Read A Half Forgotten Song for Free Online Page B

association.”
    “I understand. But, surely, you know—seventy-odd years later . . . people can’t still be upset about him, can they?”
    “You’d be amazed, mate,” said the publican, with a grin. “I’ve lived here seventeen years now, and run this pub for eleven. The locals still call me a latecomer. They’ve got long memories and they can hold a grudge like you wouldn’t believe. The first week we moved in, my wife pipped her horn at some sheep blocking the lane. She didn’t see the farmer coming up behind them. And one thing’s clear—she’ll never be forgiven for such a display of impatience.”
    “People hold a grudge against Aubrey? Why?” said Zach. The other man blinked, and seemed to hesitate before answering.
    “Well, if they think my wife wasn’t the right sort for sounding her horn at some sheep, can you imagine what they thought of a man who only came for the summer, made his money drawing saucy pictures of young girls, and lived in sin with a foreign mistress? And all this back in the thirties?”
    “Yes, I suppose he must have caused a bit of a stir. But I’d hardly call his pictures saucy.”
    “Well, not to us maybe. But back in the day. I mean, he never painted the plain ones, did he?” The man chuckled, and Zach felt a defensive prickle on Aubrey’s behalf. “And then there was all that other business . . .”
    “Other business?”
    “You must know about . . . the tragedy that happened here?”
    “Oh yes, of course. But . . . that was just a tragedy, wasn’t it? Not Aubrey’s fault at all.”
    “Well, there’s some that might argue with you there. Ah—here’s your lunch now.” Zach’s sandwiches were brought out by a grumpy-looking girl. He smiled as he thanked her, but she could only manage a flick of her mascara-laden eyelashes in return. The publican rolled his eyes. “My daughter, Lucy. Loves working for her old man, don’t you Lu?” Lucy didn’t answer as she drifted back to the kitchen.
    “So you don’t think anybody will talk to me about him? What about . . . do you know of anybody who has some Aubrey pictures they might be willing to let me see?”
    “Couldn’t tell you, sorry.” The publican leaned his knuckles on the bar, tipped his head, and seemed to think hard. “No, no idea. Worth a pretty penny these days, aren’t they? I don’t think folk round here would have any—if they once had, they’d have sold them. Farming folk for the most part, around Blacknowle. Either that or catering to tourists, neither trade well known for making the money roll in.”
    “What if . . . do you think if I offered to . . . pay for information, or rather memories, of Aubrey . . . do you think that might get me anywhere?” said Zach, and again the publican chuckled.
    “Can’t think of a faster way to get yourself ostracized,” he said jovially. Zach sighed, and concentrated on his sandwiches for a while.
    “I suppose you must see a lot of tourists and second-home owners down here; it must be easy to resent them. My parents brought me here on holiday once—to Blacknowle itself, and to Tyneham and Lulworth. We stayed in a cottage not three miles away. And my grandparents used to come here, too, back in the 1930s. My grandma remembered meeting Aubrey. I always suspected . . . I always suspected she remembered more than just meeting him, if you catch my drift,” said Zach.
    “Did she now? Well, I daresay she wouldn’t be the only one! I don’t resent the tourists. The more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned. It’s been too quiet this summer, what with the weather being so crap. Are you staying in the area for a while, while you do your research? Got a lovely room upstairs, if you’re interested. Lucy’s a right thundercloud in the morning, but she does a great fry-up.”
    “Thanks. I . . . hadn’t really thought about it. I might go for a walk and take in the views that inspired the artist, but if nobody will talk to me and