by Mike Hollow
“Me too.”
Dorothy cut a piece of pie off with her spoon and manoeuvred it carefully through the liquor. She lifted it halfway to her mouth, then stopped.
“I’ve just remembered. There was something else I wanted to ask you – a gap in my own education. In that newspaper report that I read about your medal I saw it had ‘MC’ after your name. What does that mean?”
“It stands for Military Cross.”
“That’s some other kind of medal, right?”
She put the food in her mouth and waited for Jago to answer.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s one I got in the last war.”
He wasn’t sure whether to say more, but Dorothy was nodding with apparent interest, so he continued.
“Lots of people got them, and plenty of other people who should have got them didn’t. Don’t ask me why: I don’t know. The whole thing seems to be just a lottery. And typically of this country, you can only get the MC if you’re an officer. If you’re Other Ranks you can do exactly the same thing but you’ll only get the Military Medal. The MC is reserved for officers and gentlemen.”
“Ah, so you are an English gentleman after all.”
He looked down at the spoon and fork in his hands and gave a bitter laugh.
“Not a bit of it. I’m what they called in those days ‘a temporary gentleman’.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means they’d made me an officer but didn’t want me to get ideas above my station. When the Great War started you could only be an officer if you were from the upper classes, had been to the right school, had the right accent. Just typical of the British class system. Eventually, so many of them were killed that demand for junior officers began to outstrip supply, so they decided to relax the requirements. That meant people like me, from places like this, who were in the ranks and hadn’t made complete fools of themselves could be promoted. I was selected and sent off to an Officer Cadet Battalion, based in a Cambridge college if you please.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It just made the whole experience more bizarre, really. The maddest thing about it was they didn’t just train you to command soldiers; they tried to teach you manners. Basically they were schooling you to be members of the ruling class, but obviously only for the duration. Once the war was over, provided you survived it, you’d be expected to resume the position in the lower orders that your birth and education had destined you for. There were lots like me: the top brass plucked us from the ranks because they thought we had leadership potential and could plug the gaps the Germans had made in the officer class. So I was promoted second lieutenant and expected to die pretty sharpish, but for the joy of it I was classified as a ‘temporary gentleman’.”
“That’s so British. I love it. It sounds straight out of Dickens.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t happen in America. But quaint though it may seem, that’s how I come to have ‘MC’ after my name and not ‘MM’. If I were to use it regularly, it would straight away mark me out as an officer. Many people do, because it’s an aid to social advancement.”
“But you don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m not interested in moving in higher circles. I may have learned how to use the right knife and fork at a mess dinner, but that’s not everything in life. No, that whole experience with the Army left me feeling cut off from my roots. I wasn’t sure who I was any more. Some of the others who got through the war used their rank to get into a profession or a good job in a big company, but now, looking back, I think that’s maybe another reason why I chose to be a policeman: I wanted to walk the streets of West Ham again, not sit in a fancy office in Knightsbridge.”
“Sounds like the war was quite a watershed in your life.”
“That’s exactly what it was. You know, everything before it seems like another country now – a place that I can try to visit but can never really return to. Wars leave many kinds of wounds. That was one of mine, but I got off lightly. A fifth of the men on that training course with me were killed before the war was over, and some who survived lost their minds. I got away with a bit of shrapnel and a blighted view of society.”
“So you were wounded too? Physically, I mean?”
“Yes, a lump of shrapnel caught me in the leg.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“There’s not much to tell. We were fighting near Cambrai about a year before the war ended, and I was hit. One of the lucky ones, I suppose. One of my men dragged me back and saved me from bleeding to death out in no man’s land. I was taken to hospital and patched up. The padre said it was because of the grace of God that I’d survived, but I think it was just luck. I was unlucky to be hit, but lucky it didn’t kill me. How could it be anything else? There’s a thousand men out there, shells falling left right and centre, and a million machine gun bullets aimed at them. Some of them will be hit and some won’t. It’s just the luck of the draw.”
“What did you say to the padre?”
“Nothing. If that kind of thinking helped him to cope, that was fine with me. It just didn’t mean anything to me.”
“So does that make you an atheist, or an agnostic?”
Jago pondered the question as he worked through his food. He was conscious that he was eating faster than Dorothy, probably because he had no love of cold mashed potato. He rested his cutlery on the plate and replied.
“I’m not sure. All I know is I don’t believe there’s someone up there all the time steering every bullet, deciding who gets shot and who doesn’t. As far as I’m concerned it was just a lot of bullets and a lot of men, and they hit whoever they hit. Why? Do you believe in all that stuff?”
“I guess I’m not sure either,” said Dorothy, “but for me it’s a different kind of not sure. I don’t believe God steers every bullet, any more than you do. That would make the universe some kind of weird play where he pulls all the strings and we’re the puppets. But at the same time I think there has to be something more, some meaning behind it all. There has to be truth somewhere, otherwise the whole thing’s just crazy.”
“Well, at least we’re agreed on one thing: the world’s a madhouse,” said Jago.
“Yes, and the inmates don’t seem to have learned from their mistakes. Your war was meant to be the war to end war, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Wishful thinking, if you ask me.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you cope with it?”
“With the war, you mean? I’m not sure that I did. Everyone had to find their own way of coping, if they could. My way was to try to keep it all in a box, to insulate myself from it. I kept telling myself the fighting, the killing, the mud, all of that was one world, but I had another world to live in too. I made sure I always had a book with me, so I could read and take myself off into that different world.”
“And what world was that?”
“You might think it strange, but I read anything I could get hold of by Jane Austen. I’ve always loved her writing, but it was mainly because her world was about as far away from the trenches as I could imagine. I used to read her whenever I could, to shut off what was happening around me, to stop it getting deeply into me.”
Dorothy laughed.
“That’s an interesting choice. I’ve heard of soldiers in battle reading the Bible, but not Jane Austen. But then you’re not that kind of person, are you?”
“No. I remember before we were shipped out to France someone came and gave us all a tiny New Testament to carry around with us. Probably thought we’d need it out there. I’ve still got mine, but I’ve never once read it all the way through. There’s only one thing in the Bible that I can remember from school, and that’s the only thing in it that makes sense to me.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when Pontius Pilate says ‘What is truth?’ That’s something I can identify with. Right here and now, England, 1940: what is
truth? A great question for a journalist too, don’t you think? How much of what you write is true?”
Dorothy’s face took on a serious expression.
“What are you getting at? I tell what I see. I report what’s really happening. Some people never have a good word to say about newspapers and journalists, but I don’t think that’s fair. A free press is one of the few bastions of truth in this madhouse world we’re talking about. I’m proud to be a journalist. Imagine what it would be like if we only ever heard what the politicians wanted us to know. Look at Nazi Germany or Soviet Russia. Without a free press there’s no truth. I write the truth.”
“But to come back to my Roman politician, what is truth? What’s the truth about what’s happening here in the East End? If you read the papers or watch the newsreels, it’s all about chirpy Cockneys emerging from their Anderson shelters for a thumbs-up and a nice cup of tea. Is that true, or is that just what the government wants people to see?”
“You think that’s all propaganda?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just something else I’m not sure about. The reality is that it’s not as straightforward as that. Yes, most people are coping, much better than officialdom thought they would before the war. They really are getting on with life despite everything. But they’re frightened too. There are people who are going to pieces, getting hysterical in the shelters, losing their grip. That’s true too, but it doesn’t get in the papers.”
“But that’s just common sense, isn’t it? I know I’m not allowed to report everything. The papers aren’t allowed to show pictures of dead bodies. Your Defence Regulations say I can’t write anything that could be useful to an enemy, but I wouldn’t want to do that anyway. I want to write the truth as I see it. I look at the big picture here and I see that your people are coping with the bombing, are being amazingly resilient. Not everyone, but the majority, so that’s the story I want to tell. My articles won’t be a catalogue of every single person’s experience or reactions, but that doesn’t mean what I write isn’t true. And the fact that there are contradictions doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as truth.”
Dorothy stopped, aware that people in the pie shop were looking at her. She lowered her voice and leaned forward over the table.
“I’m sorry. I was getting on my soapbox there. It’s just that I feel passionate about my job.”
“Don’t apologize: I admire your commitment.”
“Now hold on. Are you doing that British thing where you say something but mean the opposite? I find that really annoying.”
He smiled.
“Not at all – I mean it. And that’s the truth.”
Jago finished eating first, and watched as Dorothy worked her way through the remainder of her meal.
“I’m impressed,” he said. “You’ve eaten the lot. I hope it was worth the effort.”
“It was very nice,” she said, “and very filling. And I don’t think I can move yet. Maybe one day when this war is over you can come to the States and I’ll take you to an American diner with American portions, and get even with you.”
“We can sit for a while: there’s no hurry. Tell me more about your family. You’ve told me about your parents and your home, but you didn’t mention any siblings. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“I have one sister – a half-sister, actually. She’s older than me, and wiser too. And I have one brother. He’s younger than me, and maybe a little crazier even than me.”
“What does he do?”
“I’ll tell you about him some other time.”
Jago was puzzled.
“Not now?”
“If you don’t mind. I’d like you to know about him, but not just yet.”
“May I ask why?”
“Well, it’s just that I think it might complicate things.”
“Things?”
“It’s to do with that friendship we were talking about in the churchyard. I promise you I will tell you, but not right now.”
Jago was puzzled, but she seemed adamant. Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t going to get it out of her today.
She picked up her handbag from the bench beside her and began rummaging in an inside compartment.
“I’ll show you some pictures.”
She pulled out a couple of small photographs and pushed one across the table to him.
“That’s my brother. It was taken when he was about seventeen, so he’s a bit older than that now, but he still looks much the same.”
Jago studied the picture. Judging by the pale grey tone of his hair it looked as though he was fair, and his face seemed to Jago to be recognizably American: square-jawed, confident, and healthy. He was wearing some kind of sports clothing: probably something to do with baseball, he thought, although even if the photo had shown the colours he wouldn’t have had a clue which team it represented.
“His name’s Sam,” she said.
“And the other one’s your sister?”
“Yes, here she is. This one’s even older, but I carry it because it’s my favourite. It speaks to me of her character.”
Dorothy pushed the other photo across. This one was a little larger, and worn at the edges. Jago looked at it, then pulled it closer and stared at it. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words died on his lips.
“You OK?” said Dorothy. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Jago could not take his eyes off the picture.
“It’s not possible,” he said slowly. “It can’t be.”
He fell silent again. The picture showed a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. She was standing by a table, but the picture gave no clue to the location. There was a certain formality about her pose, straight-backed and looking straight into the camera, which suggested she was on duty. But what captured his attention in an instant was the gentleness in her eyes and the shy, elusive smile on her lips. It was a smile that he knew, a smile that he could still see when he closed his eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. “I know this face.”
“You know my sister?” said Dorothy. “You know Eleanor?”
Jago gasped.
“I knew an Eleanor: Eleanor Warren. She was your sister?”
“That’s the one,” said Dorothy. “From my mother’s first marriage. Like I said, my half-sister.”
She wasn’t even sure that he had heard her. He was gazing intently at the frail image in his hand, slowly lowering it back towards the table. Dorothy said nothing. She could see that his mind was somewhere else, somewhere distant.
CHAPTER 32
It was after three o’clock by the time they were back out on the street. Dorothy was wary of probing too deeply into the memory the photograph had triggered in Jago’s mind. Their conversation had faltered, and she had suggested they might leave. He had quietly concurred.
They stood on the pavement outside the churchyard gate. The sky was clouding over again, and she thought she could smell a thunderstorm brewing in the warm afternoon air. She decided to break the uneasy silence that had descended on them.
“Where to next, then?” she said.
Jago came to himself, as if snapping out of whatever thoughts had been preoccupying him. He looked up at the sky, his head on one side, assessing the weather prospects. When he spoke, Dorothy was pleased to hear his usual bright tone return.
“We could go for a little drive, if you like,” he said, “see anything else that might interest you in the area. I’ve got the car just down the road, near the station.”
“The local beauty spots? I’ve heard Beckton gasworks is very striking.”
He laughed.
“Yes, very popular with the tourists, although we don’t get many these days.”
“Come, come! Did you not have some very distinguished visitors only yesterday?”
“Who’s that?”
“The king and queen, of course. They were right here in West Ham yesterday afternoon, seeing the sights.”
“Ah, yes. I heard about it, but I was out and about elsewhere. I don’t think they would have needed me, in any case.”
“I was there.”
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. We journalists get summoned to these occasions. When there’s some important show like that on, it’s the kind of thing your Ministry of Information wants the world to know about, so they round us all up and let us see what’s happening. It was meant to be a morale-booster, of course. The king and queen drove down here after lunch and walked about seeing the bomb damage and meeting some of the people who’d been affected by it.”
“What sort of reception did they get?”
“The crowd loved it, as far as I could tell. Plenty of cheering and so forth. But it may have been a selected audience. I don’t know. At any rate, I guess your police colleagues would make sure any bad guys were kept out of sight, right?”
“I expect so. But it won’t have done the royals any harm to show their faces round here. There’s been some resentment that the bombs are all falling over this way.”
“But they had one land on Buckingham Palace yesterday morning, just before they came over.”
“Yes, but it’s hardly the same, is it? Losing a room or two isn’t exactly going to leave them homeless.”
“Sure, but it does kind of make them one with the people, doesn’t it? All facing the same dangers?”
“Yes, I’ve no doubt most people here will appreciate that. I think they like the fact that the king and queen haven’t cut and run – haven’t fled the country for somewhere safer like Canada. They’re staying here to stick it out with the rest of us. Far better for them to take a stroll round the streets of West Ham than to stay at home. It sends a message that we’re all in it together, even if that’s not how everyone thinks.”
“Well, when all’s said and done it makes a great story from my point of view. I’ll be writing it up this evening. First I have to attend a press briefing, though.”