‘Fine.’
‘You’re happy?’
‘Sure.’ Martha shrugged. ‘I guess … Daniel?’
‘Call me Daddy.’
‘Daddy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why is Mum always crying?’
Daniel blinked. ‘When does she cry?’
‘All the time.’
Ten minutes later, as Daniel sat waiting on the sofa in the drawing room, Kevin the Dog nudged the door open with his nose, slunk across the room and exchanged a guilty glance with him before creeping up over the arm of the sofa and curling into a ball. Martha followed the dog into the room, shuffling as she tried to keep Nancy’s stilettos on her feet. She was holding one of her mother’s handbags too and wearing one of her hats. Her face was made up. She was trying not to grin.
Daniel played along, affecting not to notice.
Martha took a DVD of Finding Nemo out of its sleeve, slotted it into the player and pressed ‘play’ on the remote. When nothing happened, she opened up the back of the remote and rolled the batteries around with her thumb. It worked.
As Martha watched the television screen, Daniel stole glances at her, studying the detail of her face, the pores in her freckled skin, the delicate whorl of her ear, her thick lashes, the slight tilt of her nose, the bow of her lips. She was so pale – a pale imitation of her golden-skinned mother. Even the wash-off tattoo on her arm was a mockery of the real thing. Compared to Nancy, Martha was plain and mousy. She was more like Daniel. She had his colouring. Would adolescence favour her with good looks? He put a protective arm around her and smelled her hair. She tucked herself into him – father and daughter on a big blue sofa with chocolate stains on its arm. Finding Nemo was her favourite film. Daniel and she had watched it often. When it came to the part where the clown fish hitches a ride on the shell of a sea turtle, Daniel said: ‘Ah.’
‘Why did you say “Ah’’?’
‘Because Daddy’s been seeing things.’
‘What things?’
Daniel did not answer. Instead he pulled his daughter towards him, in the crook of his arm. After a while, feeling bored with the film, he extracted himself and opened the metallic lid of his MacBook Air. Unable to get online, he called up the stairs. ‘Nancy? I’m not getting a signal. Have you got one on your laptop? Nancy? You there?’ He took the stairs two at a time. The door to her study was open. As he crossed the threshold, an energy-saving, movement-sensitive lightbulb came on. He picked up the empty wine glass on her davenport desk. It had a print of her lips on its rim and, when he raised it to his nose, he closed his eyes. The scent of her lipstick made him ache, in his legs, his stomach, his chest. He thought of the ‘five unobvious things’ he loved about her, the things Nancy had once asked him to list. One of them had been the way she wore Ambre Solaire in winter. He tried to recall the others: the way she wore her watch on the wrong wrist when she had something cooking, to remind her to take the pot out when it was ready; the way she could work her whole fist into her mouth, as a party trick; the way she snored gently, almost imperceptibly, as if the sound was carrying across a foggy valley; the way she learned new languages, just for fun; and the way she tugged her sleeves down over her wrists when feeling self-conscious. What was it she had said when he listed them? Yes, he remembered now. ‘That’s six things, you moron. I asked for five.’
Her laptop was a PC – he had never paid attention before to the fact that he was a Mac and she was a PC – and it was open with a standard PC screensaver on: tropical fish making bubbling noises. Daniel was transfixed, transported in his reverie back to the Pacific Ocean. He closed his eyes, massaged them with his fingers, walked over and touched a key. The machine booted into life. He checked for a signal: there were four stepped vertical bars indicating green, which meant that the laptop had a broadband connection. He noticed a file on the screen titled ‘Diary’. Perhaps Nancy had gone out, he thought, clicking on the file to check. It wasn’t an appointment diary; it was a journal. He looked away guiltily and moved the cursor to close it down. Then he stopped. Nancy would know he had opened it; there would be a time record, if she wanted to check it. She was behaving so strangely she might just do that. Upon reflection, he thought that perhaps he should read it. It might help. Perhaps Nancy intended him to read it. The file wasn’t locked, after all. They both knew each other’s passwords. There was only one entry. It was dated a week ago. It had been written in a hurry; hadn’t been spellchecked.
Tom, my counsellor – I can’t believe I have a counsellor – says I have to keep a diary. So this is it. Actually he said I should keep a ‘sleep diary’, to record when I sleep, or rather when I don’t sleep, which is every night, pretty much.
Daniel sat down, not taking his eyes off the screen. A stillness fell over the house as if the air was thickening; the only sound was the muffled knocking of the steam in the radiators.
i’m stalling. i’ve never kept a diary before. I’m not sure what to put it in. tom says diaries are useful – ‘therapeutic’ – because they help you come to terms with thingjgs that arebothering you. It it’s written down it stops buzzing round nad round your head. You should just record whatever is on your mind. So what is bohtering me? Well, daniel mostly. It’s not the things that used to bother me, like him not helpingwith the shopping and keeping the house tidy and never helping with martha’s homework and never putting the loo seat down and always beingon his computer instead of spending time with us and always asking me what’s wrong in front of Martha so I can’t tell him and always having to be right about everything and always finishing my sentences and never listening to me and taking me for granted and ignoring me. He walked right past me while I was washing the pans the other day, didn’t even notice. But that’s not it. he’s a good father. He’s a good man at heart. But for years I have felt lonely and permanently as if his time is more important than mine. I have always ignored these feelings because I knew he loved me but since the crash … He never looks me in the eyes. And he keep smiling all the time … and I’m feeling better all ready.
Daniel frowned. The complaints were familiar but he couldn’t recall the washing-up incident. He was the one who always did the washing-up. He wiped his mouth.
His work always has to come first, even though I’m the one who earns most money.
Daniel shook his head and raised his hands at the screen in exasperation.
He is so fucking selfish. I don’t like him touching me at the moment. He keeps coming over my sideof th e bed, puttinghis arm round me but familiarity has made the touch of his hand feel like the touch of my hand … and he has a permanent hard on.
Daniel frowned again, annoyed at the thought that Martha might read this.
I can’t stand the pain in my shoulder. i smoked a spliff on my own at 9am yesterday morning. It made the pain and nausea go away but when it came back it was worse. I’m going to have to get some stronger painkillers. I shouted at the baby this morning. She wouldn’t get dressed, I’d told her ten time, so I went into flamethrower mode with her. a complete over reaction. She started crying, then I started crying. Then she came up and put her arms round me and began stroking my hair. What kind of a BITCH mother from hell am I? I feel so fat and miserable and lonely and angry. Ihate myself more than anything. i thought going back to work might help but I just kep bursting into tears. mrs crawford looked at me like I was mad.. I think tom might be right. There is unresolved stuff between dan and me, since the crash. I want to talk it through with him but I can’t. we haven’t talked about what happened.
Daniel felt his heart pounding. He glanced over his shoulder before reading on.
I keep thinking about it. It keeps me awake at night. He left me. He left me.
Daniel held his hand out in front of him, fingers splayed. It was as if it belonged to a stranger. He examined the hairs on its back before turning it slowly to study the creases on its palm. It rose up to his face and with his finger and thumb he dragged his eyelids closed and pinched
the bridge of his nose. He sank back into the chair and remained like this for a full minute before exhaling loudly, opening his eyes and reading on.
I still love him. Of course I do. But I don’t know whether I’m ever going to be able to forget what happened. I see it in his face every time I look at him … there is fear in his eyes. He is afriad that we will never get over this . He climbed over me to save himself. I could have died. What happened to women and chilrden first?. He came back for me but his first instinct was to save himself and leave me to die. How could he do that if he loves me? I know he loved me but he didn’t love me ENOUGH … I think he was going to ask me to marry him while we were away..i would have said yes. Of course I would. if me asked me today. Right now. I don’t know what I would say. I Know he loves martha. I know he would save martha … don’t know where this is going.i’m crying again now. I’mnot sure it has helped writing this after all. I don’t think I shall write anymore.
Daniel closed the file, went downstairs and poured himself a Scotch. Half an hour later, when Nancy came in flossing her teeth, he stood up, moved across the room to her and, when she turned her back to him to tidy up the magazines scattered on top of the piano, he put a hand on her shoulder. She shrank away – her injury – and his hand slipped on to her face. He removed it quickly. Neither of them moved. He was desperate to hold her now, but he could no longer get close enough. The distance between them was too great. Nancy avoided his touch by bending down to pick up a DVD case. She straightened and walked towards the door. In the doorway she stopped, scratched her neck and said: ‘By the way, a couple of policemen called today asking for you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Northern France. First Monday of September, 1918
MARCHING SOON COMES BACK TO ANDREW, AS IF HIS UNIFORM HAS a memory of its own. He tries not to look left and right as they cross the cobblestones in the market square, but he can sense curtains lifting. His escort leads up to the town hall, which has, on three parallel flagpoles, a Union flag and a Stars and Stripes flying alongside the Tricolour. The British 4th Division and American 33rd have recently requisitioned the building as their temporary joint headquarters. As Andrew is led up its steps and through its corridors he can see it is a place of fevered administrative activity, piles of papers, phones ringing, maps being pored over by suntanned men in broad-brimmed cavalry hats. They’re planning a final attack, Andrew thinks. They always bring out the firing squad before an attack. He continues through to a courtyard at the back leading on to a walled garden that he inspects for bullet holes. He cannot see any. What he can see, at the end of the garden, is a wooden hut freshly painted green. Andrew recognizes it as the potting shed that had once belonged to the baker. The Scottish APM opens the door, which is a little loose on its hinges, and stands to one side as Andrew walks in. The door closes behind him with a creak. A bolt is slipped.
‘Guard!’ Andrew calls out.
The bolt sounds again. The door opens.
‘How did you know where I was?’
The APM reaches into his pocket, removes an opened envelope and hands it to the prisoner. It is addressed to Private A. Kennedy, 11/Shropshire Fusiliers, BEF, c/o Madame Camier, 11 Rue des Chardonnerets, Nieppe, France. He studies the words, intrigued by them. It is the first letter he has had in more than a year.
‘The postman wasnae sure what to do with it so delivered it to Divisional HQ.’
Andrew looks inside the envelope and finds his paybook, a copy of his birth certificate and a receipt for twopence. ‘Can I keep these?’ he asks.
The guard shakes his head and gestures for the letter to be handed back. The bolt clatters again.
It is dark inside and, as his eyes adjust, Andrew sees there is nowhere to sit. The hut is empty apart from a broken chicken coop and some garden pots. He turns one of these over and sits on its base. It is now he notices the smell. The hut has clearly been used as a latrine, not an official one though, as there is neither a bucket nor a hole. Ten minutes later he hears footsteps approaching. The guard shouts ‘Attention!’ and the door opens. An officer looks in. He is holding a hurricane lamp in a hairy-backed hand. Andrew recognizes him as the major he had seen in the café four months earlier – the scar below his jawline is unmistakable. The three braid bands on his cuffs confirm his rank. He stares at Andrew but says nothing. He then turns and leaves the prisoner blinking in the gloom and listening to the boot steps receding. Several faces poke around the door after this: rankers who have been out drinking and have come by for a stare at the deserter. Word has spread of his capture.
Three hours after the arrest, a guard with a broad Dales accent and kind brown eyes asks Andrew if he has eaten. He shakes his head. The guard hands him four biscuits and a can of water. The bolt clatters home again.
‘Am I going to be shot?’ Andrew shouts through the door.
‘Tha’ll ’ave to wait for t’court martial to find that out. They’s coming for yus in t’ mornin’. Tekin yus t’ brigade at Chapelle d’Armentières.’
‘Can you let my landlady know?’
‘One thing at a time, lad.’
Andrew welcomes the brief conversation, though he can barely penetrate the guard’s accent. He hasn’t spoken to an Englishman properly in more than a year. ‘Where you from?’ he asks.
‘Keithley.’
‘What did you do there?’
‘I were a miner.’
‘Do you know Market Drayton?’
‘Aye, ’eard of it, like. That where yus from then?’
‘I was a plumber there.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘How long you been a redcap?’
‘Too bloody long.’
It ends the conversation and Andrew falls silent as he eats. For a few seconds he doesn’t notice the movement in the shadows, then he sees it: a rat on its haunches testing the air with its whiskers. Andrew shrinks back but when he sees the rat standing its ground he breaks off a corner of his biscuit and tosses it over. The rat does not move. Andrew throws it another piece. This time the rat disappears into the corner of the shed. Andrew crawls over on his hands and knees and sees that where the floorboards meet the wooden slats of the wall there is a small hole with rough edges. Teeth have gnawed through. There is soil directly underneath. He looks back into the centre of the shed and sees that it takes two floorboards end to end to cover the length of the floor. Those that meet the back wall are loose.
As quietly as he can, he prises one of the boards out. It is damp and crumbling. When it breaks in two with a dull crack he looks up at the door. The guard does not appear. He removes the board next to it, working it out like a rotten tooth, and begins digging with his hands. The soil is compacted on the surface but soon gives way to looser loam. After twenty minutes’ digging there is a pile two feet high on the floor and moonlight visible underneath the wall. He takes off his cap, tosses it through the hole and lies on his back, savouring the fresh air. Though he is able to work his head into the hole there isn’t enough room for his shoulders, so he levers himself back inside and digs deeper. Ten minutes later he can undulate his body through the space like a contortionist, breathing through his nose and stopping every few seconds for fear of making a noise. There is sweat on his brow and, when he wipes it with his sleeve, his face is left smeared with soil.
Once outside, he crawls on his belly and elbows to the garden wall and looks back at the courtyard. There are lights on inside the town hall and sentries walking up and down outside it, but they have not heard him. His friendly guard is standing several yards away from the hut, warming his hands on a brazier. He inches over the wall and, in a crouching posture, jogs along an alley until he comes back out into the square. Two officers are approaching. Andrew pulls his cap down and salutes as they pass. They pay him no attention. He can see the dismembered bones of a building, the burnt-out shell on the corner of the Rue de Bailleul, and he walks towards it briskly. There is rubble inside but also stairs leading up to a first floor. The glass has gone from the landing window
. As he crouches under it, looking out over the square, he tries to work out what to do next. If he can, he figures, he should make his way back to the Rue des Chardonnerets to collect his bike and arrange a time and place to meet Adilah once the redcaps have stopped searching for him. He will not be their main priority, not for long anyway.
A commotion in the square interrupts his thoughts. There are whistles and shouts. Soldiers are running around with torches. Dogs are barking. Andrew tucks his knees up under his chin and wraps his arms around his legs. He will have to stay where he is for the moment.
Hours pass as his mind replays the day’s events. Plans of action come to him and evaporate, round and round, slipping in and out of his conscious thoughts until his limbs grow heavy and sleep drags away his anxiety. It takes the sound of a horse whinnying to wake him. The blue-edged darkness means it is dawn. He rubs his arms against the cold and looks out of the window. The soldiers have gone. There is a horse and cart below, and an elderly man on a bike. It is the postman. Andrew curses him under his breath. The doddering old fool had given him away. How could he have been so stupid as to go to the army with that letter? He knows Andrew well enough. Does he have an eye for Adilah? Is that it? Yes, that must be it.
Andrew feels a stab of hunger. His eyes are stinging. A yawn. It will be no good his going to Adilah’s house yet, the redcaps will be waiting for him. He will have to lie low for a few days. He checks his pocket watch with a tap of its face. Five thirty. From his elevated position he can see through the milky half-light that a camp has been erected in the field on the outskirts of the town. Some fifty bell tents are visible through an early morning mist. It is an American Expeditionary Force camp – a Stars and Stripes is flapping from a pole. There are dozens of horses in a corral, swishing their tails, breath pluming from their velvety noses. He can also make out dark shapes. Sleeping giants. Heavy artillery guns on their way up to the Front.
The cold is biting into his bones. He can smell woodsmoke and realizes that it isn’t mist but smoke from still-smouldering fires. Ash is floating on the breeze. He watches an arrow of barking geese spiral down towards a pond beyond the camp and, in an echo of the noise, hears a bugler sound the reveille. Breakfast time. He feels in his tunic pocket to see if he has any iron rations left and finds his wallet instead. The picture of Dorothy is still in it, unseen for more than a year. He replaces it guiltily. Whatever they had done in bed together, it hadn’t been sex. He knows that now. And whatever it was he felt for her, it had not been love. Love is what he has found with Adilah. She has caused some chemical change in his brain. She is his single thought during the day, and when he sleeps at night he dreams of her. He pats his breast pocket and feels his dog tags. Once he has put these on he feels his army identity return. It is dawn, a significant time for a soldier. He breathes deep and savours it as though it is his last.
The Blasphemer Page 22