On Sunday mornings, Harry would push the library cart around the four blocks, retrieving overdue books from prisoners, some of which hadn't been returned for more than a year. He had expected a few of the old-timers on D block to be resentful, even to take offence at the intrusion, but they all wanted to meet the man who'd got Hessler transferred to Pierpoint.
After his interview with the board, Hessler had been offered a senior post at Pierpoint, and he accepted the promotion as it was nearer his home town. While Harry never suggested he'd had anything to do with Hessler's transfer, that wasn't the story Quinn peddled from ear to ear until it became legend.
During his trips around the blocks in search of missing books, Harry often picked up anecdotes that he would record in his diary that evening.
The warden occasionally dropped into the library, not least because when Harry had appeared before the board, he'd described Mr Swanson's attitude to the education of inmates as bold, imaginative and far-seeing. Harry couldn't believe how much undeserved flattery the warden was quite happy to soak up.
After his first three months, loans were up by 14 per cent. When Harry asked the warden if he could instigate a reading class in the evenings, Swanson hesitated for a moment, but gave in when Harry repeated the words bold, imaginative and far-seeing.
Only three prisoners attended Harry's first class, and one of them was Pat Quinn, who could already read and write. But by the end of the following month the class had grown to sixteen, even if several of them would have done almost anything to get out of their cells for an hour in the evening. But Harry managed to notch up one or two notable successes among the younger prisoners, and was continually reminded that just because you hadn't gone to the 'right' school, or hadn't gone to school at all, it didn't mean you were stupid - or the other way round, Quinn reminded him.
Despite all the extra activity Harry had initiated, he found he was still left with time on his hands, so he set himself the task of reading two new books a week. Once he'd conquered the few American classics in the library, he turned his attention to crime, by far the most popular category with his fellow inmates, taking up seven of the library's nineteen shelves.
Harry had always enjoyed Conan Doyle, and he was looking forward to turning his attention to his American rivals. He began with The Bigger They Come by Erle Stanley Gardner, before moving on to Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep. He felt a little guilty about enjoying them so much. What would Mr Holcombe think?
During the last hour before the library closed, Harry would continue to bring his diary up to date. He was taken by surprise one evening when Lloyd, having finished the paper, asked if he could read it. Harry knew that Lloyd had been a literary agent in New York on the outside, which was how he'd landed the job in the library. He sometimes dropped the names of authors he'd represented, most of whom Harry had never heard of. Lloyd only spoke about how he'd ended up in Lavenham on one occasion, watching the door to make sure no one overheard.
'A bit of bad luck,' Lloyd explained. 'In good faith I invested some of my clients' money on the Stock Exchange, and when things didn't go quite according to plan, I was left carrying the bag.'
When Harry repeated the story to Quinn that night, he raised his eyes to the heavens.
'More likely he spent the money on slow nags and fast dames.'
'Then why go into such detail,' asked Harry, 'when he's never mentioned the reason he's in here to anyone else?'
'You're so naive sometimes,' said Quinn. 'With you as the messenger, Lloyd knows there's a far better chance of the rest of us believing his story. Just be sure you never make a deal with that man, because he's got six fingers on each hand' - a pickpocket's expression that Harry recorded in his diary that night. But he didn't take much notice of Quinn's advice, partly because he couldn't imagine any circumstances in which he would make a deal with Max Lloyd, other than about whose turn it was to pour the coffee when the warden dropped in.
The Sins of the Father
By the end of his first year at Lavenham, Harry had filled three exercise books with his observations on prison life, and could only wonder how many more pages of this daily chronicle he'd manage before he completed his sentence.
He was surprised by how enthusiastic Lloyd was, always wanting to read the next instalment. He even suggested he might be allowed to show Harry's work to a publisher. Harry laughed.
'I can't imagine anyone would be interested in my ramblings.'
'You'd be surprised,' said Lloyd.
EMMA BARRINGTON
1939 - 1941
6
'SEBASTIAN ARTHUR CLIFTON,' said Emma, handing the sleeping child to his grandmother.
Maisie beamed as she took her grandson in her arms for the first time.
'They wouldn't let me come and see you before I was packed off to Scotland,' said Emma, making no attempt to hide her scorn. 'That's why I called you the moment I got back to Bristol.'
'That was kind of you,' said Maisie, as she stared intently at the little boy, trying to convince herself that Sebastian had inherited her husband's fair hair and clear blue eyes.
Emma sat at the kitchen table, smiled and sipped her tea: Earl Grey, how typical of Maisie to remember. And cucumber and salmon sandwiches, Harry's favourite, which must have emptied her ration book. As she looked around the room, her eyes settled on the mantelpiece, where she spotted a sepia photograph of a private soldier from the first war. How Emma wished she could see the shade of his hair, hidden under the helmet, or even the colour of his eyes. Were they blue, like Harry's, or brown, like hers? Arthur Clifton cut a dashing figure in his army uniform. The square jaw and the determined looked showed Emma that he'd been proud to serve his country. Her gaze moved on to a more recent photo of Harry singing in the St Bede's school choir, just before his voice broke, and next to that, propped against the wall, was an envelope displaying Harry's unmistakable hand. She assumed it was the last letter he had written to his mother before he died. She wondered if Maisie would allow her to read it. She stood up and walked across to the mantelpiece, and was surprised to find that the envelope hadn't been opened.
'I was so sorry to hear you had to leave Oxford,' Maisie ventured, when she saw Emma staring at the envelope.
'Given the choice of continuing with my degree or having Harry's child, there was no contest,' said Emma, her eyes still fixed on the letter.
'And Sir Walter tells me that your brother Giles joined the Wessex regiment, but has sadly been - '
'I see you had a letter from Harry,' interrupted Emma, unable to contain herself.
'No, it's not from Harry,' said Maisie. 'It's from a Lieutenant Thomas Bradshaw who served with him on the SS Devonian.'
'What does Lieutenant Bradshaw have to say?' asked Emma, aware that the envelope hadn't been opened.
'I've no idea,' said Maisie. 'A Dr Wallace delivered it to me, and said it was a letter of condolence. I didn't feel I needed any more reminders of Harry's death, so I never opened it.'
'But isn't it possible that it might throw some light on what happened on the Devonian?'
'I doubt it,' Maisie replied, 'after all, they'd only known each other for a few days.'