Sea Music. Sara MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ not meant to be found, so why not burn the papers instead of hiding them? Lucy has thought about it a lot. It is hard, maybe impossible, to destroy your own or other people’s identity or possessions. After all, it is who you are.

      Lucy knows she would have had to block her mind too if the people she loved had been left behind, killed in the war or perished in a concentration camp. So why is her mother’s birth registered in a German document dated 1941 with an identity card dated 1943?

      Was Anna really born in Warsaw, not London? Is she really four years older than she thinks she is? Perhaps Martha came to London later. Perhaps Grandpa met her somewhere else and they had a baby before they were married. Maybe Martha and Anna had to have German papers to get to England. That would mean Grandpa …

      Lucy shivers, suddenly afraid, as if Martha’s past is about to cast a great shadow over them and they will be swallowed in darkness. Like Barnaby, she hates secrets: they surface unexpectedly and hurt.

      She dials Tristan, looking down on the waves, feeling the cold spray on her hands. She hates the thought of him going to a place full of hatred, American bombing and streams of refugees. She listens as the phone rings and rings, then Tristan’s breathless voice comes on the line.

      ‘It’s only me,’ she says. ‘I know it’s early, but I just wanted to hear your voice.’

      ‘Soppy tart … Phew … Hang on … got to get my breath back. Just got back from a run. Phhhew … It’s an amazing day here.’

      ‘It is here too. Huge sea.’

      ‘Are you OK, Luce?’

      ‘Yes. Just dreading you going. Tris, was it really necessary to flatten Belgrade?’

      Tristan sighs. ‘Debatable. Luce, come on, I’m not taking off yet. We’ve got leave together before I go. This isn’t like you, my little ray of sunshine. Is there something you’re not telling me? Like you want to throw me over, not for a fisherman but, quelle horreur, a bleached and muscled surf guard?’

      ‘You wish!’ Lucy almost tells him what is worrying her, but it is not the time.

      ‘Luce, I have to go. I’ve got to shower and get into uniform. I’ll ring you later in the day. Be happy, sweetheart, it’s such a gorgeous day.’

      Lucy drives home and parks in the drive. She sits for a moment looking across the lawn, listening to the morning birds. Gran’s garden is a spring garden and everything is poised to explode into colour. She shrugs her mood off, closes her mind. It is impossible to be unhappy on a morning like this.

      Lucy lets herself into the house. Barnaby is dashing about with Martha’s tray and he looks relieved to see her.

      ‘Thank goodness, darling. Your gran has dressed herself for high summer and refuses to change into warmer clothes. She’s in the bathroom at the moment, very cross with me. Fred is having tea in bed until the bathroom is free and I have ten minutes to get over to St Michael’s for Holy Communion.’

      Lucy grins at him. ‘You’ve also got marmalade on your cassock, Barnes. Did you tell me we haven’t got anyone coming in until later today?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Sorry, Lucy, it’s a training morning or something, I can’t quite remember. Kate is not coming until midday, but Mrs Biddulph has just rung to say she can relieve you at ten o’clock. Is that all right?’

      ‘Yes, it’s fine. What a pity, I’ll miss Kate again. I’m back at work at twelve o’clock. I’m dying to meet her. What’s she like?’

      ‘She’s … different – quietly capable, and she drives, thank God. I quailed a touch when I first saw her – nose ring, short spiky hair – but Martha and Fred did not bat an eyelid. Lovely face, rather like a young Audrey Hepburn. I might be wrong, but I’d say she was a bit overqualified to stay long term.’

      Lucy raises an eyebrow at him ‘You noticed her then?’

      Barnaby gathers up his books filled with small flaglike book marks. ‘Kate is not someone you can avoid noticing.’

      Martha emerges from the bathroom, looking stunning in a mustard-yellow dress, a cream scarf and bare legs in tiny smart court shoes.

      Lucy claps her hands. ‘Gran, you look beautiful, utterly beautiful!’

      Martha smiles at her granddaughter. ‘Darling, thank you,’ she says graciously, throwing Barnaby a baleful look as he heads for the front door.

      ‘Bye. See you all later …’ Barnaby is out of the front door, galloping gratefully to his car.

      Lucy giggles, suddenly deliciously happy again. ‘Tell you what, Gran, put this coat on … there … Now I want you to see your garden – it’s looking stunning – then you can tell me if you are warm enough in those clothes.’

      She peers round the bedroom door at her grandfather while simultaneously helping Martha into her coat. ‘Gramps? Are you OK? Barnaby’s just left. Gran and I are just going to have a quick potter round the garden.’

      Fred puts his tea cup down. ‘I’m fine, Lucy, thank you.’ He winks at her wryly. ‘I’m going to get up in five minutes. Take your gran up to the copse. The wood anemones are out under the trees … look splendid.’

      Lucy and Martha walk across the damp grass. The early sun seems warm, but the wind from the sea is not. Martha holds her coat close as they turn towards the trees where the wood pigeons nest at the far end of the large, overgrown garden.

      They both gasp at the sight of the great circular cloud of blue, white and gold lying under the spindly saplings and old sycamore trees. Lucy goes behind Martha to shield her from the cold wind and twines her arms around her neck.

      ‘Did you plant all those, Gran?’

      ‘No … Fred planted more and more each year until there was a great carpet of them, which grew and grew. So lovely. Oh, so lovely.’

      ‘Everything is just coming out. Look at that yellow, and the pink there in the corner near that white prickly bush thing.’

      Martha laughs. ‘Quince,’ she says. ‘I think.’ Then suddenly, ‘I don’t want this all dug up for vegetables.’

      ‘Gran, why ever should it be? Of course not.’

      ‘It happens.’ Martha shivers, and takes one foot out of her shoe and dips it in the long wet winter grass. Lucy opens her mouth to say she will get cold, then seeing Martha’s face, says nothing.

      Martha, leaning against Lucy, closes her eyes, pushes her old toes into the damp grass and for a moment the sharp cold sensation shoots her down the years to another place, another time. She smiles, savouring the birdsong, the flash of new-born, translucent yellow leaves, red flowering camellias, closed bud of cherry. She raises her face to the smell of spring, the first exciting promise of summer, to being young and full of hope, with the whole of life shimmering before her.

      ‘Gran?’ Lucy whispers after a while. ‘Don’t get cold.’

      Martha opens her eyes, expecting to see Hanna, sent by Mama to bring her inside. But it is … it is …? ‘Darling,’ she says, ‘it is a little cold.’

      Lucy СКАЧАТЬ