Dusk

by Edwards, Eve

  ‘Ready the smoke candles!’ shouted Captain Williams, already up and patrolling the stretch of trench under his command.

  Yes, they had. They were trying to hide their manoeuvres behind man-made clouds.

  Private Cook, a cheeky bugger of a cockney, was manning the lookout on the fire step, a notch cut into the turf higher up the trench wall. He turned and grinned down at Sebastian. Filling in for Sebastian’s missing servant, they had become quite close over the last few days. Cook wore the dust and grime like a coalman in his element. ‘Morning, sir. ’Ad your beauty sleep then?’

  ‘Morning, Cook. Yes, I slept like a baby.’ Sebastian took his place with the men at his post, nodding to Bentley, Norton and Whitworth.

  ‘Like a newborn, I bet, what with that barrage poppin’ away all night. Awake every two minutes like me.’

  ‘Effing guns,’ murmured Norton, a taciturn farmer’s boy from Sussex who rarely dropped more than two words at a time like a precision seed drill in the furrow of conversation.

  ‘My missus swears our latest keeps ’er up all night, squawlin’ and squeakin’. Says I’m lucky to be out of it.’

  Thick billows of smoke mimicking a London fog rolled across the barren landscape.

  ‘Gawd, will you look at that: a lovely pea-souper. Now I feel right at ’ome.’

  ‘Glad someone’s happy.’ Sebastian adjusted his pack. ‘How’s Fritz this morning?’

  ‘Quiet. I reckon our guns have done for ’im.’

  Private Bentley, a lanky recruit from Coventry, had formed a tight bond with Cook from their first deployment, behaving at times like a music-hall double act; he now snorted with derision. ‘Not a chance, Cookie. He’s just waiting for us to go for our stroll.’

  In a lull between explosions, a burst of birdsong – more a screech really – took them by surprise.

  ‘Look at that bugger,’ marvelled Cook as the swift swooped low overhead. ‘Would’ve thought he’d pick somewhere else to fly this mornin’.’

  ‘I think he’s hightailing it out of here.’ Whitworth, a quiet seventeen-year-old from Shrewsbury, shaded his eyes, watching the bird’s progress. ‘What is it? A swallow?’

  ‘A swift,’ said Sebastian.

  ‘Nah, it’s a swallow.’ Private Cook rubbed his chin. ‘I ’eard they don’t ’ave legs, on account of ’em not ever landin’.’

  Sebastian and Bentley exchanged a look. Both decided life was too short to take on the stubborn cockney’s misapprehension of the facts. They let it go.

  ‘What, never?’ asked Whitworth. ‘Not to sleep even … or mate?’ He blushed, causing the other men to hoot. They all rather enjoyed his bashful nature and took every opportunity to tease him for it.

  ‘No, son, they don’t even stop to –’

  ‘So how do they lay their eggs?’ Whitworth asked hastily, interrupting Cook’s gleeful and colourful response. He had quickly learnt not to flinch when a Tommy launched into the foulest language.

  ‘Well, now, there you’ve got me. ’Ow do you think they manage it, sir?’ Cook turned to Sebastian, doubtless hoping to scare up a blush from him too.

  ‘With great difficulty,’ offered Sebastian, prompting the chorus of laughter he had aimed for.

  ‘Blimey, if I get out of this alive, I want to see that.’ Cook wiped his eyes. ‘A swallow dropping an egg like a bleedin’ bomb, aiming for a soft landin’.’

  ‘Everything all right there, lieutenant?’ Williams asked, hearing the hilarity from the other end of the trench.

  Sebastian stood up from his slouch. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s right, lads, keep up your spirits. Let’s not let the Germans think we’re afraid.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ the men barked in reply.

  But they were all afraid, Sebastian knew. They would be fools not to be.

  Helen woke up with a start. Something was wrong.

  Light slanted through the chink in the curtain spotlighting the chair with her uniform draped on the back. It was far too early to get up – she must have snatched only an hour’s rest – yet her body was primed for action like an arrow fitted to a bowstring.

  It was all right, she told herself. The courtyard was quiet. Casualties had not yet begun arriving.

  So why was she so tense?

  Sitting up, she reached for her tiger box and took out the worn photograph of Sebastian in his lieutenant’s uniform and caressed the edge. The chances were that he was on rotation behind the lines; she persuaded herself he would be safe. The events of the day would be someone else’s problem – at least that was what she prayed.

  It was unfair but sometimes all she could do was hope the bullet went past Sebastian, the shell fell a hundred yards away, the gas cloud blew in the other direction.

  Did that make her a horrible person?

  She stared up at the ceiling for a long time.

  THE PALACE THEATRE, LONDON, 23 OCTOBER 1914

  Sitting bathed in the half-light spilling from the stage, Sebastian was frankly a bit annoyed by the performance. Pretty spectacles though they were, these patriotic pageants made no secret of their desire to manipulate young men into signing up for the great fight before it was all over.

  ‘We watched you playing cricket and every kind of game,

  At football, golf and polo you men have made your name.’

  It was hard to concentrate on the shallowness of the words when trilled by attractive girls wearing very little. The English Roses, as they were called, floated across the stage like a flock of exotic birds.

  ‘But now your country calls you to play your part in war,

  And no matter what befalls you

  We shall love you all the more.’

  Sebastian folded his programme into a fan. Well, that’s very good of you. So when I come back missing a leg, or don’t come back at all, you will sigh more deeply over my photo? What a steaming pile of tosh.

  Des elbowed Sebastian in the ribs. ‘There she is again – the one in the white dress. Isn’t she a peach?’

  Sebastian murmured something suitable in reply, but he found it hard to distinguish Des’s Flora from the dozen or so beautiful blondes and brunettes striking artistic poses on the stage while the soprano belted out the lyrics. Flora’s smile was just as false, perhaps even more strained than those of the girls around her.

  Then finally, thank the Lord, it was over.

  At the end of the encore, the soprano interrupted the applause with a modest wave, dismissing it as if the performers were not worthy.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a number of our brave boys on leave in the audience tonight. In recognition of their courage, I am sure you will all want to join with me in a special round of applause – for it is their bravery that we wish to salute this evening. Stand up, the army boys!’ She gave a delighted wriggle that did interesting things to her sequinned bodice as a scattering of men got to their feet. ‘Not to forget our lads in the navy – hoist your sails, seamen!’ Des and a few others in the stalls rose out of their seats to a robust cheer. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the flower of England’s youth!’

  Sebastian joined in the tumultuous clapping that followed. Despite his blush, Des was lapping up every moment of this adulation. Good for him. Yet it made Sebastian feel guilty to do nothing but applaud. He realized the evening was all staged to make him uncomfortable, but perhaps he should give a thought to joining up. Could he continue to let Neil and Des defend Britain when he was doing no more than fiddling about with paints and canvas? That wasn’t real men’s work, was it?

  The applause died down, the servicemen took their seats wit
h much sheepish shrugging and slaps on the back from neighbours and the soprano made her final announcement. ‘If any of you boys sitting there have been moved to do your duty, then go to the officers waiting for you in the foyer. Sign up quickly as it might all be over by Christmas before you’ve had a chance to prove your worth. You can find the officers under the Union Jack by the saloon bar.’

  Should he? Teetering on the edge, Sebastian suddenly remembered how he had felt during a particularly fervent sermon given in Eton Chapel by a past pupil who had become a missionary. He had sat transfixed in his pew, wondering if really he should cast aside art and dedicate his life to the natives of Nyasaland, before coming to his senses. God had not been telling him to do something so beyond his capabilities – it had been his own imagination whipped up by well-chosen, evocative words. And how could he tell anyone else about God when his own grasp of the deity was distinctly feeble? Instead, he had decided never to take a decision when under the sway of someone with powerful charisma, recognizing that he would be in no condition to judge if what was being peddled was snake oil or the elixir of life. Being a missionary – or a soldier – could be the right thing, but not if the decision was taken because certain keys had been pressed like on one of those typewriting machines. He suspected that in most cases the letters typed on the sheet of paper would spell out ‘gullible fool’.

  True to form, Des had not noticed Sebastian’s private moment of crisis as his thoughts were on getting to that stage door first. As soon as the curtains closed and the house lights went up, he was running for the exit like a horse out of the gate on Derby Day.

  ‘Come on, old chap, broom-broom!’ he called over his shoulder.

  Sebastian took that to mean that he should both hurry and remember the reward that awaited him. He sighed and excused his way past the line of people slowly filing out, catching up with Des as they made it first out of the doors. It was very dark outside. The tops of street-lamp globes had been painted black to confuse German airships, leaving only a little feeble light to spill down on to the pavement. He thought he might lose Des in the gloom, almost as bad as a fog, but his friend had waited for him.

  ‘It’s just round here,’ Des said, walking what was evidently for him a well-worn path to the stage door. They were not quite the first to get there though: a rough-looking fellow was arguing with the doorman.

  ‘Flora Sandford. I tell you she’ll want to see me!’ the man bellowed.

  ‘Miss Flora ain’t receivin’ no visitors inside tonight,’ the man said pertly. ‘You’d best wait for ’er out ’ere, sir.’

  ‘But you let me in earlier, you cretin!’

  ‘Orders ’ave changed.’ The doorman cracked his knuckles, sizing up his opposition in case it came to violence. ‘She won’t be long. Just ’old your ’orses.’

  Des made a sound of disgust. ‘Lord, Seb: he’s old enough to be her father. Poor Flora, having to fight off the attentions of people like that.’

  A small crowd began to gather, Des’s early start proving false the adage about the bird and the worm. A whole flock of them were pecking about, trying to catch a chorus girl or two for the evening. The angry man was pushing and shoving them out of his way, growling at anyone who dared to encroach on his position at the front.

  ‘Who do you think you are, sir?’ said one young gentleman, prodding the older man in the ribs with his cane. ‘I have an appointment within.’

  ‘If I’m not allowed in, then no one else is! No one goes near my Flora.’

  ‘She’s not yours,’ sneered the toff.

  ‘Yes, she is!’ Spit sprayed from his lips, driving the gentleman back more effectively than the shoving. Sebastian feared the older man was on the verge of apoplexy: his neck and face were scarlet. ‘She’s my daughter, you filth!’

  Well, that put a damper on the crowd as nothing else could. It seemed fine to lust after the fantasy girls on the stage, but not in the presence of their very prosaic fathers.

  ‘Somehow I don’t think she’ll be pleased to find out he’s outside, do you, Seb?’ murmured Des.

  ‘I’d say that was a sure bet.’ Sebastian wondered if that meant he would not have to go through with this ridiculous double dinner outing. He was sorry if the girl had family problems, but really it would release him from an unpleasant duty.

  Des must have learnt something about thinking on his feet in naval battle training for he had already come up with an alternative plan. ‘Come on, Seb, back to the theatre.’ Retracing their steps, they re-entered the foyer. A cluster of men was still gathered round the recruiting tables, the bar doing good post-performance business as so many toasted ‘Devil take the Boche!’

  Des tapped an usher on the shoulder. ‘Take a message backstage for me, old chap?’ A shilling appeared, pressed into the man’s palm.

  ‘Of course, anything to oblige the navy.’ The usher tapped his cap.

  ‘Tell Miss Flora Sandford that Desmond Packenham has a solution to her problem at the back door. I’ll wait for her here.’ The messenger hurried off.

  Sebastian raised a querying eyebrow. ‘Solution?’

  ‘Whisk her out the front of course.’

  ‘Ah. That’s positively Machiavellian of you. Why hasn’t the First Sea Lord put you on his staff already?’

  Des smiled, but he was too worried that he would miss his chance with Flora to reply in kind. They did not have to wait long. Two girls accompanied the usher to the foyer, both muffled in coats with the collars turned up, doing their best to disguise themselves. Flora ran to Des with a little squeak of relief when she saw him.

  ‘Oh, Des, it is too, too awful. Our father’s come to drag poor Helen back home. He won’t give us a moment’s peace and I do so need her.’

  The Helen in question hung back, looking away as her sister clung to the naval officer’s arm.

  ‘I know you need her, Rosebud. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.’ Des tapped her nose. ‘He’s out the back. We can jump into a cab and be away before he suspects.’

  She gave a little moue of disappointment. ‘But that doesn’t solve anything, darling. What am I to do about Helen?’

  ‘We can talk about that later. Let’s take this step by step, eh? Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that.’

  ‘Oh, Des, I’m so glad you’re here.’ Flora’s bright blue eyes flooded with an attractive sheen of tears. Sebastian did not like it – talk about pushing the right buttons. For genuine emotion, he preferred the quiet sister’s pale cheeks and drawn expression. She was not as plump as Des had led him to expect; in fact, she looked rather thin in the face, her eyes dark and shuttered by long lashes. The rest of her under the coat was anyone’s guess. Not a beauty by modern standards, she looked … well, interesting, in a Mona Lisa way. He felt less reluctant to spend an evening trying to work out what was going on behind that closed expression.

  ‘Des, if you are planning to put your escape plan in action, then you’d better look sharp,’ Sebastian reminded Des. ‘The young ladies’ father will probably work out that they are not going to walk right into his arms and might think to try the front like you did.’

  Tearing himself from Flora’s worshipful gaze, Des signalled the same usher who had already earned himself a shilling. He held up a second. ‘Find us a cab, will you?’

  The man darted outside and practically threw himself in the path of the first black cab to circle Cambridge Circus.

  ‘There’s our lifeboat, ladies. Follow me.’ Des swaggered out of the theatre, thoroughly enjoying his chance to rescue his lady love. Not quite a white charger – and he had the annoying details of her sister and Sebastian in tow –
but very nearly the perfect evening for his knightly instinct.

  Sebastian stood at Des’s shoulder as he offered his hand to assist the girls into the cab. The usher had summoned one of the petrol versions rather than a horse-drawn hackney; it had a wide seat at the rear, the driver up front behind a glass partition. Sebastian thought again of the father waiting at the stage door. ‘What now?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘You’ve only put off the problem, not solved it.’

  ‘Putting off the unpleasant to do something very pleasurable makes a lot of sense to a man on forty-eight hours’ leave,’ Des said blithely. ‘Where to? The Cavendish?’

  Sebastian shrugged. ‘This is your party.’

  But the party would have to wait, for Mr Sandford appeared at the corner. ‘Stop!’ The two girls ducked down and buried their heads in the seat. ‘Flora! Flora Sandford! Come back here!’

  ‘Quick, man!’ Des barked the address at the driver, then jumped in the cab, Sebastian on his coat-tails.

  ‘Flora!’ shouted her father, running after the moving vehicle. ‘It’s me – it’s your dad!’

  But the motor car was already heading down Shaftesbury Avenue and Mr Sandford had to give up his pursuit.

  ‘That’s that, eh? Safe and sound, sweetheart, as I promised.’ Des helped Flora to a seat, squashing up his body against the far door. This left Sebastian the tiny space next to the other sister. Apologizing, he manoeuvred himself into the gap. She said nothing, staring at her hands linked tightly in her lap. A working girl’s fingers – nails short, skin slightly reddened from frequent immersion in water – the exact opposite of his mother’s which had probably never seen a wash tub and harsh soap, the manicure always perfect.

  ‘So I understand, Miss Sandford, that you have a training position?’ Sebastian purposely ignored the very obvious subject of the angry father, hoping to help her calm down with talk of ordinary matters.