Dusk

by Edwards, Eve

  ‘Then I’ll look forward to it.’

  THE SOMME, 1 JULY 1916, 1 P.M.

  The bullet missed Sebastian by a hair, hitting the mud wall by his head.

  ‘Sniper!’ he roared, diving back round the turn in the trench. If you caught the report, then you knew you had lived. The bullet that hit you was the one you never heard in time.

  The angle had been high. The German must be undercover somewhere close by. Snipers liked to lodge in the most unlikely places – up in trees, camouflaged in shell holes. Christ, the man might even be behind them now they had made their advance. Wherever he was, he had turned the next stretch of trench into a death trap. ‘Anyone catch the flash?’

  The boom of the big guns on the allied side fractured his remarks. The shells wailed overhead and exploded far behind the German lines.

  ‘Up there!’ shouted Bentley, pointing to a stump tangled with a mess of barbed wire. Two bodies, one British, one German, dangled on the barrier, ghastly scarecrows.

  Sebastian pulled the rifle from his back. ‘Cook, poke a helmet round the corner on the end of your bayonet. Rest of you, aim at the tree.’

  Cook grabbed a helmet from a corpse at the side of the trench. The poor man looked as if he were praying, having taken his fatal wound and slumped to his knees. Cook wrapped the victim’s jacket round the end of his rifle and stuffed the helmet on top, a rapidly fashioned decoy. He then reached forward, letting it lean round the corner like a man warily taking a peek.

  Flash-crack from the left side of the trunk. Sebastian’s squad all leapt up and fired at the spot. A soldier tumbled to the ground, his leaf camouflage fluttering like wings. Without waiting for the order to be given, the squad advanced down the next stretch. More gunfire. A man behind Sebastian fell.

  Dammit, there had been two snipers, not one. A second soldier down.

  Too late to retreat, Sebastian hunched his shoulders and ran on, rushing to get out of range. They couldn’t stop to deal with casualties this far forward. The men would have to take their chances until this merry expedition was over and they could send stretcher-bearers for survivors. He could now see the far side of the tree, the uneven shape of a man lying at the fork of what was left of the branches, still firing on the soldiers following behind. Sebastian took aim. The sniper suddenly went slack like a puppet with strings cut, rifle falling from his hand.

  ‘Got ’im, sir. Well done.’ Cook stumped past, blood seeping from his upper arm.

  Sebastian cast his rifle over his back again, drawing out his revolver – his preferred weapon for close-quarters fighting. ‘Did he get you first?’

  Cook spat. ‘Just a scratch. Not even a Blighty wound. I’ll live.’

  Just then a hoarse shout came from up ahead. ‘Doodle? Is that you?’ Captain Williams emerged from a dugout accompanied by a soldier wreathed in German helmet souvenirs.

  Sebastian felt almost weak with relief. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We hold this line until reinforcements arrive. Can’t risk moving too far beyond our supply lines. Set your men to converting these trenches to face the enemy.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Williams came right up to him and clapped him on the back. ‘Glad to see you survived. Lost near two-thirds of my men in that first dash.’

  Sebastian did a quick head-count of the men he could see. ‘I’m down by half. We took out a machine-gun emplacement. I have wounded left behind.’

  ‘As do I. All the same, excellent work. Send two messengers back to company HQ with news of our position. Signals should be catching us up, but until they do the messengers will have to go. They can take any walking wounded with them as long as it doesn’t hold them up too much. Tell them to try not to get themselves blown to bits by the German artillery.’

  ‘Sir.’ Sebastian saluted.

  Williams turned to leave before adding, ‘Good job with the snipers by the way. Had me pinned down on this side for near an hour. He played merry hell with my men before we twigged his position. Just couldn’t get a bead on him.’

  One less German to go home to his wife or mother. It wasn’t the first man Sebastian had killed in this war and it did no good wondering about him. It was kill or be killed. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  With a nod, Williams walked wearily away, a hitch in his step from a wound in the calf. Sebastian checked himself over. No marks except a few barbed-wire scratches. Remarkable considering what they had come through. He turned his attention back to the job in hand, his exhausted troops slumped against the walls. ‘Take a breather. Two men either end of this trench on guard, rest of you fifteen minutes’ rest but keep alert. Use grenades if you see hide or hair of Fritz coming up on our position. Then we need to turn this round to face the new German front line – fire steps, loopholes – you know the drill.’

  They set about their orders. Cook emerged from the dugout where Williams had been pinned down.

  ‘’Ere, sir, cop a look at this. These Jerries ’ad electric light and all sorts of comforts in there. Even a little stove. Cuppa tea anyone?’

  ‘I think I love you, Cook.’ Sebastian shook his head in amazement at the man’s energy.

  The cockney laughed. ‘Better not tell the missus – she’s a jealous sort. Tea coming right up.’

  Part Two

  SKETCH

  8

  GOODGE STREET, LONDON, 20 MARCH 1915

  Sebastian gave his studio a final inspection. Sprigs of winter greenery and pale jasmine stood in the jam jar on the mantelpiece. The red velvet cloth on the couch had been shaken and twitched into place. He could do nothing about the paint splatters on the bare boards and grubby whitewash, but then Helen was expecting an artist’s workspace not a parlour. Should he invite her to sit on the couch or the single upright chair? He decided on the sofa; he would need the chair for himself. Catching sight of his mussed-up hair in a mirror he used for self-portraits, he quickly got out a comb and smoothed it straight. That would have to do.

  A tapping on the front door three flights down announced his guest’s arrival.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ he called to his landlord as he bounded down the stairs. Mr Thomas had a shifty, troglodyte air which would doubtless scare her off if he answered the door. He made it in record time, undoing the attempt to smooth his hair in his haste. ‘Hello.’

  Standing two steps down, Helen lifted her chin to look up at him and smiled. ‘Hello. Am I on time?’

  ‘Perfect. Come in.’ He stood back. Lord, he felt a twit. ‘Shall I take your coat?’

  He had to admit that it was not very warm in the hall so he was unsurprised when she shook her head. ‘I’ll keep it on for the moment, if you don’t mind.’ She did take off her hat though and he hung that on a peg by the front door. It stood out against the row of men’s hats.

  ‘You see we are a bachelor establishment.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, er, follow me.’ He glared at the crack in the door to his left where his landlord, Mr Thomas, was spying on him, one bloodshot brown eye unblinking as it took in the pretty visitor. He shifted to hide Helen from Thomas’s suggestive leer. ‘Would you like tea first, or shall we begin work directly?’

  Helen dug her hands in her pockets. ‘Tea would be nice.’

  ‘Let’s go into the kitchen so I can make up a tray.’

  Sammy Jenkinson happened to be in the room when they entered, darning a sock by the hearth. A slightly built fellow with pale fair hair, he did a double take when he saw a lady in the house. He stood up, pulling his braces over his shoulders in an attempt to make himself decent. ‘Miss.’

  ‘Oh, Sammy, sorry to disturb you. This is Miss Sandford. She’s sitting for her portrait.’

  S
ammy stuffed the sock in his pocket and held out a hand for her to shake. ‘So he’s conned you into it, has he? Seb’s had a go at all of us. Must say his taste in models is improving.’

  Helen’s face dimpled into a smile. ‘That’s very kind of you to say so.’

  Sebastian felt an irrational spike of jealousy to see her responding to Sammy’s gentle flirting. He was pleased that the kettle had recently boiled so they did not have to linger in the kitchen. He quickly loaded a tray, nabbing the biscuit tin from the top shelf. Sammy raised an eyebrow, but did not protest. There was a house rule that the tin was supposed to stay in the kitchen and not migrate to anyone’s private rooms.

  ‘Follow me.’ Sebastian picked up the tray. ‘Sammy, fend off the troll if you can.’

  ‘I’ll keep him down here.’ Sammy nodded to their visitor. ‘Goodbye, Miss Sandford. Nice meeting you, if but briefly.’

  ‘And you,’ she replied.

  Behind her back, Sammy winked at Sebastian. ‘I look forward to seeing the results.’

  ‘Of what?’ Her brow creased.

  ‘The sketching.’

  Her cheeks went pink. ‘Oh, of course.’

  Sebastian vowed to throttle Sammy later. He began the journey up the stairs. ‘My studio is right at the top, I’m afraid.’

  She trailed her fingers over the worn banister. ‘You said. For the light.’

  ‘Exactly. Would you mind going first to open the door for me?’

  She brushed past him on the narrow landing, a touch of hip and arm against his side. ‘Up here?’

  ‘Yes.’ He began to wonder if this was wise. He was already entertaining thoughts about her that he knew were quite unworthy. She was like a fire on a cold day, her sweetness drawing him closer. His family did not go in much for shows of affection; he longed to have someone whom he could claim the right to hold near. Not just someone: her. But she was not here for that; she expected him to keep an artist’s objectivity.

  He put the tray down on the little table by his easel and busied himself pouring the tea. ‘Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Just milk.’ She was wandering the room, touching the objects he had collected for still-life studies – stones, driftwood, pottery. Pausing in front of a corkboard where he had pinned some recent work, she took note of each one. She lingered longest over the head of a girl.

  ‘Who is this?’

  He smiled down at the tray, pleased to hear a note of concern in her question. ‘That’s Jilly Glanville. I did it for my brother, Neil. He’s besotted with her.’

  She rewarded him with a vibrant smile. ‘She’s very pretty.’

  ‘Yes. I thought I’d do a little oil for him, something he can take back with him after his next leave.’

  ‘Serious then?’

  ‘I think so. Hard to say with Neil; he sometimes surprises me with his choices. Tea.’

  She took the cup and saucer and looked around for a seat.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind sitting on the sofa. It will put you in the best light.’

  She sat down as directed. ‘I’ll definitely need that if you are to do anything so flattering to me.’

  He took his place on the upright chair, already thinking through the poses he would prefer. He quite liked her as she was, tea held primly in her lap, eyes full of sparkle and none of the suspicion he had seen in them on their first few meetings. Did that mean she was coming to trust him? He hoped so. ‘How would you like to see yourself then?’

  Helen laughed. ‘I’m here for you, not for my vanity.’ She waved the teaspoon. ‘Do your worst, sirrah.’

  ‘I cannot lie on paper.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh dear, I fear I will be crushed.’

  He smiled and took up his pad, putting his own tea aside. ‘Quite the opposite. I hope you’ll see what I do by the time I’ve finished.’

  She looked sceptical, but gamely finished her tea then placed it on the table. ‘I’m ready. How would you like me to sit?’

  ‘Place your elbow on the arm of the sofa, then angle yourself towards me, as if I’ve just called you and you’re looking over your shoulder.’ He tapped a pencil against his lips. ‘Would you mind taking your jacket off? Your blouse is a lovely cream colour against your complexion.’

  She shrugged off the tweed jacket and shivered. ‘March – ugh. I hate spring when it still feels like winter.’

  He got up and lit the coals waiting in the grate. He did not normally have a fire during the day up here. ‘I’ll push the boat out then and make sure you don’t get too cold.’

  ‘You don’t notice the temperature?’

  ‘Not when I’m working. Yes, that’s the pose.’ But it wasn’t quite perfect. ‘Would you wear your hair loose for me?’

  Her hands hovered uncertainly for a moment then took the pins from her hair, shaking out the plaits that she had wound round her head. He felt privileged to see her as only those in her close family would know her. ‘You’re turning me into a Pre-Raphaelite then?’

  He laughed. ‘Maybe. You have the hair for it.’

  ‘I find their work very beautiful, but somehow not true.’

  He picked his favourite pencil. ‘You’re very astute. Too much romanticism in an unromantic age. Perhaps that’s why they did it – to compensate, I mean. The poets too.’

  ‘She saw the water lily bloom,’ Helen murmured.

  ‘She looked down to Camelot.’ Sebastian studied her carefully.

  ‘So you remember it from school too?’ She picked up the verse again.

  ‘Out flew the web and floated wide,

  The mirror crack’d from side to side.’

  Helen twirled her hand to his looking-glass which reflected the pair of them sitting a few cautious feet from each other. ‘That’s the bit I like – the bursting of the bubble. Life invading and taking the Lady of Shalott to her death.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in the bubble?’ He put his pencil to the paper, making the first stroke.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe in it; I don’t trust it. The love is more often off balance, one person suffering while the other takes.’

  ‘But perfect love drives out fear,’ he murmured, already caught up in the drawing. He had found just the right curve for her cheek as it ran into her jaw. Sebastian frowned at his pencil mark, wondering if it were possible to overcome her wariness about love. If not, it did not bode well for his own hopes.

  Helen thought a moment then recognized the quotation. ‘The Bible now? My, we have travelled far from Tennyson.’

  ‘I never could go very far with him; found he dabbled too much in the shallows for me. Though In Memoriam is very fine and heartfelt. I can forgive him much for writing that.’ He sketched the bones of her neck, the delicate V at the base of her throat. ‘A poet who stares straight at the cruelty of life. “So careful of the type she seems, so careless of the single life – Nature, red in tooth and claw” – brilliant. I think he was the first poet to grapple with Darwin and what his theory means for us.’

  ‘And what do you think it means?’

  Sebastian looked down at what he had drawn, for a moment seeing the bones as they would appear in a fossil, human life extinct like so many other species before them. Individual life seemed so fragile while Nature romped on; yet his own feelings for Helen were growing into something stronger – a protest against the cold calculation that saw us as nothing but a step on the ladder of life. ‘I think it means we should value our existence as Nature won’t. Yes, that was the point of writing the poem.’ As he would value her if she would let him. He caressed the line he had drawn, wishing he had the right to trace the same
path on the original.

  ‘He also understands grief, I think. Not that I’ve ever lost anyone close to me.’

  Sebastian felt a shiver down his spine. In these days, it was tempting fate to say such a thing. ‘I hope we don’t learn how true he is to the experience.’

  Sobered by the thought, Helen dropped her eyes to her lap. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  They sat in silence for a long while. Sebastian knew the sketch was going well. He felt each pencil mark now as a touch of his fingers on her skin, a worshipping of her spirit and unconscious beauty. It was very distracting – his heart was racing far more than it should for a sketching assignment. ‘So, do you have a favourite poet then?’

  She shook her head slightly. ‘Oh sorry, I moved.’

  ‘No, it’s not a problem. I’m almost finished.’

  ‘Do you then, have a favourite?’

  Screwing up his courage, he made her an offering of words that spoke of what he felt.

  ‘I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I

  Did, till we loved?’

  ‘Oh yes, I love that one! John Donne, isn’t it?’

  He held her eyes. Listen, Helen, listen to my heart.

  ‘And now good morrow to our waking souls,

  Which watch not one another out of fear.’

  She broke the gaze and looked down again.

  Ah. She was listening.

  ‘My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears

  And true plain hearts do in the faces rest.’

  He turned the page around, willing her eyes to meet his, for her to be caught in the same longing that he was. ‘Here, have a look at yourself.’

  Her eyes flicked up and her mouth opened in surprise. ‘I’m … well, that isn’t me, is it? I’m regal!’