Twenty-one
After breakfast they moved down to Becourt Wood at the mouth of the valley. From his issue of water, Liam drank long and deep, and then he washed as best he could before spreading out his greatcoat in the shelter of a grassy mound. He slept then, dead to the world and all its noise, for most of the day. As the sun was beginning to set in the peaceful west, the survivors of the 1st Division moved back to that field just outside Albert.
Most of them went down to the river to wash and swim. Stripping off, plunging in, relishing the cold shock, Liam ducked down into the cloudy depths, needing to rid himself of the filth of battle. Afterwards he swam lazy strokes and floated, staring up at the pink-streaked sky, letting the water block his ears to noise. But it felt strange to be out in the open again, not to be grubbing for cover in some pathetic hole in the ground.
Despite the warmth of the evening, when it came time to settle down, he found it difficult to sleep. When he did, his dreams were disturbing, too well-connected to the thunder on the hill. Waking just after dawn he was glad to rise and move about. His insides still felt mangled, but he was glad to see that the violent tremors of the day before had abated. Forgoing breakfast, he sought out Keenan for permission to go into town. The sergeant looked sick, still too bemused by that pounding at Pozières to have the wit to question him closely. With an admonition to be back before noon, permission was granted. Liam returned to his team only to tell them to cover for him should he be delayed.
‘But what if we’ve moved on?’ Vic asked anxiously; like a child he seemed afraid to let Liam out of his sight.
‘I’ll find you.’
Albert at that hour was practically deserted, ruined buildings in dusty, shadowed streets the haunt of sparrows and starlings and stalking cats. On a sunny doorstep a brindled dog lay curled, muzzle between paws, too lazy to stir as Liam passed by. The town was badly damaged, but people seemed to be carrying on their lives, much as they were further north. Had the villagers of Pozieres taken refuge here or further west, he wondered; and with nothing to go back to, what would they do when the war was over?
The open, cobbled square was pocked by shell-holes, the tower of its massive basilica badly knocked-about. He stared up at it, marvelling at its size for such a small town, but finding the red and cream brickwork too garish for his taste. He longed, suddenly, for the mellowed stone of English village churches, a game of cricket on the green, the faint rustle of applause from watchers outside the village inn. He could see it in his mind’s eye: the inn was called ‘The George’, the landlord large and jovial...
Liam smiled, mocking himself. An illusion, a memory, a dream. Was England really like that? Had it ever been so perfect, except on the surface? The church with its square tower, the medieval pub, the village green; and the local squire in his manor, tenants tipping their caps, agricultural labourers living in ever-increasing poverty. A way of life from which he had escaped, a place where common men did not own the land, but tilled it for the gentry. Even his parents, comfortably-off though they were, did not own their cottage, nor the land his mother utilised so productively. They paid rent to the man who owned it.
Reality. What was it? A place – a moment in time? This was real, this town square with its piles of rubble, its foreign-looking church, the Blessed Virgin knocked sideways, apparently throwing the Holy Child to his death...
And death was real, he could testify to that.
Was Georgina flesh and blood, he wondered; or just a product of his imagination? He dreamed so often of leave in England, of seeing her, talking to her honestly with every barrier swept away. What would he do, though, if that opportunity was ever granted? He would have to remember, every waking moment, that he was her brother, not her lover. That thought seemed most daunting of all. Perhaps it was better that she remained the stuff of dreams.
And Robin, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood; he was here, somewhere in this small corner of France. He had to find him, dead or alive; he had to know, feel his reality, before he too became no more than a dream, a memory, an illusion.
Liam went into the church, trying to pray his English Protestant prayers amongst gilded frescoes and damaged plaster saints, but he was uneasy and not at all sure that the Almighty had ears left to listen. With all that noise at Pozières, all those men calling out from either side for Him to save them, God was probably weary or deaf or in retreat. While the Devil was rejoicing.
Stepping over the rubble, Liam came upon an undamaged statue of St Anthony. He paused, clutching at a straw of memory, almost sure that someone – a Catholic boy he had been friendly with, years ago – had once told him that St Anthony was the patron saint of missing things. Of course it might have been another saint entirely, but Liam felt it was worth a try. With a smile that was only slightly cynical, he took a candle, lit it, and set it in the sconce before the saint.
‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘help me find my brother.’
Leaving an offering in the poor box, he went out into the sunlight. People were crossing the square, an old lady in black approaching the church for her morning devotions. Shopkeepers were taking down shutters, and outside a small estaminet, the elderly patron was setting out tables and chairs. Liam strolled across and sat down, ordering coffee and rolls.
‘Avez-vous du fromage? Un peu, s’il vous plait.’
The cheese was strong, goats’ milk, he guessed, but the bread was deliciously fresh and the coffee excellent. The luxury of the meal, as much as its sustenance, put new heart into him. Lighting a cigarette afterwards, Liam felt better than he had for some time, almost relaxed, almost at peace. The patron, charmed by his attempt at the language, fussed a little, bringing fresh coffee, offering extravagant compliments as to the Australians’ exploits over the past few days. Slightly embarrassed, knowing that he personally had done nothing to further the battle’s progress, Liam was glad that the arrival of other soldiers demanded attention. They nodded to him and Liam peered at their regimental insignia, his heart twisting a little as he identified the arc of letters at the shoulder, KOYLI – the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry – which had always done much of its recruiting in York.
They were young and fresh, their uniforms too clean to have seen much action, if any; and they had about them the excitement of youth. Beside them Liam felt old and weary and indescribably soiled. Their eyes were on him, noting the shoulder badge of crossed machine-gun barrels, his loose and comfortable Australian tunic with sensible bone buttons, the non-regulation leather gaiters he wore. He was big and blond and tanned; he looked so absolutely a son of the outback that it amused Liam to stress the flatness of his vowels in situations like this. With Australians, he could sound quite like them; but he could also revert to the accents of his childhood. He thought he would surprise these youngsters.
Deliberately knocking the aitches off, he said: “Ave you seen any Green ‘Owards about lately? I’m lookin’ for me brother.’
One started to answer before it dawned; then he laughed and said: ‘You’re a Yorkie! Whereabouts do you hail from, then?’
Evasively, Liam gave a street name not far from his home.
‘Oh, me auntie lives down there. Mrs Dane, do you know her? Big woman, all mouth – everybody knows her!’
Liam laughed, shaking his head. ‘No, sorry — it’s years since I was last home.’ But it was so typically York, more an overgrown village than a city, full of people whose relatives never moved. It brought a hard lump to his throat. He smiled and listened while the boys chattered on about people and places he might know. Eventually they got back to his question: yes, they had seen reinforcements on the way down from Doullens; in fact they had travelled more or less together, overtaking each other through the villages between there and Amiens. If he hung about, they said, he was bound to see them coming through the square.
Glancing at the sun, Liam said he had not much time to spare; thanking them for their information, he set out to look for those other reinforcements. They w
ould know where they were heading, know where the main body of the regiment was camped.
He crossed the square towards the Amiens road, intending to walk out in that direction in hopes of meeting them coming through; but within a few hundred yards he spotted the Green Howards’ badge on a group of three NCOs. Obvious veterans, these, with hardened eyes and uniforms that had seen better days, despite the brilliant brass-ware glinting in the sun.
He stopped, asked where they were camped, and did any of them know of a lad by the name of Elliott? He gave Robin’s company, but they shook their heads.
‘I’m his brother,’ Liam said, ‘and I haven’t much time. We’re moving out today – I don’t know where – and I need to find him. If he’s still alive,’ he added wearily.
‘Aye, well, “B” Company lost a lot of lads,’ one said flatly. ‘But I tell thee what, I’ll come back with thee, show thee the way, like. If he’s alive, we’ll find him, lad, never fear.’
The old sergeant was from Rotherham, a miner whose wealth of blue scars told of years below ground and innumerable pit accidents. He looked hard, but his kindness was palpable. He had lost his eldest son, a regular soldier, at Mons.
‘Didn’t want him to go down the pit, see? Shoved him in the army – peacetime it was a good life. Bloody daft, eh?’
‘But you joined up.’
‘Aye, well, felt I had to, somehow. Felt I owed it to my lad.’
Liam sighed.
It was perhaps just over a mile to the camp. The sergeant enquired at Headquarters for the company’s location, and asked whether Liam’s brother was still listed. His leathery old face was wreathed with smiles as he came out.
‘He’s all right, lad – fit as a fiddle, and should by rights be with the rest of ‘em.’
They went down together, past a forest of bell tents and canvas huts, to where ‘B’ Company was camped. Liam’s heart seemed to be performing somersaults, his eyes scouring every tall and slender figure, every man with crisp dark hair. In the end Robin saw him first.
Poised in braces and shirtsleeves, he stared with open-mouthed astonishment across a mess of kitchen fatigues.
Meeting his brother’s eyes, that familiar open smile, Liam felt his own mouth curving, laughter swelling his chest as Robin bounded towards him, swinging them both in a joyful embrace. Liam hugged him, lifted him off the ground, spun him round; and, as he set him down again, met the broad, delighted grin of the old sergeant.
‘Nice to ‘ave an ‘and in some good news, for a change,’ he said, turning away before Liam could thank him properly. He shouted his thanks to the retreating figure, and had the satisfaction of a wave. Then he turned to Robin and hugged him again.
‘Why haven’t you written home? They’re worried sick about you!’
‘I have written — last week and again, yesterday.’
‘Why didn’t you write immediately – as soon as you came out of the line?’
Robin’s eyes looked hurt, shifted suddenly away. ‘I – I couldn’t.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because,’ he admitted, shamefaced, ‘I couldn’t. Didn’t stop shaking for nearly a week.’
Liam winced. ‘Oh, dear God,’ he breathed, ashamed of his own lack of tact. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, I’m all right now,’ he declared, laughing. ‘And all the better for seeing you. What shall we do? Go into town? Come on,’ he said eagerly, ‘I’ll just clear it with the Sarge, and we’ll go and paint the town red!’
As Robin returned, pulling his tunic into shape, fastening buttons that gleamed with parade-ground brightness and straightening his cap, Liam was amazed at the change in him. Even in his old, battle-scarred uniform he looked every inch the soldier, his bearing so upright he might have been a young officer in disguise. He had grown at least an inch, Liam guessed, and put on muscle, although his face was thinner, with the shadow of a dark beard along his jaw and upper lip.
‘And you’re a fine one to talk about writing,’ Robin said as they cleared the camp. ‘Almost a year, it was, before we heard from you. We were all convinced you were dead.’
‘Do we have to go into that?’
‘No.’ He grinned, suddenly the boy again. ‘How strange, you turning up today. You won’t believe this, but we didn’t come back down here till Saturday, and we’ve only been in this place for a couple of days. I heard your lot were up at Poz when we arrived, and I’ve been looking for you ever since. Into town, morning and evening, hoping you might be passing through – but today I got stuck on fatigues.’
‘We came out of the line yesterday, but we’re moving on this afternoon. I haven’t got long.’
‘Were you in it? That lot at Poz?’
Liam nodded. ‘Twenty-four hours, that’s all. The battalions were in for four days.’
‘We were watching it.’ A muscle twitched in his face. ‘I kept thinking about you. All the time.’
‘I was thinking about you, too.’
They walked on in silence, very close, arms touching, needing the reassurance of physical contact.
‘We heard about that first day,’ Liam said at last. ‘Sounded like a bloody shambles.’
With a sharp bark of laughter, Robin agreed. ‘It was. And we walked straight into it.’ For a moment he was silent, and when he spoke again, his voice was breaking with emotion. ‘The bloody sun was well up by the time the barrage stopped. We thought, this is it… couldn’t understand why they held us back for another half-hour.’ He sniffed, fumbling in his pocket for cigarettes. ‘And when we did go,’ he added, lighting up, ‘they were just waiting for us… that bloody barrage hadn’t changed a thing…’
‘Deep dug-outs,’ Liam murmured, picturing the crater at La Boisselle.
‘I know. Can’t believe I’m still here…’
At that, Liam put his arm round his brother, gripping his shoulder, not caring if they were seen. He knew what Robin had been through, had been through similar himself. But neither of them wanted to talk about it. After three years apart, it seemed strange that there should be so little else to say. Or rather there was too much; and being so conscious of each other, it was hard to say anything at all.
They made for the estaminet in the square, the patron, delighted by their reunion, insisting on two beers on the house. It was nothing like English beer, but it was cool and thirst-quenching, and after two or three apiece, their tongues were loosened, the barriers down. They talked about home, about Tisha and her marriage; and in a general way about Edward and their mother. Liam wanted to know if Edward was ill, but beyond recalling a certain frailty last Christmas when he had been home, Robin knew nothing more than his brother.
‘I just thought he seemed very tired,’ he said. ‘And worried about the business and the war. Same as everybody else, I thought. I didn’t think he was ill.’
‘Well, he may not be. Perhaps they just told Tisha that, as a sort of face-saver, so they didn’t have to go to the wedding.’
‘You could be right. Mother always did hate dressing up, having to put on a company face.’ After a pause, he said: ‘Did you know the Colonel gave Tisha away?’
Liam felt his face muscles tighten. ‘She said so in the letter.’ Under scrutiny he looked away, narrowing his eyes as he appeared to study the hanging Virgin across the square.
‘You haven’t got over it, have you?’
There was no need to elaborate; they both knew what he was talking about. With a shrug, Liam affected nonchalance. ‘Not entirely, but it’s not something I want to discuss.’
‘I wish you would.’
Briefly, Liam looked back at his brother and smiled. ‘All right, we will – one day. But not now. Don’t let’s spoil this time we have.’
‘There may not be another chance,’ Robin reminded him, sombrely. ‘Does that never occur to you? That each day might be your last?’
It did, but those sentiments, coming from his younger brother, caught Liam by surprise. Looking at him, really studying him, he could
see how deeply the war had marked Robin. The joy of their meeting had covered it, given him the gloss of boyishness, but he was a boy no longer. He had seen too much of death, felt its brush too closely and on too many occasions. Liam thought how frequently he must have been under fire, and how much, very recently, he had taken of bombardments like the one at Pozières. Robin had seen too much, experienced too much, and it had taken his boyhood away.
The lines of his face, that bruised look about the eyes, were so common these days they generally went unnoticed; and because they were all of them in it up to their necks, with no escape, it was no longer worth discussing. Gallows humour prevailed instead. It was the only way to survive.
So he was unprepared for this seriousness. He felt exposed and horribly naked, and for a moment could have broken down, just like young Vic. But the moment passed. Blinking rapidly, he looked away.
‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘it occurs to me all the time.’
‘Then why don’t you do something about it?’
‘Like what, for heaven’s sake? Dash home right now and tell them all is forgiven? That I’m sorry I rushed off like that and I won’t do it again?’ In the ensuing silence he fumbled for cigarettes and lit one, his fingers trembling over the match. ‘I do write, you know. I have, regularly, ever since that first letter I sent to you.’
‘But have you really made things up with Mother? That’s what I’m talking about. You can write nice, cheery letters till the cows come home — or until this bloody war’s over! — but until you say the words she wants to hear, she’ll never rest. It’s destroying her. Do you want that on your conscience?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Robin! What words? What?’
His arm was gripped with painful urgency. ‘She wants to know that you understand – that you forgive her.’
Liam's Story Page 39