THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

hearing of any incident in the war. You’d be too young yourself, of course,’ he adds hastily.
    Hastings smiles. ‘I’m sixty-five. Born in 1944.’
    ‘Ever hear of anything strange happening? Any disappearances? In the war perhaps.’
    Hastings throws a quick glance at his mother, knitting by the window. A row of plants sits on the window ledge, some in pots, others in more eccentric containers – soup bowls, hats, what looks like a riding helmet.
    ‘I was only one when the war ended, Detective Inspector,’ says Hastings. ‘My dad was the captain of the Home Guard.’
    Ruth has an immediate picture of
Dad’s Army
, of CaptainMainwaring and the other one, the butcher, shouting, ‘Don’t panic!’ She starts to smile but then, listening to the wind whistling through the windows, she thinks: I wouldn’t have liked to live here in the war.
    Nelson asks tactfully, ‘Is your father … still … ?’
    ‘No. He died in 1989.’
    ‘Is there anyone else still alive who remembers that time? Perhaps your mother?’ Nelson looks over at the serenely knitting figure.
    ‘Ma,’ Hastings raises his voice. ‘The detective is asking about the war.’
    ‘I’m sure you would have been a youngster,’ says Nelson gallantly.
    Irene Hastings gives them a very sweet smile. She must have been pretty once, thinks Ruth. ‘I was a good deal younger than my husband,’ she says. ‘We were married in 1937, I was only twenty, Buster was forty-four. I had my first child, Tony, when I was twenty-one. Barbara came along a year later. Jack was the baby.’
    ‘Where is your oldest son now?’ asks Nelson. He wonders why Jack, ‘the baby’, has inherited the house over his brother’s head.
    ‘He died when he was still in his thirties. Of cancer.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ says Nelson.
    ‘The inspector is asking about the Home Guard,’ says Jack quickly, perhaps to deflect attention from the dead Tony. ‘Are any of them still alive?’
    ‘The Home Guard were mostly older than my husband. He was forty-six when the war started. He’d fought in the first, of course.’
    ‘Got the MC,’ chipped in Hastings. ‘The Military Cross.’
    ‘Yes, he got a medal, Jack,’ says Irene in a faintly chiding tone, ‘but he never forgot the horror of it all.’
    ‘So are none of the Home Guard still alive?’ pursues Nelson.
    ‘Well, there were a few young boys. You could be in the Home Guard if you were too young or too old to fight. I’m not sure about Hugh or Danny. Archie’s still alive, though. He sends us Christmas cards, doesn’t he, Jack? He must have been about sixteen when war broke out. He joined up later, of course.’
    ‘Archie?’ says Nelson, getting out his notebook. He’s prepared to like Archie; it was his dad’s name.
    ‘Archie Whitcliffe.’
    ‘And the other two – Hugh and Danny?’
    ‘I think Hugh still lives somewhere nearby. I saw him a few years ago, just after his wife died. I don’t think he’s dead though. I always read the
In Memoriam
column in the local paper.’
    Cheerful, thinks Nelson. He supposes though, at Irene’s age, the
In Memoriam
column is just a way of keeping up with your friends – Facebook for the over-eighties.
    ‘Do you remember Hugh’s surname?’
    Irene’s face crumples. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t.’
    ‘That’s okay. And Danny?’
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him.’
    While Nelson is digesting all this, the door opens and a girl comes in, this time accompanied by two spaniels.
    ‘Is Flo’s paw better, Dad?’ she asks and then stops, looking around in surprise.
    Hastings is positively beaming. ‘My daughter, Clara,’ he says.
    So this is the famous Clara. Ruth knows that Clara has finished her degree (she is the one who wants to change the world) but, otherwise, she would have taken her for a teenager. Clara Hastings is tall, taller than her father, and slim, with thick blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length bob. She is devastatingly attractive.
    Hastings introduces Ruth and Nelson. Clara shakes hands politely with Nelson but her face brightens when she hears the word ‘archaeologist’.
    ‘That sounds fascinating. I’d love to do something like that.’
    ‘I like it,’ says Ruth guardedly.
    ‘I’m out of work,’ confides Clara. ‘Dad despairs of me. I’ve got a degree in law but I just don’t want to be a lawyer. All that making rich people richer. I want to do something useful with my life.’
    ‘What about the police force?’