mind, if you don’t. And look,’ she said, presenting a huge bottle, ‘ta-da. I remembered to bring water today!’

During her little speech, his face took on a confused expression, but Melissa couldn’t work out why. She lowered the water.

‘I really am sorry I’m late,’ she said again.

He smiled thinly, but she still couldn’t read his expression; his eyes were hidden behind mirrored Ray-Bans, which meant Melissa could only see her own flustered reflection.

‘What’s wrong?’ Melissa asked.

‘Nothing.’ His expression lifted. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Let me carry that.’ He reached out and took the water bottle and the bag of shopping from her hands.

‘Thanks.’ Melissa locked the car and they walked together into Tyneham. ‘I thought we could eat the picnic up by the Great House. I realise you didn’t get to see it yesterday. You were too busy escorting a dehydrated woman back down the hill.’

He laughed. ‘True.’

They walked on a few paces.

‘No golf buggy today?’ Melissa ventured.

He looked sheepish. ‘Not today. God, I felt like a complete idiot yesterday, whizzing past everyone in that bloody buggy. I absolutely loathe things like that.’

She looked at him through her sunglasses and they fell into a companionable silence.

‘So,’ he said after a while, ‘how long have you been with your boyfriend?’

‘How do you know I have a boyfriend?’

‘You just told me. He was one of the reasons you were late.’

‘Oh. Did I? About eight months.’ Melissa looked at Guy. Was it her imagination that Guy looked a bit annoyed?

‘Shall we look in the schoolhouse first?’ Guy asked, seemingly changing the subject.

Melissa nodded, wondering why Liam’s existence might be bothering Guy. He didn’t think this was a date, did he? Of course he didn’t. She was being silly. He was a famous historian and she’d seen the way he had women practically falling at his feet.

Guy opened the large wooden door to the schoolhouse and held it for her. If there hadn’t been a few tourists in front of her, Melissa could have sworn she’d been transported back in time. Everything inside the bright, airy room was cleanly scrubbed, but the original open-lid desks and chairs were still on the dark wood floor. Pieces were displayed around the walls: drawings of famous landmarks, old charts showing capital cities and times tables. It was all very atmospheric. The few tourists inside the room were whispering, out of a sort of respect.

Melissa walked around, grateful that it wasn’t as busy in the village today as it was yesterday. She might have struggled to have actually seen any of the items inside the room otherwise. She thumbed through some of the textbooks on the shelves before stopping at the curved metal coat pegs on the far wall, still showing the names of the last of the children to attend the school before it had closed for requisition.

‘My gran came to this school.’ Guy stood beside her and looked at the coat pegs.

‘Really?’ Melissa raised her eyebrows. ‘Wow.’

‘It’s mad to think she sat at one of these desks and copied out tasks from that chalk board.’ He nodded to the front of the classroom.

‘How old was she when she left the village?’ Melissa turned to face him.

‘Seventeen. She was working up at the Great House by that point, so she’d long since left the school.’

Guy moved off and Melissa flicked through a few of the children’s exercise books, trying to decipher the old-fashioned handwriting. She wondered why she’d never really bothered to explore museums and the kind of houses the National Trust owned before. Perhaps she’d never really known anyone who was interested enough to go with her, but now she was here, she was fascinated and enjoying herself.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Guy leaning back against the wall, fully engrossed in reading an old leather-bound encyclopedia. A few teenage girls arrived, clearly bored on a day out with their parents, and were making themselves busy, trying to catch his eye. Melissa smiled. Even if they had no idea who the man hidden behind the mirrored shades was, he was incredibly attractive. He looked up and gave them a quick smile before looking down at the book again. The girls giggled and nudged each other. Guy was completely oblivious.

‘Melissa, are you ready to go and look at Tyneham House?’ He put the book back on the shelf. ‘There’s not as much to see as in here, but it’s a sunny day and we can eat our picnic.’

Melissa agreed, put the exercise book down and accompanied Guy out the door. She gave the girls a polite smile as she edged her way past them and tried not to laugh when they shot her daggers.

‘Those girls were eyeing you up,’ Melissa teased.

Guy looked around blankly. ‘Which girls?’

‘Never mind.’ She laughed.

‘They probably thought I was someone else. People often assume I’m some A-lister when they think they recognise me, and then try hard to hide their disappointment when they realise “Oh, it’s just you off the telly.”’

‘Oh, I feel so bad for you.’ Melissa nudged his arm and Guy found himself laughing.

They walked through the rest of the village in companionable silence. Now Guy wasn’t being driven around in a golf buggy with the organisers chatting to him non-stop, he could see the village properly, for what it was. A bloody mess. He had been waiting to see the village without quite realising it, for most of his adult life; ever since his grandmother had talked quietly about Tyneham years ago and her idyllic childhood there. As a historian, his specialist subject was World War Two and so he knew of the few villages up and down the country that had been taken over by the army during the war. Whole communities had been forcibly ejected. His grandmother had been part of one such community and now he was seeing where she’d grown up. He’d been amazed that she hadn’t wanted to come with him, see the village and walk, very literally, down memory lane. ‘It would be too painful,’ she had said. ‘Best not go back.’

He and Melissa strolled past shells of pubs, farm labourers’ cottages, and what used to be shops. Guy sighed at what he saw and was grateful his grandmother hadn’t come along. She’d have hated this. Inside, he was reeling. He shook his head. This had been his grandmother’s village and now it was a ruin. Crumbling brickwork, boarded-up windows, great chunks of roofs missing, and the occasional Danger – No Entry sign. His grandmother had been stoic when discussing it. ‘It helped win us the war,’ she’d said. It was best she’d remember it how it was then and not how it looked now.

By the time they reached Tyneham House, Guy was miserable. Melissa had been right when she’d said it was all just so depressing. It really was. He’d not felt like this yesterday. The schoolhouse was charming and it was clear the guides had made an effort in sprucing it up for visitors. But he was more interested in the house, which gave off an air of absolute abandonment, despite the fact it was one of the very few buildings in the village still intact.

The village had been weeded and the grass cut, but the grounds of the Great House were in need of some love. They stood on a large patch of trampled grass in front of the manor. So this was it then. Tyneham House. He stood back to look at the once-great building. He noted the boarded-up doors and windows with their words of warning emblazoned across. For a reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he felt as if a heavy weight was on him.

While his grandmother didn’t have especially fond memories, he’d found it enchanting to know she’d turned up for work here during the early war years before she’d had to leave Tyneham behind. In the village, he’d tried picking out her family home she’d described to him, but those that were still standing all looked the same. He couldn’t locate any individual property out of the identical ones from the long row into the village, towards the market square and back out towards the coast. He’d taken pictures in the hope she’d be able to spot her former home, but he was rather against showing them to her now. Her once lovely village home was in tatters.

‘I’d love to see inside.’ Melissa looked up at the house. ‘I can just imagine that front door leads on to a large and ornate entrance hall complete with fireplace and sweeping staircase,’ she said. ‘I used to dream of living in a grand old country house in the unlikely event I ever became a millionaire.’ Melissa blushed.

‘It’s a pity it’s not for sale,’ Guy mused. ‘It’s run-down of course, but with a hell of a lot of money and TLC, it could be a home once again. It’s a shame it can’t be.’

‘Why can’t it be?’

‘The house and village are still owned by the Ministry of Defence,’ he said. ‘The army uses the land around it for artillery and tank training. The village and this house were in the way then and still are now. Not during summer though. They stop their training exercises over summer.’

Melissa’s face fell. ‘Oh, right. So it’s just going to stay like this then? Until it falls away to rubble?’

‘I suppose all we can do is appreciate it as a piece of social history now and endeavour to understand the huge sacrifice the residents made,’ he said. ‘That’s just the way it is with all those villages requisitioned during the war. Some of them were given back, but they were often unliveable by the time the army had finished with them. They’re mostly tourist attractions now.’

Melissa sighed and then busied herself getting the picnic food out of the paper bag. She’d bought some breadsticks and various dips, a crusty loaf, two kinds of cheese, some delicious-looking sliced ham, and paper plates and empty takeaway coffee cups for the water. She looked quite pleased with the little array until, ‘Oh damn. I forgot to ask for plastic cutlery to slice the cheese and ham with. We’ll just have to use fingers, I’m afraid.’

Guy sat down next to her on the grass and drew his eyes away from the building and down to the feast in front of him. ‘Impressive.’

‘Tuck in,’ Melissa encouraged.

Guy ripped off a bit of Brie. He held it between his fingers and narrowed his eyes at the building.

Melissa glanced at where he was looking and then back to him. ‘What?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said and put the cheese into his mouth and chewed. When he finished, he asked, ‘Did you know the owner of the house, Sir Albert Standish, was an MP?’

Melissa shook her head and rolled up a piece of ham. ‘Gosh, that was unfortunate. Being an MP and still having your home whipped out from underneath you, same as your constituents. No special treatment for him. Bet he wasn’t too chuffed. Was that who your grandmother worked for?’

‘He and his wife, Lady Veronica. My gran doesn’t speak very highly of him though. Bit of a bastard from what I can gather. Gran was one of their maids. I think she was the last one to leave.’ Guy frowned, trying to remember what his gran had said. ‘She loved Lady Veronica though. The family owned the entire village and all the surrounding farmland. Everyone rented their properties from the Standishes.’

‘Where did they all go? The villagers, I mean. How do you rehouse a whole village in the middle of a war?’

‘Temporary accommodation in the nearby towns. Some went to stay with family,’ Guy said. ‘My great-grandparents went to stay with relatives, I think, and then my gran joined the war effort and was posted away for a while.’

Melissa looked at the house again and then dipped a breadstick into some hummus. ‘Where did the Standishes go?’

‘Good question. They probably had a London home.’ He rolled up a piece of ham and looked back at the house.

They shared small talk and when they had finished their picnic, tidied up and walked slowly down towards the church.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing these pictures now,’ Melissa said. ‘You’ve really built this up, so it had better be good.’

‘You won’t be disappointed.’

He opened the heavy wooden door and showed her into the church, removing his sunglasses and hooking them into his shirt pocket. The church was beautiful on the inside and out. Built of the same pale brick as the Great House, it had huge stained-glass windows that dripped an array of sunlit colour onto the flagstone floor. Tourists milled about and an elderly guide whose name badge read ‘Reg’ acknowledged Guy immediately and started fussing. Guy shook the man’s hand and then raised his finger to his lips, indicating the tourists. The guide smiled knowingly, pleased to be in on the secrecy, and left Guy and Melissa to it.

Melissa pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked up at one of the stained-glass windows. The light was streaming through and casting glorious colour onto her, her face raised up intently, studying the glass. She was beautiful, Guy thought as he leaned against one of the pews. Almost ethereal in this light.

She turned to look at him and walked slowly towards him. He felt like his heart had lurched into his mouth.

‘Come on then, Mr Historian,’ she said quietly. ‘Show me these photos.’

He led her over to a series of boards that had been staggered around the nave of the church. Each one showed a group of properties, their owners, and had a bit of information about their family histories and what had happened to them after they had left Tyneham.

‘That’s Gran.’ He looked proud as he leaned over her shoulder to point to a photo of a teenage girl in a pinafore, her hair up in a loose bun with a few front sections falling down by her face.

‘She was very pretty,’ Melissa said and turned to smile up at Guy. He was only a few inches from her, and he smiled, a lovely smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

Melissa read each of the boards with interest and scanned the pictures of the various houses, the vicarage and the post office. At the final board, Melissa saw the same bit of blurb about the Great House that she’d read in the leaflet and looked at pictures of the house in its heyday taken from various angles. A few black and white images of the staff and owners throughout the years were on display. And then there was the portrait shot of Sir Albert Standish and his wife Veronica taken outside their house. It was larger, much more clear than the miniature version on the board at the Great House. She could actually see their faces. The caption said it had been taken by the local Historical Society. Melissa was taken aback by Veronica and Albert. They were much younger than she imagined they would be; they looked no older than their early thirties. She wasn’t sure why, but Melissa had imagined they’d be at least middle aged.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Lady Veronica was beautiful,’ she said to Guy, who turned to look. Veronica had dark hair, possibly red, but it was hard to tell in the black and white of the photo, swept over on one side so a thick waterfall of fashionable rolled curls fells down to her shoulders. She had thick eyelashes, fairly high cheekbones and was wearing a dark lipstick that Melissa guessed might be red. Melissa turned her gaze to the man standing by Lady Veronica’s side, Sir Albert. ‘Her husband was a looker too.’

‘Yes, I suppose. If you like that sort of thing,’ Guy said jokingly.

Sir Albert had a chiselled jaw and dark hair that looked like it should have fallen to his eyes but was instead firmly Brylcreemed, giving it a bit of height.

‘Imagine what their children must have looked like. Supermodels,’ Melissa marvelled.

‘I don’t think they ever had children actually. My gran never mentioned children when she worked there.’

‘That’s a shame. So there was no one to inherit the house?’

‘No. But like the rest of the village, the house was subject to a compulsory purchase order after the war. It didn’t matter that he was an MP.’ Guy nodded towards the picture of Sir Albert. ‘He never got it back.’

Melissa looked at Albert and Veronica Standish. The photograph was dated December 1943 – the same month the village had been rendered a ghost town. Had they already known when the picture was taken that they were being kicked out?

There was something about Albert Standish that Melissa couldn’t put her finger on. He looked stern, but not only that, he looked … Melissa couldn’t work it out. The body language was normal enough for a formal photo, but the hand that was holding Veronica’s was clenched; as if he were holding on to her far too tightly. Melissa tried to see past his ridiculous good looks and wondered if he didn’t have a bit of a domineering edge to him.

Melissa peered at Lady Veronica again and tried to work out Veronica’s expression. Her mouth was set in a straight line and her eyes were slightly wider than was normal, but there was something else …

‘Look at Lady Veronica,’ she said. ‘Look at her face. Does she seem a bit odd to you?’

Guy looked. ‘Maybe. Perhaps she’s not happy having her picture taken?’

Melissa wasn’t sure. She read the words that accompanied the picture to see what had happened to the couple after they had left Tyneham. It didn’t say. All the other boards had little stories about each family, but the Standishes had no information at all.

‘What happened to them after the requisition?’ she asked Guy. ‘It doesn’t say.’

‘Yes, I wondered that,’ he replied. ‘I’ll ask my gran, she might know.’

Melissa turned back to the photograph of the couple. After a few seconds she’d worked out what the expression was on the woman’s face: fear.

Lady Veronica Standish looked scared to death.

CHAPTER 4
Tyneham, December 1943

‘Hurry. Put that in there.’ Veronica threw her leather jewellery box through the air to her maid, Anna. Anna pushed it into one of the trunks that was open in the middle of the bedroom and looked up at her employer, ready to catch the next item. Veronica rifled in drawers and grabbed whatever she could that she thought she could either use or sell.

With nothing else flying through the air, Anna dashed past Veronica and yanked open the wardrobe doors, helping to pull clothes from rails and piling them into the middle of the room. Both women knew there was no time to sort, simply to stuff suitcases and trunks and get Veronica out.

‘I’m sorry I can’t take you with me.’ Veronica was breathless, quickly throwing fur stoles that she knew she’d get good money for into the trunks.

‘I understand. Don’t worry about me. I’ll go back to my parents after you’ve left. And then, in a few days, we’re all leaving the village anyway …’ Anna trailed off as she picked up a beige booklet from the floor. Her eyes were wide. ‘Why have you collected your ration book from Cook?’

‘I’ll need it,’ Veronica said.

Anna frowned and put it inside the trunk.

‘What’s wrong?’ Veronica asked.

‘I don’t think that was a good idea. What if she tells Sir Albert you’ve got it?’

‘I told her I had to take a quick shopping trip to London. She can’t possibly know what I’m doing.’

Anna looked worried. ‘Let’s hope not. Will you be going to London in the end? I mean, really?’

‘I don’t know where I’m going yet,’ Veronica said. ‘Anywhere will be better than here. I’ll get a hotel first near a station and then I’ll make plans to move on.’

‘Don’t write to me,’ Anna said. ‘He’ll know.’

Veronica nodded and wondered how a seventeen-year-old was so wise beyond her years. Living with Veronica and Sir Albert had obviously opened Anna’s eyes to the harsh realities of human behaviour.

‘All right, that’s everything I think I’ll need.’ Veronica stuffed the last of her clothing into the trunk, snapping the clasp shut. ‘Your brother’s still coming with the trap, isn’t he?’

‘He’ll be here any minute.’ Anna took down the eighteenth-century marble and gold clock from above the mantelpiece and held it out. ‘You might get a few pounds for this.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘It belongs to Bertie. It’s a family heirloom. Best to put it back.’ She didn’t want to give her husband any more reason to hate her. She knew he’d be enraged and would begin hunting her down the moment he realised she was gone. Any further excuse would add to whatever sentence Bertie had in store when he found her.

If he found her.

The sound of a horse and cart crunched rhythmically over the sweep of the gravel drive.

‘Is it your brother? Is it William?’ Veronica asked.

Anna dashed to the window and her hands flew to her face.

Veronica’s head shot up and she pushed her long auburn hair out of her eyes. ‘What? What is it?’

‘It’s not William.’

Veronica dashed to the window. The house had been so quiet for ever so long. Visitors were few and far between since the war had started. ‘Who on earth is it? No one is expected. Not today. Why is someone visiting today?’

Veronica peered down as the cart approached the front door. A well-dressed man in a suit was sitting next to the driver, but from the bedroom window, the angle made it impossible to see his face.

‘I’ll go down and tell them no one’s at home. William will be here any minute and …’ Anna trailed off. William’s horse and cart had come into view at the end of the driveway and was on its way towards the house.

‘Oh, dear God, it’s too late. Anna …’ Veronica closed her eyes and tried not to let panic get the better of her.

‘No, it’ll be all right. We can still get you away. Just wait here for a minute.’ Anna turned and left the room.

Veronica clutched the thick curtain so hard that the whites of her knuckles showed. She stared at the first cart, hoping for it to turn and leave with its passenger still on board.

Veronica saw Anna rush round from the side of the house and spin her fingers in the air, indicating to William to turn around and go. Halfway down the drive, William threw his hands in the air to his sister, indicating the task was an impossible one. He continued towards the house in order to sweep past and exit through the other entrance and, as he did so, acknowledged the passenger of the first cart with a tip of his hat. Veronica strained her eyes downward to try to identify the suited man but was unable to get a glimpse of his face.

William’s cart continued away from the house and out of the space where the large iron gates had once stood. Veronica had loved those gates. But having been taken in the metal drives in 1940 to help build weapons and Spitfires, they had not yet been replaced. It didn’t matter now. She would not be here to see them remade.

From the latticed window of her bedroom Veronica watched as Anna stopped momentarily in front of the visitor. Anna started to speak and then narrowed her eyes as if in confusion.

Anna opened the front door, indicated for the man to come inside and then disappeared inside herself.

What on earth was Anna doing? Why was William leaving? And why was she showing that man inside?

Veronica left her bedroom and descended the main staircase, almost tripping as she moved. Her mind was a whir. She was supposed to be in William’s cart, making her way towards the train station with her belongings. She was supposed to be leaving Bertie. There might still be time. If she could get rid of the visitor quickly, they might have time to summon William back before Bertie returned from his appointment in Dorchester. Veronica tried to take control of her nerves.

Anna stopped and looked up at Veronica, a frightened expression on her face. Veronica looked past Anna and into the eyes of a man she recognised but had not seen for years. She stopped on the final stair, let out a large breath and gripped the bannisters for fear of collapsing.

‘No,’ she whispered and then collected herself. ‘Anna,’ Veronica said, forcing the words out with as much calm as possible. ‘I think … perhaps today … I think that some of the trunks may need …’

Anna searched her employer’s eyes. Veronica knew she looked lost. She didn’t have the answer.

Not now. How would she ever leave now?

Anna shot Veronica a desperate look as the maid walked past. But there was nothing either of them could do.

The man smiled up at Veronica, a wide smile that reached his eyes as she eventually descended the stairs towards him.

‘Veronica Hanbury, as I live and breathe,’ he said.

‘Freddie?’ she whispered. She was looking into the eyes of Bertie’s brother.

CHAPTER 5

‘In the flesh,’ he said with a grin. ‘Although I should have called you Veronica Standish, but I’m afraid old habits die hard.’

Veronica stepped off the final stair slowly and stood in front of Freddie, looking at his features before throwing her arms around him. Freddie staggered back a pace and slowly lifted his arms to embrace her.

‘It’s so good to see you,’ she whispered into his neck. He was warm, despite the cold of the day and memories flooded back to her of the last time he’d held her like this; so long ago when things were simple. Before everything had changed and she’d married his brother. Before it had all gone so horribly wrong.

He pushed her back gently, holding her at arm’s length, and studied her. ‘You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you. Feels like years ago.’

‘It was,’ she nodded. ‘Nearly five.’

‘Well, there we are then,’ he replied and let go of her.

She searched his face. He looked the same, but now his eyes creased at the sides when he smiled and the beginnings of frown lines had appeared on his forehead.

‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ Veronica said.

‘Really? I wrote and told Bertie I was coming. Or rather, I replied to his strongly worded demand.’

‘I had no idea. He didn’t tell me.’

‘Strange. Maybe he didn’t think I’d come.’

‘But you are here,’ Veronica said, smiling.

He nodded. ‘Is there anyone about to lend a hand with suitcases and trunks and whatnot?’

‘No. I’m sorry. We’ve packed up all the things that are going to the London house and sent them on already. We’ve only got Cook, and the maids Rebecca and Anna, who you just saw, until we go. We’ve got a removal company coming to help load the last remaining things when we all leave in a few days. Can I help you with your cases?’

Freddie laughed. ‘Of course not. I’ll manage. Bertie ordered me to clear my things out on the off chance the army sneak off with my possessions while they’ve got free run of the place. I’ve only brought a few suitcases to fill. I can’t imagine there’s much left of me here really.’

Veronica knew all too well how true that last statement was. Bertie had removed almost every trace of his brother from the house years ago. It was as if Freddie had never existed at all. The strange mix of dislike and misplaced jealousy Bertie had always felt towards his younger brother ran as fresh now as it had always done. So it was odd that Bertie had ordered Freddie all the way down to Dorset for the purpose of clearing out his possessions. She was sure Bertie knew there wasn’t much left.

‘Am I in my old bedroom?’

‘I … I’m not sure what’s made up. I didn’t know you were coming. Most of the furniture has gone to London or into storage.’

He put his hand softly on her arm and she looked down at it. Her breathing slowed. He’d always had a calming effect on her. He removed his hand and made a fuss of looking at his watch. ‘Any chance of some lunch and a stiff drink? I’ve been travelling for bloody ages. The trains were a nightmare. Full of troops and the Navy. I stood almost all the way from London.’

While Freddie collected his cases from the cart and paid the driver, Veronica went off to see if Cook could rustle up a meal. Most of the vegetables from the kitchen garden had been dug up in preparation for departure. Bertie was adamant if they were leaving the house to the army, they’d already taken enough from him. The army could grow its own food, Bertie reasoned. He was determined to leave nothing behind for the soldiers. Veronica was appalled at Bertie’s unpatriotic stance, especially as the stews Cook had been providing over the past week were far too plentiful for the household and most of it was being wasted. But she knew that to say anything would lead to what her mother would call ‘unpleasant behaviour that should not be mentioned again’.

Veronica thought of her mother. The idea of running to her had crossed her mind but had quickly been eschewed in favour of going it alone. Mrs Hanbury idolised Bertie. She’d never quite got the hang of calling him by his nickname, instead preferring the way ‘Sir Albert’ felt on her tongue and how it sounded to her bridge club friends when she spoke of her son-in-law, the MP. When Veronica had tried to discreetly mention that Bertie took to drink and was a little free and easy with his fists, Mrs Hanbury had told her never to mention it again. In that moment Veronica knew that in marrying Bertie she had made her own bed and had to lie in it.

Bertie hadn’t always been this way. It had been subtle at first, so subtle Veronica had managed to brush her fears under the carpet. Slowly, over the first months of their marriage, the honeymoon period had crossed seamlessly into silence and surliness on Bertie’s part. And what Veronica now saw as desperation on her part to get Bertie to engage with her. Perhaps that had been what pushed him over the edge. There had been many a time Veronica had worried Bertie disliked her. But whenever she had found her mind wandering in that direction she had accused herself of going mad.

There were many ‘firsts’ in Veronica’s life she could remember with utmost clarity. Her first day at boarding school and the fear of leaving her family behind; the first time she saw Freddie and how remarkably wonderful he had been – unlike any other man she had ever met. And the first day Bertie hit her. The memory of that day had burnt itself into her mind with the same ferocity as that which his fist had landed on her cheekbone. She would never forget it. It heralded the beginning of the end of their marriage, such as it had ever been.

The argument had been short and the violence had come from nowhere. Although if Veronica had analysed Bertie’s behaviour over the preceding months, she would have seen the layers of it thickly building within him.

They had been going to a party. Her dress had been too low-cut and in it, Bertie said, she had looked obscene. She had laughed, not at him, but because she thought he’d been making a joke. She hadn’t taken him seriously and had touched his arm to soothe as she had looked past him towards the wardrobe to choose her shoes. And then suddenly she was on the floor, wide-eyed and holding her cheek. Looking up at him, she saw a flash of satisfaction in his eyes before he issued his monotone apology. She didn’t go to the party. It had taken a fortnight for the bruise to fade enough for her to be able to cover it with powder and eventually be able to leave the house.

The next time he did it he didn’t apologise.

Bertie was not the man she thought he was. After the shock of realising this had worn off, she had felt so lost and alone. His violence was unpredictable and linked to his ever-increasing thirst for alcohol. But she knew now that if she was going to summon the courage and the strength to do anything about her situation, she would be doing it entirely alone. She thought of Anna. Thank God for Anna. Veronica was not quite so alone.

As Veronica made her way to the kitchen, her heart sank. She had almost left. She had almost tasted freedom. It was too late now. In the confusion of Freddie’s arrival, William had gone and with him her lifeline. She felt in her pocket for the little purse of pin money she’d scavenged together from coins Bertie had left scattered in his study over the last few months. It wasn’t much. She’d been summoning up the courage to leave him for the last six months – ever since she fully realised his drinking was now entirely out of control. He’d been drinking for as long as she had known him, but it was as Bertie had grown disheartened with the war and his place in the wider world that he had really upped his daily allowance to unprecedented levels. And with the drink came the madness and the violence he couldn’t keep at bay.

After she’d had a few words with their reluctant cook, Veronica moved into the sitting room that faced the front drive. The large room now only housed oversized settees, the wireless, a drinks trolley and a few old copies of The Tatler piled up on a coffee table. All the ornaments, portraits and Chinese rugs from the ground floor had been packed up and sent on. As such, the room echoed.

Veronica went to the fire and prodded it, sending sparks onto the hearth. She hugged herself against the cold of the December day and stared blankly into the flames. Her mind moved back to a simpler time. She and Freddie dancing together on the threadbare carpet of the little flat he’d just bought but hadn’t had time to furnish. How they’d both tried hard in his kitchen to master cooking something from a battered copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. It had been the only cookery book they’d ever heard of and they had bought it together from a second-hand bookshop on a whim. They’d laughingly discarded the Victorian tome, wondering what on earth had possessed them, before Freddie had bicycled off for fish and chips.

A log shifted in front of her and sparks flew high in the grate, snapping her back from her memory. She could have cried thinking about how happy she had been then, how happy she thought he had been. But she’d been wrong about Freddie.

Why the hell was he here? And what in God’s name was she going to do now?

Freddie lugged his two small cases and his gas mask in its cardboard box up the stairs and deposited them at the top. He had intended to stay until the end, to see all his childhood friends from the village and leave when they all left together on the final day; if any of his friends were left. He knew many would have been called up. Or, like him, would have joined up at the first available opportunity. But he felt like a fraud. He’d not been back to the village in years and to stand with those that were here at the end in an act of solidarity didn’t feel quite right somehow. Unlike them, he wasn’t losing anything. He hadn’t lived in his family home for a long time. He wouldn’t miss it either. He told himself he was only here for his things. Perhaps he shouldn’t have responded to Bertie’s letter. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come at all.

A noise of something heavy being dropped onto the floor down the hall grabbed his attention and he glanced quickly to the right to see what it was. The maid Anna was in one of the bedrooms, picking up items that had fallen out of a black leather jewellery box. Around her were trunks that looked as if they had sprung open and had spilled their contents around the solid wood floor. She looked as if she was in the midst of chaos.

On seeing him, Anna moved towards the bedroom door and, with her gaze cast to the floor, closed the door gently but pointedly.

Strange girl, he thought.

Freddie turned his attention back to his suitcases and wondered what he’d actually left here all those years ago that Bertie, in his short and clipped mandate, demand he now remove.

On the train down from London, he’d been rather nervous about seeing Veronica. It had been so long. He’d pictured her face the whole way down. Imagined what he’d say to her. He compared her now to how he remembered her, before his brother had swooped in and set his sights on her. Back then she’d been fun, exciting, a breath of fresh air. He remembered the party where they’d met. He smiled as he recollected the moment he’d spotted her instantly across the room. She had been drinking champagne from a cut-glass saucer, laughing raucously and spilling it everywhere. A gaggle of men surrounded her, offering to mop up her spillage. Of course they had. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But she’d locked eyes with Freddie as he walked in to the party and it was as if his world had changed forever.

The woman in front of him now as he entered the sitting room was not the Veronica from back then. Her hand shook slightly as she chewed her nails and stared wide-eyed but unseeing into the fire. He watched her silently, wondering what had happened to her since he’d last seen her that had changed her quite so much.

She spotted him out of the corner of her eye and forced a smile. ‘Gin and tonic?’ Her voice almost broke as she spoke and she knew she had to work harder to keep a tight lid on her emotions. She wasn’t used to men other than Bertie being in the house. She told herself it was just Freddie, but that only made it worse.

‘How’d you get hold of decent gin?’ he enquired. ‘Black market?’

Veronica shrugged. ‘I assume so. Bertie always finds a way of getting what he wants.’

He nodded and made his way over to the drinks trolley, glancing around the room as he did so. ‘I will, thanks. This room’s empty.’ It was an obvious comment.

Veronica didn’t answer.

‘I assume all my old things are in the attic?’

‘I think so.’

‘It’s probably just an old cricket bat and a trunk of books, but I’ll go up later and take a look,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow.’

She turned quickly from the fire to face him. ‘But you’ve only just arrived.’

He made an apologetic face and then shrugged. ‘The factory doesn’t run itself, you know.’

She looked into the fire again, forcing herself to breathe calmly. ‘Are you … very busy?’ She was on the edge of asking him if he was happy.

He threw himself into one of the few remaining overstuffed settees and stretched his legs out. ‘I shouldn’t complain. But we’re struggling to keep up with the demand for munitions.’ He rubbed his eyes, which looked tired. ‘Bertie shows no interest in the business. So I’ll just keep at it in the office on my own.’ He put his head back against the settee. ‘How are you?’ He stared up at the ornate plasterwork. ‘It’s been a while.’

She followed him to the settees and sat opposite him. ‘It has.’

Veronica felt suddenly nervous. The joy of seeing Freddie again after all this time had hit her unexpectedly, guiltily, even if his arrival had ruined her chance to leave. She still didn’t understand what had happened between her and Freddie all those years ago. There had been a fleeting moment when she thought it was they that would marry, not she and Bertie. How stupid she’d been to think that.

Freddie had put up no fight when she’d left him. He’d not loved her after all. He’d made it too easy for her to walk away. And now here he was, as dangerously handsome and as charming as ever. Why didn’t he look as nervous as she? How could he sit there looking so … confident?

She avoided his question. How was she? She was a shipwreck of a person. And she was sure he could see that.

‘I’m just going to check on Anna. I left her with rather a lot to do. Lunch won’t be long.’ Veronica left the room with Freddie looking at her retreating figure.

*

‘What’s happening?’ Anna asked as Veronica entered the room. She shoved the last of the clothes away and pushed the empty trunks into the corner.

‘He’s going tomorrow, he says.’

‘Good. We can try again after he leaves.’

Veronica sat on the bed and put her head in her hands. ‘It’s no good, Anna. That was it. That was my only chance. Bertie’s not planning on going anywhere else. He’s only out today because he’s at his solicitors attempting to fight the requisition order on the house. I’ll have to wait until we get to London. Perhaps I can slip out one day when Bertie’s busy. It’ll be easier in London. There I can disappear into a crowd instantly.’

Anna was silent for a moment and then said, ‘He’s not here now, is he? Just go. Now. We can walk down to the village. We’ll see if William’s still able to drive us to the station. You’ve got your money? And you can just take the jewellery box in your handbag. You can sell the jewels. What will they fetch?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Veronica felt hope rise within her. ‘Enough to find somewhere to rent, I think, while I look for some kind of job. Although heaven knows what I’ll do. I must do something. But I’m sure I can work all that through later.’ Veronica stood. ‘Yes,’ she smiled, clutching Anna’s hand. ‘Let’s go. Let’s find William.’

Anna grabbed the jewellery box while Veronica cast her eyes over her bedroom one final time. But as Veronica turned, she stopped dead and gasped. Freddie was standing by the open door.

CHAPTER 6

Veronica tried to force her face into a normal expression, but Freddie’s look was one of uncertainty. Veronica panicked: how much had he heard?

‘I just came to put my cases in my room,’ he said, looking from Veronica to Anna and then back again.

‘Right, yes.’ Veronica snapped to attention. ‘Of course. I’m sorry I haven’t checked to see …’

Anna spoke up. ‘The Blue Room is still made up, sir. The others have been emptied.’

Veronica threw her maid a helpless look as Freddie bent to pick up his suitcases.

Inside the Blue Room, Freddie dumped his cases just inside the door while Veronica threw open the thick blue curtains and removed the blackout frame from the windows. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had slept in this room. It had been so long since they’d had guests. So long since Bertie had allowed Veronica to have any of her remaining friends to stay. And now all their friends were in far-flung locations, playing their individual parts in beating Hitler; something she longed to do but which Bertie would never allow if it meant her being out of the house for long periods of time. She wasn’t sure her old friends from London would have come if she had invited them. Not just because they would be doing vital war work somewhere or other, but because they’d never really liked Bertie, had never really accepted her marrying him. As such, she hadn’t kept in touch with them. Bertie had discouraged it, feeling the same disdain towards her friends as they felt towards him. Inviting them to a party at Tyneham House wasn’t worth the argument with Bertie. And he no longer invited any of his friends, preferring privacy and quiet. They had been shut up alone in Dorset for so long, Veronica thought she was going to go mad.

Winter sunshine penetrated the room. Veronica stood by the window, reluctant to turn and look at Freddie. When she eventually did, she attempted a smile and hoped it masked the fact that she felt like the stuffing had been knocked out of her.

Freddie looked at her and a worried expression appeared on his face.

‘Veronica, I hope you don’t mind my saying. You look very thin. You look like you’ve had no sleep. Are you unwell? Are you ill? I mean, really ill?’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘It’s the stress of the requisition. It wouldn’t be so bad, but Bertie’s still trying to fight it. It’s hopeless, of course. Even he’s conceded we should pack up, but he’s fighting it nonetheless.’

Freddie sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, crumpling its dark blue eiderdown. Dust motes fluttered into the air. ‘I don’t believe you. Or rather, I don’t believe the requisition order is what’s done this to you. Tell me what’s really wrong,’ he said. ‘There was a time when you could tell me anything,’ he finished quietly.

‘I know.’ Veronica raised her eyes to meet his and then quickly blinked back tears.

Freddie stood and rushed towards her, stopping himself only a few feet away. But as a tear rolled out of her eye and down her cheek she found herself being pulled into his arms.

He just held her, resting his head on top of hers, while she cried into his chest, dampening his shirt with her tears. Her head still fitted neatly underneath his chin and for a few precious moments it was as if nothing had ever changed – as if the years hadn’t simply rushed past them both, grabbing hold of them and pulling them in different directions. Although embarrassed, she tried to stop her tears from falling, but it was no use. Her body shook. Freddie held her, making no further demand for her to divulge what it was that was making her cry, and for that she was grateful. She couldn’t tell him. Not now. If she was able to get away from Bertie, she couldn’t envisage having to ever tell anyone.

She lifted her head gently from the warmth of his chest and wiped her face. Freddie looked down at her and as their eyes met Veronica felt her heart pound. He was just the same as he’d ever been. It all felt too familiar, despite the fact it had been so long. The silence between them was tinged with emotion and the expression on Freddie’s face moved from concern to one of fresh pain. Veronica felt it too.

Downstairs, Cook rang the lunch gong and Veronica heard Anna pad past the Blue Room on her way downstairs to serve. Veronica sprang back from Freddie. She looked at his shirt, damp around his collarbone from her tears. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know quite what came over me.’

He looked at her intently, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘Lunch,’ she said in far too bright a voice and left the room.

While Anna hastily laid the table and then served, Veronica turned to Freddie and attempted to make polite conversation to counteract what had happened in his room. ‘We’re at sixes and sevens since we had the order to leave. It’s all been rather a rush, packing up and sending things on to the London house. We’re lucky, of course, at least we have another house to go to.’ Veronica knew she was prattling.

‘Where is the rest of the village going?’ Freddie asked.

‘Those that aren’t going to family are being rehoused around Purbeck,’ Veronica explained. ‘Until hostilities end. Until they can return.’

‘They’ll hate that. Most of those families have lived here for generations.’

‘Your family has lived here for generations,’ Veronica countered.

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He looked around but appeared unbothered by the prospect of his family home being requisitioned. ‘This house doesn’t feel like part of me anymore though.’ He shrugged. ‘Hasn’t in years.’ He looked at Veronica pointedly, but as she opened her mouth to speak, he asked, ‘Any wine?’

Anna disappeared, reappearing minutes later with a bottle of red. She fumbled with the corkscrew and Freddie leaned forward and delicately took it from her hands with a smile. ‘It’s all right, I’ll do it,’ he said. Anna shot him a grateful look and left the room.

‘She’s not used to serving,’ Veronica explained. ‘She’s my lady’s maid. All the male staff have gone to fight.’ Veronica didn’t like to say that the moment war had been declared, every single male member of staff had joined up immediately, as if they couldn’t wait to be gone from the house.

Freddie nodded. ‘How’s Bertie?’ he asked.

Veronica’s knife and fork stalled halfway up to her mouth.

Freddie plunged the needle of the corkscrew into the wine bottle and then started winding.

‘Fine,’ she said dismissively and then she asked quietly, ‘When did you last see him?’

Was it her imagination or did Freddie clench his jaw? He poured wine into both their glasses and then his next words cut through the room. ‘At your wedding.’

Veronica’s eyes widened. The wedding. The wedding she never wanted to think about ever again. ‘You’ve not seen him since then? Almost five years? That can’t be true.’

Freddie nodded. ‘We’ve spoken of course. But not often. He likes to know I’m not messing it all up at the factory. But communication has been … sporadic. One year has just drifted into the next. And here we are, five years on and the village is being requisitioned and your house is being taken.’

Veronica looked away at the dark wood panelled walls, now devoid of any portraits.

‘It’s not my house,’ she said quietly.

Freddie didn’t know then. He had no idea what Bertie was like now; the change that had slowly ravaged him. Although, Veronica supposed she had no real idea if Bertie had always been so violent, so full of hate. Perhaps he had but he had overtaken her senses when she’d met him. It was in the darkest moments of Bertie’s behaviour that she forced herself to remember how he used to be. She’d been swept along in the wake of Bertie’s forceful presence and hadn’t had time to fall in love with him. His intensity had taken her breath away and she now wondered frequently whether the signs of madness had always been there, under the surface. Had he simply hidden them away? Perhaps she was just blind and hadn’t wanted to see the start of the behaviour that would eventually destroy their marriage and almost kill her. She’d never know now.

A car crunched on the gravel and Veronica’s head rose. She stiffened. Bertie. There were no other cars in the village. Petrol rationing had put paid to that. Bertie, as an MP, believed it was necessary to the war effort that he swan around in his Morris Eight.

Veronica sat rigidly and pushed her lips one against the other, creating a thin line. She heard Anna run down the hallway to open the front door.

Anna shouldn’t still be here. Veronica was supposed to be on a train to London and her new life, such as it would be. She had made Anna promise she’d leave Bertie’s employment the very moment Veronica left, come what may. Anna had promised that she wouldn’t stay in the house alone with Bertie. Veronica knew Bertie’s sexual predilections and while, so far, they did not stretch to the staff, if Veronica had gone and Anna stayed, it would only be a matter of time. Veronica couldn’t bear to think about the poor young girl failing to fight Bertie off.

But Veronica was still here and so was Anna. And now so was Freddie. The nightmare was only getting worse.

The front door banged and she could hear muffled voices. Moments later, the dining room door was thrown open and Bertie walked in.

Freddie tossed his napkin on the table and stood, moving towards his brother and greeting him warmly. Bertie smiled thinly by way of reply and reciprocated the handshake. He stood beside Veronica.

‘Not going to kiss your husband?’ he asked.

Veronica stood and he pulled her towards him, placing his lips firmly on hers and clasping her around the waist. Veronica was stunned. This wasn’t for her benefit. Bertie pushed his lips harder onto hers until it started to hurt. She made a small noise and Bertie kissed her harder to mute her. Freddie shifted uncomfortably next to them.

‘Well,’ Bertie said to Freddie when he’d finished embracing Veronica, ‘my reprobate brother has returned.’

Freddie moved back towards his seat. ‘As commanded.’

‘Good. All your things are in the attic. Take what you want and anything you want destroyed by the bloody army you can leave here.’

‘Understood.’ Freddie sat down again.

‘Welcome back, little brother,’ Bertie said. He looked down at Freddie’s wine glass and picked it up, drained it and placed it back on the table.

Freddie made no comment but waited until Bertie had turned before he rolled his eyes.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?’ Bertie turned to Veronica.

As Veronica opened her mouth to speak, Bertie cut in, ‘It was a bloody disaster,’ he said. ‘There’s not a damned thing we can do about this requisition order. We leave as planned.’

‘I see.’ Veronica stared at her food.

‘Joining us for lunch?’ Freddie suggested when the awkward silence grew.

‘No. I ate. I’ll be in my study.’

A few moments later Bertie’s study door slammed shut.

‘The requisition has put him on edge?’ Freddie asked and then stopped talking as another young woman came into the room to remove their empty plates. She stopped short and stared at him.

‘Rebecca, Sir Albert’s brother will be staying with us for the night,’ Veronica said.

‘Very good, m’lady,’ Rebecca said. ‘Cook has custard and stewed fruit she can offer if you’d like pudding?’ she asked, not meeting their gaze. She removed their plates.

‘Not for me,’ Freddie grinned. ‘I’m full. I’ve not eaten this well in a long time.’

The maid glanced back at him and took in his features with a shocked expression on her face. Freddie smiled back uncertainly at her scrutiny.

‘No thank you, Rebecca,’ Veronica replied. ‘Please tell Cook that was delicious, as usual.’

Rebecca turned and left.

‘Well,’ Freddie said. ‘I’m going to take a look in the attic while the light’s still good. See what I’ve left behind from my misspent youth.’

‘Freddie?’

‘Mmm?’

‘About the crying.’ Veronica felt unable to meet his gaze. ‘I’m sorry.’

He crouched beside her and glanced down the hall towards Bertie’s study. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ he whispered.

She could feel his presence next to her as he crouched. Affability and warmth emanated from him. She’d always wondered what it would be like when she saw him again. After five long years being married to Bertie, she’d tried not to think about Freddie. It was too painful. She had tried not to regret the way it had all ended between them. It had been for the best. She’d been devastated when she’d learnt he didn’t love her, when she’d discovered he was casually playing her off against other women. But it felt as if her heart hurt even more now he was here than it had ever done in the long absence since she’d wed Bertie.

She tried to swallow down the uprising combination of guilt and love that she always felt when she thought of Freddie. She couldn’t help it. His head was almost level with hers and she risked a glance at him. The kindness in his eyes only served to wound, not to heal. She’d missed him, more than she cared to admit, but she’d have given anything for him not to be here now.

Veronica brought herself back to the present, back to the dire situation she’d unleashed upon herself, and tried seeing things through Freddie’s eyes. To the untrained eye, Bertie’s behaviour looked relatively normal. It was the most horrifically believable act. He’d been playing it for years. Freddie would never believe her if she told him the truth.

Veronica shook her head and looked down at the floor.

‘I can’t force you,’ Freddie said gently, taking her hand. ‘But you know where I am if you want to unburden yourself. You know I’ll always listen to anything you have to say, Veronica. I’m sorry for you. And I’m sorry for Bertie. This departure, it must have hit you both very hard.’

Veronica felt a lump forming in her throat. But it wasn’t tears; it was regret. She’d cast Freddie aside for Bertie. She only had herself to blame. Veronica knew that everything she’d suffered at Bertie’s hands was her comeuppance for leaving Freddie without an explanation. She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing wrong.’

CHAPTER 7

As Freddie ventured upstairs towards the attic, Anna entered the dining room and pushed the door closed behind her.

‘You’re not leaving?’ Anna asked.

‘How can I get away?’ Veronica threw her hands up in the air. ‘How can I go now? Every time I try …’ she trailed off.

Anna sighed and glanced towards the dining room door. ‘I don’t know.’

Veronica pushed out the chair next to her with her foot and gestured to Anna to sit. Anna sat gingerly on the edge, ready to leap up if Bertie entered the room. It wouldn’t do for staff to be seen looking comfortable.

The women sat in silence. Veronica looked at Anna and felt her heart surge with gratitude that she was there. Bertie had hired her on a whim in place of a regular lady’s maid, reasoning that she was untrained and therefore cheap. Over the years, the young Anna had seen and heard too much to ignore and Veronica had been in dire need of a confidante. It had been a shock to both women that they had forged a friendship.

‘The brother’s nice,’ Anna said absent-mindedly. ‘I almost had a heart attack when I caught a quick glance at him in the drive. I thought it was him at first.’ Anna pointed towards Bertie’s office.

‘Freddie’s not been back here in a very long time,’ Veronica said.

‘What will you do now?’ Anna returned to the subject that was plaguing them both.

‘I think I’m going to try to leave on the last day, when the whole village leaves. But I’m going to have to go before anyone notices. I can slip away in all the confusion of the exodus.’

Anna stood up. ‘Cutting it fine. It won’t be easy. But I can run down to the village and tell William he’s needed again. We just have to get through these last few days.’

Freddie rifled amongst the detritus in the attic and found a few things he wanted to take as mementoes but nothing that warranted the uncomfortable train journey he’d just made. Although he did whoop for joy when he found his old cricket bat. He knew he’d left it here. He was sad to see moths had ravaged his comfortable cricket jumpers. He was sure he’d left them in his old bedroom when he’d last been at Tyneham House, but Bertie had obviously seen fit to banish Freddie’s possessions to the attic. He threw them back into the dusty trunks. He’d leave them; along with everything else, except the bat. His old school exercise books and sporting manuals were of no interest to him now. The army was welcome to them. He wondered where everything else was. He suspected Bertie had had a clear-out long before he arrived. There was barely anything left. This was classic Bertie behaviour.

Whistling as he descended the stairs two at a time, he realised the house was eerily quiet. He stopped and listened, twizzling the cricket bat around in his hands as he reached the front hall. There was the faint sound of scribbling in Bertie’s office and Freddie knocked and entered.

Bertie looked up from behind his desk and glanced at the cricket bat. ‘Found something?’

Freddie looked down at his prized bat. ‘I brought two suitcases with me, thinking I’d fill them up. But there’s just this.’

He walked over to the large brown leather chesterfield settee that was situated in front of Bertie’s desk and sat down. He stretched his legs out in front of him lazily and looked around the study. Bertie watched him.

‘Sad to see the old place go?’ Freddie attempted conversation.

‘Absolutely bloody livid,’ Bertie exploded. ‘I had no idea they were going to take the house.’ Small bits of spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.

‘It’s war, they can do what they like,’ Freddie reasoned. ‘You and I are lucky though. We’re both of us here, still alive, not dying in some foreign field.’ Freddie looked around at the shelves wondering why the account ledgers hadn’t yet been packed away. Bertie obviously really believed he could put the requisition off and hadn’t yet packed the smaller items. ‘We’ve got to make sacrifices somewhere.’

‘What sacrifice have you made exactly?’ Bertie put his fountain pen down on the table and stared at his brother square in the eye.

Freddie narrowed his eyes. I left this house, I stayed away and I didn’t fight hard enough when you stole Veronica from me. There was no point hashing all that up now. She’d made her choice and it hadn’t been him. Instead, Freddie said, ‘I got shot, remember?’

‘Oh yes, the famous bullet that put you out of the war on day one,’ Bertie said, looking down at his papers again.

Freddie shook his head disbelievingly and rubbed self-consciously at his chest. The bullet he’d taken fighting in France in 1940 had nearly killed him.

Bertie looked as 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 he been happy? Had he fallen in love? The thought made her feel sick. They should have been indifferent to one another given the easy way their relationship had ended. But even now, after all this time, it didn’t feel that simple.

He was watching her thoughtfully and when he didn’t speak, Veronica felt the need to break the unbearable silence.

‘Where have you been?’ Veronica shivered in the cold of the December afternoon and pulled her cardigan around her.

‘In the attic. I’ve—’

Veronica cut him off. ‘That’s not what I meant. Where have you been, Freddie – these past few years? Why haven’t I seen you? Not even once since …’ She was quieter now, ‘Since the wedding? Bertie told me you’ve been busy at the factory. But you never came back here. Not once.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Freddie said. Veronica noticed him bristle. ‘When I got back I just threw myself into work and there never seemed time to make the journey down here. And then it became even more complicated as the war dragged on, especially when petrol went on the ration.’

‘Oh,’ Veronica said. And then after a few seconds, ‘When you got back? From where?’

Freddie pulled a cigarette out of a little silver case and put it between his lips. He offered her one and she shook her head. ‘From France.’ He snapped the case shut. She watched him flick a silver lighter out and light his cigarette. He ran his finger absent-mindedly over his engraved name. Veronica recognised the lighter and case. Bertie had an identical set bearing his name. Both had been gifts from their parents when they had each turned twenty-one. Freddie snapped the lighter shut and put it back in his trouser pocket.

‘When were you in France?’ she questioned.

He pulled a small piece of stray tobacco from his tongue and flicked it away before looking at her strangely.

‘When?’ he replied. ‘I joined up just after you and Bertie got …’ He trailed off and avoided her glance. ‘At the end of ’39.’

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed and then she sat up straighter. ‘You joined up? The army?’

He laughed and then stopped abruptly, returning her gaze equally as questioningly.

‘You didn’t know?’ he asked.

She shook her head slowly, her mouth open. ‘Bertie didn’t tell me.’

‘Bloody hell.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked out the window of the beach hut, towards the rough sea.

‘Why didn’t he tell me? Why would he keep that from me? I knew he wasn’t called up because he’s in government, but I assumed you were in a reserved occupation too, with the factory. I thought you were working. This whole time.’ She couldn’t believe it. Freddie had been fighting. In France. He could have been killed. Would Bertie have told her that? ‘How long were you fighting?’

‘Not long. I came home in June 1940.’

‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed quietly. ‘Oh my God,’ she repeated louder as she suddenly realised the significance of the date. ‘Dunkirk. The beaches. Were you …?’

He nodded slowly and then closed his eyes tightly shut. He muttered something under his breath that Veronica didn’t catch. She looked at him but didn’t know what to say. The thought of Freddie on the beaches made her stomach lurch. She’d read the ministerial reports Bertie had left lying around his study about the horrors of the evacuation and then the rather different version in the news shortly thereafter.

‘But you’re not in the army now?’

He shook his head. ‘I assume if Bertie didn’t tell you I went to the front, then he also didn’t tell you I got shot?’

She stood up, staring down at him, horrified. ‘Shot? You got shot? At Dunkirk?’ She could hear the hysteria in her own voice. Freddie was nodding and laughing. ‘Why are you laughing?’ she squeaked.

‘I just can’t believe he didn’t tell you … any of it.’

‘I can.’ Veronica sat back down with a thud. ‘It’s the kind of thing he would do.’

Freddie’s eyebrow shot up. ‘Really? No, don’t answer that.’

‘I’m so angry with him.’ Veronica was almost shouting. She hated Bertie. She’d hated him for so long, she could barely remember a day when she didn’t. Freddie could have died. Freddie had gone to fight and been shot and Bertie had kept it all from her.

‘How long?’ she enquired.

‘How long what?’

‘How long were you on the beaches for?’

The smile fell from his face. ‘Long enough.’

‘My God, Freddie. I’m so …’ She wasn’t sure what she was – sorry, angry, frightened? She was almost shaking with the overwhelming emotions that engulfed her.

‘Should we ask Bertie why he didn’t tell you? I want to know now.’ Freddie gave her a sideways smile as he exhaled cigarette smoke.

‘No!’ Veronica was emphatic. There would be hell to pay and Veronica would be on the receiving end. ‘Don’t ask him. Don’t! Promise me. Please.’

Freddie looked into her eyes, nodding slowly. ‘I was just pulling your leg. I won’t ask him. Of course I won’t. I promise.’

They sat back against the wall of the hut. Veronica stole a glance at him every few seconds. He was as handsome now as he’d ever been. Perhaps more so. Briefly she was transported back to an easier time, before the war, before things between them had gone so awry so suddenly. Before Bertie. When Freddie and she had talked, when they’d kissed, when she had been so in love with him it hurt. But he hadn’t loved her. How stupid she had been. How easily she’d been talked out of waiting for Freddie to act. And how easily she’d allowed Bertie to lead her away; so forcefully, so assuredly. She wasn’t sure who she hated more, Bertie or herself? There was no point now wishing everything had been different. It was too late for all that.

‘Where did you get shot?’ Veronica ended the silence that had fallen between them in the beach hut.

He pointed to the right side of his chest.

She closed her eyes, letting the horror of the whole situation sink in. She’d tried not to think about him over the years. But perhaps if she had allowed herself to think about him, really think about him, she could have somehow kept him from getting shot. She knew it was a stupid thing to think.

And now he was unavoidably here and still alive.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked in what she hoped was her calmest voice.

‘Now? Yes, just about. I get by on one and a half lungs,’ he joked. ‘It rather put me out of action. I’m like some sort of horse that’s been put out to pasture. Not able to do anything useful. Just the factory.’ He looked downcast.

‘I’m so sorry, Freddie.’

He smiled at her, taking her hand in his. ‘Don’t be. I’m still alive.’

Her heart lurched at his touch, once so familiar and now so alien, and she fought her instinct, which was to pull her hand away. Instead, she let it rest inside his gentle grip, closed her eyes, and for a brief moment pretended the last five years hadn’t separated them.

‘I think I should like that cigarette now please,’ she said.

Veronica and Freddie climbed the cliff path back to the house in silence. Freddie walked behind her on the narrow climb and she wondered what he was thinking but didn’t dare turn round to glance at him. Could he tell just by looking at her how she really felt, how she’d always felt about him? She knew he didn’t feel the same way. He never had done.

‘We have a couple of hours before dinner.’ She turned towards him as they both made their way inside the gothic porch. He was so close he almost bumped into her as she turned round. Her first instinct was always now to defend herself and, flinching, she put her hands up. But she was in no danger of an attack from Freddie. She knew that. Her hands were still on the thick wool of Freddie’s coat and he glanced down at her touch against his chest. She cursed herself for waiting a fraction too long before letting her hands fall. They stood under the arch, shielded from any possible onlookers. As he moved his hand a fraction, Veronica half-thought he might be reaching for hers, but he let it fall by his side and neither of them spoke. The expression on his face had softened. She wanted to pour her heart out. Even if he was long past caring now – even if he had never cared – she wanted to apologise for the way things had ended. There was nothing she could say that would undo the damage she’d caused.

She tried desperately to recover herself and recall what it was she’d originally turned to say to him. Eventually she remembered.

‘You’ll need to change for dinner, I’m afraid. Have you brought suitable things?’

‘Oh, good lord, Bertie still doesn’t go in for all that bother, does he? Is he not even marginally aware the world is drastically changing around him?’

‘He thinks if we uphold the old traditions then nothing will change.’

Freddie laughed and threw his hands up. ‘The house is being requisitioned. Everything is changing.’

Veronica hushed him. ‘Freddie, please,’ she begged. ‘You don’t know what he’s like. Don’t let him hear you.’

‘Fine, fine.’ Freddie looked down at his crumpled trousers and conceded defeat. ‘I’ll change.’

‘We have drinks at six and dinner at seven, precisely. Please don’t be late. Bertie doesn’t like it,’ Veronica said.

As she turned towards the front steps, she thought she saw Freddie roll his eyes.

CHAPTER 8
Dorset, July 2018

Guy was at the front door of his grandmother’s bungalow, knocking for the fifth time in ten minutes. She wasn’t deaf or slow on her feet and he’d given her more than enough time to get to the front door from wherever she was inside the house. But now he was starting to get worried. He dialled his grandmother’s landline and heard the phone ring inside. It went to answerphone and he hung up. It was a blisteringly hot day and he wondered if she might be in the garden, so he tried the side gate and when it didn’t budge, he reached over and fumbled in vain for the bolt but couldn’t quite reach it. Moving back, he gave himself a few feet for a running jump and leaped up the gate, hooking the front of his shoes into the thick wooden cross-bar so he could vault over. He was half over when his grandmother’s neighbour appeared.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ the elderly man said. ‘Thought I could hear a lot of noise round here.’

‘Mr Hunter. How are you?’ Guy said from his awkward position, straddling the gate.

‘Looking for your gran?’ Mr Hunter asked. ‘No one told you?’

‘Told me …?’

‘She went in to hospital this morning. Fell over and broke her hip. Your mum was with her. Went in an ambulance she did.’

Guy wobbled on top of the gate. ‘No!’

‘She was talking and telling everyone to stop fussing, so I doubt she’s a corpse just yet. Had one of those little mask things on. Very annoyed at being stretchered into the ambulance though.’ Mr Hunter gave a chuckle.

‘Oh God,’ Guy said, throwing his leg back over and landing with a thud on the crazy paving. ‘Thanks.’ He rushed towards his car.

‘Get your mum to let me know how she is, will you?’ Mr Hunter called as Guy slammed the car door and sped towards the hospital.

Melissa had wandered around Tyneham again to soak in the atmosphere after Guy had left to have tea with his gran. And then she’d run out of things to look at and had forced herself into the car and back to the cottage. Hours later, she looked at her watch. Where was Liam? She exhaled loudly as she thought about what to say to him about the restaurant booking. And everything else. She had no idea how she was going to begin and yet she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. She suddenly felt nervous and tried to think about something else.

And then Guy popped in to her head. He had promised to ask his gran where Veronica and Albert Standish had ended up after the army requisitioned the village. Melissa couldn’t now unsee Veronica’s eerie expression in the photograph. There was something about it that was bothering her and would do until she knew what had happened to the woman.

Veronica and Albert had probably gone to London and lived happily ever after, but Melissa just wanted to know now.

She pulled her laptop out of its case. With any luck, she could connect to the internet and wait the interminably long time for a page to load. One quick search would provide the answer to her short-lived quest to find out where Veronica and Albert Standish had gone.

While she waited for the laptop to connect with the online world, she went to the kitchen to flick the kettle on. It had been hours since she’d been at Tyneham and so she pulled her phone out of her jeans pocket to check for any messages, but there was still no news from Guy, so she shoved it back again and wandered over to the computer screen.

Melissa tapped ‘Veronica Standish’ into the search engine. Over 100,000 results appeared and Melissa clapped her hands together in anticipation until she reached page three of the search results and realised absolutely none of them were the Veronica Standish she was looking for. She added ‘1943’ to the search term and a few results appeared, but none of them looked particularly relevant. Then she deleted ‘1943’ and input the word ‘Tyneham’. A mention of Veronica and Albert in reference to the ‘ghost village’ of Tyneham simply listed them as among the two hundred and twenty-five residents who were displaced during the requisition of the Dorset village. There was nothing there that she hadn’t already found out from Guy or from the boards in the church.

She pulled her phone out to look again. Still nothing from Guy. Melissa clunked it face down on the table and then reached forwards and turned it over so she could see the screen. Just in case.

With no further information about Albert or Veronica Standish on the website, Melissa was left half wondering if she’d hit a dead end. She searched just for the husband’s name instead. A plethora of information came up.

‘Oh, here we go,’ Melissa said, and edged forward on the sofa to look at the results. There were a lot of parliamentary speeches he’d made and she read a few of the summaries. They were dull and mainly about issues related to farming or fishing in Dorset in the war. There were other references to the house and to him and then she found something interesting that she didn’t quite understand in a link to an old newspaper article. In January 1944, Sir Albert Standish had quit as an MP. A by-election had been called and he’d been easily replaced by the looks of things. The newspaper article was short and fairly tedious and Melissa got up to make a cup of tea, feeling strangely disappointed. One month after they had left Tyneham, Albert Standish had stood down as an MP. Perhaps it was a protest at having his home requisitioned. Perhaps it was just a perfectly normal thing to do, quit when you no longer lived in your own constituency. Perhaps Albert and Veronica had gone to live in London after all, happily ever after.

She sipped her tea and sat back down on Liam’s terribly stylish, uncomfortable sofa. The article was unsatisfying. There was no mention of Veronica, but then why would there have been? If it wasn’t for the fact that Veronica had looked a bit odd in the photograph, Melissa wouldn’t care that there had been no information about the couple on the boards in the church. Perhaps that was just Veronica’s un-photogenic smile and Melissa was barking up the wrong tree. But no, she knew she wasn’t. She wished she’d taken a picture of the photo on her mobile phone. Remembering Veronica’s face, even a few hours later, was difficult, but it had been fear on her face. Veronica looked utterly frightened, that much Melissa could remember.

Melissa closed the laptop lid and then looked at her phone again. She tapped her fingers on the table and looked around guiltily. Even though she knew she was alone, she was embarrassed by what she was about to do. Melissa reopened the laptop and when the screen lit up, she typed ‘Guy Cameron’ into the internet search engine and waited for the results to load.

Then, suddenly, the front door opened and Liam walked in, stopping when he saw her.

‘Oh, hi, you’re home,’ he said.

Melissa jumped. ‘I thought you’d still be surfing,’ she blurted.

‘Not today no. Too much wine yesterday. Thought a day out of the sun was wise.’

The wine. The table for two. And where had he been today if not surfing? Melissa took a breath.

‘Listen, Liam, I need to talk to you.’

‘Why are you looking him up?’ Liam interrupted, moving closer to Melissa’s computer. ‘That bloke off the telly,’ he clarified.

Melissa was flustered. She’d not seen Liam long enough to even mention Guy to him. She’d spent two days with another man and hadn’t so much as told her boyfriend where she’d been or who with. She realised now it was also because she’d been worried, not wanting to get into an argument. But it wasn’t like Liam had asked either. She felt even guiltier when she realised the two days with Guy were the nicest days she’d had in ages and certainly the best she’d had on this particular holiday.

Liam nodded towards the computer screen as a row of attractive, smiling press shots of Guy littered the page. ‘He does those boring history programmes on TV.’

Melissa looked at the screen. ‘Oh, right, yeah. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t watched any.’ She shut the laptop quickly and turned to face him again.

He shifted from one foot to the other and she dared a question.

‘Where have you been today, Liam?’

It took her boyfriend of eight months a few seconds to respond.

‘You’re right.’ He ignored her question, sinking down on the sofa opposite. ‘We do need to talk. This, us, I’m not sure it’s working anymore,’ he said, looking sheepish.

‘You’re seeing someone else.’ It was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. But the moment she said it, she knew it was the truth.

‘Shit.’ Liam reddened. His head shot up to meet her gaze. ‘How do you …?’

‘For how long?’ Melissa demanded.

Liam ran his hand through his hair. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ he started.

Melissa’s eyes widened. ‘What? What do you mean by that?’

‘It’s not you,’ Liam started.

‘Are you serious?’ Melissa raised her voice. ‘It’s not you it’s me,’ she mimicked. ‘Exactly how long has this been going on?’ she asked again.

‘That’s why you shouldn’t take it personally.’ Liam looked at the floor. ‘A while.’

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