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Tim’s grateful, ‘Oh, yes, thanks. Actually, make four, and I’ll take two down to the others. Give me a shout when they’re ready,’ only made him smile. He was in a particularly good mood for some reason. He fetched his reading glasses and tried to sit down on the floor in the window bay, but it hurt too much, so he put the boxes down to make room on the seat and began to take out the pictures, one by one, assessing each and reading any comments.
They appeared to follow the progress of a visit to the island by this unknown David and the person taking the photographs. By the affectionate tone used for David, and by the handwriting, Aleksey assumed this to be his wife. It was the first time he’d brought her here, so possibly a honeymoon. The first ten or so were taken from the same boat as it circumnavigated the island, much as they had done on their arrival.
The photographs were all black and white, now fading to the sepia of pale chocolate. Aleksey assumed that if they’d been developed in the pavilion by hand by the obviously very keen photographer, then working with colour film would have been impossible. Some of the pictures appeared to have been originally in albums, for they were attached to black card with little sticky corners which flaked to dust as soon as Aleksey pulled them from the boxes.
After some more images of the island, from which it didn’t appear to him to have changed much, there was one showing the house. It was only partially built in this shot and was covered in scaffolding. There were men working, some up on the roof, and some bending with shovels over a wheelbarrow. He couldn’t make out any real details. The caption just saidGuillemot. He turned it back. The builders had caps on. It made him smile.
He now had a date for the house, and it fit with what he had surmised. The next photograph was very interesting. Again, it showed the house, taken as the previous one had been from the lawn at the front, but this time the building was complete, and there were about twenty men standing in front of it, all raising tankards. He turned and sawLutyens and the team christen Guillemot. David third from right in back row being one of the men. January 1931. He flipped back. Lutyens? Then he spotted him. He wanted Ben there to tell him of this great discovery, that their house had been built by this world-famous architect, but then imagined the reception this information would get from his beloved and only huffed ruefully to himself. David, he could make nothing much of, even with squinting. He was just a man with a cap on standing slightly stiffly next to young men with beer.
The next picture was almost identical, but also startlingly different. Same house, same angle, another twenty or so people gathered at the front, but this time it was a group of men and women, and they were elegantly dressed. Aleksey put his finger to the image and stroked around the group. It seemed incredible to him that someone still alive today could have been alive then. It was like looking back into an entirely different world. The women were universally in fashionable skirts and jackets and there were many fur collars or stoles, the men all had suits and some had wing collars, but all wore ties. Many were wearing hats. Most had shooting sticks and were leaning on them, relaxed, confident. One was even waving it at the camera for a joke. The caption read:Sailing party, September 1931, lovely weather. All wanted to see Guillemot. (Nancy and Winston argued politics the whole day, so very boring for David.)Quickly flicking back, he scanned the faces once more and saw them: Lady Nancy Astor and Winston Churchill, standing to one side of the man with the raised stick.
He laid the photograph down and stared out of the window to the lawn. If he had been an imaginative sort of man, and not the rational and extremely intelligent one he was, he would have said that he could feel the house stirring around him, coming back to life—an old man in the corner that people suddenly began to tell great stories about: do you remember when; do you recall how… He tried to picture these parties, these people, this house the centre of such a world.
The next photograph made it all a little bit clearer. It was taken from the same spot, but now turned around, looking out to sea over the little beach. Moored in the background of the photo was a superb sailing yacht with a soaring mast. When he read the caption, it just announced:Britannia.
A little while later, Aleksey stood on the little lawn, drinking some tea he’d had to make for himself, and thinking. He was standing in the exact spot Winston Churchill had stood, which was amusing. Then he moved along a little and stood where the future Edward VIII had been standing, for, of course, he’d finally worked it out.David.Britannia.
Phillipa had not claimed it was the prince’s uncle who had gifted him this island, butHeruncle, and the Queen’s uncle had been King Edward VIII—briefly. In September 1931, when that photograph of the sailing trip had been captured, Edward,Davidto his friends and family, would have been the Prince of Wales. At this September party, he would have been only five years away from ascending to the throne.
Aleksey smirked to himself. Now he was here. Amazing how fortune favoured the brave.
He chucked the rest of his cold tea away and returned to his fascinating research.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘Well, shall I call this Op Debrief to order then?’
Squeezy, perched like an obscene monkey on the branch they’d been struggling to remove, shook his head fondly. ‘It’s not an Op Debriefnow. It’s a meeting. You are hard work sometimes, my little fuck friend.’
‘You said when I called—’
‘—I did. And I was correct then. But now I’ve not got my Op Orders book with me, so we have to have ameeting. Sheesh.’
He rolled his eyes at Ben for support, ignored Tim pointing out that you couldn’t not have something that didn’t exist in the first place, and made an elaborate show of writing on nothing again. ‘Meeting Wounded Wanker day one hundred and seventy-four is now called to order.’
Ben frowned. ‘It’s not been a hun—’
‘—Objection, You Honour, leading. Who’s keeping count here, Diesel, me or you?’
Ben helped himself to another sandwich and turned to Tim. ‘You first. You see him differently than I do. What do you think?’
‘Is that a slur on my girly honour, Diesel? You implying I see ‘im like you do?’
‘No, I’m trying to pretend you don’t exist at all.’
‘Fair ‘nough. Go on then, Son of Wat. Give us your wisdom.’
‘Well.’ As ever, the glasses got readjusted for this important moment. ‘All in all, as far as I can see, given what’s happened, I would say—’
‘So, yeah, Diesel, we both think you’re onto a winner—at last.’
Ben twitched his nose, still munching, and asked around a mouthful, ‘Is that good or bad?’
Tim smiled. ‘Good, Ben. I genuinely do think he’s better…inside and out. If you see what I mean. God, that makes you picture…well, not me…I’m not picturing…sorry. He’s still limping though when he doesn’t concentrate. You can definitely see that.’
Squeezy sighed, and for once a noise coming out of him sounded genuine. ‘It’s the other way around, you daft little boffin. He limps when heisthinking about it.’ Ben stopped chewing, and was about to counter this, when Squeezy added, ‘It’s when he’s not thinking abouthimselfbut he’s thinking aboutyouis when he’s walking just fine. I’d even say gliding along, if I were a pansy-assed girl like you.’ He ticked off something on his non-existent list. ‘So, food…?’
