A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(100)

twenty-nine dead in that, Frankie, and never a weapon we even had to defend ourselves—and those poor Jew ladies sent to the camps and the executions of whoever they chose to call a spy. It might’ve not happened for all the world knows. But we shall soon fix that up right and proper. Won’t we, boy?”

So here was the moment at last, Frank thought. He wouldn’t have to manufacture an entrée to the conversation he needed to have with his father. All he had to do was to seize the day, so he made the decision before he could talk himself out of it and said, “Dad, there’s something come up, I’m afraid. I haven’t wanted to tell you about it. I know what the museum means to you, and I guess I didn’t have the nerve to put a spanner in the dream.”

Graham cocked his head and presented to his son what he always claimed was his better ear. “Say again?” he said.

Frank knew for a fact that there was nothing wrong with his father’s hearing unless something was being said that he preferred not to hear. So he just went on. Guy Brouard, he told his father, had passed away a week ago. His death was quite sudden and unexpected and clearly he’d been fit as a fiddle and unthinking of his own demise since he’d not considered what his passing might do to their plans for the wartime museum.

“Wha’s this?” Graham shook his head as if trying to clear it. “You say Guy’s dead? That’s not what you’re saying, is it, my boy?”

Unfortunately, Frank said, that’s exactly what he was saying. And the fact of the matter was that, for some reason, Guy Brouard hadn’t provided for every eventuality in the fashion one might have expected of him. His will left no money for the wartime museum, so the plan to build it was going to be shelved. Graham said, “Doing what?” as he swallowed his food and with a trembling hand took up his milky tea. “Set out mines, they did. Schrap-nellemine Thirty-fives. Demolition charges, too. Riegel mines. Put up warning flags but think what it was like. Little yellow banners telling us not to set foot on what was ours. The world’s got to know this, laddie. Got to know we used carageen moss for our jelly.”

“I know, Dad. It’s important that no one forgets.” Frank had little appetite for the rest of his pie. He pushed the plate towards the centre of the table and scooted his chair so that he was speaking directly into his father’s ear. No mistaking what I’m telling you, his actions said. Listen up, Dad. Things have changed for good. He said, “Dad, there’s not going to be a museum. We don’t have the money. We were depending on Guy to finance the building and he’s not left funds in his will to do that. Now, I know you can hear me, Dad, and I’m sorry to say it, that sorry, believe me. I wouldn’t have told you at all—I didn’t actually plan to tell you Guy had passed away—but once I heard his will read, I felt I didn’t have the choice. I’m sorry.” And he told himself that he was sorry although that was only part of his tale.

Graham’s hand splashed hot tea onto his chest as he tried to raise the cup to his lips. Frank reached forward to steady his movement, but Graham jerked away from him, spilling more. He wore a thick waistcoat fully buttoned over his flannel shirt, so the liquid didn’t scald him. And it seemed more important to him to avoid contact with his son than to dampen his clothes. “Me and you,” Graham muttered, his eyes looking dim. “We had our plan, Frankie.”

Frank wouldn’t have thought he could feel so wretchedly wounded as he watched his father’s defences fall. The sensation, he thought, was akin to seeing a Goliath drop to his knees in front of him. He said, “Dad, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. If I knew of a way to build your museum without Guy’s help, I’d do it. But there is no way. The cost’s too high. We’ve got no course left but to let the idea go.”

“People need to know,” Graham Ouseley protested, but his voice was weak and neither tea nor food was of interest to him any longer. “No one’s meant to forget.”

“I agree.” Frank sorted through his thoughts to find a way to ease the blow’s pain. “Perhaps, in time, we’ll find a way to make that happen.”

Graham’s shoulders drooped and he looked round the kitchen, like a sleepwalker awakened and confused. His hands fell to his lap and began to crumple his table napkin convulsively. His mouth worked upon words that he didn’t say. His glance took in familiar objects and he seemed to cling to them for what they afforded him of comfort. He pushed away from the table and Frank rose as well, thinking his father wanted the toilet, his bed, or his chair in the sitting room. But as he took Graham’s elbow, the old man resisted. What he wanted, it turned out, was on the work top where Frank had placed it, neatly refolded to its tabloid size with the shield of two crosses offset between the word Guernsey and its fellow, Press. Graham snatched up the newspaper and clutched it to his chest. “So be it,” he said to Frank. “The way’s different, but the outcome’s the same. That’s what counts.”

Frank tried to suss out the connection his father was making between the dissolution of their plans and the island’s newspaper. He said doubtfully,

“I expect the paper will run the story. From that we might interest a tax exile or two in making donations. But as to whether we’d be able to bring in enough cash from just an article in the paper...I don’t think we can depend on it, Dad. Even if we could, this sort of thing takes years.” He didn’t add the rest: that at ninety-two his father hardly possessed those years.