Hero

by Paul Butler

“Isabelle gave me your message,” I say, allowing a measure of scorn, “although I have to say it was somewhat nonsensical.”

  She gives me an innocent, questioning look.

  “You didn’t want to disturb us if Simon was at home.”

  “Oh,” she begins mildly, turning her book so that it is spine-up on her lap. “Isabelle must have got the message wrong.” She shakes her head in soft confusion. “I was afraid Simon might be working this weekend and merely wanted to know if I could keep you company.”

  Her pale eyes, enlarged behind her spectacle lenses, hold my gaze. I realize I have come to challenge my mother, to expose her in the act of forming some strategy, maybe not malign but certainly underhanded. I expected this part of the conversation to conclude with a checkmate, an admission, and that from here we might go on to discuss our effective orbits as neighbours, as mother, as daughter, as wife, pinpointing the coordinates at which we can usefully converge and the times at which we might remain respectfully separate. But the checkmate has reversed itself. She has disarmed me before I can make a move, and in doing so, has made me feel like a child. Suddenly, I’m not so sure of myself. Feeling my shoulders sag, watching my mother’s calmly enquiring face, I begin to wonder whether I came here not to lay down a boundary, but to ask for help. Although I hardly need to warn myself of the dangers were I to take such a route. If I spill everything that troubles me, the information I impart cannot be unspilled. It all remains my mother’s rightful property, and she can claim it, analyze it, or bring it up in private conversation whenever she wishes. And I know from experience I cannot pick and choose what to spill. Once it comes, it comes flooding.

  “Simon has gone out for a bit,” I tell her, playing for time. “He may not be back for dinner.”

  “May not?”

  I cock my head slightly. She is rooting for information now, and I have surely caught her red-handed.

  “He needs to clear his head after work,” I say. “It’s been a hard day.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” she says kindly. “Do sit down.”

  The hint of a smile has come over her face. The silliness of my answer, the fact that I foolishly believed I had to give one, has given her the upper hand again. I sit, but on the stool upon which I used to perch while playing the cello, a carved mahogany piece of unknown era that has been retained in the room as its only possible antique.

  “How is everything? How is Lucy?”

  “Very well, Mother. You should come and see her, if not tonight, then perhaps tomorrow. We are planning a picnic.”

  An unexpected litheness sweeps across her expression, some vital, swift question that belies both the age of my mother’s face and the avowed serenity of her mood. I watch closely for a second to be sure of my suspicions.

  “No, Simon won’t be with us, Mother,” I say, finally. “He’ll be going back to work, so you can come.” She blinks twice and her parchment-like skin seems to gain some colour far beneath the surface. “It’s very clear you want to avoid him,” I conclude. This might sound like an accusation, but I’m actually trying to save her the trouble and embarrassment of denying it. Seeming to realize this, she gives a defeated sigh.

  “It’s just,” she falters, arthritic fingers sliding over the upturned book cover, “it’s only that he seems so unhappy, so guilt-ridden, with me around.”

  We’ve turned an unexpected corner, and it’s my turn to blush now. I’ve been putting myself at the centre of everything. If my mother was wary of the two of us together, I thought, it must be because she’s critical of our marriage, and therefore critical of me. Now, it seems suddenly, it’s all about Simon and her. And it makes sense. Simon was, after all, the comrade who laid her dear Charlie to rest. Why shouldn’t she be extra sensitive to his moods?

  I think of the ghost-children playing outside, Charles with his stick, me following obediently, only slightly bored at the games my younger brother wants to play. I see again the young neighbour, Simon Jenson, in the formal suit, with the dark, wavy hair and the shy smile laced deliciously with the promise of mischievous humour. My mind wanders in circles around the boulder, the pond, cleared of nettles, to this house, to Simon’s house, and back again, settling reluctantly upon the two of us, upon the grey, mild, and slightly bewildered mother, upon her daughter now rather dowdy, I suspect, though still in her twenties. What dreadful spider has spread its petrifying influence over the once vibrant life that used to reign over the landscape?

  “None of this is what I expected,” I find myself saying out loud.

  “No,” replies my mother, a touch of whimsy making her disappointment softer, though perhaps no less sad.

  CHAPTER 19

  Elsa

  As I lift her over the rim, Lucy wriggles so fiercely inside the large pink towel I’m afraid of dropping her. Only when her kicking feet touch down upon the mat does it seem safe to set about her with the towel.

  “Be still like a good girl.”

  “Am I?” she asks, right leg stepping off the mat in what is only one of many non-co-operative reflexes in the frantic dance that accompanies bath-time.

  “Are you what?”

  “A good girl.”

  “Of course you are!” Frowning, as though in concentration, I rub fast, then, realizing this strange child will likely see through any attempt at fogging, I pause. “Why would you doubt it?”

  Her eyes fix me. “I don’t know. Daddy almost crashed his car. You jumped in front of a train. People do funny things around me.”

  I hold her shoulders through the towel. One arm still manages to struggle free like an albino eel. “It’s not about you, Lucy, even if people do odd things. It was silly of me to run in front of the train. The man on the platform was very angry at me. You must never do anything like that.”

  The staggering inadequacy of my answer and her unblinking eyes make me wince. Do I really have to explain war, bereavement, and the whole spectrum of adult emotion to satisfy her justifiable bewilderment with the world? It would be impossible, and I should deserve to lose my position if I tried. But offering her nothing at all seems somehow worse.

  “I couldn’t bear the idea of Tommy being run over,” I began, having very little idea about how I would continue, “partly because he was yours, partly because I have known people who have died who should still be alive.” Her gaze flits around my face, and she seems to be taking it in calmly. “It doesn’t excuse what I did, but I’m sorry it upset you.”

  “What about Daddy and the car?”

  “I don’t think we were ever in danger.” Each word that escapes my lips feels like the reach of a cat’s paw, simultaneously tentative and reckless. I’m an animal exploring a new and possibly dangerous territory. “I think your father is an expert driver. If he felt the need to let off steam, his reasons might be similar to mine.”

  “He’s supposed to have laid my uncle Charles to the ground when he was killed in the war. They loved each other. Grandma told me that. I’m supposed to take after Uncle Charles in looks.”

  Lost between words of comfort and an attempt to smile, I find myself sinking into an entirely new emotion, one that stings my eyes and doesn’t feel quite safe in front of the child. “Stay there for a second,” I say, pulling the towel tighter around her and breaking away to lean over into the tub. “I left the soap at the bottom.” When I re-emerge, dropping the soap in the dish, I feel like a tenderized version of myself.

  I knew about Mrs. Jenson’s brother. I may have even known that they served together. But I had never heard the story of the one laying the other to rest in a scene of such simple but exquisite poignancy. The sudden intelligence immediately dissolves every minor grudge arising from Mr. Jenson’s poor manners. My employer, even with his early morning whisky, his dangerous driving, his effect upon his wife, is ennobled beyond measure, and my arms, which periodically ache to encompass and heal the world are, for the first time, yearning to include the man I have until now viewed only with wariness and susp
icion. Of course he is pained by the sight of the beautiful daughter who looks so much like his lost comrade. Of course he is tortured by the love of the family that should bring him only strength and hope. How could I, of all people, have been so blind? How dare you judge! a fierce inner voice, part preacher, part headmistress, yells in my ear, and I make an immediate pact with myself: Never again will I let one who might be suffering stay beyond the circle of my compassion. The vanity of this vow is instantly obvious. No doubt Mr. Jenson and Mr. Smith, as well as every other wounded creature that comes to my attention, are quite oblivious to my philanthropic energy. Yet this is the only tool for healing I possess, this constant soft hum of concern that I turn mutely to the world. Otherwise I am merely a governess who attempts to rescue her charge’s toys from beneath the wheels of a train.

  “Your uncle must have been very handsome,” I manage at last as I crinkle the nightgown over her head and let it fall like an extending concertina.

  She shrugs, and I hear the first pats of rain against the high window and a sudden breath of wind.

  CHAPTER 20

  Simon

  The Green Man is full now. I no longer go to my local, the Barleycorn, nor do I patronize the Thrasher, the pub slightly farther along the road from the Barleycorn. The Green Man is a good five miles from my house, and I know no one here. It was empty two hours ago when I settled into the leather armchair and surveyed the rusted horseshoe hanging from a nail in the red brick chimney. Lower, almost at eye level, I was surprised to confront a withered grass snake behind a glass frame. At first I imagined it might be the necktie of some celebrated person, and that the reason for its presence under glass, and for its dishevelled appearance, may have been that he wore it while accomplishing some amazing feat—a trek through the Sahara perhaps, an expedition to the Himalayas. As though conjured by some mystic triptych effect of the horseshoe, the snake, and myself, one customer, then two together, then a group of five, came into the pub billowing clouds of smoke from pipes and cigars. None of them seemed real to me as they swam upright amidst this ghostly haze.

  The last few people to enter talked about the rain in a somewhat histrionic fashion. It is, apparently, a “filthy night, and getting worse,” and “thatches will be off by morning,” but there was a curious exaltation behind these premonitions of disaster, a joy in the flourish of duffle coat and mackintosh being beaten before the fire. I was in any case glad I hauled the cover over my car before entering, although I’m concerned now I may not have fastened the cover clamps completely on both sides. It’s out of the question to check. The warmth of the seat and the pleasant sting of Glenmorangie have lulled me like a baby into a secure world. For the moment I am a happy spirit watching the pageant of life from the other side of an impenetrable glass. Sarah, Lucy, Elsa, Mrs. Baxter, Smith—all these people are merely characters not appearing in tonight’s performance. They are no more flesh and blood than the marionette revellers before me.

  There’s a sharp double clang, a chime to accompany the circling blue incense.

  “Last orders please, gentlemen.”

  My haunches rise instinctively and, tipping my wrist, I take a glance at the time, amazed at the drainage of hours made carefree by drink. Muscling my way among the tweed, the wool, and the smoke, I catch the eye of the stocky barman, whose red trouser braces are proudly on display. He gives me a nod, and I see that one hand is already pumping the Glenmorangie optic as the other draws a beer for another customer. I return the nod, leave a crown on the bar, and return with the glass to my horseshoe and my snake.

  Perching this time near the edge of the chair, I drain my glass quickly. I don’t want to get too comfortable, and I don’t want to stay until the barman calls time. The word “time” became my enemy when, soon after my return from the war, I got into a pointless and ultimately humiliating argument with the proprietor of the Barleycorn. Repeatedly denied the cure for my raging thirst, I even stooped so far as to brandish my medal, an act of clownish idiocy rendered by the distorting lens of drunkenness both more vivid and more conflicted in its precise details. The only things memory does not dispute are the groans and mocking laughter from the other patrons, and the fixed, hostile stare of the proprietor, a thin man with dark, penetrating eyes. This was my secret shame, played out for the first time in public.

  I have never again put myself in the position of hearing the word “time” in a pub. When it is spoken I must be either home, my cure within arm’s reach, or sinking into sleep’s soft oblivion.

  I rise, lay the glass on the polished oval shelf and, hauling on my coat, weave unsteadily through the crowd. One or two white faces turn towards me, but I am not well known here, so I catch no smirks. The door opens to my advance as last-minute patrons, dripping from the downpour, exhilarated and joking, merge into the growing tumult. In a moment I am under the porch awning, a hammer-and-nail dance beating its rhythm upon the eaves, splashing cool droplets up from the cobbles. My motor’s black hood rises from the glistening darkness like the arching back of a sea creature—a metallic walrus or oversized otter. I button my coat all the way up, sinking my neck into its collar, and my feet take flight through the shimmering puddles, tricking me into a decision while my mind stagnates and delays. Fingers pulling the cool metal of the door handle, I launch myself feet first into the driver’s seat. Unwelcome patches of damp sobriety seep into my neck and scalp as the water continues to trickle, dribbling also into the corner of my mouth.

  The taste of the rain—unaccountably sweet with some mineral—weaves my twenty-seven years into an unlikely whole. It brings me into the garden of Sarah and Charles with its magic, overgrown pond, the makeshift tree house where once, not so long after the storm amputated its venerable host, Sarah and I hid out talking of subjects that in our innocence we believed forbidden—God, eternity, death, and the afterlife. The sweet taste carries me also to the first months in the trenches, to Sarah’s early letters full of such sublime concentration of feeling, such appreciation of the soft kernel of joy that we believed awaited us provided I could get through the present danger. The promise, at that early time, made the grime, diarrhea, constant damp, and ear-splitting noise almost glamorous, a ring of fire through which I had to leap to reach my destiny. The future I envisioned had a folkloric structure, a blushingly simple formula of obstacle and final reward that, almost imperceptibly at first, became more and more distant, until it finally disintegrated under my scornful inward gaze into the most childish of fairy tales.

  Thunder grumbles from the darkness beyond the car, and the engine chugs into motion at the turn of my key. In a moment I’m speeding into the deluge, pumping hard on the gas to make the engine growl and ward any straggling drinkers from my path.

  Despite the swift action of the wiper blade, a blurring sheet of water at turns elongates and compresses the illuminated bushes, trees, and fence posts that hurtle past. But I find myself unconcerned. Lulled somewhat by the silver bullets of rain that skim sideways from the wiper’s rubber, I am navigating the road from memory. A resolution has formed from out of nowhere, it seems, which has muted my terror long enough for insight to merge with conviction. I must find Smith before he finds me. I must confront the man face-on. I am so at ease with this decision, if not the reality of such a confrontation itself, that I am almost light-headed. Do your worst are the three words that sum up the gut feeling that accompanies the plan. The phrase at the moment chimes inside my skull like an eternal truth, the last defiant statements of a thousand hanged men.

  I follow the road as it veers eastward towards the coast, towards the ancient graveyard whose medieval bones poked through the eroded cliff-face—one of the childhood playgrounds of Sarah, Charles, and I. Do your worst! I repeat to myself, fortified by what seems like a sudden glimpse into the transient nature of death. My mind scrambles to put this into words: Charles’s bones, I tell myself, like those of all the war dead, will one day be as irrelevant as those in the red clay of Dunwich cliff. The thought does
not unfold the way I wish. Its tone is callous, ungenerous, and I intended only whimsy. I wished merely to invoke the idea of everyone’s mortal remains contributing to the substance of the earth. The thought, properly expressed, might be both comforting and oddly respectful. No matter our sins, or our failures, we do at least fertilize the soil. But the notion is more apt for me than for Charles. His failures and sins at the time of his death had yet to materialize.

  I return to the three words that have already bestowed both comfort and a sense of undefined virtue—do your worst. This time, I realize, I have spoken them aloud, gripping the wheel and talking through clenched teeth. The sudden awareness of myself mumbling the phrase as though it were a charm brings over me a sense of disquiet. What if I could be seen behaving in this extraordinary manner? In a way I have been. A cynical, and ruthlessly sober, other self is watching from my shoulder. It isn’t the drunkenness he is judging, it isn’t even the strange melodrama, but rather a growing moral hubris in the man behind the wheel. Do your worst? he questions. The worst has already been done, and it was done not by Smith, but by you. Who are you to challenge and bully?

  I shrug off the dissenter in the exaggerated manner of the drunk, with a hunch of the shoulders and a twist of the neck—a boxer against the ropes. In my present dulled state, defiance needs an exclamation mark. A measure of my resolution comes back, enough anyway to convince me it will survive the night, and that in the morning it will emerge a tattered, nervy, but still determined version of itself.

  I will seek out Smith.

  I stuff my ears against the sound. One moment it’s little more than a grumble, but the crashes when they come are so sudden, so violent, that only constant preparedness can get me through to the next minute. Even with such vigilance, the breath becomes so trapped in my chest after each explosion that I have trouble opening my passages and coaxing it free. Only after the noise dies off into a restless moan do I manage to whimper out some of the air and then it’s released only in a slow, constricted trickle. I can easily imagine dying of suffocation this way. No gun or bayonet is necessary for my demise. If archeologists were to analyze the secretions from my rotting body they would find a distillation of pure cowardice.