by Paul Butler
He balances his elbow on the crutch’s inner stanchion and extends the hand with the letter towards Lucy. “Would you take this and, when your father is in a particularly good mood, will you give it to him and say it is from a friend?”
The office door flies open and Simon appears. Everything has changed, the mood scattered like paper in a gale. My husband’s eyes are startling, showing too much white within rims that are swollen red. The stench of stale whisky invades the narrow space. I glance at Elsa, notice her hands twisting together in front of her waist, and wonder if I, too, should be concerned. Simon moves forward, and with a snatch so sudden the gasp of displaced air hangs in its wake, grabs the letter in transit. Lucy’s fingers curl like young leaves in a frosty wind.
Simon lurches forward again. Hands, white and red at the knuckle, sink into the lapels of Mr. Smith’s dark grey jacket. He lifts the veteran from the ground, buoying his frail body and dangling his lifeless shoes, heaving him over the few paces towards the top of the stairs. Along the way, one crutch falls first upon the banister and then upon the floor. The other lodges high between the struggling men like an ineffective cordon unable to part the combatants but refusing to drop from the fight.
Lucy screams, the first human sound to pierce the rustling quiet, and everything seems to collapse into the hole it makes.
“Mr. Jenson, stop!” cries Elsa.
“Simon!” I gasp, trying to take her lead but as I have not breathed since the door swung open, the noise doesn’t carry far.
Turning, I grip the banister and gaze as Simon holds Mr. Smith’s white face close to his, then, arms like dual pistons, extends and releases so that the veteran takes flight, sailing into the mouth of the descending stairway. It’s an action of such terrifying recklessness, my senses are suspended. Insulated thoughts work through explanations distinct from the obvious one of murderous rage—an elongated practical joke perhaps, a scene from a drama to be performed at Christmas.
Mr. Smith’s hands grasp at air as he falls. Lucy turns, hands over her ears, into Elsa’s dress, burying her face there. The remaining crutch touches down in the stairs then skitters downwards like a rolling pin, lodging itself between banister rails eight or nine steps down. Its owner lands after it, his back hitting a step with an audible thud, legs splayed uselessly, an upturned trouser leg revealing not a calf, but two metal-clamped poles. Mr. Smith rolls once, then, pink-faced and breathing hard, holds on to a rail like a man clinging to a lifesaver. He blinks a few times either in relief he did not fall farther, or in evaluation of the pain that will announce itself only after the shock has passed.
At the top of the stairs, chest heaving, shoulders bent, the letter crumpled in his hand, Simon stares down upon the veteran. Elsa—my daughter’s face still lost in her dress—moves around him silently. She leads Lucy down, step by step, to do what I’m not sure, but part of me is grateful for her composure, glad some action other than violence can take place in this polluted space. An awakening impulse also wishes it was me and longs for the warmth of my daughter’s body. When Elsa comes to Mr. Smith, she reaches down with one hand, the other remaining around Lucy’s shoulder, dislodges the crutch from the railing, and hands it to him.
A small group of Simon’s men gather below now and stare uncomprehendingly at the sight. Most are young; one murmurs to another. Gentle, courteous Mr. Coombs at the back seems most disturbed, the lines on his face etched deeper than usual, his eyes narrowing as though to prevent the unwelcome sight from entering his brain.
Elsa pauses on the step for a moment, appears to say something comforting to the veteran, then continues down the stairs with Lucy, the two of them moving like ghosts just before the dawn, their quiet intent unsullied by sound. They pass Mr. Coombs and his men, who have just begun to disperse, and move towards the exit and out of sight. Well done, Elsa, I think. Well done for looking after Lucy’s best interests. But a hint of disquiet hangs between the words even as they take form. There is something else, something I can’t name.
Stranded on the landing with my wheezing, gasping husband, I feel alone, exposed and quite unable to look at him. I have brought about this disaster. Ever since I mentioned Mr. Smith in the Beehive, my husband has been spiralling into the abyss. Insane as his behaviour might be, I could have prevented it easily by merely staying within my bounds. I have failed in the test that I set for myself. I cannot be the wife of a war veteran. If I could crawl from this place and reverse into my childhood, I would do things differently. This time I would ignore the youth with the shy smile who used to watch Charles and I at play. He has become a dangerous stranger now, a throbbing knot of neuroses and violent impulses over which I am quite powerless. He is a tumour I would have removed.
It’s a relief when he moves abruptly and begins to clump down the stairs. My heart jolts as he nears Mr. Smith—is he going to finish the job?—but relaxes as he passes within a whisker of the veteran who has paused in his efforts to haul himself to his feet using the stair-rail and crutch. I watch Simon descend to the factory floor, crumpled letter still in hand, and walk in an arc towards the door, a few furtive glances from his diligent workers briefly straying in his direction. Until he disappears from view, I focus on Simon’s bald patch, which has spread like a biblical curse since 1916. It is the only part of his skin that is visible to me and I can’t guess at his expression.
I bend slowly and pick up the first of the crutches to fall. Wary of the looks that will inevitably follow me when I take the same route from the building, I make my way as steadily as I can down the stairs to Mr. Smith.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the inadequacy of the words stinging my lips.
Mr. Smith takes the crutch and, removing his hand from the stair rail, balances himself sideways on the stairs facing me.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I search his eyes for signs of irony but find that the statement stands, sincere and honest. And of course it makes sense. What’s a tumble down the stairs to a bomb that permanently maims? What’s an embarrassing scene to years trapped underground with the pound and roar of mortars in your ears? Under the straightforward, modest gaze of the veteran, I find myself shrinking again, dwarfed once more by experiences I can’t begin to understand. All this time I believed I was at the end of my tether, but I am merely the new soldier who thinks of desertion at the very first rumble of gunfire.
CHAPTER 28
Elsa
Lucy says nothing. Her gaze is now drawn by the figure-of-eight patterns swallows weave over the river’s green surface. She slowed to a stop five minutes ago to stare at a black beetle pattering along the dry earth. It disappeared into a crevice and emerged a moment later, pincers reaching into the warm air. I thought of engaging her interest further, perhaps telling her about nature and the glory of living things. Changing my mind, I moved her on quickly. I feared the stab of her angry shoe and the tearful regrets that might follow.
She no longer has her rag doll, which means she either dropped it in the tannery or somewhere along the path. I dread the moment she discovers the loss, though I suspect she may already know; that, in fact, she may have thrown it into the river while I was looking elsewhere. I half expect to see those helpless limbs churning slowly upon the rolling waters, drifting downstream like a bedraggled Ophelia.
I don’t try to talk. Silence, I think, is good for her. She has seen what she has seen. There is no use denying it, and any explanation is bound to confuse her, especially as I can think of none that might be communicated to a child. Words cannot easily encompass the insight that has grown upon me since the summer of 1916: that—in men, at least—all paths of expression lead ultimately to violence. But the thought hovers around me as we walk, ankles tugging the high grass.
I am standing at Quidi Vidi Lake again, trying to pick out the faces of Jack, Michael, and Jimmy as the new recruits cheer and hurl their hats towards the clouds. The exhilaration washing over us all seemed like a breath from above. It was love they were exp
ressing, love of adventure, love of one another, love of Newfoundland, love of an empire of which we were part when the mood struck us, love of everything we knew all rolled up into a single rush of ecstasy. Did they have any idea where all this love would lead? Did I? Did the other women who felt the deep tingle of pride for their boisterous men and the sense of the world opening up like never before? We were just as responsible. Our blindness and our quiet approval egged the men on. We provided the soft, compliant springs for their leap into glory.
But it wasn’t just the war. The recruitment drive was no aberrant trickery. It was part of something that already dwelt in us all. I think of Michael and Jimmy, interlocked in an attachment as real and as warm as any that binds two brothers. How did these fine men demonstrate their love? Not with soft words, assurances, the calm hand laid on another’s back, but with the smart thump to the shoulder, the taunt and yelp of mockery. A fainter, but no less painful, image passes through my mind of poor Noah Evans and his older brother, Fred, whose guidance came in brittle stares and goading phrases.
Is Mr. Jenson’s insane attack today this same process magnified ten thousand times? The ingredients were the same: love and devotion for a brother-in-arms. At some point during the intervening years, somewhere between laying his dying comrade onto the ground and his encounter with Mr. Smith, love found its expression, and its expression was war. In men, the deepest love, the deadliest grief leads not to tears but to the purging fire of physical fury. It’s the only expression available to them. I hardly need to know the details with regard to Mr. Jenson. The trigger—word, action, or even gesture made by Mr. Smith—is immaterial. Violence is the only logical outcome when a man is confronted with the source of his pain.
Perhaps it is some flaw in the plan, natural or divine. Perhaps we—Mr. Jenson, Mr. Smith, Mrs. Jenson, and myself— are the generation for whom this fault revealed itself. We see nature as it is; at its very core is a profound and desperate ugliness. Once discovered, knowledge of this fact not only entraps ourselves, but it creates an apocalyptic landslide that must consume all who come after us.
A mute but searing anger zigzags through my brain, its focus changing from war, to generals, to Mr. and Mrs. Jenson, to me, to the collective us. But there is one life that my anger hopes to save. I am leading her to the station. The quietness, even serenity, of the act belies the utter lack of planning or sense behind it. Hot blood burns at my temples at the thought. I know it is madness to try and separate her from her parents and the war that still rages around them. But what are my options? It is cowardice and desertion to let disaster overcome the innocent.
The station buildings come into view around the river’s next bend, and beyond these a white funnel of steam shoots up above the trees, likely the London train approaching the platform. I feel a hundred tiny wrenches tightening invisible bolts, and I know the moment is coming. I must decide whether I have the courage.
CHAPTER 29
Simon
My senses are numbed now, the headache gone, the jangle of panic subsided. A warm haze surrounds me, flooding my portion of the bar. The hues are softer than twilight here. No ray of sun enters, but I can see well enough to slip my fingers around the stem of my glass, and this is all I need. It has happened, the worst that can be imagined, and as death must be to a man long sickening, it is a kind of relief.
For a while after my escape from the tannery, I was half expecting a firm hand on my shoulder and a low warning voice telling me of the charges. It wasn’t an arrest—the public shame at my appalling actions—that worried me, but rather the loss of access to the blessed fluid that calms all ills. Locks and bars keeping me from the outside world might even be a comfort were it not for this fact.
Like the inhabitants of a newly disturbed hive, pictures buzz and circle my brain telling of possible scenarios after my departure. I imagine my wife and blackmailer rejoining Lucy and Elsa in the café. I see them huddling together under one of the beams, whispering of Charles’s murder as serving maids shuffle discreetly around them. I see Sarah with a handkerchief to her face, mourning her broken family and the years of pointless sacrifice. With a momentary relief, I realize that, once communicated, this information loses its terrorizing power. Smith would hardly give away so easily all he has nurtured for so long. He is more likely to draw out the suspense and wait for some fresh chance to lay out his wares. So for the moment I am merely a bully who assaults a man without legs in front of his wife, child, governess, and all his employees, and Smith retains sole knowledge of my darkest crimes. My focus shifts to the letter. I try to imagine the sly phrases in the missive now crumpled unopened in my pocket, the velvet touch that weaves blackmail into insinuation. When I first arrived at this place an urge, electric and terrifying, lured my hand into the dark recess of my pocket; my shivering fingers touched the envelope but did not bring it forth. With each stinging kiss of whisky, each wave of radiating warmth in my stomach and head, the possibility of reading it comes closer, but I still don’t possess the courage.
The wasps in my head are circling much more slowly now, and they are losing their sting. My mind begins to turn over thoughts with the languid carelessness of the barman’s hands as he dries the glasses. He’s a fat, glassy-eyed man and at the moment I love him for being too slow of movement and wit, too compromised by decades of ale, to ever think of blackmail.
Whatever happens I know it’s all over for me. Smith, the man whose name is like a flesh-entering blade, has brought me to my knees. I am at best a madman who attacks the weak and infirm. His frailness proved his strength and, no doubt, I underestimated him. All he ever needed to do to destroy me was simply turn up. I would see to the rest.
CHAPTER 30
Sarah
My childlike gaze drops to the banister, to Mr. Smith’s white, heavy-veined hand and the crossbeam of his crutch.
“I’m sorry about the job, anyway.”
Puzzlement crosses the veteran’s face.
“The job?”
“I thought that’s why you came to see my husband.”
“For a job?”
I blush even more deeply than before. On top of everything else, I appear to have insulted Mr. Smith’s pride.
“Yes.” The word is shameful and moist on my lips. I force myself to look at his face. I see the hint of a wry smile. We are stranded now on the stairs, needing some reason, some prompt, to allow us to move on. Despite his crutches, his wooden legs, and the frailness of his build, his stance seems firmer than my own. Experience again, I think. Nothing will faze this man because he has been through everything. I have been through nothing.
“I don’t need a job,” he says.
“No, of course.” My answer comes breathy and quick. I turn as though about to walk down the stairs, then sway back towards him, wishing there was some etiquette for helping a man who has just been seriously assaulted by one’s husband.
“Well,” Mr. Smith says, with a nod at the tannery floor below us, “we should…” I follow the unspoken direction and descend the stairs a step or two ahead of him. Reaching the ground, I become instantly aware of Simon’s employees as they concentrate upon their work, blunt knives scraping at the folds of leather in front of them. They avoid glancing in our direction, but I know they must be more than curious after the hideous scene. I turn to the veteran, determined not to rush away. I need to invoke a mask of confidence, however absurd it might seem in the situation. Dimly, I’m aware that stoicism is both a birthright and a duty. Vague nursery phrases mouthed by my father—calmness in adversity, hard work, diligence—pass like sails through my mind, urging me to live up to my inheritance as daughter to a shipbuilding empire. I’ve felt this odd jingoism before in the vicinity of my husband’s workplace. Now, as then, it disturbs me and sets me off-kilter.
“You must tell me about yourself, Mr. Smith,” I say, loudly enough to be overheard, I think, above the scrape and rumble of work. “Let’s go and sit by the river.”
The words ech
o in my head as we make our way side by side in silence, circling the tannery and the workers’ houses, coming to an open patch of grassland by the water and the bench. Each time my voice returns—You must tell me about yourself, Mr. Smith—it seems a little shriller, a little more presumptuous in its superiority.
I hold my tongue as I sit on the bench, hoping that Mr. Smith, who dismantles like a deck chair beside me, can read belated humility in my silence. He sighs, perhaps in pain at some bruise or abrasion, perhaps in self-consciousness. Squinting at the river’s bright ripples, I ready myself, mind searching through various obvious questions in search of the least patronizing. But he is the first to speak.
“I’m on holiday, visiting my sister. That’s why I’m in Ipswich. Not for work.”
“Oh,” I say, expecting something to suggest itself as a follow-up question, but nothing comes. I begin to shrink again, my sufferings paling. The woman who seven years ago promised to herself that she would live a life of heroic, Promethean struggles seems domestic, trivial, and neurotic. For the first time I notice the rather fine stitch of Mr. Smith’s charcoal suit—a subtle plaid woven into the cloth adds to the texture without drawing attention to the pattern—and the scent of new leather rising from his black shoes. How can I hope to heal my own husband or anyone else from maladies of the soul when I can’t even gauge the nature of man’s most obvious needs? I have failed to even notice whether this man is poor or comfortably situated, whether he needs work or may be insulted by such a suggestion.
“Elsa tells me you served with my husband.” I surprise myself with the statement, with its abruptness of tone and direct pertinence to all that has passed. There must be something about Mr. Smith I do not trust, some part of me taking Simon’s part.