by Jean Moran
Connor gave Bob a sandwich but didn’t take one himself. His mouth was too dry and his guts tight with apprehension. He recognised the taste of the Earl Grey tea from way back. He drank his, then poured himself a second cup.
‘I wanted to meet you. I wanted to hear from you how Harry died. Do you mind telling me?’
He set down his cup. ‘I have to warn you it’s pretty harrowing.’
‘All the same, I’d like to know. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to write it all down, you know.’
‘I don’t think I want to remember – not all of it anyway.’
‘You’re not alone. It’s been reported that a lot of the men find it difficult to talk about their experiences. War changes them.’
A dark frown furrowed Connor’s brow. ‘Yes. I’ve seen the worst in men and the best.’
‘I know without needing to ask that my invitation came as something of a surprise, but I’ll make no apologies. Before Harry went to war, I made him promise to come home – whether on his legs or in a box. I’d never considered a ginger jar, though must say I like it very much. I’m very grateful to you for getting him home, so if there’s anything I can do, you have only to ask.’
‘There’s no need. I’m not the sort who needs the earth beneath his feet and a roof above his head.’ He was unsure of how best to explain.
‘Come, come, Mr O’Connor, you must get a bit lonely with only a dog for company.’ She tilted her head to one side and eyed him speculatively. ‘You must have loved, and before you blush and tell me anything, I knew my son very well, including his homosexuality, so nothing you say can shock me.’
Connor almost choked on his mouthful of tea. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘You prefer women?’
‘Yes.’
‘Harry told me you sing and play the violin. He didn’t say what sort of songs.’
‘Toe-tapping songs and ballads.’
‘Oh, lovely. I thought for a moment you were going to say you were a member of an orchestra. Don’t get me wrong, I like classical music, but I also like to enjoy myself. A bit of music and a glass of sherry, what could be better?’
Connor felt her eyes on him as he placed his cup and saucer on the table. She had a direct look, the sort of woman who knows what you’re thinking before you do.
‘Was she pretty?’
The question took him by surprise. He looked down at his hands. It had been a while since he’d played the fiddle though his voice was fine. Bringing her to mind made his hands ache, as though they sought the curved neck of a violin and the feel of a bow in his hand.
‘She was a rare beauty. I likened her to the Star of the County Down, though her hair was raven black not chestnut.’
‘Raven black. What a telling description.’
The way she smiled was puzzling.
‘I suppose an explanation is in order. You didn’t merely describe her hair as black. You said raven black. It’s very telling. I would guess you liked running your hand through it.’
He thought of the last occasion he’d been able to do that and the times after when they’d eyed each other from afar, aching to touch, to console, to cling together against the world.
‘So go on. Tell me what you and my son got up to.’
He smiled sheepishly and thought back to the choicest plums of his and Harry’s friendship.
‘He and I set up a bar in Kowloon.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘It was good while it lasted. We had all manner of customers. Chinese gamblers, lovers looking to meet in private. Even a man who dealt in opium.’ His expression darkened at the thought of Kim Pheloung, then lightened when he thought of Rowena. ‘And women who had no business being there, one in particular, but, oh, she had the sweetest voice.’ He caught Lady Gracey’s knowing smile. ‘And raven-black hair.’
‘I bet you and Harry had quite a time. I was so pleased when he sent me the photo. Your cheery smiles helped me cope with him being so far away.’
The silence that descended was like a lid closing on a box of memories they were both privy to, each in their own way. He was glad she knew about Harry. He would have found it difficult explaining, if he’d told her at all.
He went on to tell her about the two of them defending St Stephen’s military hospital, the killings, though he held back on the more macabre details. He went on to talk about conditions in the prison camp, the stray dog that had become his constant companion, working in Japan, then the torpedo striking their ship on the way to Bali.
The bit he found the hardest to relate was Harry’s death, skirting around the exact details of the communal funeral pyre.
She looked down into her teacup. ‘At least he died with his best friend by his side.’
‘Aye.’
‘You’ve no other close friends?’
‘No. Just my dog. That’s enough.’
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Your dog. Animals ask nothing in return for their love and loyalty. Just to be fed, watered and taken care of when they fall sick. Still, don’t you think you should make the effort to find this beauty with the raven hair?’
‘I don’t know if she’s still alive even.’
‘Do you read?’
‘I’ve a few books.’
‘Serious ones, I suppose. Most men read serious books. You should read more romance. Then you might be inspired to journey to the ends of the earth to find your love.’
His thoughts went back to the evening when Rowena Rossiter had joined in the chorus of ‘Star of the County Down’, her voice soaring like a skylark’s.
‘I’ve no idea where to begin.’
She leaned closer, as much as the decrepit chair would allow. ‘Do you think she’s dead?’
He thought of Kim and his blood boiled. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps you don’t want to know.’
His eyes met hers. ‘Perhaps I don’t. I’ve seen enough death to last me a lifetime.’
Lady Gracey sighed. ‘So many displaced people, lost people, and so many dead.’ She tutted, then brightened. ‘I wish the two of you had been able to get home on leave. It would have been wonderful if he’d brought you home with him.’
‘Non-commissioned officer,’ Connor said gruffly. The inherent hierarchy of the British Army still angered him. A sergeant major was there to take orders from a superior officer, not to be his friend.
‘Ah, yes. He was an officer and you were a sergeant major. What I do know from my son and my husband is that the sergeant major is at the heart of any battalion or regiment, the man the senior officers depend on in the midst of battle to get them out of trouble.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘There’s no “suppose” about it. I’ve learned enough to know that my son had the warmest respect for you, as do I.’ She paused as though she had something more to say but wasn’t sure she should say it. ‘You’re welcome to live here, if you like. It’s a big house and there’s plenty of room for lodgers.’ She paused as though considering her next words very carefully. ‘You were brought up in Ireland?’
‘For the most part. I was born in England.’
‘Where in England – if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I’m not sure. My parents worked here for a while, and then we went back. I think my grandfather was ill and they were needed over there to work on the land.’ He remembered the countryside being green, his father spending most of his time at the pub and his mother on her knees in church. He also remembered the beltings he’d taken – more numerous than those given to his siblings because they were all girls.
He became aware of her watching him intently, turning away when he looked at her.
‘I want you to stay, Connor, though I think you already know that. You were the last person to see my son alive. You brought him home. Indulge an old woman and stay close to her heart. I would very much like that.’
Connor’s rough palms made a rasping sound as he rubbed them together and he looked down at his clenched hands, the knuckles white with t
ension as he fought the urge to look at the ginger jar.
She wriggled in her chair. ‘This chair is so difficult to get out of. I think I might christen it the Slough of Despond – shades of John Bunyan.’ She held out her hand. ‘Can you give me a good tug, Sergeant Major?’
Once he’d set her on her feet, she escorted him to the back door, his dog following politely.
‘Tell me, why did you respond to my letter? You didn’t have to come.’
‘I wanted to explain.’
There. It was out. He wanted to explain, but where would he begin?
She heaved a sigh that, for a moment, seemed to erase the amusing persona she’d presented.
*
He got halfway down the drive then turned abruptly and went back to the house.
He didn’t need to tell her the truth, but he had decided she deserved to know.
He found her in the stable yard standing in front of a pile of horse manure and rubbing at the hollow of her back. She saw him but did not question him on the reason for his sudden return.
‘They shoot old horses, but this old mare will have to endure.’
‘Let me give you a hand.’
His hair blew back from his face as he began to shovel the manure from the ground to the wheelbarrow.
She eyed him quizzically. ‘You’ve something to tell me?’
‘Yes.’
‘That sounds a bit ominous. Have I got something to worry about?’
‘I’ve a confession to make.’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘Do you want to confess inside or out here?’
He had no wish to see the jar again. ‘Out here’s good enough.’
‘This sounds like it might be a long confession so I’ll make myself comfortable.’
She sat down on a bale of straw, folded her hands in her lap, eyed him expectantly and waited.
Connor shoved his hands into his pockets and thought carefully about what he was going to say and how to say it. ‘As you know, Harry and I made a pact about bringing our remains home. As a Catholic, mine would have been the more difficult to bring back, cremation being frowned on, but he was more set on the idea than I was. So I promised I would do as he asked – I wasn’t worried about my remains one way or another.’
‘Go on.’ She said it quietly as though she feared what she was about to hear.
Connor paced up and down. Once he had his mind firmly fixed on the matter, he stopped, threw his shoulders back and, feeling like a condemned man in the dock, turned to face her.
‘It was the truth I related to you earlier. We escaped into the jungle and were alone for the most part until we came to a village where we begged food and water. They were kind and took us in. Two days we rested there, and then the enemy turned up.’
He told her how they’d got separated, that Harry had joined the villagers in the hiding place beneath the hut. On and on he went, letting it all come out, reliving with the words the terrible moment when Harry had died, the cremation of body parts, the wailing and lamentations of the villagers, their finding a jar in which to place some of the ashes – some of which were Harry’s. ‘It was impossible to know, to separate...’
His eyes were on fire and his throat had closed. He could see it behind his eyelids when he shut them, hear the exploding grenade, the sudden screams of innocent people.
After he’d told her everything he stood there silently, not daring to look at her, but feeling as though a great weight had been lifted off his chest. ‘But they weren’t Harry’s ashes, not really.’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter, Connor. They came from the place where he died and the people he died with. What are ashes anyway? They’re not him. Not really. My memories are of him, the baby, the boy, the man. My son.’
Connor took a deep breath, surprised at how much better he was feeling.
She paused, her bosom heaving. ‘You see, I nearly fainted when I saw the photograph of you both. I suspect Harry thought the same as I did, hence taking it in the first place. I made enquiries but decided there was no point in pursuing them. Then Harry died and I made further enquiries. Tell me, am I right in thinking that your mother was named Bridget Riley and had a wonderful singing voice?’
Connor braced his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers. He was no fool. Everything she was saying had a purpose and was falling into place in a way he had not envisaged.
‘You look so much like Harry. I told myself that I was jumping the gun in thinking you were sired by my husband. You would never believe how often we had to replace parlourmaids and housemaids. He couldn’t resist. I found that out not long after we were married when I was expecting Harry.’ She shrugged. ‘But there you are. We were married and back then it was meant to be for life. Things aren’t much different now. Who knows? In future it may become quite acceptable to have children without being married.’
Connor was staring into the distance. Most people would have been hit sideways by the news. He didn’t feel that. The fact that he and Harry might well have been half brothers was oddly comforting, in fact he hoped indeed that it was so.
‘My mother had a fine singing voice. And she was kind to kids and animals. She used to put bread and milk out for the hedgehogs and crumbs for the birds in winter. I wanted a dog, but my father refused to let me have one. Said it took all his money just to keep me and my sisters. I had five sisters, all younger than me.’
He swallowed hard. He’d rehearsed the words in his mind but too many words were uncalled for. Keep it simple.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me for that – telling a lie about the ashes.’ A half-smile pulled at one side of her ladyship’s lips and there was a sudden sparkle in her eyes. ‘Come with me.’
They returned to the room where they’d taken tea, the tray still sitting on the table. At first he thought she was going to offer him another cup. What she did next took him completely by surprise.
With a sweep of her hand she knocked the jar from the mantelpiece and onto the tiled surround of the fireplace, where it shattered into many pieces.
Connor stared open-mouthed. There was no sign of Harry’s ashes. ‘I don’t understand.’
A sad look came to her face. ‘It took me some time before I decided to put my boy’s ashes to rest. I decided that “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” means just that. I wanted him to go back to the earth, to be part of nature and the universe, so I scattered them in the orchard. He always liked it there – in fact I think he climbed every tree in it.’
Connor felt numb. When he opened his mouth and nothing came out, she filled the void with a bittersweet truth that both startled and pleased him, and also made sense.
‘You see, it doesn’t matter that the ashes of others were in that jar. They were all victims and are now back where they came from. Floating up there with the clouds for all I know.’
26
The train back to London passed pastoral scenes, cows in fields, stone farmhouses and the tall steeples and towers of ancient churches. Above them were the clouds. His gaze kept straying to them.
One of the occupants of the carriage tried to strike up a conversation. ‘Looks just as it did before the war. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad to see that nothing’s changed. Rule Britannia and all that.’
‘We lost a lot.’
The man bristled. ‘I was in the army, mate. I know what it was like.’
‘Do you now.’
‘Were you one of them conscientious-objector johnnies – or, rather, Paddies in your case? Weren’t the Irish neutral?’ he asked accusingly.
Connor didn’t answer. His attention had been drawn elsewhere.
The man sitting opposite him was hidden behind a newspaper. The woman next to him had folded over the page of a magazine that appeared to cater for women. He couldn’t see the headline of the article, but the photograph was clear and he recognised her immediately.
‘Excuse me. Can I borrow that a moment?’
She hesitated, somew
hat surprised by the sudden demand of a complete stranger.
‘Please,’ he begged. ‘I think it’s someone I know.’
Looking slightly puzzled, she handed it over.
Connor stared at her picture before studying the headline.
Angel of Mercy Speaks Out
Once he’d drunk in the familiar details of her face, he began to read how a woman doctor had observed people in the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were dying of a sickness the Allied authorities were refusing to acknowledge as being a side effect of the atomic bomb. These people, who had not been in the immediate vicinity of the blast, were dying. The woman doctor concerned had insisted the symptoms were consistent with large doses of radiation from X-rays that must have come from the bombs that were dropped. Those connected to the team who had developed the bomb insisted it was not proven.
The article went on to describe wounds that wouldn’t heal. ‘‘Even when I inject someone with penicillin – which only slightly improves the situation but does not cure it – the puncture wound becomes infected. It’s as though the patient’s immune system has been totally destroyed. I’m no expert, but logically I would say that these people have been exposed to excessive amounts of radiation in far stronger doses than one would receive in a normal X-ray.” It is believed by our trusted reporter that she is in Australia or perhaps Hong Kong. Following the publication of this article, Dr Rossiter was dismissed from her post and our reporter had his press pass rescinded. He has returned to London.’
After memorising the name of the reporter, one William Shaw, he passed the magazine back to its owner.
She looked concerned. ‘Are you all right?’
Dazed, he managed to mutter that he was fine. Very fine indeed.
The man who had accused him of being a conscientious objector apparently thought better of pursuing his point once he’d seen a sudden fierceness come to Connor’s eyes.
Connor thought deeply about what he’d just read. Apparently Rowena had upset the US censors in Japan and, in a bid to placate them, the Red Cross had sent her packing, transferring her to somewhere her ministrations were just as greatly needed.