We ate in silence at first. The chicken was delicious, cooked to perfection and the fresh salad

was just what we needed on such a warm evening. The girls had made some fresh Lemonade with water that had been kept in the refrigerator

“Karen?”

I realised that my dad was speaking to me.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I was miles away,” I answered.

“I was just asking how you are getting on,” he said.

“Getting on?” I queried.

“Yes, with your leg and nightmares and so on.” He seemed a little puzzled that I hadn't understood.

“Oh yes, I see.” I paused. “I'm sorry,” I apologised again, “I was a little preoccupied. I had a strange dream last night and it is slowly coming back to me.”

“Ah, I see,” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “So nothing has changed then...”

“Oh yes, it has,” I looked at Pascale and smiled, “For the first time, last night, I slept without waking. Although I dreamed, I was no longer petrified. The dream was strange and I felt anxiety but not great fear. Pascale looked after me.” I added the final sentence as I smiled in appreciation toward her. She smiled back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

Again I glanced at Pascale who was still looking at me but with eagerness now and expectation.

“Perhaps,” I began, “I am not sure...”

Françoise put her hand on my forearm.

“Do not rush into it if you are not yet ready,” she said.

I thought for a while.

“No, it is fine,” I conceded eventually, “It is probably best to let it out and there is no-one else in the world whom I trust more than you all.”

I began to recount the dream from the beginning and as I went on, every little detail returned.

When I ended the part about my mum and the apologies to all those people whose names I could see, Françoise interrupted me.

“You know, Karen,” she began, “There is nothing at all sinister in your dream. It is not unusual for survivors to feel guilty about not dying with all those who did not survive. The feeling stems from your fears that you didn't do enough to help them.”

“But what if I didn't, Françoise, what if I had done more instead of just trying to open doors?”

“What could you have done, Sweetheart?” my father asked, “Without the doors being opened you could all have perished. You said yourself, there was a strong smell of fuel and the engine had been ablaze. What if the leaking fuel had ignited whilst you tried to dress wounds or administer other forms of treatment? Then no-one would have got out. You saved the lives of ten people. You almost lost your own life anyway in getting those people out. You have nothing, and I mean nothing at all, to be regretful for!”

I sighed. I knew he was right but something inside me just wouldn't let it go.

“Mum said that I had saved them, that just because their time was not yet come, the Reaper could still have taken them.”

“Ah yes, your mother,” Françoise continued, “You have had a very lonely life since she died. It is only natural that you would be thinking of her and there was most definitely nothing you could have done to prevent her death, that was war, Cherie!”

“No, I know but even so, I have dreamed of her often.”

“I would be surprised if you hadn't,” came the simple reply.

“And that is all it is, Sweetheart, a dream. Your mind is still trying to make sense of it all.”

My father offered his opinion.

There was a moment as we all retracted into our own thoughts.

“There was something else though,” I continued, still wanting to make sense of it, “Something I really don't understand. The part of the dream that troubles me more than anything.”

I told them about the man who fell into the fissure and the voices.

“I could not see his face clearly,” I said, “But I could read his name on the gravestone.”

“Karen, you said one of the passengers was not a nice man, maybe it was your subconscious wishing him to Hell.”

“He was not a passenger.” I whispered as I looked at my father who was looking intently at me.

“Did you know him?” Pascale asked.

I looked around at the four expectant faces and nodded, slowly.

“Yes, I knew him.” I said quietly.

No-one spoke. They all waited patiently and I knew they wanted to know who he was but I was afraid. I didn't know of what but something was holding me back. It was a if I might learn something that I didn't want to hear.

I lowered my eyes to the table and whispered his name in a barely audible voice.

As the words left my lips I looked up at my dad. His face was white and his eyes were wide open.

“H... Harry... Simmonds?” he finally repeated. I nodded in affirmation.

“The boy who...?” Pascale began then stopped, remembering her promise.

“The boy who stole your virginity.” My father stated somewhat shakily.

I looked up suddenly!

“You knew? How?” I asked, shocked to the core.

He didn't answer.

I looked at Françoise but she just sat quietly, as though it was no surprise to her and said nothing.

“Dad! Who told you, how did you know, was it Mum? She told me not to tell you in case you...” I stopped as a wave of fear swept over me.

He looked at Françoise who nodded gently.

I think you had better prepare yourself, Sweetheart,” he said, looking back at me but not daring to meet my gaze. “I have something to tell you that you will not like.”

“Oh my Lord, Dad! What have you done?” I whispered with my hand to my mouth. My heart was pounding now and I could hardly breathe.

Silence.

“Tell me!” I said slowly, holding my breath.

When he began to speak, he had a faraway look in his eyes as the memories came back to him.

“Well, firstly,” he began, “I lied to you about losing my memory. I always knew who I was.”

I opened my mouth to speak but Françoise squeezed my arm and shook her head, stopping me and allowing him to move on.

“Before the attack on the German Panzer group, my regiment was reinforced with some new recruits. All young and inexperienced but full of enthusiasm. The few of us left who had been through the fighting from the beginning, tried to instil some caution into them, to make them understand that the enemy were not harmless and that it was not going to be an easy task to push them back to Germany. One boy in particular, Harry Simmonds, knew me as a neighbour but saw me as a drunken coward and wasn't afraid to remind me when I tried to teach him not to be too gung-ho.”

“You lied to me?” I struggled to get the words out, my mouth and throat suddenly bone dry, “After all that has happened, you lied to me?”

I turned to Françoise and glared at her, feeling my heart breaking as the one person I trusted seemed to be keeping things from me.

“And you knew about it?” I said slowly, shaking now, “And you said nothing?”

She squeezed my forearm firmly.

“Let your father tell his story, Karen, wait until he is finished before you make judgement.”

I turned back to him and stared hard at his face. I could see the anguish as he waited patiently so I listened, trembling inside.

“Your mother never said a word about what happened to you those few years before. As I said, Simmonds was a young recruit who had joined us from training. He was cocky, knew it all. I tried my best to get him to be a little less certain of his abilities, to make him realise that the enemy were very real and not yet beaten, who would try to kill him at every opportunity they had but he wouldn't listen. Although I was a corporal he just treated me with contempt. He always delighted in calling me an old drunk, in telling me how useless I was and when I threatened to charge him he would just say, 'go on then, lets see what they would think of you when I tell 'em'. In the end, I gave up. Let him take a bullet I would think. He would soon learn... if he survived.”

He paused to take a drink and I looked at the faces of the three women near me. Dominique and Pascale were staring and listening intently and Françoise was watching me. I had a feeling she already knew all about what my dad was saying but how, I had no idea.

At last, he continued with his tale.

“Somehow, even with all his stupid bravado he managed to avoid being hit, time after time and always he would taunt me. Then one night, we were attacked by a panzer division. They had us pinned down in a small town and I found myself alone with Simmonds, trapped in a house on the edge of a forest, separated from the others and a Tiger tank outside.

Germans were everywhere. We were standing beside a window, the glass and frame long gone and I listened carefully for sounds of movement. There were sporadic cracks as snipers from both sides tried to get the upper hand but, for a while, it was stalemate. Suddenly, Simmonds spoke. 'ows that daughter of yours, what's 'er name, Karen wasn't it?' I didn't answer. I had no desire to talk about you with a scum bag like him but he didn't stop. 'She were good' he said, 'loved a bit o' nookie that one and tight too!' he began to laugh. I stared at him. 'What did you say?' I asked him, hardly able to believe that I had just heard him talk about you in that way. 'You 'eard me!' he sneered 'I 'ad 'er virginity. Lovely she were, one o' the best I 'ad. I'd 'ave 'ad more too if the bloody wardens 'adn't...' he stopped because he realised that he was staring down the barrel of my .303.”

“Your what?” I asked.

“My rifle,” he explained before continuing with his story. “He slowly smiled, his teeth as brown as his uniform. 'You ain't got it in yer, yer old piss 'ead!'” My father paused to apologise. “Excuse my language but it is what he said as he stood before me, his hands on his hips. 'Go on, let's see if yer got the balls, yer daughter certainly got mine!' As he stood there, grinning like a Cheshire Cat I began to squeeze. the trigger. A shot rang out and Simmonds head exploded like a melon, his brains splattered up the wall beside him. I dropped my rifle and ran from the room in panic. I had killed many people in my life but only enemy soldiers who had been trying to kill me. I had never murdered anyone in cold blood!”

I sat there, stunned. I said nothing, unable to think straight, in a state of total shock. Before me was the man I thought of as my father, a man who had been violent to my mother but who, so he led me to believe, was a changed man. This same man was now telling me he had shot and killed someone in cold blood. I felt sick and dizzy but I had to hear the rest.

Through the haze I saw Dominique get up and go to the tap. She brought me a glass of water and Pascale moved her chair closer beside me and put her arms around me.

“Are you all right?” she asked and I nodded silently.

Françoise looked at my father and nodded for him to continue.

He took a deep breath.

“I completely lost my mind then,” he said, “I ran outside as fast as I could. I was insane and just wanted to die. I vaguely heard shouts and gunfire but they meant nothing to me as I ran towards the German tank hoping that they would see me and shoot me down. I have no idea whether I was hit but suddenly, there was a blinding flash and I was blown into the air as the tank exploded in a ball of fire. I felt the heat as the flames passed over me, burning my clothes and flesh and the last thing I remembered was the impact as I hit the tree. I don't know how long I had lain there but, when I came to I was so cold. Everywhere was silent and I seemed to be buried. I tried to move but the pain was so intense. I wondered if maybe I had indeed died and been buried but I hadn't, of course. What held me down was wreckage from the tank and branches which had been torn from the trees in the explosion. After what seemed like hours, I managed to drag myself out and crawled away into the forest. Gradually, I remembered what I had done so I took off what remained of my uniform and hid it, then I found the unrecognisable remains of another Tommy and put my dog tags nearby so they would think I was dead. Finally, I staggered away, naked, until, days later, I found the farm and pretended I had lost my memory. The rest you already know.”

There was silence then as we all tried to take in what he had told us. My whole body was trembling and I felt so light headed and nauseous. I couldn't speak and slowly, everything around me felt distant and vague. I closed my eyes in an effort to stop my head from spinning and took deep breaths.

When I opened them again I was in my bed. I felt cold and shaky and my forehead felt wet. I reached up and found a wet cloth had been placed there.

“Karen?” I heard my name.

Pascale looked worried as she stood beside her mother and sister. My father was there too.

“I'm so sorry,” he said and I could see he had been crying. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I thought you were a good man,” I whispered. “I believed in you...”

He stood before me, head bowed.

“As you told me about your dream, particularly about Harry Simmonds,” he said quietly. “I had to tell you. I couldn't lie any more to you.”

“We should wait until tomorrow before we discuss this, I think,” Francoise put her hand on his arm, “Karen has had a terrible shock. She should rest now.”

“No!” I took the cloth from my head and passed it to Dominique who took it but stayed where she was. I pushed myself up into a more comfortable position. “No, I want to know everything now! Is that why you didn't return home, in case you were arrested?”

My dad shook his head.

“Oh no. Apart from my memory, everything else I told you is the truth. It wasn't the law I ran away from, it was me, my past. Starting again allowed me to deal with everything. I wasn't Albert Farmer any more, I wasn't that drunken, cowardly Englishman who beat his wife and once struck his beloved daughter. Albert Farmer was as dead as he could possibly be. You and your mother could start again too and live in peace and I, apart from the guilt of what I had done could do the same. I stopped drinking and worked every minute I could, giving myself no time for thinking about the past.”

“How did you feel when you killed him?” I asked coldly.

“Scared, frightened, sorry. I hadn't intended to. I hardly put any pressure on the trigger but it must have been just enough. I was surprised as I had used that rifle many times before and it had never fired with so little effort before. I suppose I must not really have been in control of my senses.”

There was a pause. Françoise and her daughters said nothing, trying not to disturb us as he went on:

“Simmonds was right, I didn't have the nerve to do it, I wasn't a murderer but I suppose that having been through two wars and killing so many...”

“Wait!” I stopped him. “Where were you standing when you shot him? Facing him?”

“Erm, yes,” he replied, stunned at the sudden interruption.

“In front of the window?” I pushed him.

“Yes, why?” He was puzzled at my questions.

“You said his brains splashed up the wall beside him. Did you mean behind him?”

My father pondered for a moment.

“No, there was no wall behind him. We were on the first floor landing of the house. The wall was beside us, opposite the window.”

“Don't you see?” I exclaimed, “Don't you get it? You didn't kill him!”

“Of course I did, Karen, I squeezed the trigger, I saw his head explode!”

“Were you holding the gun to your shoulder when you shot him?” I was excited now.

“No, I was holding it loosely, at waist height, pointing it at him.”

“Dad, you didn't shoot him!” I was almost shouting now, “If you fired that gun without holding it properly, the chance of hitting him in the head was slim and even if you had, the impact would have caused his brains to exit the back of his head, not the side! Quite apart from you not being able to keep hold of the thing once it went off!”

“Yes but...”

“But nothing, Dad,” I stopped him, “The more likely explanation is that he was so full of himself, so sure that you would not shoot him that he moved in front of the window, in plain view of a sniper!”

He stood there, frowning, trying to remember every little detail and then, as though a bright light had just been turned on and everything became clear, he looked at me.

“Karen, you're a genius!” he blurted out, “You are right, I can't remember the rifle kicking back at all, I just dropped it, in shock...”

He turned to Françoise who was grinning widely.

“For seven years I believed I was a murderer, that I had killed a man just because he taunted me. I had to live with that on my conscience.”

As he spoke I got off the bed and hobbled to him, throwing my arms around his waist and there we stood, silently.

I could hear voices in my head, a conversation that seemed so long ago:

“Do you believe in fate, Karen?”

“No, not really.” I answered, “Why?”

“Because I do.” he replied. “I believe that everything that happens, happens for a reason. Those reasons are not always obvious at the time but later, when you think back maybe you will see there is a purpose that has put you here now.”

I smiled to myself and turned to Françoise.

“When you next see Doctor Harlow would you give him a message please?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, a look of curiosity on her face, “What is it?”

“Just tell him that I believe.”

“You believe,” she frowned, “Believe in what?”

“Oh, he will know.”

To be continued...