‘I don’t suppose you have this kind of thing back at home in England, do you?’ he said, poking at the hot coals with a pair of long tongs.
‘No,’ she said, ‘but I’m beginning to think I should like to have one built. It looks fun.’
‘Everything in life should be fun, don’t you think?’
‘I wish it could be, but sadly it’s not always the case.’
‘Which means, and don’t get me wrong,’ he said through a cloud of smoke, ‘I’m not trivialising the harsh realities we all have to face from time to time, but we have to make every effort we can to bring more fun into our lives, and for those we care about. Can you pass me those potatoes you so carefully wrapped in aluminum foil, please?’
She did as he said and watched him place the potatoes on the wire rack a few inches above the hot coals.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘while they cook, I’ll fix us both a proper drink. How does a martini sound to you?’
‘It sounds heavenly. But why don’t I do it for us?’
He smiled. ‘Not on your life, you’re my guest. So sit down and relax.’
Instead of sitting down as he’d instructed, she went over to a lemon tree. She breathed in the delicious fragrance from the blossom. Perhaps when she was home, she would try growing a lemon tree in the garden, then in the winter move it into the glasshouse for protection.
Thinking of Island House and its pretty garden – the epitome of an English garden – she thought how very far away it suddenly seemed. Intriguingly she no longer felt the need to rush home.
She sat down in the shade of avine-covered pergola and tilting her head right back, she closed her eyes. Birdsong was the only noise she could hear.Paradise, she thought. No wonder Red said he loved living here. She was beginning to understand why. She was also beginning to wonder if he was right and they could work together on turning her novelSister Grace Falls from Graceinto a film script. It might be fun. But could she trust him not to ride roughshod over her creation?
‘Your martini, Madame,’ he said from behind her. ‘Shaken, not stirred, just how you like it.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, sitting up to take the glass from him. ‘I could get used to this.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
He sat opposite her and clinked his glass against hers. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ she echoed. ‘You make an excellent barman,’ she said after she’d taken a sip and savoured the dryness of the liquor.
‘What can I say? It’s a job I pride myself in doing to the best of my ability. And now that I’ve mixed you a perfect drink, please do me the kindness of telling the rest of your story, about you and the burning Walrus.’
She tutted. ‘I knew that was the real reason you invited me here.’
He smiled. ‘You would have been disappointed in me if I hadn’t asked you.’
‘Very well,’ she said softly, as once more the door to the past opened and she allowed herself to be taken back.
ChapterTwenty-Three
Tilbrook Hall, Norfolk
April 1944
Romily
To this day I have no recall of the impact. Knocked unconscious, I came round to find myself choking on smoke and being hauled unceremoniously from the cockpit. I was dragged to safety and when I looked back at the Walrus, I saw it was on fire, along with the barn. The heat from the flames was scorching my face. Another one of my lives gone, I thought vaguely as my head spun and my vision blurred to the point I was seeing multiple burning Walruses. I was trying to work out how many lives I was down to, when an almighty boom ripped my eardrums apart and the world exploded.
I was dead. I was convinced of it. The conviction filled me with the sweetest joy as in that moment of certainty I saw Jack right there before me. Hadn’t I promised him that we would be reunited in the afterlife? Filled with euphoria, I stretched out my hand to touch his face. ‘Oh, my darling,’ I said, ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
I saw his lips move, but no sound came out. There was a frown creasing his expression. I then realised that the face before me didn’t belong to Jack. The euphoria that had filled me evaporated in an instant.
The frown on the man’s face intensified. Once more his lips moved, but for some inexplicable reason no sound came out. Was he mute? I tried to battle my way through the fog of confusion that was clouding my brain.
I had just recalled the moment when the cockpit had filled with smoke, when my lungs gave a spontaneous heave and I coughed violently. Pain shot through my body and the frowning man now looked at me with increased concern. He spoke again and as before, no words came out. It was then that I became aware of an acrid stench. I twisted my head to my right and saw a colossal inferno, flames reaching high into the sky, creating an angry black cloud of thick smoke. It was, I realised, the burning wreckage of the Walrus and the hay barn I had tried to avoid hitting.
