The Blasphemer

by Nigel Farndale

  Silky Kennedy’s luck did run out on the road to Tilly-sur-Seulles on D-Day plus 21. Our column was being held up by a Waffen-SS unit in a ruined farmhouse on a spur about 400 yards up the valley. They were not being terribly friendly. There were three or four machine guns, we reckoned, plus mortars, and they had our range. A Spit had strafed them but they had kept their heads down and resumed firing as soon as the raid was over. Normally we would have waited for the artillery to arrive and blast them out, but the big guns were being held up behind us, along with a convoy of American and Canadian trucks. There were no other roads in the area and the surrounding fields had been mined. The order came through on the radio from the battalion commander that the obstacle had to be cleared ‘at all costs’.

  Two attacks had already been attempted – one going round the open right flank, the other the left. They had been forced to take cover and the Germans still had them pinned down. The only option left was to wait for nightfall and attack head on, crawling straight up the slope under the brow of the spur. We would have to hope they did not have flares. Either way, it would be a ‘VC job’, army jargon for a suicide mission. Volunteers only. We took it for granted that Kennedy would want to do it, as indeed he did. In fact, he seemed exhilarated by the prospect – his eyes, I remember, were wide and shining. The question was, who would go with him? My fear was not of dying but of giving in to my fear, freezing up when I should be providing covering fire. But there was something about Kennedy’s insouciance that made me put my hand up that day. Half a dozen other men did the same. We put cam-cream on our faces and checked our Thompson sub machine guns, all of us except Lance Corporal Carter who was carrying a Bren. I remember someone suggested a flamethrower but it would have been too bulky – the Germans would have seen us coming a mile away. Each man carried six grenades instead.

  It took us about an hour to crawl the first 300 yards, spreading out and inching forward on our elbows. At a signal from Kennedy, Carter took up a position behind some rocks to the left. The rest of us crawled on. When we were about twenty yards from the farmhouse a flare went up – it must have been on a tripwire – and the night sky was ablaze with bullets. I could feel the wind from them on my face. Kennedy was up and charging. I tried to cover him with my Thompson but it jammed. There was an explosion. He had taken out one of the machine-gun nests with a grenade and was running along the wall in a crouching position towards the rubble of the next window. It was getting pretty hairy by this stage. Bullets were chipping bits off the wall. Three of our men had been hit. I took a Thompson off one of the dead men and gave Kennedy covering fire. There was another explosion and another machine gun was out of action. We now realized that there was a second outer building behind the main farmhouse and there was another machine gun firing from it. There were more flares and more grenades exploding, then I saw Kennedy dragging one of our wounded men out of the line of fire, ignoring the bullets. Then he was up and charging again. He lobbed a grenade through the window, but not before the machine gun had hit him with a burst. The remaining Germans surrendered after that, about a dozen of them, some wounded. Another flare went up and Carter went over to where Kennedy was lying on his back. Because they had been fired at point-blank range, the bullets had gone right through his stomach in a tight circle. According to Carter, Kennedy looked down at the bloody holes in his tunic and said: ‘You have to admire the grouping!’ I didn’t hear him myself, but it would be nice to think that those were his last words. He was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross. Collection completed.

  Philip clapped the book shut and slipped it back into its space on the shelf. He could no longer put off the visit he needed to make to the National Archives. No more excuses.

  When Nancy opened the door and saw Daniel standing on the step, she could tell he had a speech prepared. He couldn’t meet her eye. His breathing was uneven. He looked smartly dressed, by his standards. Pressed blue shirt and chinos. Clean-shaven. The smell of Listerine and aftershave.

  He said nothing.

  Nancy was barefoot and wearing a loose-fitting grey sweatshirt with matching bottoms. In her hand were her trainers and a balledup pair of sports ankle socks. After showering and cleaning her teeth she had rubbed Ambre Solaire on her skin. That hint of holiday. She wondered if he would notice.

  The moment when they should have kissed each other’s cheeks in formal greeting had passed. Daniel put his bag down and took a step towards her. She had her back to the wall. He took another step and kissed her on the mouth, tentatively at first, parting her lips with his tongue. It took Nancy by surprise. The softness of his lips, the warmth and mintiness of his breath, stirred something long buried in her, an ache, an unfolding. After a few seconds she pushed him away, closed the front door with her foot and held up her arms. He tugged her sweatshirt off. Slid his fingers behind the material of her sports bra. Kissed her throat.

  She pushed him back again, pulled off his shirt and grazed his chest with her teeth. It was as if they were engaged in a duel, parrying and testing one another – as if, too, she was trying to lose herself, play a role, become unrecognizable. She tugged off her tracksuit bottoms and briefs and looped her arms around his neck. He was a stranger now, and this she found intoxicating. Sex with a stranger. He raised his head to hers and they snaked and rolled their necks as if in a mating ritual, as if waiting for the moment to attack. Her shoulders were against the wall and the stranger’s hands were supporting her weight, holding her legs up and resting them on his hips. She used her hand to guide him, then, for the first time in five months, felt him inside her. As ripples passed up her body she was jolted momentarily to her senses, then was lost again, locking her heels behind his back, trying to press as much of her body against his as possible. She clenched him, impaled herself, read with her fingertips the relief of vertebrae down his back. Had he been working out? His muscle tone was different. She tightened her grip, shivered the length of her body and closed her eyes. In her belly she felt an expansive, vertiginous sensation. It moved to her lower back, the base of her spine, through her pelvic saddle – a thousand tiny electrical shocks. Her consciousness of being in her body had disappeared. She was moving bonelessly, scoring him with her nails. ‘Fuck me,’ she said, her voice thick, rising from her gut, an incantation from the back of her throat. ‘Fuck me.’ The words felt strange and wet on her tongue, as if she was possessed, as if she was a stranger, too, as if a stranger had taken over her body, her mouth, her mind. ‘Fuck me, you bastard.’ Time went slack. She became aware of the stranger breathing hotly in her ear.

  ‘What are we doing here, Nance?’ he was saying. ‘This feels more like a fight than a fuck. Is this what you want? Is it? You want a fight?’

  Her hips bucked in answer – an uncontrolled, shuddering fury of movement. She felt as yielding as liquid: heavy, heat-filled, viscous liquid. She was drowning in herself, her own suffocating sexuality, gasping for breath, for meaning. What was happening? What was the stranger doing? She looked down over the breasts bulging up out of the cups of her sports bra, down over the span of her belly, down to where he was appearing and disappearing.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  He said he loved me. The stranger said he loved me.

  He kissed her again and she saw her eyes reflected in his. They were deranged. The eyes of a stranger. A smile was appearing at the corners of his mouth. His brow was glistening with sweat. Strands of hair were clinging to it.

  She felt her hand on his face, fingers splayed, flattening his nose, pushing him away. Then both her hands were slapping and gouging his skin before balling into fists and pummelling his chest. His hands now slipped down over hers, knitting their fingers together. Momentarily muddled by the sensation, not knowing where she ended and he began, she said: ‘You broke my heart.’

  Both were breathing raggedly, as if coming up for air. She rolled her hips. He answered her movements with pelvic rotations. There were more deep kisses, more rising and falling, then came the final thro
es and the stranger’s head flopped into the crook of her shoulder, as though he were dead.

  Nancy lowered her legs but did not move away. They remained standing like this in the hallway for a minute, recovering their breath, their distance. ‘You can’t stay,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you should stay.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  SITTING RIGIDLY AT AN OCTAGONAL TABLE BEARING EIGHT GREEN-shaded lamps, Philip waited for the documents he had ordered. He checked his table number, clicked open his pocket watch and saw his features reflected on the same silver surface that had once reflected his father’s face, and his grandfather’s. The archivist had said it would take half an hour for the requested files to be retrieved and delivered. He had been waiting forty-five minutes. The files, he had been told, were from the ‘burnt collection’. This referred to the British army records for the First World War, 60 per cent of which were burnt during a German raid on the War Office in 1940. Philip had been warned to expect gaps in the records he had requested.

  He had been meaning to visit the National Archives for several weeks – it was a short walk from his house – but a nagging unease had prevented him. When, ten minutes later, a manuscript box tied with string was placed in front of him, he hesitated before opening it, slowly running his fingers over its waxy surface: acid-free cardboard that protected the documents inside. The expectant stillness of the room prohibited abrupt movements. With rheumy eyes, he read and reread the name on the lid: ‘Private Andrew Kennedy, 11/ Shropshire Fusiliers’.

  Mechanically he began unwinding the string.

  The box contained a birth certificate with an accompanying letter from Somerset House, an army paybook stained with what looked like coffee, or mud, and a solitary file with hints of reddish sealing wax clinging to its edges. Written in a spiky copperplate on the cover was a list of its contents. Underneath this was a stamp stating that the file was incomplete as certain sections of it were still classified. Philip’s hands were shaking as he opened it.

  The flat in Chelsea was spread over the ground floor and basement of a five-storey Victorian house. It had a distinctive front door, painted pastel blue. When Bruce answered it and took in the sight of his friend standing grinning on the step, he groaned.

  Daniel waved the bottle of vodka he was holding by the neck. ‘Got it for you in Duty Free.’

  Bruce shook his head emphatically and said: ‘No way.’

  ‘One game.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘It’ll do us both good.’

  ‘It’ll do you good because you always win. I’ll end up cunted again. I had to have my stomach pumped last time.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘I’ll let you be white.’

  ‘No. I’m not well. I think I have the early stages of pneumonia. My lungs feel …’

  Daniel crossed the threshold into a room decorated with ornate filigree lamps, swags of plush velvet, and a mural of semi-naked young Athenian men languishing on the steps of a temple. He dropped his canvas weekend bag on the floor and went over to a baby grand piano where a chessboard with vodka shot glasses for pieces was set up. He placed the board on a glass coffee table, next to a vase of tulips, unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle and carefully filled each glass to the rim. ‘Do you know what I like about chess?’ he said.

  ‘You always win?’

  ‘It has a beginning, a middle and an end. And you never know when you are in the middle game, because that depends on how abruptly the end game is going to come.You could be two moves away from checkmate and not know.’

  ‘Sounds like another reason to hate chess.’

  ‘I was playing with Martha the other night and instead of knocking her own king over when I checkmated her, she lifted him slowly from the table, as if he were ascending to heaven.’

  ‘You wouldn’t even pretend to lose to your own nine-year-old daughter? You are one sick fuck.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me stay.’

  ‘Just don’t blow my chances with my tenant, that’s all.’

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘He’s due home any minute.’

  ‘You time when he gets home?’

  Bruce raised his eyebrow at Daniel, a world-weary expression. ‘When you meet him you will understand.’ Bruce sighed again as he sat opposite Daniel and moved the white queen’s pawn. ‘The muscled contours of his upper body have clearly been hardened by hours in the gym. And he moves in beauty like the night. I think he is searching for love, too. Such a tragic, epicene figure with no one to protect him. Alone in my study at night I think of his angelic face and shed a tear.’

  ‘Among other bodily fluids.’

  ‘How are things between you and Morticia?’

  ‘Confusing … Why don’t you like her, Bear?’

  ‘I do like her. No, that’s not true. But it’s her. She can’t stand me. I can sense her impatience when I’m around.’

  ‘Everyone gets impatient with you.’ Daniel shook his head as he developed a knight. Bruce moved his king’s pawn. Daniel took it with his knight and handed Bruce the pawn glass to drink.

  *

  Ten minutes after he returned from his visit to the National Archives, Philip stood to attention in front of a full-length bedroom mirror. He was wearing his dress uniform; his back bowed slightly under the weight of the medals. On his stable belt – equal horizontal bands of dull cherry, royal blue and gold – was a silver buckle. In his collar were regimental pins, miniatures of his cap badge, the heads of the snakes facing away from each other. Tutting to himself, he swapped them over, so that they were looking towards each other – a nuance that signified he was retired. By his side was the silver sword he had received upon retirement. He held his scabbard with his left hand – RAMC officers do not draw their swords – and saluted his reflection with his right.

  The doorbell rang. Momentarily forgetting what he was wearing, Philip answered it. It was Nancy, her hand raised to touch the doorbell a second time. She looked him up and down, said, ‘We aren’t at war again are we, Phil?’ and offered him her cheek for a kiss. ‘No one ever tells me anything.’

  Nancy was the only person who called Philip Kennedy ‘Phil’. It amused her. He was very much a Philip.

  The old man looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled. ‘I was checking it still fitted. Got a regimental dinner coming up.’ It wasn’t a lie, though it wasn’t the whole truth either.

  ’I brought your grandfather’s letters back. I’ve translated them. They’re rather moving.’

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Philip said, taking them. ‘That was kind of you. Come in.’

  Nancy talked over her shoulder as she walked past the old man into the hallway, leaving a trail of gardenia in her wake. ‘We’d left them in a hotel safe in Quito before the flight. The manager sent them on.’

  ‘So Daniel said. I’m looking forward to reading them. Amanda has gone shopping. Cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Nancy led the way into the kitchen, filled the kettle up herself and, with impatient hands, flicked its switch on. She took off her duffle coat, folded it in two and laid it on the counter. She was wearing a short dogstooth skirt over black woollen tights. Her boots were knee-length, with pointed toes and kitten heels.

  ‘How have you been?’ Philip asked, placing two cups and saucers on the kitchen table.

  ‘Been better,’ Nancy said, warming a china teapot before dropping two teabags into it. ‘I’ve been seeing a trauma counsellor. You heard from Daniel?’

  ‘You’ll have to speak up. That noisy old kettle.’

  ‘Did you know Daniel had moved out?’

  Tell me the rest of it, Philip’s eyes said.

  ‘He’s staying with the Bear.’

  ‘The Bear?’

  ‘Bruce. Bruce Golding.’

  ‘No. I didn’t know that.’ Pause. ‘Always liked Bruce. I remember he came to me for advice when he was considering becoming a doctor.’r />
  Nancy emptied the kettle into the pot and stretched her arms as she waited for the tea to brew. ‘Of course it’s Dan who should be seeing the counsellor. He’s suffering from guilt.’

  ‘About what?’

  Nancy pouted, weighing up how much she was prepared to hurt Daniel; how cruel she could be to Philip. ‘He climbed over me when the plane crashed.’ She said it too quickly, as if fearing she would not be able to get the words out other than in a rush. ‘To save himself.’ She placed her hand, fingers splayed, gently on Philip’s face. ‘He did this. Left me to die.’ Her hand dropped to her side and she began pouring the tea. ‘Remind me, do you still take sugar?’

  Philip looked as if he had been punched. He fell silent for a moment. When he did speak his voice was hoarse. ‘But I thought Dan rescued everyone.’

  ‘He did. Afterwards. And he did come back and save me, but … Listen, I don’t blame him. People do these things. I’d have probably done the same. It’s instinct.’

  ‘But that’s … that’s … terrible.’ Philip was looking into the middle distance as if hearing voices.