A Song for the Brokenhearted Page 26

  He struggled to concentrate on the articles. Time and time again, one colonial government spokesman after another would reassure journalists that the situation was coming under control; appeal court justices would complain about the ‘softening up’ processes being used in the screening camps, but there was little detail about what those were. Meanwhile, the anger and frustration of settlers seethed through in their demands for ‘swifter justice.’

  He found an article about how they were setting up new police stations in the Kikuyu areas, staffed by local white police reservists, and how they’d rapidly recruited hundreds of new white policemen, ‘mostly untrained, and from England’. Doyle would have been one of those, Breen supposed. Milkwood would have been more experienced, but again, nothing would have prepared him for this world.

  What would it have been like to arrive there, young and idealistic, into an ugly, violent war? Everything would have been unfamiliar.

  His mind drifted. He found himself reading the classified adverts for small hotels and charities, and the marriage and death notices that had filled the front page of the newspaper back then. When had they started putting the news there instead of adverts? The newspapers seemed so much stuffier than they were now. Had so much changed since he was a boy? He turned a page. A butcher fined for buying meat coupons. Rationing seemed so far away now, but he had grown up with it as part of everyday life. There were so few large advertisements in those days too, which made the pages even more lifeless.

  In the afternoon, the librarian woke him, a thin man in wire-framed glasses. Breen lifted his face from the open volume. A dark spot of drool had soaked into the newsprint.

  ‘You were shouting,’ said the librarian.

  He looked around. Everyone in the library was staring at him.

  ‘Was I?’

  He tried to remember. He had been dreaming of men with knives again, cutting skin. Only this time he realised he was one of the men with the knives, doing the cutting.

  Other library visitors looked at him warily now, as if he were some escaped lunatic.

  That evening he called Helen.

  ‘Last night, I dreamed I gave birth to a fish,’ she said. ‘It was horrible. You think that means something? I think I’m going bananas.’

  ‘Mine was a nightmare too,’ said Breen. ‘Listen. I’ve been thinking. We have to at least try to speak to Fletchet again. He’s the only real lead we have.’

  ‘You still think it’s worth it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That mean you’re coming down?’ she said.

  ‘Why? Don’t you want me to?’

  There was a pause. ‘Yes. I would like that.’ Then she whispered, ‘Don’t say anything, will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve not told them yet. About the baby.’

  ‘Jesus, Helen. When are you going to?’

  ‘They were still upset about the police being here. I thought I’d better wait.’

  ‘What about Hibou? Did you tell her we saw her parents?’

  ‘No. I shouldn’t have gone there. You were right.’

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  That night Breen didn’t sleep any better. He lay awake listening to the noise of the streets outside, wondering whether it was a mistake going down to Devon.

  When he finally fell asleep it was past five o’clock in the morning. The first post woke him a little after that. He walked in his slippers to the door, but it was only a bill from the GPO and a letter from D Division. The doctor had informed them he would be fit for work again in a week.

  The train to Devon was full of Marines returning to base in Plymouth. They drank bottles of cider and put their feet on the opposite seats. But when a woman got on with a boy of nine or ten and took the last remaining seat in the compartment they all fell quiet and hid their bottles.

  ‘Want a cigarette, ma’am?’ one of them said, holding out a packet of No. 6’s.

  She shook her head.

  When the child began looking bored with his copy of the Beezer, one of the soldiers pulled out a pen and drew a face on his hand, turning the joint of his hand and his thumb into a mouth and using it to talk to the boy.

  ‘What’s the difference between an evil baker and a brave soldier?’ said the hand.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘A brave soldier darts into the foe and the evil baker…’

  The boy started laughing. The woman smiled.

  ‘Give over, Smiler,’ said one of the squaddies.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Big laugh all round.

  Breen tried to imagine these people torturing anyone. He couldn’t. But perhaps it didn’t take much to turn men into monsters.

  There was a generation of men a little older than Breen who had come back from the war, who had served in France or Germany, North Africa or Italy, and talked about their war all the time in pubs. The same stories over and over.

  Others stayed quiet. Was it because they didn’t like to discuss what they had seen, or because they couldn’t bear to talk about what they had done?

  Helen was waiting outside the station in the Morris. He leaned over to kiss her as he got into the car but she moved slightly to one side, so he ended up kissing air.

  ‘Still not told them?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’m not ready.’

  The car smelt as if they’d been keeping chickens in it.

  ‘How’s Hibou?’

  ‘Happy.’ She crunched the ancient gears.

  ‘You sound like that’s a bad thing.’

  ‘Being on the farm makes her happy. She loves it. She’s a bloody natural.’

  ‘And how are you feeling?’

  ‘Fat,’ she said.

  ‘You look good. Glowing.’

  ‘Do I?’

  The farm looked different. A bright, new sheen of green covered the hedges. Winter was sliding into spring. The cows were in the fields, eating the new grass.

  Mrs Tozer had cooked dinner, but Hibou and Mr Tozer stayed out until it was completely dark. ‘Dad’s teaching her how to plough. You were never so good at ploughing, were you?’

  ‘Bully for her,’ said Helen.

  Breen stared at the hunk of greasy lamb in front of him and watched Helen tuck in.

  ‘I wasn’t that bad. I was better than Alex, anyways.’

  There was cabbage too. This time of year, cabbage was about the only green vegetable left. Mrs Tozer had put a mound of it on Breen’s plate. She was glad to see Breen back. She sensed something was in the air. The lamb was a treat.

  Breen was still carving small pieces of his meat and chewing them slowly when Hibou and old man Tozer returned. Mrs Tozer stood and removed their hot plates from the range.

  ‘How’s the ploughing?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Super,’ said Hibou.

  ‘How can ploughing be super?’ said Helen.

  Hibou ignored her. ‘Want some more gravy?’ she said to old man Tozer. He nodded and she poured some over his plate.

  Helen rolled her eyes.

  ‘She done great stuff,’ said Mr Tozer. ‘You should have been out there too, Hel.’

  Helen shrugged. ‘I told you, I don’t feel well,’ she said.

  Breen raised his eyebrows.

  ‘No need,’ said Hibou. ‘I can do it fine anyway.’

  Breen watched the slight young girl tucking into her meat.

  ‘What’s this I heard about you having a boyfriend?’ Helen said.

  The eating stopped. Mrs Tozer looked at Helen. ‘Is that right, dearie?’

  Hibou blushed, didn’t answer.

  Helen said, ‘My friend Val said she’d seen you down by the river with this bloke. Holding his hand apparently, she said.’

  Breen remembered seeing her disappear on walks. Hibou said quietly, ‘Just somebody I met.’

  ‘You should bring him round, love. I’d like to meet him,’ said Mrs Tozer.

  Mr Tozer grunted, put another piece of meat on the end of his f
ork and ate it.

  ‘Is that who you’ve been going to see some evenings?’ said Mrs Tozer. ‘When you go on your walks?’

  Hibou, still blushing, shook her head. ‘It’s nobody. Honest.’

  ‘It’s Spud, isn’t it? He had his eyes all over you.’

  Hibou looked at her plate.

  ‘Is that true?’ said old man Tozer, frowning.

  Hibou shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know what they’re talking about.’

  Mr Tozer stared at her for a couple of seconds, then grunted. He tipped his plate forward to catch the gravy, using a spoon to scoop it all up.

  That evening, Breen helped with the washing-up. Afterwards, they washed jam jars. Mrs Tozer had hundreds of them in the shed, ready for the fruit picking at the end of the year.

  ‘Hibou’s sneaky, that’s what she is. She hides things from us. Like the letter. Like Spud.’

  Helen was driving, cigarette in her mouth.

  ‘Alex was seeing a bloke too, wasn’t she? And then what happened? Besides, Hibou’s choice in men hasn’t been exactly great.’ The man she lived with in London was the person who’d introduced her to heroin. Breen opened his mouth to speak but Helen turned to him and said, ‘Don’t you go saying I told you so. I mean, she knows what happened to my sister.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have brought it up, though. At dinner. She was embarrassed. You should speak to her on her own.’

  ‘I’m not like you. You’re the one who always wants to keep stuff bottled up. I say bring it out into the open. It’s all these secrets that I can’t stand.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t want it brought out into the open?’

  Breen thought of the time he’d seen her walking across the fields, down to the estuary.

  ‘Do you have to drive so fast?’ he said.

  ‘I know these roads.’ But she was gripping the wheel, white-knuckled.

  ‘One thing, though. We don’t know that Fletchet is even involved in this. It’s just a guess, still,’ he said.

  ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.’

  ‘Hopes?’ she said, and braked hard. A pair of cyclists, startled by her sudden approach, were cowering close to the hedge.

  Spring made the Fletchet estate look even more English. The leaves were bursting on horse chestnuts, almost absurdly green.

  Helen pulled the bell chain.

  There was a red Riley parked by the door, but Fletchet’s Land Rover wasn’t there. Nobody answered so Breen banged on the door with his fist while Helen walked round to the side. Still nobody came. Breen followed Helen, walking down an alleyway of sandstone flags.

  ‘She’s in here,’ Helen called to Breen.

  Mrs Fletchet was in the dining room at the back of the house, shortening the stems of some daffodils. Breen entered through the kitchen and joined Helen.

  ‘He’s not here, apparently,’ said Helen.

  ‘As I said, he’s gone to Africa,’ said Mrs Fletchet, secateurs still in hand. ‘It would have been a courtesy to call first. I don’t like being ambushed.’

  ‘Kenya?’

  ‘One would assume so. It’s what he told me, at least. We still own a farm out there. Apparently some business cropped up.’

  ‘Very sudden,’ said Breen.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, standing back from the vase and looking at it, head cocked. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last Thursday. He had gone up to London. Instead of coming home, he went off to London Airport.’

  Breen did a quick calculation. That was the day he had met Fletchet at Pratt’s. He asked, ‘Did he tell you what it was that was so urgent?’

  ‘The farm manager had resigned, so he said.’

  Breen paused. ‘You sound as if you don’t believe him.’

  Again, a smile. ‘Why should I not believe him? Of course, there was no need for him to go to Kenya whether a manager resigned or not. He hates the place. But maybe the farm manager has resigned. It’s possible.’

  Breen looked at Helen. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Oh. Use your imagination. Why do you think husbands say they are going away on business suddenly?’

  Helen said, ‘A woman?’

  She said, ‘I didn’t say it, anyway.’

  ‘When do you expect him back?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ And she snipped the end of the daffodils sharply.

  ‘He didn’t give you any idea?’

  ‘No. He said he may be some time.’

  She turned on her heels and marched out of the dining room as if she expected them to follow. Helen made a face and then left the room.

  Mrs Fletchet was in the sitting room now, picking up an old newspaper from a pile by the fireplace, then laying it flat onto a coffee table beneath the head of a gazelle. The grotesque animal heads around the walls seemed to be glaring at Breen.

  ‘Did he sound worried?’

  ‘Yes, he did, as it happens. I don’t know why. That makes me think the whole farm thing is an excuse. He’s never that bothered about what happens there. Why do you want to talk to him?’

  ‘Did the police come and interview him about Sergeant Milkwood?’

  She looked up. ‘Yes. Poor Sergeant Milkwood. Not that I liked him that much. I found him rather dull. His wife was awful. What was her name?’

  ‘Gwen.’

  ‘Was it? What a horrid name that is. They said he was murdered. I don’t know what is happening to your country.’

  ‘How did your husband seem, after the police interviewed him?’

  ‘What is this about, Sergeant?’

  ‘Tell me. Please.’

  ‘Yes. He did seem upset. Obviously he would be. He worked closely with Sergeant Milkwood during the Emergency. And they just barged in and said he’d been murdered.’

  ‘How upset?’

  ‘He became quite drunk, as a matter of fact, after they’d gone. More than usual, anyway. He was on the Martel. I left him to it and went to bed. In the morning he had gone up to London, on business, he said.’

  Helen said, ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘We sleep in separate bedrooms,’ said Mrs Fletchet, ‘so I wouldn’t know. I know the fashion these days is to share the same bed but I find I sleep better in my own room.’

  She took a vase full of faded tulips and removed the flowers, laying them on the paper.

  ‘Do you know exactly what your husband and Sergeant Milkwood were doing, during the Emergency?’

  She jerked her head back a little, as if surprised by the question. ‘Of course not. I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking him, either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She paused, looking down at the dead flowers. ‘It was the one time in my life I have been very proud of Jim. I know he was doing important work. I know it was not easy, either. When such awful things are going on, it’s important that normal life continues. The meal was on the table. The servants were properly dressed. It’s not like you can say, “Did you have a nice day at the office, darling?” I’m sure it was quite horrid. But necessary.’

  ‘Your husband ran a screening camp.’

  ‘He was doing something useful in those days.’

  ‘Useful?’ said Helen.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So you had no idea what his work involved?’

  ‘I’m a woman,’ said Mrs Fletchet. ‘It was not my business to ask.’

  Helen said, ‘I think you do know. But like his girls, you don’t talk about it.’

  Another of those tight smiles.

  ‘You never even wondered?’ said Breen.

  ‘Sometimes he and the other men would come back to our house for drinks. They talked a little then.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘We all used to drink a great deal in those days. It was one of the things I loved about Africa. Out there, we weren’t so prissy. The English love gin. Me, not so
much.’

  ‘Did you know he was torturing people?’ Breen asked.

  She didn’t seem shocked by the question. She simply said, ‘It wasn’t torture. It was interrogation. You should know the difference.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m surprised at the question, Sergeant. Torture is carried out by evil people. And if that is too nice a point for you to appreciate, then what would you have preferred him to do? Let the country descend into chaos?’

  ‘So he never discussed the details of what he did?’

  ‘Not really. What kind of man do you think he is, for goodness’ sake?’

  Breen said, ‘What about Nicholas Doyle?’

  ‘Nicky? Is that what this is about?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Breen. ‘What do you mean?’

  She went to the window. A long view out over rolling Devon countryside. ‘I haven’t thought about Nicholas for a long time. I always rather liked Nicky. At first anyway. He was always so very sweet. And very, very handsome. We used to invite them all to dinner once a week. Sergeant and Mrs Milkwood. And Nicky Doyle. He was only a boy, really, but so good-looking. I think he was very much in awe of us. He may have even been a little in love with me, I think.’

  Behind Mrs Fletchet’s back, Helen rolled her eyes.

  ‘But he’d grown up in London, of course. He’d never been in society. It was all very new to him. I think he said his father was a docker. The first time we offered him cocktails, he got terribly drunk and started singing awful music-hall songs. There was one about a rat catcher. It was simply terrible. Quite funny, though. He came and apologised to me the very next day, though I didn’t mind at all. But that was before he went native.’

  ‘He went native?’ said Helen.

  ‘Poor Nicky went a bit mad. You have to understand the enormous pressure the men were under. They had to question hundreds of men, women, even children. It was a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Question them?’

  ‘Of course. To find out if they were Mau Mau. That was the whole point. I felt sorry for Nicky really. It was a difficult time and he was so very young. No experience of the world. He fell in love with a native girl. Poor silly boy. And then he and Jimmy fell out and he stopped coming to our parties. Not long after that, Jimmy said he had simply stopped turning up to work. He was sacked fairly shortly afterwards. It was inevitable. And that was the last anyone saw of him.’ She wrapped the tulips in newspaper and picked them up. ‘Is that all?’