THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

film, he wonders. Archie? Or Hugh, the lifeboatman?
    ‘The film might be damaged,’ he says, ‘but I suppose we could try.’
    ‘That’s the spirit,’ applauds Hastings.
    They are standing on the cliff top beside their cars. The launch has chugged off back to Yarmouth. The sky is still the same yellowy-white. It is four o’clock.
    ‘Will you be joining us, Dr Galloway?’ asks Hastings politely.
    Ruth hesitates. ‘I should get back.’
    ‘Oh, Clara won’t mind hanging on a bit longer,’ says Hastings. ‘Ring her.’
    Ruth rings Clara who says she’s happy to stay for another hour or two. ‘We’re having a lovely time. We’ve built lots of towers, listened to music and done some finger painting.’ Ruth feels inadequate. She’s never painted with Kate. And she notes that Clara’s played Kate music instead of plonking her in front of the telly to watch
In the Night Garden.
Clara is obviously far better at the baby stuff than she is.
    They drive in convoy back to Sea’s End House. As they reach the gates the snow starts to fall.
    ‘I should go back,’ says Ruth.
    ‘Oh, it won’t settle,’ says Hastings airily. ‘I’m always right about the weather.’

CHAPTER 22
     
    The projector is in Hastings’ study, a book-lined room with cracked leather sofas and two large dog beds. There is a fire and it is altogether cosier than the glacial drawing room. Ruth stands by the fireplace trying to warm her hands. The smell of dog and wood-smoke fills the air. Hastings draws the red velvet curtains and starts to fiddle with the projector, the sort seen in old films, two wheels with tape running between them. A huge screen is pulled down in front of the books and Stella Hastings comes in with tea and biscuits.
    ‘Did you ever see such weather for April?’ she says.
    ‘Do you think it will get worse?’ asks Ruth anxiously. The room is too warm and womb-like. She can see herself settling down on one on the sofas and never getting up again. She must get home to Kate.
    ‘No, it won’t last,’ says Stella soothingly.
    Stella backs out. The projector starts to whirr, circles with numbers inside appear on the screen. 8,7,6,5,4,3,2. Then, with what feels like shocking suddenness, a face appears. A dark-haired young man with little round glasses.
    ‘What I am about to say,’ he intones, ‘is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
    The man is dressed in uniform. Ruth isn’t good at uniforms but she thinks that she sees wings above his pocket. RAF? The man sits close to the camera and looks nervous. Occasionally he glances anxiously at the operator, who is unseen. At one point the camera pans slowly round the room, showing a blacked-out window, a notice board, a furled Union Jack.
    ‘Do you recognise the room?’ Nelson asks Hastings.
    ‘I’m not sure. It could be the old scout hut. The Home Guard used to meet there.’
    ‘My name is Hugh P. Anselm,’ the man is saying, pushing his glasses closer to his eyes. ‘I’m a pilot officer in the RAF. Until recently, I was a member of the Home Guard at Broughton Sea’s End.’ He licks his lips and looks at the camera operator. ‘What I am about to tell you occurred in the early hours of September the eighth, 1940. My colleagues and I took a blood oath never to divulge the events of that night. Accordingly, this message is only to be made public after my death and the death of my comrade Archibald Whitcliffe.’
    ‘Archibald!’ says an amused off-screen voice. Archie Whitcliffe is clearly the man behind the camera. Hugh Anselm ignores the interruption. He is speaking more fluently now, leaning in urgently.
    ‘We will hide this message where it will not be found. When the time comes we will leave coded instructions as to its whereabouts. The story I have to tell is an unedifying one. Perhaps it will seem incomprehensible to thegenerations that come after us. I can only ask that you remember three things: it was war, we were scared and we were led by a very singular man.’
    Ruth glances at Jack Hastings who is sitting behind the projector. He is leaning forward, his hand covering his mouth.
    ‘On September the seventh, 1940,’ says Hugh Anselm, glancing down briefly at his notes, ‘the GHQ Home Forces received the codeword “Cromwell”. This meant that an invasion was probable within the next twelve hours. Captain Hastings put our platoon on full alert. We had already placed the defences along the coastal strip; we had a fire ship