by Kate Morton
Hanging from his left hand, recognisable for its distinguishing black sketch, was the letter from David. The letter Hannah had read by the fountain which had made Emmeline giggle so.
Mr Frederick’s back was shaking and at first I thought he was laughing too.
Then came the sound I have never forgotten. Will never forget. A gasp. Guttural, involuntary, hollow. Wretched with regret.
I stood for a moment longer, unable to move, then backed away. Pulled the door behind me so I was no longer a hidden party to his sorrow.
A knock at the door and I am returned. It is 1999 and I am in my room at Heathview, the photograph, our grave unknowing faces, still in my fingers. The young actress sits in the brown chair, scrutinising the ends of her long hair. How long have I been away? I glance at my clock. It is a little after ten. Is it possible? Is it possible the floors of memory have dissolved, ancient scenes and ghosts have come to life, and yet no time has passed at all?
The door is open and Ursula is back in the room, Sylvia directly behind balancing three teacups on a silver tray. Rather more fancy than the usual plastic one.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Ursula says, resuming her position on the end of my bed. ‘I don’t usually do that. It was urgent.’
I am unsure at first as to what she means; then I see the mobile phone in her hand.
Sylvia passes me a cup of tea, walks around my chair to present a steaming cup to Keira.
‘I hope you started the interview without me,’ Ursula says.
Keira smiles, shrugs. ‘We’ve pretty much finished.’
‘Really?’ Ursula says, eyes wide beneath her heavy fringe. ‘I can’t believe I missed the entire interview. I was so looking forward to hearing Grace’s memories.’
Sylvia places a hand across my forehead. ‘You’re looking a little peaky. Do you need some analgesic?’
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ I say, my voice croaky.
Sylvia raises an eyebrow.
‘I’m fine,’ I say with all the firmness I can muster.
Sylvia humphs. Then she shakes her head and I know she is washing her hands of me. For now. Have it your way, I can see her thinking. I can deny it all I like, but there’s no doubt in her mind I’ll be ringing for pain relief before my guests reach the Heathview car park. She’s probably right.
Keira takes a sip of green tea then rests the cup and saucer on my dressing table. ‘Is there a loo?’
I can feel Sylvia’s eyes burning holes in me. ‘Sylvia,’ I say. ‘Would you show Keira the washroom in the hall?’
Sylvia is barely able to contain herself. ‘Certainly,’ she says, and although I cannot see her, I know that she is preening. ‘It’s this way, Ms Parker.’
Ursula smiles at me as the door closes. ‘I appreciate you seeing Keira,’ she says. ‘She’s the daughter of one of the producer’s friends so I’m obliged to take a special interest.’ She looks to the door and lowers her voice, chooses her words carefully. ‘She’s not a bad kid, but she can be a little . . . tactless.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
Ursula laughs. ‘It comes of having industry parents,’ she says. ‘These kids see their parents receiving accolades for being rich, famous and beautiful—who can blame them for wanting the same?’
‘It’s quite all right.’
‘Still,’ says Ursula. ‘I meant to be here. To play chaperone . . .’
‘If you don’t stop apologising, you’re going to convince me you’ve done something wrong,’ I say. ‘You remind me of my grandson.’ She looks abashed and I realise there is something new within those dark eyes. A shadow I hadn’t noticed earlier. ‘Did you sort out your problems?’ I say. ‘On the telephone?’
She sighs, nods. ‘Yes.’
She pauses and I remain silent, wait for her to continue. I learned long ago that silence invites all manner of confidences.
‘I have a son,’ she says. ‘Finn.’ The name leaves a sad-happy smile on her lips. ‘He was three last Saturday.’ Her gaze leaves my face for an instant, alights on the rim of her teacup, with which she fidgets. ‘His father . . . he and I were never . . .’ She taps her nail twice against her cup, looks at me again. ‘It’s just Finn and me. That was my mother on the phone. She’s minding Finn while the film’s shooting. He had a fall.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Yes. He sprained his wrist. The doctor wrapped it for him. He’s fine.’ She is smiling but her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry . . . goodness me . . . he’s fine, I don’t know why I’m crying.’
‘You’re worried,’ I say, watching her. ‘And relieved.’
‘Yes,’ she says, suddenly very young and fragile. ‘And guilty.’
‘Guilty?’
‘Yes,’ she says, but doesn’t elaborate. She takes a tissue from her bag and wipes her eyes. ‘You’re easy to talk to. You remind me of my grandmother.’
‘She sounds a lovely woman.’
Ursula laughs. ‘Yes.’ She sniffs into a tissue. ‘Goodness, look at me. I’m sorry for off-loading all this on you, Grace.’
‘You’re apologising again. I insist you stop.’
There are footsteps in the hall. Ursula glances at the door, blows her nose. ‘Then at least let me thank you. For seeing us. For talking to Keira. Listening to me.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ I say, and surprise myself by meaning it.
‘I don’t have many callers these days.’
The door opens and she stands. Leans over and kisses my cheek. ‘I’ll come again soon,’ she says, gently squeezing my wrist.
And I am unaccountably glad.
Film Script
Final draft, November 1998, pp. 43–54
THE SHIFTING FOG
Written and directed by Ursula Ryan © 1998
SUBTITLE: Near Passchendaele, Belgium. October 1917.
45. INT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE—EVENING
Night falls, along with heavy rain. Three young soldiers in dirty uniforms seek refuge in the ruins of a Belgian farmhouse. They have walked all day after becoming separated from their division in a frantic retreat from the front line. They are tired and demoralised. The farmhouse in which they shelter is the same they were billeted in thirty days earlier on their way to the front. The Duchesne family have since fled as the wave of hostility swept through the village.
A single candle flickers on the bare timber floor, tossing long, jagged shadows onto the walls of the abandoned kitchen. Echoes of the house’s past life remain: a saucepan by the sink, a thin rope strung before the stove, heavy with abandoned laundry, a child’s wooden toy. One soldier—an Australian infantryman called FRED—crouches by the hole in the wall where a door once stood. He hugs his shotgun to his side. In the distance, the sound of sporadic shell fire. Angry rain pelts the already muddy ground, filling ditches to overflowing. A rat appears and sniffs a large dark patch on the soldier’s uniform. It is blood, black and rotten with age.
Inside the kitchen, an officer sits on the floor, propped against a table leg. DAVID HARTFORD holds a letter: its flimsy, stained appearance suggests it has been read numerous times. Asleep beside his outstretched leg is the skinny dog that has followed them all day.
The third man, ROBBIE HUNTER, appears from one of the rooms. He carries a gramophone, blankets and a handful of dusty records. He places his load on the kitchen table and begins searching the cupboards. In the back of the pantry he finds something. He turns and we draw slowly closer. He is thinner than before. World-weariness has sobered his features. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the weather and the walking have tangled his hair. A cigarette hangs from between his lips.
DAVID (without turning)
Find anything?
ROBBIE
Bread—hard as a rock, but still bread.
DAVID
Anything else? Anything to drink?
ROBBIE (pausing)
Music. I found music.
DAVID turns, sees the gramophone. His expression is difficult to read:
a combination of pleasure and sadness. Our view shifts, trailing from his face, down his arm to his hands. The fingers of one are wrapped in a dirty makeshift bandage.
DAVID
Well then . . . What are you waiting for?
ROBBIE sets a record on the gramophone and the crackly song begins to play.
MUSIC: Debussy’s Claire de Lune.
ROBBIE makes his way to DAVID, carrying the blankets and bread. He goes carefully, easing himself onto the floor: the trench collapse has left him with more injuries than he lets on. DAVID’S eyes are closed.
ROBBIE takes a pocket knife from his bag and begins the difficult task of breaking the stale bread into portions. The task achieved, he places one on the floor near DAVID. He throws another to FRED at the door. FRED tries hungrily to bite it.
ROBBIE, still smoking his cigarette, offers a portion of bread to the dog. The dog sniffs the bread, looks at Robbie, turns away. Robbie takes off his shoes, peels back wet socks. His feet are muddy and blistered.
There is a sudden eruption of gunfire. DAVID’S eyes flash open. We see, through the doorway, the fireworks of battle on the horizon. The noise is terrific. The ragged explosions a contrast to Debussy’s music.
Looking back into the farmhouse, we see the faces of the three men, eyes wide, reflections exploding across their cheeks.
Finally, the guns fall silent and the bright light dies. Their faces are in shadow again. The record ceases playing.
FRED (still watching the distant battle field) Poor buggers.
DAVID
They’ll be crawling over no-man’s-land now. Those that are left. Collecting the bodies.
FRED (shuddering)
Makes a man feel guilty. Not being there to help. And glad.
ROBBIE stands, walks to the doorway.
ROBBIE
I’ll take over. You’re tired.
FRED
No more or less than you. Can’t think you’ve slept in days; not since he (indicating DAVID) pulled you out of that trench. Still don’t know how you got out of there ali—
ROBBIE
(quickly) I’m fine.
FRED
(shrugging) All yours, mate.
FRED moves and sits by DAVID on the floor. He arranges one of the blankets over his legs, still hugging his gun to his chest. DAVID pulls a deck of cards from his bag.
DAVID
Come on, Fred. Quick game before you turn in?
FRED
Never could say no to a game. Keeps a fellow’s mind off things.
DAVID hands the deck to FRED. Indicates his own bandaged hand.
DAVID
Deal us up then.
FRED
What about him?
DAVID
Robbie doesn’t play. Doesn’t want to land the ace of spades.
FRED
What’s he got against the ace of spades?
DAVID
(plainly) Death card.
FRED begins to laugh, the trauma of the past weeks manifesting as a sort of hysteria.
FRED
Superstitious bastard! What’s he got against death? All the world’s dead. God’s dead. Only him below left now. And the three of us.
ROBBIE is sitting in the doorway, looking out toward the front. The dog has crept over to lie by him.
ROBBIE (to himself, quoting William Blake) We’re of the Devil’s party without knowing it.
FRED (overhearing)
We know it all right! A fellow only need set foot on this Godforsaken land to know the Devil’s running the show.
As DAVID and FRED continue to play cards, ROBBIE lights another cigarette and pulls a small notebook and pen from his pocket. As he writes, we see his memories of battle.
ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER)
The world has gone mad. Horror has become common. Men, women, children daily slaughtered. Left where they lie or incinerated so that nothing remains. Not a hair, or a bone, or the buckle from a belt . . . Civilisation is surely dead. For how can it now exist?
The sound of snoring. ROBBIE stops writing. The dog has moved his head onto ROBBIE’S leg and is fast asleep, eyelids quivering as he dreams.
We see ROBBIE’S face, lit by candle, as he watches the dog. Slowly, cautiously, ROBBIE extends a hand, lays it gently on the dog’s side. ROBBIE’S hand is trembling. He smiles faintly.
ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER)
And yet, amid the horror, the innocent still find solace in sleep.
EXT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE—MORNING
It is morning. Weak sunlight breaks through the clouds. The night’s rain clings in drops to the surrounding trees and the ground is thick with new mud. The birds have emerged from hiding and call to one another. The three SOLDIERS stand outside the farmhouse, kits on their backs.
DAVID holds a compass in the hand that is not bandaged. He looks up, points in the direction of the shellfire from the night before.
DAVID
Due east. Must be Passchendaele.
ROBBIE nods grimly. Squints toward the horizon.
ROBBIE
Then we head east.
They set off. The dog hurries after them.
Full Report of the Tragic Death of
Capt. David Hartford
OCTOBER 1917
Dear Lord Ashbury,
It is my dreadful duty to inform you of the sad news of the death of your son, David. I understand that in such circumstances words do little to temper your sorrow and grief, but as your son’s immediate superior officer, and as one who knew and admired him, I want to extend to you my sincere sympathy for your tremendous loss.
I thought, also, to inform you of the brave circumstances of your son’s death, in the hopes that it might bring you and your family some consolation to know that he lived and died like a gentleman and a soldier. On the night he was killed, he commanded a group of men on a particularly vital piece of reconnaissance to locate the enemy.
I have been informed by the men who accompanied your son that between three and four o’clock on the morning of 12 October, as they were returning from their mission, they came under heavy fire. It was during this attack that they were shocked by the sudden taking away of Capt. David Hartford. He was killed instantly by gunfire, and our only consolation is that he suffered absolutely no pain.
He was buried at first light in the northern part of the village of Passchendaele, a name, Lord Ashbury, that will long be remembered in the glorious history of our British armies. It will gladden you to know that through the excellent leadership of your son on his final mission we were able to complete a critical objective.
If there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask me.
I have the honour to remain, yours very sincerely,
Lieutenant Colonel Lloyd Auden Thomas.
THE PHOTOGRAPH
It is a beautiful March morning. The pink gillyflowers beneath my window are in bloom, filling the room with their sweet and heady scent. If I lean close to the windowsill and peer down at the garden bed, I can see the outermost petals, bright with sun. The peach blossom will be next, then the jasmine. Each year it is the same; will continue to be the same for years to come. Long after I am here to enjoy them. Eternally fresh, eternally hopeful, always ingenuous.
I have been thinking about Mother. About the photograph in Lady Violet’s scrapbook. For I saw it, you know. A few months after Hannah first mentioned it, that summer’s day by the fountain.
It was September of 1916. Mr Frederick had inherited his father’s estate, Lady Violet (in an impeccable show of etiquette, said Nancy) had vacated Riverton and taken up residence in the London townhouse, and the Hartford girls had been dispatched indefinitely to help her settle.
We were a tiny staff at that time—Nancy was busier than ever in the village and Alfred, whose leave I’d so anticipated, had been unable at the last to return. It confused us at the time: he was in Britain, sure enough, his letters assured us he wasn’t injured, yet he was to spend his leave at a military
hospital. Even Mr Hamilton was unsure what to make of this. He thought long and hard, sat in his pantry pondering Alfred’s letter, until eventually he emerged, rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and made his announcement. The only explanation was Alfred’s involvement in a secret war mission of which he was unable to speak. It seemed a reasonable suggestion, for what else explained the hospital accommodation of a man with no injuries?
And so the matter was closed. Little more was said about it, and in the early autumn of 1916, as leaves dropped and the ground outside began to harden, steeling itself for the freeze to come, I found myself alone in the Riverton drawing room.
I had cleaned and reset the fire and was finishing up dusting. I ran the cloth across the top of the writing desk, traced its rim, then started on the drawer handles, bringing the brass to a gleam. It was a regular duty, performed each second morning as sure as day followed night, and I cannot say what set that day apart. Why that morning as my fingers reached the left-hand drawer they slowed, stopped, refused to recommence their cleaning. As if they glimpsed before I did the furtive purpose that fluttered on the edges of my thoughts.
I sat a moment, perplexed, unable to move. And I became aware of the sounds around me. The wind outside, leaves hitting the windowpanes. The mantle clock ticking insistently, counting away the seconds. My breaths, grown quick with expectation.
Fingers trembling, I began to slide it open. Slowly, carefully, acting and observing myself in equal measure. The drawer reached halfway and tilted on its tracks, the contents sliding to the front.
I paused. Listened. Satisfied myself I was still alone. Then I peered inside.
There beneath a pen set and a pair of gloves: Lady Violet’s scrapbook.
No time for hesitation, the incriminating drawer already open, heartbeat pulsing against the bones of my inner ears, I slid the book from the drawer and laid it on the floor.
Flicked through the pages—photographs, invitations, menus, diary entries—scanning for dates. 1896, 1897, 1898 . . .
There it was: the household photograph of 1899, its shape familiar but its proportions different. Two long rows of straight-faced servants complementing the front line of family. Lord and Lady Ashbury, the Major in his uniform, Mr Frederick—all so much younger and less tattered—Jemima and an unknown woman I took to be Penelope, Mr Frederick’s late wife, both with swollen stomachs. One of those bulges was Hannah, I realised; the other, an ill-fated boy whose blood would one day fail him. A lone child stood at the end of the row near Nanny Brown (ancient even then). A small blond boy: David. Full of life and light; blissfully unaware of all the future had in store.