In the lamplight, she could see new fine lines running away from his eyes, like the veins on the back of a leaf. He looked into his glass; he took a long sip, and swallowed.
‘We’d been shelled, and the place was torn to blazes. Jim and his partner, a man called Potts, had been digging to get the guns into better positions. They’re gigantic monsters, these guns, and they were digging for hours, ten feet deep, forty-foot-long ditches. They were good pals. Then Potts got it. Jim was right next to him, and he’d felt the full blast, felt the whole impact of Potts going up in smithereens, the whole sordid mess of it – is this too much for you?’
‘No.’
‘Jim wasn’t the same after that. He could barely keep it together. I thought we were going to lose him; he was like something hollow, and no use to anyone. That night I walked with some of the men up to the village, a tiny place three or four miles away. Jim came with us. It was a bright clear night, the sky full of stars, and a sharp slice of moon. We felt very small. Jim was silent the whole way, though the others were laughing and joking, relieved to be out of the front line for a couple of hours. Jim kept his head down.
‘The village was no more than a couple of tumbledown houses and a barn. One of these houses was a café of sorts. Of course, they hadn’t much food but it was the wine the boys were really interested in. It was rough, but it could take you out of yourself for a while, and the boys would sit around playing cards, and it helped. There were girls,’ he went on. ‘A few of the men would take these girls upstairs, and come back down with a swagger. They were not the prettiest, or the youngest-looking girls, but when the men were up there, the girls could be their sweethearts. Needless to say, I was never interested.’
‘Of course you weren’t.’
‘The place was run by a woman called Solange. She was about seventy; at least she looked about seventy, and she was a kind old soul, with not a bad word to say about anyone, including the Germans. “Those boys on the other side are the same as you are; they have mothers and wives and loved ones. They’re being told what to do, and you should never take it personally, they’re just boys after all, like you.” Whatever we really thought, we agreed with her out loud. She could speak very good English. Said her father had taught it to her when she was a child and that he was half-English, and her grandmother had come to France from Norfolk. We had many long chats about this and that, our families, pals, anything but the war, which we could often hear in the distance, depending on which way the wind was blowing.
‘She saw Jim. She saw at once how bad he looked, and without a moment’s hesitation, she slid her chair over to him, and she began to talk. I watched from the corner of the room, and I could see how he’d closed inwards at first, turning away, and how she’d coaxed him, and then the tears came, and then more talk, until after an hour or so, he was smiling, and laughing quietly, and it looked like he was back again.
‘We were there for over a month. He visited Solange whenever he could. They became very close; she was like a mother to him, and he would help her around the place, he would cut meat, he’d chop wood and make himself useful, and he felt better for it. I often found things for him to do up there, getting supplies, and finding petrol for the motorbikes, and so on. Solange Devaux was his saviour. I don’t know what they talked about, and I never asked, but I do know that she probably saved his life.
‘When we moved up the line, I wondered what he’d be like without her. How would he manage? He had a letter she’d written, and her address. He often looked at it, and I’m pleased to say that nothing changed. He didn’t turn inwards. It was as if she’d left something of herself with him. And now he’s doing well, he’s one of the best men I’ve got, and he’s a credit to himself and the rest of the company.’ He stopped. ‘Now that’s enough, I think, and you won’t ask again, because you promised.’
The silence hung between them. Beatrice squeezed his hand to show him that she was glad of the gift, and that she would keep her promise. She thought about Jim, saw him sharpening his butcher’s knife, hooking up the rabbits he’d snared, ‘because I’m not a real butcher,’ he’d say with a wink, and they all knew what he meant. She pictured Solange. She had her grey hair in a chignon. Her hair was always well done, it was something she hadn’t let go, as she ladled out bowls of mutton stew, pulled up a chair, and listened.
Jonathan went to put on another record, and then he stopped.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ he said. ‘Solange Devaux is dead. The village was flattened, a few days after we left. Everything went. According to the corporal, even the biggest trees were lifted.’
‘Does Jim know?’
Jonathan shook his head. ‘Will Caruso do?’ he said.
‘Is my Tom all right?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Private Blackstock was perfectly fit when I left,’ said Jonathan.
‘Are you his boss?’ asked Lizzie’s daughter Martha, who was standing with her arms folded, watching the other soldiers on leave, filing from the church.
Jonathan smiled. ‘I suppose so, but not really,’ he told her, ‘not in the larger scheme of things.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He means he’s only a sergeant,’ said her brother Harry. ‘And sergeants aren’t the boss.’
‘I meant,’ smiled Jonathan, ‘that your father’s boss is probably the King. Or God,’ he added quickly.
‘Oh, we don’t like him any more,’ said Martha. ‘We’ve gone right off the King.’
‘Martha …’ Lizzie warned.
‘Well, he doesn’t like us,’ she said, stamping her foot for emphasis and bringing it down a little too sharply, so that a pain jolted through her leg.
‘Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? For King and country,’ said Jonathan, ‘that’s what we’re fighting for.’
‘I thought we were fighting to kill all the Germans,’ said Harry. ‘Bang, bang, bang, goes the Boche.’
‘That too,’ Jonathan admitted quietly, as the Reverend Peter McNally cast an eye in their direction.
‘Has my dad killed any stinking Germans?’ asked Harry.
Lizzie looked away, though she had a hundred questions of her own tucked inside her head.
‘Oh, he’s killed plenty,’ said Jonathan, knowing it was the right thing to say, though Tom Blackstock had been working in communications, in charge of the wire, and rarely got the chance to aim and fire. ‘He’s a very brave man.’
‘Will he get a medal?’
‘One of these days he might, who knows?’
‘Mr Crane,’ said Lizzie inching forwards. ‘Sergeant. I mean, Jonathan. How long are you back for?’
‘Four days.’
‘Why couldn’t my Tom come with you?’
‘It wasn’t his turn, I’m afraid, Lizzie,’ he said, biting the inside of his cheek and looking quickly away.
‘How can she look like that when she spends all week with the pigs?’ said Madge, looking at her own dry hands, and then patting down her hair. ‘She looks like an illustration. I don’t know how she does it.’
‘A cheap illustration,’ said Ada. ‘She’s a picture from the comics, parading her husband around, like he’s some big prize she’s just this minute won, and for nothing in particular.’
‘Oh, do you really think so?’ puzzled Madge. ‘I think she looks lovely. She always looks lovely.’
‘Can’t you see it?’ said Ada.
‘See what?’
‘She’s as hard as nails, that one.’
They stood in a patch of pale sunlight, baulking at the soldiers on leave walking home with their wives and with their proud-looking children swinging on their arms. The reverend, standing by a gravestone, leaning on it now and then, looked ill. Madge had noticed how his hands were shaking as he read out the sermon. His face was the colour of chalk, but there was a dark red flare sitting over his cheekbones.
‘I wanted to ask him things,’ said Lizzie, who’d left Harry and Martha playing soldiers in th
e lane. ‘Jonathan must know how they’re doing, but he just won’t say.’
‘I’d rather not know,’ Madge lied. ‘Beatrice said he’s fit and well, and that’s enough for me.’
‘But why should Jonathan Crane know things about our husbands we don’t?’ said Ada.
‘I think we should go over there and ask him,’ said Madge.
‘No,’ said Ada, her large green eyes narrowed into slits.
‘No? What do you mean, no?’
‘What I mean,’ said Ada slowly, ‘is that we’ll go and see him later.’
It could have been easy to forget the gruelling world of France, sitting dry in the warmth, with a plate of chicken and vegetables, a glass of his father’s forgotten burgundy, and the only smells in the air, of the cooking, the beeswax, the new coal in the fire. Wasn’t this what had kept him going all that time, remembering the small things, dry socks, a plate of clean soup, a mattress? But now he was here the battlefield seemed closer and he could see it, smell it, hear it. He almost gagged over his chicken leg, picturing the bodies resurfacing with each new explosion.
‘Are you all right?’ Beatrice asked.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Really I am. This is lovely.’
‘So now I’m something of a cook?’
‘A cook,’ he smiled, ‘yes, and quite a farmer too.’
‘I just wanted to do something. Does that sound awfully righteous? I could have gone to the munitions factory, but the farm seemed so immediate, and I knew they needed help.’
‘I couldn’t be prouder,’ he said, raising his glass. He was suddenly feeling tearful; he was finding it hard to swallow. ‘But I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘Recuperating at home.’
‘I’m not ill. Look at me – I’m not even tired any more.’
Beatrice wanted to say, you look tired, you look exhausted, but she didn’t. She wanted to feed him up, to watch his cheeks fill out.
‘Have some more potatoes,’ she said. ‘Go on, they’ll do you good.’
When he reached for the bowl she felt pleased, as if he was a child, not very fond of his vegetables.
The doorbell rang, sounding sharp. Jonathan jumped and rubbed his eyes.
‘Should I leave it?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You must go and see who it is.’
She felt overwhelmed, as Ada, Madge and Lizzie crowded onto the steps. Ada was smiling, but her eyes were saying something else.
‘Is Sergeant Crane available?’ asked Ada, in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.
‘He’s eating,’ said Beatrice.
‘We can wait.’
She let them inside. Jonathan was already standing by his chair, straightening out his jacket.
‘We’re sorry to interrupt your meal,’ said Madge. ‘Please don’t stop on account of us. We have plenty of time, we can wait in the parlour.’
‘It’s finished,’ said Jonathan, with a strained sort of smile. ‘Really, ladies, do sit down. Can I get you a drink?’
They looked at each other. They hadn’t banked on hospitality.
‘A sherry would be nice,’ said Ada. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t say no to a sherry.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ said Madge. They looked at Lizzie.
‘And so will I,’ she said.
‘Beatrice?’ said Jonathan.
She carefully poured what was left of the sherry into five small glasses.
‘And how can I help you ladies?’ he asked.
‘We want news,’ said Ada, a little too forcefully. ‘What I mean is, we’d like to know what’s going on.’
‘We’re at war,’ said Jonathan. He wondered what these women wanted from him.
‘We haven’t been hibernating these past few years,’ said Madge, her hand tightening so hard around the glass she thought she might have cracked it. ‘We do know about the war.’
‘Of course you do. What I meant to say is, that we are all under strict instructions not to divulge any information.’ He looked at Beatrice. ‘Not even to our nearest and dearest,’ he said.
‘But can’t you tell us how they are?’ said Lizzie. ‘That’s all we want to know. Are they still alive?’
Jonathan sighed. ‘If you haven’t received a telegram, then we have to assume they’re still with us.’
‘Imogen Parker’s husband had been dead for six months before she got her telegram,’ said Ada.
‘I know nothing about that,’ said Jonathan, opening up his hands.
‘But you live with them,’ said Madge. ‘You all signed up together. What were they like when you saw them last?’
‘Fit and well,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.
‘Fit and well means nothing,’ said Ada. ‘I want to know about my Jim. What he gets up to. What he’s doing. How he’s living.’
‘What I want to know,’ said Madge, ‘is how are they coping?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ said Jonathan.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Ada was eyeing the leftovers on the table, the fancy gold-edged china and the expensive bottle of wine with its foreign-looking label.
‘It means, they’re in a battlefield and life is very hard and no one finds it easy, but they’re good men, and they’re coping. They’re a credit to the battalion, and the last time I saw them, they were all fit and well.’
‘Like you,’ said Ada. ‘You look fit and well.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t meant as a compliment,’ she said. ‘If you’re so fit and well, what are you doing here?’
‘He’s on leave,’ said Beatrice.
‘Why?’ said Madge.
‘My commanding officer sent me home,’ said Jonathan. ‘A small break.’
‘Oh, a small break?’ said Ada. ‘We used to have one of those at Easter. We’d go and see my brother Vernon in Chester.’
He closed his eyes. ‘I’ve been working on a very difficult campaign,’ he said quietly. ‘I worked hard. They sent me home. I’ll be working twice as hard when I get back to the front.’
‘And my Tom won’t?’ said Lizzie as her chin began to quiver. ‘Doesn’t he work hard enough?’
‘Of course he does.’
‘I just want to see him. Our children are missing their dad. When will it be Tom’s turn?’
‘That I can’t say,’ said Jonathan.
‘But what would you do?’ said Beatrice suddenly finding her voice. ‘What would you do if you were out on the battlefield and you were going to be sent home for a while? Would you say, hey, no thanks, I’d rather stay here than go back to my loved ones?’
‘Beatrice …’
‘Of course we wouldn’t, but we just want to know when we’ll see them again,’ said Lizzie. ‘Is that so much to ask? Don’t they get a turn?’
‘Honest answer? Not always. They’ve had breaks of course. They’ve spent days away from the battlefield and they’ve been given time to rest and recuperate.’
‘They have?’ said Lizzie.
‘Of course. We don’t expect a man to carry on non-stop without a respite.’
‘What do they do on these breaks?’ asked Madge.
‘Chat, play cards, rest up.’
‘My Tom never said anything about that,’ said Lizzie, picturing him in his shirtsleeves, a handkerchief on his head, sprawled out on a beach, like Morecambe, only warmer. ‘You mean they get a little holiday?’
‘I suppose you could put it like that.’
‘Some holiday,’ said Ada. ‘I bet they’d rather come home.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. I’m sure that they would.’
‘Like you,’ said Madge.
‘But he’s different,’ said Ada. ‘He’s a sergeant. He isn’t a nothing, like our men.’
‘Your men aren’t nothing,’ he paled. ‘Your men are everything.’
‘So why are they treated like muck?’
Jonathan sat down. His head was swimming. He could see Tom scrambling und
erneath the wire, Jim with a spade, digging graves in the mud, Frank, wandering, smiling, singing nonsense French and being overly brave because he just didn’t care any more, because perhaps all the world was dying?
‘Your husbands are treated well, and they are all well respected,’ he said, draining his sherry. ‘I admire them.’
‘I admire your motor car,’ said Ada. ‘But your motor car is a thing. It isn’t a human being, and the way you talk about Jim and the rest of them, it’s like they’re objects, and they’re there to be used like the rounds of ammunition in your guns.’
‘You’re talking like you don’t even know them,’ said Madge. ‘I thought they were your friends. Your old pals. Isn’t that what you called them once upon a time? Not good friends perhaps, but friends all the same. Didn’t you invite them here now and then? Didn’t you all get tipsy, laughing and joking and smoking fine cigars? Or were you doing your duty?’
‘Of course not, and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,’ he said, rubbing his forehead. ‘I’m extremely tired just now.’
‘Then isn’t it lucky you have a nice warm fire, a bed upstairs, and a wife to go in it?’ said Ada. ‘Sweet dreams, Sergeant Crane. Come on,’ she said to the others. ‘We’ll be going. We’ll let Sergeant Crane get his beauty sleep.’
As the door closed he threw his sherry glass against the wall. The splinters looked like ice shivering on the sideboard.
‘I’ll be leaving in the morning. It isn’t right. It never felt right.’
‘I know.’ She closed her eyes.
He sat down, hunching up his shoulders tight. ‘You don’t know. How could you? No one knows anything,’ he said. ‘No one knows anything about the bloody awful mess we’re in.’
‘You could tell me?’
‘I can’t,’ he said, with his head down. ‘I just don’t know the words to describe it.’
Ten minutes later he was smiling again. He’d washed his face and he’d given himself a good talking-to in the small bathroom mirror.
‘Play some more of your music, darling,’ he said, opening another bottle of wine. ‘Go on. I don’t know what got into me. And what about dessert? We didn’t even start our dessert. What is it?’
‘Canned peaches,’ she said, sliding the record from its thick cardboard sleeve.
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