This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  As he walked, Jack’s mind went back to the night before his embarkation, his last night in England. He liked Mary and the more time passed, the more he thought of her with affection. Then, when he was able to join up, he decided he had to be a man to do a man’s job, so he asked her to marry him. Fortunately, events moved quicker than he anticipated and there was no time to marry, at least not in the grand manner that Mary desired. Even more fortunately, she was able and willing to accommodate him as her fiancé. And so, they made love; only the once, but it was enough, he could go to war a man. But what would he do come the end of the war? Did he love her enough to want to marry her? Despite the letters he’d written to her expressing his undying love, the doubts lingered. He rummaged in his pockets for his photograph of Mary but having searched each pocket a number of times, he had to conclude the photo wasn’t there. Pity. He so wanted to see her face, to be reminded of her lovely eyes.

  At first, Jack thought he’d imagined it. He stopped and listened, but there was nothing but the sounds of the forest, the breeze shuffling through the leaves, the assorted shrills of birds, the drone of insects. But then he heard it again. He ducked down and strained his ears. He heard the sound of voices. Jack cursed and glanced around for somewhere to hide. He couldn’t tell how far away they were or how many, but the voices were definitely English. Were they men on exercise or were they coming for him, hunting him down like the fugitive he was? He began to shiver. There was nowhere obvious to conceal himself, so he had no choice but to pin himself against the trunk of a hefty tree. He wanted to run, to flee, but with great determination, he stayed put, fearing that even his breathing would betray his position. The voices seemed to be coming from everywhere, closing in on him. He could see someone, not forty yards from him. His heart lurched, the sweat pouring down his back. But then the voices seemed to be fading. He dared to peer round the trunk and sure enough he saw them moving on through the woods, about eight of them. Jack slunk to the ground and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  *

  The old man barked at Jack in French, his lips moving incomprehensibly under the thick bush of his grey moustache, finishing off with a raucous laugh. Jack smiled and felt relieved that the man seemed friendly enough.

  'Saint Omer?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion. 'Ou est Saint Omer, s'il vous plait?' he asked, each word painfully articulated.

  'Saint Omer?' The old man launched into a long dialogue, seemingly unaware that the young English soldier had no idea what he was saying. But he pointed to his right, jabbing the air with an outstretched finger.

  'Over there?' said Jack, pointing in the same direction.

  'Oui, oui, Saint Omer.'

  Jack bowed. 'Merci, monsieur.' He thanked him again and started to walk.

  The old man shouted after him, laughing out loud at his own joke.

  *

  Jack had no idea how long he'd been walking but he reckoned many an hour. The night was drawing in but now, finally, he could see the village ahead of him, perhaps another mile, a church spire dominating the horizon. He trudged on, his shoulder aching still, both thankful to be closing in on his destination but fearful of what lay in store there. He was cold and hungry – he had some provisions left but had rationed them until he found somewhere to sleep. He hoped the village would offer new sources of food.

  He'd walked through the last field, where he decided to rest, leaning against a stone wall, and wait until dark. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  By the time Jack woke up, it was properly dark, the half moon mostly obscured by cloud. He couldn't tell what time it was but he felt better for having eaten and rested. The ache in his shoulder seemed to be fading. With his eyes accustomed to the dark he decided that now was the perfect time for rejoining his fellow man. He climbed over the wall and, landing on the other side, was pleased to feel the solid tarmac beneath his feet. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the steep road towards the silhouetted village in front of him.

  Not a soul was about as Jack made his way down the various narrow streets, not a single light in the houses either side. Conscious of the noise of his boots, he began to worry that the village might be under a curfew. Walking slowly, he made his way to the central square. Again, total darkness, not a street light, not a sound. Somewhere a dog barked. There, in front of him, was the church, its presence dominating the square. The time, according to its giant clock, was half three. Scanning the square, he saw a café, its tarpaulin fluttering in the breeze, its windows covered by wooden shutters. Closer to, Jack saw its name – Café Vincent – and outside its front door, a dustbin. A cat scurried off on his approach. Jack was hungry but he wondered whether he was that hungry. Perhaps not yet, but he soon would be. Holding his breath, he lifted the lid. Immediately he was hit by the smell of beef. But it was too dark to see inside. He couldn’t face plunging his hand into a goo of mixed-up leftovers. He’d rather beg or steal than subject himself to this. Quietly, he replaced the lid and turned back towards the church. A road sign caught his eye, Gare, so at least now he knew which direction to take to find the railway station.

  Jack climbed the steps leading up to the church and approached the huge wooden doors. He turned the brass ring and, to his relief, found the doors unlocked. Despite their size, the doors opened quietly and Jack slipped inside.

  Having slept so much that afternoon, he wasn’t tired. He lay on a pew at the back of the church. The church clock rang each hour with such volume as to awaken the dead. The last chime signalled six o’clock. Jack needed a pee. Outside, despite the sun, the air felt cold. Going back inside, he found a room at the back of the church to the left of the altar which was obviously the priest’s office. Peering inside various cupboards, he duly found a breadbin and, to his relief, inside, was half a loaf of white bread. It was stale, but Jack ate huge chunks, his jaw aching as he chomped. A quick further search, and he found two bottles of communion wine, one opened with about a quarter remaining. He took a couple of swigs. The liquid made Jack shudder and he laughed.

  Having feasted on his communion breakfast, it was time, he decided, to catch a train.

  Half past six and already the town buzzed with activity but in such a way that made Jack shiver with apprehension – everywhere he looked were men in uniform – both army and Royal Flying Corps. He remembered that the RFC had a large base on the outskirts of the town. Gaggles of relaxed men, their uniforms clean, their boots polished, their faces fresh. Among them, he knew he stood out – the soldier who looked dishevelled, his boots caked in mud, unshaven, his breath rank and tinged with alcohol. He made his way towards the train station, his eyes fixed on the pavement, hoping not to attract attention. For a while he walked alongside a horse pulling a cart laden with potatoes and turnips. Behind him he heard the quick step of boots on cobblestones. He made to go into a bakery, opening the door. He thought of Mary and her work in the bakery. In the reflection of the door glass, he saw a group of men jogging pass in formation. He sighed with relief, hovering at the door. ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ a man’s voice called from inside. He was serving a middle-aged woman, wearing a wide-brimmed hat of straw. At her feet, her shopping basket. The aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted through and for a moment Jack felt weakened by the gorgeous smell. He smiled weakly at the man in his pristine-white apron. He went in, nodded a bonjour at both, then set himself to consider the variety of breads on sale. He reached inside his haversack and felt the kitchen knife. He didn’t mean to do it and he knew he would hate himself for it. The shopkeeper and his customer resumed their conversation and feeling himself ignored, Jack made his move. Nimbly, he stretched down, grabbed the purse from the handbag and ran out of the door. The woman, on realising what had happened, screamed at him to stop. He ran, faster than he thought would be possible, his boots echoing on the cobbled streets. Some of the jogging men turned at the sound of the woman yelling from the door of the bakery, wondering what she was trying to say. They looked around but Jack had alread
y raced ahead of them, turned a corner and headed for the station.

  The train station was a mass of soldiers on the move; the intermittent shout of a Frenchman cut through the excitable voices of Englishmen. Jack was out of breath. He looked round, reassuring himself that he wasn’t being followed. The purse tucked away in his inside pocket made an uncomfortable bulge on his conscience. A train stood on the platform, emitting occasional belches of black smoke. According to the clapperboard, it was due to depart in ten minutes; its destination was Calais, just forty kilometres away. Calais – even the sound of the word in his mind made his mouth water. He saw a sign for the men’s toilet, and popping in, he fished the purse from inside his tunic and looking within found a note or two and a bit of change: twelve, perhaps fifteen francs altogether. Enough, he thought, for a while yet. He pushed the money into his pocket and found a bin for the purse, pushing it down to the bottom, obscuring it with various bits of litter. He needed to get on that train. Less than eight minutes to departure.

  Getting a ticket from the ticket office proved easy, even with his pidgin French: ‘Billet, s’il vous plais. Calais,’ was all that was necessary. Two francs later, he was ready to go. But a commotion outside on the platform made him stop short. Peering through the ticket office window, his heart surged on seeing the woman from the bakery, and, alongside her, a policeman, his black uniform shining in the sun, men in khaki passing by either side of them. Jack pulled back from the window. Around him, the office was almost empty, only an elderly French couple in the corner examining a pamphlet. He was trapped. Outside, waiting, the train. The clock inside the office showed five minutes. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he said aloud. The elderly couple looked at him; the woman raised a plucked eyebrow. In the corner a wooden chair. Should he sit on it; try to appear normal?

  He turned instead to face a poster on the wall. A painting of a puffing train emerging from a tunnel. His mouth felt dry. He could hear the woman outside, talking loudly, whether to the policeman or to all within earshot, he couldn’t tell but it was enough to interest the elderly man. ‘Ce qui est?’ he heard him say. The train outside blew its whistle, a conductor shouted, ‘Quatre minutes.’ Four minutes. He felt the eyes of the couple on his back. The puffing smoke in the picture seemed to swirl. The Frenchman spoke again. Jack examined his ticket, trying to think what he could do next to appear normal, an ordinary soldier, albeit a scruffy one, about to board a train. A glance out of the window told him the woman and her policeman had moved further down the platform. The Frenchman repeated himself but louder. It was obvious the words were directed at him and they were not friendly in tone. Three minutes. He turned to look at the man. His wife was behind him pretending to be leafing through the leaflets. The chair. The door. A solution came to him, a ridiculous solution. The man was now standing directly in front of him, his aftershave faintly apparent. The man spoke again but this time, leaning back towards the ticket man behind his grille, all the time his eyes remained fixed on Jack. Outside, the conductor was shouting, the train whistling, train doors slamming; inside, the ticket man shouting, the old man threatening, his wife pleading. Jack could see the seconds tick by on the clock behind the man’s head. It had to be now. ‘Au revoir, monsieur’, said Jack. Quickly, he picked up the chair, but the old man read his intention. Surprisingly nimble, he grabbed it. The two men tussled for the chair. ‘Qu'est ce qui ne va pas? C'est vous qu'ils recherchent?’ asked the Frenchman, his tone threatening, mocking. ‘Claude,’ he called to the ticket man, ‘appelez le policier.’ Jack recognized the word policier and with it, let go the chair and plunged his hand into his haversack, pulling out the kitchen knife. The man put down the chair, not taking his eyes off Jack. ‘OK, c'est bon, c’est bon,’ he said, putting his hands in the air.

  ‘Get back,’ said Jack, gesticulating with his knife towards the man’s wife. ‘And you,’ he shouted at the ticket man. The man muttered something but did as was told, appearing from a door next to his booth. ‘Over there, I’m sorry about this, this wasn’t meant to happen.’ The clock showed one minute to go. The three of them huddled in the corner next to the leaflet stand. The train emitted another whistle and a puff of black smoke drifted over the platform. Taking the chair, Jack strode outside, returning the knife to his haversack. He slammed the chair against the doorknob. The train had started to move. He could see her straw hat at the far end of the platform. The old man was turning the doorknob from inside, pushing at it. Jogging up alongside the train and seizing a door handle, Jack began to feel exhilarated. He heard her yell, Il est là, just as he opened the door and jumped up onto the train. He lowered the window and leant out. He saw the chair being kicked away, and the old man tumbling out, screeching, Oi que pensez-vous que vous faites. The policeman was sprinting down the platform, waving his helmet, yelling, Arrêtez, arrêtez. But it was too late; the train had already gathered too much momentum; the driver would never hear the policeman with his flailing arms. Jack could see them all, rapidly receding into the distance: the policeman bending down to catch his breath, and, further behind, the old man and the woman waving her straw hat. Jack leant against the door and slid down. His shoulder hurt. He hated himself for having subjected them to that – the woman, the elderly couple, the ticket man; what had led him to such desperation? But for now, at least, he was safe.

  Chapter 19: The Piano – 5 November 1917

  With the ticket in his hand, Jack made his way down the train corridor, pushing past soldiers, trying to find an empty compartment, but each one seemed to be full of men, shouting in good heart, laughing. Making his way, he saw at the end of the corridor, a lieutenant. The soldiers wouldn’t question him, but an officer? It was too risky. Instead, he turned back. Eventually, on the fourth carriage, towards the back of the train, he found a compartment with just a woman and a child inside. This will have to do, he thought.

  Sliding the door open, he muttered a bonjour to the woman and sat down heavily, relieved to catch his breath. The woman responded with an accented ‘hello’. She was about thirty, thought Jack, wearing a brown jacket with large buttons, a daffodil in the lapel, a matching hat and bright red lipstick. On her lap a newspaper. Next to her, wearing shorts, her son, probably about eight, reading a book with a cowboy on its cover. Jack felt awkward and wished he had something to read. Instead, he leant against the window and watched the countryside rush past. He thought of what lay ahead of him – how would he get on a boat to England; the train to London. It was all too daunting. At least now he had the money. He thought of the woman with her straw hat and pitied the anguish he had caused her. He knew the policeman would telephone ahead; that they’d be waiting for him at Calais and possibly every station in between. He could try and merge in with the soldiers but it wasn’t without its risks, especially in the state he was in. The little boy laughed at something in his book. His mother spoke fondly to him, then smiled at Jack.

  ‘He’s always reading,’ she said.

  ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I read a lot at his age. Always adventure stories. Africa, India...’

  ‘Are you going back home to England?’

  ‘Yes. England.’ How simple it seemed.

  ‘You have a ticket,’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’ What made her ask that?

  They sat in silence for a few minutes and Jack tried to concentrate on the outside. She broke the silence by speaking to her son.

  ‘Why do you not sit with your friends?’ she asked, turning to Jack.

  ‘Oh, I’ve seen enough of them to last a lifetime.’

  The compartment door slid open with a flourish. ‘Billets, s'il vous plait.’ The ticket inspector’s call made Jack jump. The inspector, wearing a cloak, took both the woman’s and Jack’s tickets, punched them and handed them back.

  Jack couldn’t help let out a sigh of relief as the man slid the door behind him. He could hear his voice asking for tickets in the next compartment.

  The woman picked up her
newspaper, opened it randomly and started to read. On the front page, a picture of Henri Pétain, the French commander-in-chief, with his square little hat. ‘You can’t get off at Calais,’ she said from behind the paper.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ asked Jack, sitting up.

  ‘They’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘I don’t understand, who will be...’ He slumped back in his chair; what was the use? ‘How did you know?’

  She put down the newspaper. ‘I saw them from the window at the station. The woman, the policeman. They were looking for someone. They were looking for you.’

  The two looked at each other, their eyes locked. The spell was broken only by the boy pointing at something out of the window. She humoured him, and said to Jack, ‘He saw a bird, I don’t know the name of it in English. Big, colourful. You come off the train with me at the station before, Les Attaques.’

  ‘Peacock?’

  ‘No, not peacock.’

  ‘They could be waiting for me there.’

  ‘They will be expecting you in Calais, not Les Attaques. More brown than a peacock. Has a green head.’

  ‘But why? Why should you want to do this?’

  ‘We walk together, with Pascal here. Husband and wife. Yes?’

  ‘Pheasant.’

  ‘Yes, it was a pheasant, un faisan,’ she said picking up the newspaper.