A Bitter Harvest

by Peter Yeldham

  He went to England on leave. Kate met him at Victoria, when the troop train came in, and at first glance thought he looked the same. Although the letters of the past months belied that. So did his manner, she discovered. By the time they had finished tea at the nearest Lyons Corner House, she thought he should be invalided out because of an alarming mental instability. He was like an exhausted worn-out old man, convinced he would not live to see his twenty-second birthday. Trying desperately to cope, she asked him why he thought this?

  ‘Johnno worked it out,’ he said.

  Johnno, it appeared, was a schoolteacher. Maths. Taught at North Sydney Boys High School, and a bit of a genius.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He has this system. Very complex. You multiply the number of men in the platoon by the average number of shells per day, plus add in a quotient for sniper fire and machine guns, and by a ratio over seven — being the seven days in the week — you get this convoluted algebraic answer, which gives you your estimated L.S.’

  ‘Harry, what on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘L.S. Life span. Otherwise known as D.L.T.L — Days Left To Live. I’m already on minus fifteen. Which means borrowed time. I should have been dead two weeks ago.’

  ‘It sounds quite mad.’

  ‘Here in Joe Lyons, with tea and sandwiches, it does. I admit in here it sounds a bit loonie. You’d be surprised how logical it sounds over there. Johnno’s very rarely wrong. He was plus six when he told me all about it. Then, six nights later, someone gave us an order to attack. Someone else told the French the Germans were advancing. Out in no-man’s-land, the French gunners managed to kill Johnno and about ten others, before we put up a flare.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, feeling this was impossible, it was going to be an absolute disaster. She wished David was here with them. Or else Rupert. Either of them might know how to deal with this. There was no way she could.

  ‘Kate?’

  She looked across the table at him. He tried and almost managed a smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I’m a mess. No, don’t try to deny it,’ he said, as she was about to.

  ‘I know I’m a mess. But you can’t just switch off. Give me a few days to stop the shells exploding in my head.’

  ‘It must have been terrible.’

  ‘I want to forget it — not talk about it.’

  ‘How long is your leave?’

  ‘A week. I’ve got a room at one of the officers’ billets. Here’s the address. Do you know where it is?’ She looked at the printed details.

  ‘Yes, in Chelsea, Near the Embankment.’

  ‘I’d better go and find it. Can we meet tomorrow? Will you have any spare time?’

  ‘Of course.’ she said,

  She was due to sit for her trial finals in a month,’ and this was the fourth year, the one that really counted, she needed to rehearse every waking hour.

  ‘I’ll have lots of spare time.’ Kate said.

  It was late summer in London, but drizzling with rain, and people were rugged up against the cold. Kate walked with him, through the back streets of Pimlico, past Sloane Square and into the Kings Road.

  ‘It’s filthy weather for the end of August,’ she said. ‘Fancy calling this summer.’

  ‘I’m used to it. Just as bad in northern France.’

  ‘Do you remember,’ she tucked her arm into his as they skirted dog droppings on the pavement, ‘how one August in Sydney we all went swimming? Midwinter, and the water was freezing, but the sun was so warm, and we ran miles along the beach to get the blood circulating.’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Do you ever miss it?’ he asked. ‘The sun?’

  ‘Often. But I didn’t really come here for the climate. Mind you, we’ve had at least one lovely summer. Nineteen fourteen was the best, people say. But if you’re busy, and, well, happy I suppose — who cares about the weather?’

  He felt a moment of envy for Rupert — whose second name he could not remember, and had no intention of asking.

  The officers’ billet was a cluster of houses that overlooked the gardens of the Chelsea Hospital.

  ‘It’s where they hold the flower show,’ Kate told him, as he gave his name at the desk.

  A rather stern middle-aged lady requested his paybook or any suitable identification, scrutinised it, glanced interrogatively at Kate, and then checked the register and admitted he was indeed booked in for the week. Single room, she said and, with another glance at Kate, regretted there was a strict rule that officers were not allowed guests on the premises. She asked if Lieutenant Patterson would be good enough to sign the book.

  Lieutenant Patterson signed, and said he quite understood the rules. But this lady was not a guest, he said. This was Katherine Brahm, the renowned cellist, who had been kind enough to show him the way. It was such a friendly city, London, he said, and Miss Brahm had been telling him about her fiance, a captain in the British army — and had insisted on guiding him here, and without her help he would have been hopelessly lost. He said to the lady behind the desk that she obviously knew of Katherine Brahm, the cellist, and the lady thought deeply for a moment and then assured him she did.

  ‘I’ll just see Miss Brahm to a hackney cab,’ he said, and they went out, barely able to control their laughter.

  ‘You galah,’ Kate said. ‘That’s the kind of mad thing we used to do when we were kids.’

  ‘Remember when you and David and I unscrewed all the street signs and changed them around?’

  ‘God, we were larrikins.’

  ‘Great days, Kate.’

  ‘They were indeed,’ she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

  He wanted to hold her, but instead he took her hand for a moment and said goodnight. He went back to the doorway of the billet, watching her slim figure walk away, suddenly realising they had completely forgotten to hail a taxi.

  The professor was less than cordial. He was Polish, and had been Kate’s tutor for the past four years. He predicted a brilliant future. On the other hand, if she wished to spend one of the most important weeks of her life attending to some childhood sweetheart from the Antipodes, then she had best find another tutor, because this was not proper behaviour, and she was not a serious person. Any fool could play a cello. It took energy and strict discipline to succeed, to reach the top, the highest pinnacle, where it mattered. The shallow emotion of being concerned about some soldier was not for the likes of her.

  Kate apologised that she was apparently so facile. On the other hand, she pointed out, she could well have sent him a note saying she had a cold and could not study for a week. It would have been far less disagreeable. But she had this peculiar trait of preferring the truth, and she’d make up the time, but this was her brother’s closest friend who had been in the thick of the war and needed help — and if the professor didn’t want her in his course any longer, then that was a pity. But there were several tutors who did.

  The professor, not known for his graciousness, stalked off.

  Kate went home to Swiss Cottage, and the tiny flat she shared with a student actress from Cardiff. Later that day she waited in Kensington Gardens by the Albert Memorial, where they had arranged to meet. It was once again drizzling rain. He was late. Almost an hour late, and she was becoming angry and was about to leave, when she saw him. He was running from the direction of Queens Gate. He dashed across busy Kensington Gore without even a glance, and almost went beneath the wheels of an omnibus. It hooted in protest. A car braked suddenly to avoid him, and in a moment the entire street was a cacophony of tooting horns and squealing tyres. Harry gave them a cheerful wave and a bow, as if they were applauding him, and reached the gates opposite the Albert Hall.

  She laughed, and knew then, despite any misgivings, that she had done the right thing.

  Much later, when they had dinner, he explained that he had slept almost twenty hours, and woken in a panic to realise he was late to meet her — and
had run all the way from the Kings Road, through Chelsea, skirting South Kensington tube station and pounding his way past the museums in Cromwell Road before turning towards the park, hoping to God he was travelling in the right direction — and fortunately he was, because he glimpsed her by the Albert Memorial, tapping her foot and about to leave.

  ‘You could have taken a bus,’ Kate said.

  ‘I didn’t know which bus — or which way. Besides, after all that sleep I needed the exercise.’

  ‘Twenty hours? How could you sleep twenty hours?’

  ‘With no difficulty at all.’

  ‘How was the officers’ billet?’

  ‘Spotless,’ he said.

  ‘Her ladyship on the desk wouldn’t have it otherwise.’

  ‘Too bloody right, mate. Not even a mozzie would dare cross her threshold.’

  ‘Not to mention an officer’s guest,’ Kate said.

  Harry smiled. ‘In my brief acquaintance with this country, I’ve learned there is nothing quite so ferocious as the almost upper-class Englishwoman.’

  Kate cupped her face in both hands. She looked at him for what seemed a long time.

  ‘Let’s pay the bill,’ she said, ‘and go back to my place.’

  ‘Would that be a good idea?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m proposing it.’

  ‘What about the girl who shares your flat?’

  ‘She’s gone to stay with her family in Wales. I asked her if she’d mind. For a week.’

  Harry’s blood began to race. He could hardly believe it.

  ‘But Kate …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This isn’t — it isn’t because you feel sorry for me?’

  ‘Don’t be such a stupid bugger.’

  ‘All right, then. But what about Rupert?’

  He could not remember her looking so beautiful.

  ‘This has nothing whatsoever to do with Rupert,’ she said.

  He had made love with other women, but never before with Kate. Slept with other girls, seductive, attractive girls, but it was not like this. Nothing was ever like this. When they were in their teens — children — they had kissed and touched each other, and felt as if they were in love, but that was adolescence, this was real. This was the culmination of his life. For two days they never left the tiny flat. In that brief time he lived as if there had never been trenches or mud, as though nothing had changed since he was thirteen, and his friend David had invited him home, and he had, for the first time, seen Kate Brahm.

  He had been in love with her ever since then.

  He would have loved her if she was plain and untalented, and it would have been a great deal easier. No scholarship to the Guildhall in London. No Rupert. They might even have been married by now; his mother told him she had married before she was eighteen years old. It was futile to even think of it. He was happy and grateful to be in bed with her, their naked flesh vibrant and thrilling. He accepted something he had not allowed himself to admit for years: in the entire world there was no one who even came close to Kate.

  It was not easy to concede this. She had committed herself to someone else. This was transient — wonderful, but ephemeral. They both knew it. Kate would always have to live in Europe or America. There was no future for her as a solo cellist in Australia; Harry had understood that ever since he realised the extent of her talent. But in the meantime they made love as if nothing in the world mattered. There was no tomorrow. Certainly for him there was none, because when he returned to the front there was Johnno’s prediction. He was fifteen days over his lifetime.

  If there was no Rupert, if Kate was free, he would have gone absent without leave and to hell with military police, or desertion in the face of the enemy. He would have walked away from the war, taken Kate and gone. There was no chance this could happen — but he fantasised about it. It was part of the joy of making love with her.

  On their third day together she told him of his father’s arrest.

  It was something she had dreaded. She had learned of it in a letter from his grandfather. William Patterson had obtained her address from David. He stated Harry’s father, Stefan Muller, had been summarily taken into custody, imprisoned without a trial, and that it was a travesty of justice. They were going to try to secure his release, but it could take time, because of the complex wartime laws. Both he and Harry’s mother felt it was wrong to convey this news to him in a letter. He had gone on to say that, while it was asking a great deal of her, if she was to see him again on his next leave and felt able to tell him, then they would be very grateful. On the other hand, if she felt it was not a task she wanted to undertake, he would understand. It was asking a great deal but, knowing Kate, he was certain she would handle it sensitively, or else advise him it was beyond her. In conclusion, he congratulated her on her engagement, and wished her luck for her future. It would give he and his wife, Hannah, great joy if she became a concert artist, and some day they were able to hear her play.

  It was a nice letter. Kate had always liked Senator Patterson.

  She replied, agreeing with their decision; that under no circumstances should Harry be sent this news. It would be unfair and would disturb him. (She did not say he was already deeply disturbed, writing erratic letters that distressed her.) When he came on leave, which might not be for some time, she would do her best to tell him. If it proved impossible, she would write to say so. She asked the Senator to let her know if there was any change in the situation, and to convey her sympathy to Harry’s mother. She congratulated him on his marriage, which she had heard about and which seemed like a truly lovely day — and sent her regards to Hannah, of whom Harry spoke so fondly.

  There had been a grateful reply, in which his grandfather said there had been no success as yet in freeing Stefan. He would wait to hear from Kate, and left it entirely to her decision whether she felt it wise to tell his grandson, or not.

  When she first met him, off the troop train, that awful first day when she wondered if he was mad, she felt certain she could not possibly give him this news. He would be unable to cope with it. After three days he was like a different person, like the Harry of the past, only now they were lovers, however fleetingly, and she did not want to hurt him and had no real idea how to break such tidings. In the end, she simply gave him his grandfather’s first letter to read.

  He finished reading it, and there was silence. She looked at him across the table, his coffee going cold, his face registering the shock, wondering if she had done the right thing.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he finally said, ‘what kind of a sick world do we live in, Kate?’

  ‘No one wanted to tell you — not even me — but I think you had to know. You can’t do anything to help, and it’ll upset you and make you angry, but it’s your right to be told.’

  ‘And I’m a big boy now,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. You are.’

  ‘Poor bastard. Poor Papa.’

  He handed her back the letter. His eyes were wet with unshed tears. He brushed his sleeve angrily across them.

  ‘Fancy being considered a threat to national security. A man who loves his wife, tends his vines, and is a success, a citizen proud of the country that’s now imprisoned him. That’s an irony, isn’t it?’

  She knew him so well, she simply put her hands in his, let him hold them tight as he talked.

  ‘I’m glad Grandfather decided you were the one to tell me. I’m glad he’s trying to help — because he never really liked my father. They didn’t get on. The awful thing I have to say is — neither did I. I don’t mean I disliked him, but we never understood each other.’

  ‘You were brought up in a different way.’

  ‘I still adored my mother. I’m very fond of my sister. But Papa and Carl …’ He shook his head. ‘I wonder why it was?’

  They went for a walk in the park, and held hands. It felt as if they were lovers, but he knew it was only four more days, and then her life would return to her musi
cal studies and to Rupert. In an odd way he did not begrudge this. He had tasted heaven, and it was sweeter than he had ever dreamed of. He tried to think of his father, in some prison or internment camp, unjustly held there, but his mind could not absorb it. He could only think about Kate’s hand in his, that there were three more nights their naked bodies could touch each other, at moments in passion but mostly in great tenderness, and that if he were by some mischance and against Johnno’s law to live beyond his allotted time, he would find life empty without Kate Brahm.

  They walked by the Serpentine, and watched a family rowing a boat much too small for them, all the children, splashing their oars and shouting loudly with delight. They bought sandwiches, and sat on a bench to eat them, and soon the pigeons came strutting and cooing. They laughed and threw them the crusts the birds were demanding.

  ‘I’ll write to Grandfather, and my mother. I can’t believe that Grandpa won’t get him out.’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Kate said, although from a letter David had written her, she was not sure at all.

  ‘It’s hard to understand. They’re so far away. Yet they behave as if the war’s on their doorstep.’

  ‘We always did what England did. Why are we fighting, anyway? Ask yourself that.’

  ‘I dare not,’ Harry said, ‘or else I’d never go back there.’

  Kate threw the final sandwich crust to the pigeons, who fought over it, as if instinct told them this was the last offering.

  Their days were so very few; they sped by in a blur of ecstasy and happiness. It hardly seemed believable that they were at Victoria Station again, the platform crowded with seasoned troops returning reluctantly from leave, or new recruits looking eager and vulnerable in unspoiled uniforms.

  Harry found a window seat. The guard was blowing his whistle, carriage doors slamming, the great engine impatiently hissing steam amid shouted goodbyes and tears. He pushed open the grimy window, looked down at her on the platform, took her hand briefly as the train began to move.

  ‘Dearest Kate,’ he said, ‘it was the best week of my life.’

  Kate went back to the flat. It seemed lifeless without him. On the table were the letters he had written that morning, to be sent to his mother and grandfather. Folded with them was another sheet of paper with his handwriting.