The Forest of Souls. Carla Banks

seen in his eyes when she first arrived. She took a breath to intervene, but then he spoke.

      ‘I have never left it,’ he said.

      Denbigh stood up, closing his notebook carefully. He held out his hand to Grandpapa. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Lange. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’

      ‘And I you, Mr Denbigh,’ Grandpapa said.

      ‘I’ll see you out,’ Faith said. She followed him out of the room and retrieved his coat from the hall closet, noticing as she did so that the central heating was switched off. No wonder the house was so cold. Irritated, she pressed the button to trip the switch. Grandpapa was taking economy to ridiculous lengths these days. She needed to talk to him about that.

      Jake Denbigh was waiting in the hall. She gave him his coat. ‘Was that useful?’ she asked as she unlocked the front door.

      It was a formal query, but to her surprise he took it seriously. He paused in the doorway. ‘I don’t know. I think so. He’s got some stories that I’d like to hear, but I don’t think he’s going to tell them.’

      ‘Such as?’ she said.

      ‘I’m interested in Eastern Europe before the war. I’m working on a book.’

      ‘About Poland?’ she said.

      He shook his head. ‘Belarus.’

      ‘I don’t think there’s much he could tell you about that.’ She racked her brains. ‘The Treaty of Brest,’ she said.

      He looked at her in surprise. ‘What?’

      She laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to think of anything I knew about Belarus, and that was it.’

      ‘It’s more than most people. What do you know about the treaty?’

      ‘It gave Poland its independence in 1918,’ she said, ‘and it gave them western Belarus. Byelorussia, it was then.’

      ‘Which wasn’t popular with the Belarusians.’ He was looking thoughtful. ‘Whereabouts did your grandfather come from? Where was he born?’

      ‘Don’t you know?’ If he’d done his research, he should.

      ‘There was something…’ He shook his head. ‘It’s probably nothing. I’ve had some trouble tracking down the original records, that’s all.’

      ‘Well, a lot of them were destroyed. He lived in the east, in the forested part. There wasn’t much there. The nearest village was called Litva. I get the impression it was just a tiny place. I don’t think it exists any more.’

      ‘And he doesn’t talk about it?’

      ‘He talks about his childhood,’ she said. ‘It’s the war that he won’t discuss. I think a lot of the survivors are like that.’

      He leaned his shoulder against the door jamb and looked at her, considering what she’d said to him. ‘That hasn’t been my experience. I’ve been talking to a lot of wartime refugees. Most of them want to tell their stories. They feel forgotten.’

      She remembered what Katya had told her, about the ex-Nazi in Blackburn, and she wondered what it was he wanted to know. ‘Is your book about the war? Do we need another one?’

      ‘Not really,’ he said.

      ‘We don’t really need it, or you’re not really writing about it?’

      He laughed. ‘Appearances to the contrary, you’re very like your grandfather. Okay, I’m working on something that’s linked to the war.’

      ‘Which is…?’

      He kept his eyes on her but didn’t say anything. ‘…none of my business,’ she completed for him.

      ‘It isn’t that. It’s complicated, that’s all.’ But she noticed he still didn’t tell her what he was writing about.

      ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m just…concerned about him. He truly doesn’t like to talk about the war.’

      He nodded. ‘That’s okay. We didn’t.’

      ‘When will it come out? This article?’

      ‘Next issue,’ he said. ‘I’ll send you a copy.’ They stood in silence, looking at each other, then he pushed himself upright. ‘I’ve got to go. It’s been good meeting you. Really.’

      When she’d first seen him in the gloom of Grandpapa’s living room, she’d been surprised how young he looked. Now, seeing him in the clear light, she could see the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth that said thirties rather than twenties. She watched him as he walked down the path towards his car. Despite the cold, he didn’t bother putting on his coat. He slung it in the back of the car with his bag, then looked up and saw her watching him from the doorway. He raised his hand in salute, then got in the car and drove off.

      She closed the door, shivering slightly in the cold. It was almost twelve. She had to be back for her appointment with Yevanov, but she could spend a bit of time with Grandpapa before she left. It was draughty in the corridor. The door into the study was standing open. That wouldn’t help. She went to close it, and heard the sound of someone moving around.

      ‘Grandpapa?’ She put her head round the door.

      The woman from the cleaning agency was busying herself round the desk. She turned quickly as Faith spoke.

      Faith had forgotten it was one of Doreen’s days. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’

      Doreen pushed the bureau drawer shut. ‘I’ve just done,’ she said. ‘I didn’t like to go while Mr Lange had a visitor. I didn’t know you were here.’ She came out into the hall, and went to the closet to get her coat. ‘He doesn’t like the heating on,’ she said.

      ‘It’s too cold without.’

      ‘I’ll be off, then.’ Doreen wrapped a scarf round her neck and buttoned up her coat. ‘He’s been worrying about burglars again. He had a go at me about locking the windows.’ Her gaze challenged Faith to make some response.

      ‘There’ve been some break-ins. You need to be careful.’ It wasn’t like Grandpapa to be nervous. ‘Is everything locked up now?’

      ‘I always leave it right,’ Doreen said.

      Faith closed the door behind her, then checked her phone in case Helen had left a message, but there was nothing.

      She went back into the front room. Grandpapa was still in his chair looking thoughtful. ‘I’ve switched the heating on,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have the house so cold.’

      He didn’t respond, which wasn’t like him. The heating argument was a regular feature of their encounters. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

      He didn’t seem to hear her. He was looking out of the window at the roses that grew against the glass. She remembered the dream she’d woken up to. ‘I used to help you prune those,’ she said. ‘It was my job, in the summer, remember?’

      He shook his head as though he’d been thinking of something else. ‘Pruning the roses?’ he said vaguely. Then he seemed to come back to the present, and looked at her severely over his spectacles. ‘You used to pick them, not prune.’

      That was true. One summer–she must have been about thirteen–she’d stripped half the blooms from his prized red rose and woven them into a crown for her hair and carried the rest in a bouquet or pinned to her dress when she went to a party. It had been the party of a girl from school who had tried to bully Helen and Faith. Helen had not been invited. The party was fancy dress, and the girl had been boasting about the Rose Red outfit her mother had bought for her. Faith had decided to go as Rose Red too, only she would have real roses. She smiled, remembering. ‘You bought me a present after that,’ she said, wondering if he’d remember. He’d never