There's No Home

by Alexander Baron

  At last they saw the sunlight. They glimpsed houses and heard the voices of children. The lorries halted, and the men climbed down, stiff and sick. They were in town, parading outside the battalion’s headquarters. Once more the officers hurried away. Fragments of conversation came to them to heighten their suspense. Still unenlightened, they marched off.

  Rumbold’s company tramped through the streets, glad to be breathing fresh air and moving their limbs again. They turned into the Via dei Martiri. Doors opened. The women appeared, dishevelled from sleep, clutching their babies and welcoming the men with agonized smiles of relief. A soldier muttered, ‘Thank God we’re home!’ The ranks came to life with recognition, with reassurance; but the chill of uncertainty persisted.

  They halted, and waited for the command to dismiss. It did not come. Impatience grew in each man like an itch. The officers and sergeants had gone away, and the men leaned on their rifles, hitching their packs higher on their shoulders to relieve the strain. They talked, unchecked by their NCOs. The reinforcements grew more and more garrulous, the veterans more taciturn.

  The officers appeared. Captain Rumbold came forward. He shouted, ‘Company–’

  The conversation died away.

  ‘Atten – shun!’

  Rifle-butts crashed. The ranks were still.

  ‘Stannat – ease! Stand easy now, keep quiet, and pay attention.’

  Even the women felt the strain in the men’s hush, and they quieted their children.

  ‘Before you’re dismissed, I’ve got something to tell you. As from now, the battalion is under notice to move. We’ve no further orders yet, but all guard duties are cancelled, you’ll remain in the vicinity of the billet, and you’ll keep your battle order packed. Mail will continue to be collected, but if you’ve got any letters to write, you’d better get them off now. There may not be time later. There’ll be plenty for you to do. I’m putting two platoons on scrubbing the billet down from top to bottom, and one platoon on packing up spare stores and sending them back to Battalion HQ. You’ll be allowed out this evening, unless I get orders to the contrary, but I want you all in by nine o’clock, and God help any man who isn’t. That’s all for now. Don’t get excited. It may never happen. Fall the men out, sergeant-major.’

  §§§§

  Craddock wanted to get away from the uproar, but everyone crowded round him.

  Fooks grabbed his arm. ‘’Ere, sarge, comin’ out tonight? Platoon beer-up. Everything’s on me.’

  Craddock said, ‘No thanks, Wal.’ It had come. What incredible tricks time and a man’s mind played with him! Right up to that last moment when the platoon leaders had crowded round the captain in the courtyard, it had been too remote to imagine. He had even wanted it to come. Why was he always discontented with what he had? Now that it was here he dreaded it.

  Ling moaned, ‘Bleed’n’ cheek! What they wanna pick on us for?’

  The sergeant said, ‘Cheer up, Sparrow, every mile’s a mile on the way to Bethnal Green.’ That was a lie if there ever was one! Every mile was a mile further away from the land of the living, into a wilderness whose milestones were graves. Bethnal Green – Slough – a wife, a daughter – did they really exist beyond the mists?

  One of the reinforcements asked him, ‘Do you reckon we’re for it, sarge?’

  He answered, ‘Maybe, maybe not. There’s plenty of false alarms in this business. Take those buckets upstairs.’ It was like having a limb torn off to think of telling Graziella. In these last three days away from her, he had realized how much she meant to him. He had been happy enough by day, in the heat of action, but at night, lying alone in his blanket beneath the stars, he had ached with misery at being apart from her. He had dreamed of the embrace of her limbs, all softness and strength; of her satin smoothness, and of the fire in which she enveloped him; of her subtlety and her simplicity; of her fury and her submission; of her healing silences and her profound understanding. She could behave like his slave and make him feel like her child.

  Tiger came up to him. ‘Sarge, old Rosario’s outside. He’s asking for you. Says it’s important.’

  Craddock looked up at the windows, wondering where he could hide for a while in solitude and peace. ‘Tell him to go and take a running jump. I’m busy.’ He could not face her. In their first encounters it had been little more than friendship, than sympathy, that had made him want to bring her to life. It was only in their last few times together that he had come to recognize that something more than enjoyment burned in her. The life which had flowered in her was his own. When they were together her eyes were on him all the time; she could see nothing else but him. In her room she moved about him like the moon about the sun. When he laid his hand on her breast he was filled with awe at the frantic beating of her heart. To leave her would be to wrench the life out of her.

  Tiger came back. ‘He says he must see you.’

  He could not tell her tonight. It was not so much her passion he needed, for one last night, as her calm. Perhaps he would think of a way to hint, to prepare her. He said, ‘Let him wait. You go on upstairs.’ The boy looked wan. ‘What’s up, kid? Not worried, are you? Why don’t you go out with Fooksy and the boys tonight? And get your hair cut. You look like a bloody violinist.’

  Honeycombe appeared. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

  Honeycombe said, ‘Well, this is what you wanted. Glad we’re shoving off?’

  Craddock said, ‘I’m not sorry.’

  Honeycombe studied him. ‘Going to see her, Joe? You can stay the night if you want to. I’ll look after things here. I can always give you a call if the balloon goes up.’

  Craddock said, ‘I reckon I will. Thanks.’

  §§§§

  An hour passed; then another. Rosario walked back to the shop, hovered in the doorway, unable to take his eyes from the gateway of the billet; returned, as if drawn by something beyond his power, to the billet; walked back to the shop; and returned again.

  Soldiers hurried to and fro past him, ignoring him. They were loading a lorry, with much noise, in the courtyard. They were plodding up and down the stairs with ammunition boxes on their shoulders. They were emptying buckets of dirty water down the drains and heaping piles of rubbish in a corner. Men pushed him out of the way, or shouted to him brusquely to stand aside. He felt the purpose in all this activity. They were men, preparing for a man’s job. They did not look upon him as one of their kind. All recognition, all kinship had faded from their eyes. He was less than an outcast, standing slackly in their midst; he was only an obstruction. He had seen the blind fear in the women’s faces today. It was not for him. They, too, looked through him as if he were not human. These incomprehensible women, who had once nodded approvingly when they thought of his courage in finding his own way back, alone among all their men, from this war they hated, even they at this moment despised him because he was exempt from the hated ordeal.

  He asked himself again and again, ‘What business is it of mine?’ He tried to put out of his mind the thing that was worrying him. He told himself that they were going away, at last they were going away, and the street would be quiet and free once more. Graziella – his throat constricted at the thought – Graziella! Graziella! – she would be alone, stricken, humbled, creeping to him for comfort and for protection. She would be another man’s leavings. He would taste that other man’s kisses on her mouth. What did it matter? They would soon be gone; they would soon be gone.

  He walked back to the gate and, for the third time, timidly asked the sentry if he had seen Sergeant Craddock. ‘Andate via,’ said the sentry, ‘he’s busy.’ Why could he not forget it? Why could he not keep away? ‘What business is it of mine?’ he asked himself again. He looked for Craddock among the thronging soldiers, stifled by the impatience and the resentment that warred within him. What he knew, he told himself, it might be something of importance; it might be the bombshell that he could explode in the midst of all their indifference. They would all pause in their activity,
and look his way, and whisper. Craddock would listen attentively, would put eager questions, would clasp his hand in warm gratitude. Graziella would gaze at him with big eyes. And that Francesca, how she would suffer! He waited, and waited, and waited.

  Craddock came out through the gate. His face was heavy with care. His eyes rested on Rosario for a moment in recognition, but without greeting, and he walked past. Rosario was overwhelmed at the same time with relief at seeing him, and with resentment. He laid his hand on Craddock’s arm and said, ‘I sent messages, but you did not receive them.’

  Craddock paused unwillingly. ‘I received them.’ His face was unyielding.

  Rosario suppressed the quiver of anger that intruded into his voice. ‘I have been waiting for hours.’

  ‘I am busy. What do you want?’

  ‘There is something I must ask you.’

  ‘It will have to wait. I am busy.’

  ‘It is about Francesca’s man. Have you never been suspicious of him?’

  Craddock looked impatient. ‘What riddles are you wasting my time with now?’

  ‘No riddles. Have you never noticed that he is afraid to appear in the street?’

  It was clear that Craddock was not listening. He was looking away, towards her door, and his whole body was poised to move on. ‘Have you never asked yourself why?’ Rosario asked desperately.

  Craddock looked at him with unconcealed scorn. ‘Perhaps it is because he is a deserter,’ he said in a rough voice, with a cruel emphasis on the last word.

  A great heat of fury was mounting inside Rosario. He could not control the shuddering of his breath as he said, ‘He has spoken to me.’

  ‘Well, why tell me? Was it such an honour?’

  Rosario was choking, but he could not tear himself away now. ‘He was asking me questions about the soldiers. He wants to go to the mainland. I tell you he plans some harm.’

  ‘What harm? Everybody is asking questions about the soldiers.’

  ‘But let me tell you…’

  ‘Tell me tomorrow!’ Craddock said violently.

  ‘Tomorrow!’ Rosario shouted. ‘Where will you be tomorrow? Is that the way to talk to a friend?’

  Craddock was already walking away. He said thickly, over his shoulder, ‘Friend! You make me sick!’

  He disappeared into Graziella’s house. Rosario watched, speechless and shaking. His whole body was shaking horribly, as if the malaria were upon him. Hot tears of anger rolled down his cheeks; he could only breathe in gulps. If he had had his knife with him he would have plunged it into that broad back, to avenge his bruised manhood. He made his way back to the shop, dreamy with hatred. He went to his bed and fumbled beneath the mattress. He heard his mother’s wheezy voice from behind her curtain, coming to him from an infinite distance, a noise in his ears without meaning. He could hear the two of them, already, beyond the wall. He paused in his search and listened, his whole body rigid, his head thrown back, his mouth open; listening, like a dog.

  Chapter Twenty

  A FAN of daylight opened across the floor as Craddock entered the room. Graziella, her back to him, lay on the bed in an ugly heap, with her face pressed into the pillow and her legs tucked up beneath her out-thrust buttocks. She stirred as the light touched the pillow, raised herself on her hands and looked at him over her shoulder. Craddock heard the door creak behind him as he closed it with his heel. Graziella was looking at him as if the daylight had blinded her; her smile of welcome, as the shadows flitted over her face and advanced across the room behind the closing door, seemed to be an afterthought.

  The room was almost dark now. Craddock said, ‘Well, I have returned.’

  She swung her body round, lowered her feet to the floor and stood up, with tired movements.

  ‘Aren’t you glad to see me?’ he asked.

  She nodded absently. Her smile deepened, but there was something forced in it. She came into his arms and let him kiss her. She moved away into the room, and he followed her, noticing with perplexity her bowed head and her embarrassed, secretive smile. She seemed to be oppressed by private thoughts. She took down a decanter and a tumbler with automatic movements, and poured wine for him. The clink of glass and the gurgle of the wine were loud in the silence. She said, ‘Do you want to eat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you tired?’ Her voice was uninterested. ‘Did you have a hard time?’

  ‘No.’ He drank his wine, feeling less sure of himself every moment.

  She went to the mirror, shook her hair out and began to comb it energetically. ‘Little happened while you were away. Filomena’s baby has been born, a little girl.’

  Now it was Craddock who was silent.

  She went on chattering, ‘It was not a difficult birth, the child is so small, it is like a little doll.’ Her voice was hard and bright. She tore at her hair with the comb. ‘It displeased you to find me like this? You surprised me, coming thus. Earlier I was prepared for you, but you did not come.’

  Craddock stared into his wine-glass.

  ‘Ecco!’ She turned to face him again; passing her hands back tenderly over her hair. ‘See how it shines!’

  Craddock smiled painfully. Her eyes were intent upon him; all the animation went out of her and she turned away again, her hands against her waist, cleaning one thumbnail with the other. When she looked at him again, her eyes were dulled as though by an anaesthetic. ‘You are going away.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Everybody knows.’

  He said, ‘It is too soon to know.’

  ‘It is not certain?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And you? What do you think?’

  He heard her laboured breathing in the silence. Her eyes were compelling. He braced himself with a long breath and said, ‘We shall go.’

  She was still working at her fingernails, frowning down at them as if nothing else concerned her. She asked, ‘When?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Soon?’

  He hesitated again. ‘Very soon, I think.’

  Again the silence, and her quick, harsh breathing. He said, ‘You must not sadden yourself. We both knew that it had to happen.’

  Her bearing was listless. There was no sign of interest in her eyes. He felt that although he was standing before her she could not see him. He repeated, ‘We both knew that it had to happen, non è vero?’

  Her eyes opened wide, replying in mute pain and resentment, as if he had struck her violently on the forehead. When she spoke, he could discern only a muffled irritation in her voice. ‘I heard you the first time.’ She rubbed her hands, the fingers pointing straight downwards, up and down her skirt; it was a habit of hers. She cried suddenly, ‘Why do you talk to me like that? Do you think that I am a child?’

  He said helplessly, ‘Then what is there to say?’

  She looked past him in silence; then she said, in a strangled, unconfident voice, ‘Stay with me.’

  He held out his hand to her, and pleaded, ‘Graziella!’

  She ignored his hand. She said again, this time in a clear and decisive voice, ‘Stay with me!’

  ‘You do not know what you are saying.’

  ‘I know what I am saying. It is simple. Stay with me!’

  He said gently, ‘Try to be calm.’

  ‘Try!’ She spoke with fury. ‘Oh!’ She pressed her fists against her breast. ‘Here, how do you feel here? How can you breathe? How can you smile? What a beast is a man! To part is nothing to you! For you love is only a game of deceit! You feel nothing, nothing, nothing!’

  He was ashamed of the feebleness of the only words he could summon. ‘That is not true.’

  ‘It is true! It is clear that you do not know me. You would not have spoken thus if you knew me. But I know you. I know every movement of your body and every beat of your heart. I know every look on your face and every thought in your head. Do you think you can lie to a woman? You have enjoyed yourself with me, and if you feel a little sorry to leav
e me, you tell yourself that there will be more women. Look at you! Your mind is not occupied with what I am saying. Already you are thinking of journeys, of battles, of adventures. It is of no use that I cry out, that I empty my heart to you! There is no love or pity in your eyes. I see nothing there but disdain, but hatred for this woman who throws herself in your path…’

  Craddock interrupted her with a force that rendered him almost inarticulate. ‘That is not true! What – what do you want me to do? How can I show what I feel? Do you want me to cry like a baby? Will that make you more happy?’

  ‘Contenta?’ she echoed derisively. ‘Listen to the man! What a word he flings at me! When he is gone I shall be a woman ruined and empty. But no! There is not a thought in his head about what will become of me!’

  ‘And me?’ Craddock burst forth. ‘Have you thought of what is going to become of me?’

  ‘No!’ she taunted, the tears streaming down her face. ‘Of course not! I have not lain awake at nights, while you slept, and let the hot tears fall on your body, thinking of the wounds that might torture it! I have not felt dread in my heart every time I saw a crippled soldier crawling on his stumps up the church steps! I have not looked at your face and remembered the face of the madman who once stared at us in the street!’

  Craddock muttered, ‘Oh, my poor Graziella!’ He went towards her and reached out for her, but she backed away from him, and sat huddled on the bed, sobbing furiously. She gasped, between sobs, ‘Why do you think I want to keep you? Only to bring me food? Only to buy me gifts? Only to make love with me?’

  ‘Graziella,’ he said, ‘I did not think that. I do not want to hurt you.’