Anselm left Salomon Lachaise to the solitude of Larkwood and took a train to Newcastle. From there he took the rattling Metro to the coast where Robert Brownlow lived.
Anselm had made the arrangement with Maggie, who opened the door before he could knock. She led him anxiously to the foot of the stairs. Anselm told her not to worry and went up to join Robert in the lounge.
They stood at the window, looking out on Cullercoats Bay Down below on the beach was little Stephen, heaping sand with his father, Francis.
‘Francis is my eldest,’ said Robert. ‘Over there is Caroline, his wife, with the recent addition, Ian. He’s eleven months.’ A woman, evidently not used to the rigours of a sunny North-East afternoon, sat wrapped in an overcoat by an outcrop of rocks. The round, covered head of an infant protruded between the raised lapels.
‘I’ve got four other children. Two are married, both of them have kids. Altogether we come to thirteen. And now we re in pieces.’
They watched two generations shivering on the sand.
‘Robert,’ said Anselm, ‘you told me when we first met that Victor had died after the war:
‘As far as I was concerned, he had. That man was not my father. Victor Brownlow was. At least, that is what I wanted to believe, for their sake,’ he nodded towards the beach, ‘and for mine. But now, after watching him in court defending that man, it’s the other way round. My father has died and I find myself the son of Victor Brionne.’
Unseen by his father, little Stephen had begun to undress, his face set towards the frozen sea. Stephen’s mother, permanently alert, shooed her husband away back to his charge.
Anselm chose his words carefully. ‘Part of what you have said is true. Your father is dead.’
Robert turned, his brown eyes puzzled, not quite meshing with the bite of the words.
Anselm continued, ‘As you say, Victor Brionne is not your father. Nor is he now. He never was.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Robert.
‘You are the son of Jacques Fougeres.’
Robert’s mouth fell slightly apart; he roughly drew a hand across his short, neat hair. ‘The man mentioned in the trial?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who had a child by Agnes Aubret?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am that child?’
‘Yes, Robert, you are.
He moved away from the light of the window, unsteadily towards a chair. Sitting down cautiously, he said, ‘Agnes Aubret… my mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who died in Auschwitz?’ His eyes began to flicker. He coughed, lightly
‘No. Robert, she is alive. She survived. She lives in London. She is very ill and will soon die.’
‘My God.’
‘It is a long and involved story,’ said Anselm, moving to
Robert’s side, ‘and Victor will tell you everything. All I want to say is this. You are alive today because he saved you. The price he paid was horrendous and he’s been paying ever since.’
‘Tell me a little more, anything…
Anselm briefly gave the outline of Victor’s chosen path, with its unforeseen penalty, and his further choices.
Fearful, like one trapped in the sand, the tide approaching, Robert said, ‘I’ll have to relive my whole life, right from the beginning, find myself… seek out… my father… seek out Victor.’ He stumbled over the changing references within simple words.
Anselm replied quickly with gentle insistence, ‘Robert, begin that journey with your mother; she already knows… and let Victor be your guide.’
Robert walked to the door and called out faintly ‘Maggie, come here, please…’
She came running up the stairs. As she entered the room Robert weakly extended his arms. She clasped his neck, exclaiming, ‘What’s happened, Robert? Tell me, tell me.’
Anselm strode outside into a sudden blustering, the long exhalations of the sea. Beneath a cupola of unremitting light he passed through a gate and found a cliff trail skirting the bay. He walked, his face averted to the wind, until, at a midpoint, he turned, squinting, and looked back: there was the house, etched into hard, shapeless cloud, the windows punched small and black; and there, below, on the beach, was little Stephen with tousled blond hair, piling up the wet sand… the carefree, joyous great-grandson of Agnes Aubret and Jacques Fougeres.