For the men in the trenches spring brought little relief. Whilst at home the cuckoo called and the buds of April swelled and burst in the growth of a new season, the shattered woodlands of France and Belgium were stripped of life, trees and earth blasted to the very image of death by the relentless bombardment and the traffic of war. Yet even there could be found strange, odd little pockets of green, pockets where nature struggled to keep her promise despite man’s madness; and it was in one of these that Ralph Rose found himself pausing one late April day – a small copse, still miraculously green, in which could still be heard, incredibly, above the rumble of the guns, the sound of bird song. In the distance, set in that saucer of fertile land that had become a death trap beneath the German guns on its rim, the little, shattered town of Ypres reached skeletal masonry fingers to the wide evening sky. Ralph had been to visit a friend – an unlikely friend some would say – a Roman Catholic Padre attached to an Algerian division of the French army. The two men had met on the football field, friendly rivals, had shared a glass of wine later and had found a companionship together despite the difference of dogma that divided them that each had found difficult to achieve with the men to whose spiritual well-being they tended in such utterly impossible circumstances. On the way back now to his own dugout Ralph stopped to view this small, miraculous oasis of green and to enjoy the luxury of a solitary cigarette. He settled back comfortably at the foot of a small tree, his back against its trunk. A shell whistled above him. He did not even duck. Seconds later he heard it explode. He tilted his head back against the tree and watched the smoke from his cigarette drift fragrantly in the light wind.
Another shell. And another.
He drew a long, weary lungful of smoke. They’re stepping it up. What’s that in aid of, I wonder? Another attack? Another barbarous exercise where men are forced to advance over the bodies of their dying comrades or their dead enemies – or to fall beside them, to mingle blood and guts and brains upon the putrid ground of this useless, indefensible Salient.
He drew up his legs and for a brief instant dropped his head to his knees, curled in a foetal position, his shoulders slumped. God, it’s awful. So truly awful.
He lifted his head, drew deeply again on the cigarette. How did I ever believe that I could serve God in this hell? Where is He here? What good am I? To Him? To anyone?
The bombardment was noticeably heavier. Automatically he reached for his helmet and clapped it on his head; although behind the front line the copse was well within the range of the German guns. The birds had stopped singing. He stood up, took one last pull at his cigarette then dropped it to the ground and crushed it with his foot, smiling wryly to himself at his own foolish carefulness. He should be getting back. If this kept up there would be need of him in the dressing station, if nowhere else.
He left the shelter of the trees in a fast, ducking run that had become second nature when this close to the forward, sniper-ridden trenches. In a shower of stones and dirt he slid into a trench. A dark-skinned man in unfamiliar uniform grinned cheerily at him and started to speak. Then the smiling mouth gaped, the eyes bulged and the man’s body lifted and buckled as the ground disintegrated beneath them and the concussed air roared. The body hit Ralph, knocking him flat. He clenched his eyes and his mouth against the warmth and wetness that invaded them. Revulsion churned in him and savagely he wrenched from beneath the corpse, burying his face in his hands, wiping the blood and slime from his skin.
The world was suddenly, heavily, quiet.
Somewhere close, a man moaned.
Ralph gathered his knees beneath him, with enormous effort straightened his arms, levered himself to a kneeling position. The Algerian soldier who moments before had been ready to greet him so cheerfully grimaced emptily at the menacingly still sky. Two others lay sprawled in death, the one headless, the other untouched and apparently sleeping. An arm, encased still in a dark blue sleeve, lay a foot from where Ralph crouched, dazed and terribly afraid. All the fear, all the terror that he had known and fought against in the last months, rose now to his throat in sickness and he vomited violently. He was trembling uncontrollably. He staggered to his feet, his mind wiped clean of thought by panic. He stumbled along the wrecked and bloody trench, his teeth clenched against the sobs of horror that were forming in his throat.
“Maman. Maman!”
He almost trod upon the boy who lay sprawled upon his back, the terrible injuries glinting red and black upon his body, his soft child’s face untouched except by terror and by tears. “Je veux Maman.”
Ralph lifted a foot to step over him. The blinding eyes detected the shadow and a small hand lifted. “Maman – aide-moi.”
The man stood for a still moment looking down at the dying boy.
Run. You can do nothing for him. Run. Save yourself.
The child was crying still for his mother, tears on his smooth cheeks, one hand lifted beseechingly to the tall form that towered above him.
Ralph dropped to his knees, took the hand in his own. The young fingers clung like death.
Ralph lifted his head. That strange tense silence still held, infinitely threatening, infinitely terrifying. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” To his own surprise his quiet voice was firm. The small hand clenched and unclenched upon his. The boy muttered, but he was calmer, the human contact and the gentle voice comforting him.
“He leadeth me beside the still waters—”
Somewhere in the distance a man shouted, the voice brutal with urgency and warning.
The boy was quiet now, his eyes focused upon Ralph’s face.
Men ran past, shouting – ran towards the beleaguered town, their weapons discarded in panic, their streaming eyes fear-filled.
“He restoreth my soul—”
Still steadily reciting the comforting words, both of his hands trapped in the boy’s, Ralph lifted his head. The air was acrid. Eerily in the dusky half-darkness a heavy, greenish vapour wreathed upon the evening breeze across the blasted landscape, drifted balefully towards him. Men were shouting, mortal dread in their voices.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—” There was a tremor now in his voice that it was utterly beyond him to control, but if the boy heard it he showed no sign. The strange, rhythmic foreign words, spoken in that even, gentle voice were comfort enough. The hands held strong. The young mouth relaxed, beyond pain.
“Yet will I fear no evil.”
The gas enveloped the great coils of barbed wire, rolled through the outer defences, advanced silent, inexorable and utterly merciless. Ralph lifted his head and his voice now was strong.
“Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me, in the presence of mine enemies—” He paused for a brief moment at that. “Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over.”
Noiseless, deadly, all his fears crept towards him.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the House of the Lord for ever.”
The boy was dead before the chlorine reached them.
* * *
The news of Ralph’s death reached the house in which he had spent his childhood within a day of a new life entering it. Sophie held her daughter close and looked at Anna.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Anna. Truly sorry. I didn’t know Uncle Ralph very well – but I think he must have been very brave.” The young eyes could not hold grief for very long when the soft head of her baby with its fine, downy hair, nestled softly and warmly in the crook of her arm.
“Yes,” Anna said. All her tears had been cried. Oddly, the news of Ralph’s death had come as no surprise. It was almost as if she had expected it from that moment he had walked from her by the pool in the garden. She reached a finger to the baby’s tiny hand. “How is she?”
“Wonderful.”
“Have you decided on a name yet?”
“Yes—” Sophie hesitated. “That is – I know what I’d like to c
all her—” The emphasis was on the personal pronoun. “I thought – Felicity.”
Anna smiled. “What a lovely idea. Happiness.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Early May sunshine streamed through the window. The room was decked with flowers. Anna sat on the bed and regarded her new great-niece with favour.
“Aunt Anna?”
“Mmm?” Anna’s eyes were still on the baby.
“I can’t ever thank you enough. For everything.”
Anna shook her head.
“Truly I can’t. I don’t know what might have happened to me – to us – without you. It isn’t everyone who’d take a—” her wide mouth ever humorous, twitched to a swift smile and with a pang Anna thought that she looked the very image of her estranged father “—a fallen woman into their home.”
Anna stood up briskly. “Nonsense. I do it all the time. Now – what would you like for tea? I’ve some eggs. Queued for them myself. Could you manage one?”
“That would be a lovely idea.” Sophie watched her to the door. “Aunt Anna?”
Anna turned.
Sophie’s strong young face was suddenly uncertain, her eyes, avoiding her aunt’s, turned upon the child. “Do you think they might let him see us? Just once?” The frailty of need rang in her voice no matter how hard she tried to disguise it.
Anna swallowed. “I don’t know, my dear,” she said at last. “I really don’t know.”
* * *
She faced Alice in wrath, the impatience and dislike she had for the past hour been at pains to hide clear upon her face. “You can’t mean it. Alice – you can’t!”
Alex moved uncomfortably in his chair. Both women ignored him. Alice turned to the window, stood with her back to the room looking down on to the wide lawns of Bissetts. Beneath the trees a uniformed man upon crutches stood in conversation with another in a wheelchair. A nurse bustled across the grass towards them, a tray in her hands.
Alice turned back to face her sister-in-law. Her gaze was absolutely steady. “I have already told you, Anna, that I do not accept that – that girl’s child as Richard’s. The whole unsavoury affair has nothing to do with us, or with him. As to the idea of his visiting the girl – it is preposterous. He is well settled at the Academy. He has forgotten her. There can be absolutely no question of our giving our permission for him to go to Bayswater. The answer is no. Absolutely no. And I’ll thank you not to mention the girl’s name in this house again. For your own sake I should advise you to send the little hoyden and her fatherless brat back to her parents and leave it at that.”
Anna controlled her surging temper with an effort, and a few deep breaths. “Alice – has it occurred to you that in a few short months Richard could be caught up in this beastly war? Doesn’t that change your attitude one little bit?”
“Don’t be absurd. Why should it? In the first place I have no doubt that the war will be long over before the boys are commissioned, and in the second – circumstances do not change facts.” Alice’s voice was severe and reasoned, utter conviction underlay every word. Anna met Alex’s eyes. He looked away. Whatever happened to brave General Gordon, Anna found herself wondering tartly. “The child is not Richard’s.” Alice said, firmly and in Anna’s ears the words had the ring of a determinedly repeated phrase. “And there’s an end to it. Now, Anna, will you take tea before you leave?”
Anna stood up. “No. Thank you.” She found it hard to be civil. She reached for bag and gloves. In her mind’s eyes the image of Sophie’s face hovered, as she had seen it last, obstinately cheerful, apparently uncaring, the eyes desperate with oft-denied hope. “Damn you, Alice,” she said. “You’ll ruin these youngsters.”
Alice said nothing, and no trace of expression disfigured the taut, attractive features of her face.
In the silence, Anna left. With the downstairs rooms and most of the servants’ quarters given over to a convalescent home, the family were living in those first floor rooms through which Rupert and Richard, Sophie and Maria had hunted so happily the year before. On the landing she heard movement behind her and paused, turning.
“Anna.” Her brother stopped, his heavy face flushed.
She waited.
“Tell Richard—” his voice was low and he could not hide his anxiety that his wife might overhear “—tell him he has my permission to visit Sophie. Just the once, mind you. And only, of course, if he wants to.”
She stared at him. Then, impulsively, she stepped forward to fling her arms about his neck. “Bless you,” she whispered.
Embarrassed, he extricated himself. “Explain to Richard,” he said hastily, “that it’s – best kept between ourselves.”
“I will.” She kissed him quickly on his cheek then ran swiftly down the stairs.
“Alex?” Alice’s voice was sharp. “Are you there?”
“Coming my love,” Alex said.
* * *
They had not seen each other for more than nine months; an age, a lifetime – and yet, yesterday. He stood a little uncertainly just inside the closed door, unfamiliar in his uniform, his cap in his hand, yet so dearly, so achingly familiar that it was as if every dream of him had crystallized into reality here before her, flesh and bone and smiling hazel eyes. They were both, for a long moment, speechless.
“Goodness,” she said at last, lightly. “You do look smart!”
The cap spun on to a chair and he crossed the room in three strides. “Sophie! Sophie!” He hugged her to him, hurting her, taking her breath. When he released her at last, her eyes were shining with laughter and happiness. “May I breathe now?”
He held her at arm’s length. “You look wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! More beautiful than ever.”
She flushed, grinning. “But not as beautiful as you, Mister Officer Cadet Rose! Just look at you! How long did it take you to clean those buttons?”
He grimaced, then laughed. “Hours!” They looked at each other then for a long, quiet moment, each searching the other’s face with love and with a certain anxiety that neither had the guile to hide. Richard saw before him a girl who in the months past had grown to womanhood; she for her part saw a young man immaculate in his khaki, brass and leather gleaming; a young man whose negligent slouch had been replaced by the carriage of a soldier, and whose face had leaned and sharpened.
“Oh, Richard,” she said, and her voice despite all her efforts trembled.
He caught her to him again, crushing her, pressing his cheek into the soft crown of her hair, his eyes shut, his face clenched against unmanly tears.
At last she pulled away, dashing a hand across her eyes, half-laughing. “There’s someone here just dying to meet you.” She caught his hand and led him across the room to where a small, pink-draped crib stood beside the window. Richard stood for a long time, staring down at the sleeping scrap whose fine, fair lashes curled against apple cheeks and whose milky mouth pursed, firm as a rosebud.
“Good God,” he said at last.
Sophie laughed, the tension broken. “You can touch her, you know. She won’t break.”
Very gingerly he reached a long finger to his daughter’s curled hand. His skin looked dark and calloused beside the pale softness of the child’s. Felicity twitched and stirred, her mouth making small sucking motions, and he pulled his hand back quickly. Sophie laughed again, sheer happiness in the sound. She leaned to Richard, he put an arm about her shoulders, and they stood looking down at their daughter. “We have two more hours,” Sophie said softly. “Two whole hours. And I want to hear everything – absolutely everything.” She caught his hands and tugged him to the sofa. “Are you happy at the Academy? What do you do there? Is it hard? Do you—”
“Whoa!” He stopped her busy mouth with a laughing kiss that quickly became more serious. When they drew away from each other at last Sophie’s colour was high and his breathing was uneven. “Now,” he said, his voice almost steady, “I’ll answer your questions. Yes – I love it at the Shop.”
; “The Shop?”
“The Academy. As for what we do there – we get up at the most beastly unearthly hour you can imagine, work till we drop and fall into bed exhausted each evening. We get hardly any time to ourselves and I’ve never been so tired in my life. We march, and ride, and polish and clean, we’re lectured and shouted at and drilled till we drop – and—” he gestured, laughing “—and I just love every minute of it. There’s something I have to ask you—” He took her hands, drew her to him. “Sophie, darling, could you be a soldier’s wife? I don’t mean just for the duration of the war – I mean a real soldier’s wife. For that’s what I should like to be. A regular soldier. Could you take it, do you think? Would you marry a poor soldier?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “And yes, and yes, and yes. So that’s settled. You’ll have to do more than take the King’s shilling to get rid of me, my lad.”
Their hands were linked. They sat for a moment, locked in each other’s smiles. Then, “We still have to wait,” he said. “My parents – especially Mother – are still—”
“I know,” she said, swiftly, stopping him. “And I don’t care. I’ll wait for ever if I have to. For ever. Especially now. Now that I know—” She ducked her head suddenly, avoiding his eyes.
The Rose Stone Page 41