A Place of Hiding by Elizabeth George Page B

in the middle of a sectarian struggle promoted by thugs who'd been taking murderous pot shots at each other since the turn of the last century. There was no heroism in any of that because there was no single enemy who could be identified and against whose image one could fling himself and die. They weren't like World War II.
    He steadied his father on the toilet seat and reached for his clothes, which lay in a neatly folded stack on the edge of the basin. He did the laundry himself, so the undershorts and the vest weren't as white as they might have been but, as his father's eyesight was growing steadily worse, Frank was fairly certain Graham wouldn't notice.
    Dressing his dad was something he did by rote, always easing his father into his clothing in the exact same order. It was a ritual that he had once found reassuring, giving a sameness to his days with Graham that made the promise, however false, that those days would continue indefinitely. But now he watched his father warily, and he wondered if the catch in his breath and the waxy nature of his skin presaged an end to their time together, a time that had now exceeded fifty years. Two months ago he would have quailed at that thought. Two months ago all he wanted was enough time to establish the Graham Ouseley Wartime Museum so his father could proudly cut the ribbon on its doors on the morning it finally opened. The passage of sixty days had changed everything unrecognisably, though, and that was a pity because gathering every memento that represented the years of German occupation on the island had been the mortar of Frank's relationship with his father for as long as he could remember. It was their shared life's work and their mutual passion, done for a love of history and a belief that the present and future populations of Guernsey should be educated about what their forebears had endured.
    That their plans would likely come to nothing now was something which Frank didn't want his father to know just yet. Since Graham's days were numbered, there seemed no sense in dashing a dream that he would not even have had in the first place had Guy Brouard not walked into their lives.
    â€œWha's up for today?” Graham asked his son as Frank pulled the track-suit trousers up round his shriveled bum. “'Bout time to walk the construction site, i'n't it? Breaking earth any day now, a'n't they, Frankie? You'll be there for that, won't you, lad? Turning over the ceremonial shovelful? Or's that something Guy's wanting for himself?”
    Frank avoided the entire set of questions, indeed the entire subject of Guy Brouard. He'd so far managed to keep from his father the news of their friend and benefactor's gruesome death, as he hadn't yet decided whether the information would be too burdensome for his health. Besides, they were playing a waiting game at the moment whether his father knew it or not: There was no news about how Guy's estate was being settled.
    Frank said to his father, “I thought to check through the uniforms this morning. It looked to me like the damp's getting to them.” This was a lie, of course. The ten uniforms they had—from the dark-collared overcoats worn by the
Wehrmacht
to the threadbare coveralls used by
Luftwaffe
anti-aircraft crews—were all preserved in airtight containers and acid-free tissue against the day that they would be placed in glass cases designed to keep them forever. “I can't think how it happened, but if it has, we need to get on to it before they start to rot.”
    â€œDamn rights, that,” his father agreed. “You take care, Frankie. All that clobber. Got to keep it mint, we do.”
    â€œThat we do, Dad,” Frank replied mechanically.
    His father seemed satisfied with this. He allowed his sparse hair to be combed and himself to be helped to the lounge. There Frank tucked him into his favourite armchair and handed him the television remote. He had no worries that his father might tune in to