This Time Tomorrow

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by Rupert Colley


  Chapter 33: The Station – 20 September 1926

  Ten to seven the morning after Lawrence’s devastating visit, Guy was at Euston station. He searched the platform as the few passengers boarded the 7.02 train to Manchester. But there was no sign of them. Surely, he thought, he would have seen them had they been there. It did seem very early for a Sunday. The next train for Manchester was due to leave exactly an hour later, at 8.02. He would wait in case they boarded that train, and then the next one and the next one. Lawrence had said the morning but if need be, Guy was prepared to wait all day. He went off to the small station café and bought himself a coffee and a roll. He also bought a newspaper and tried to read the sports pages. In front of a crowd of 120,000 people, the boxer, Gene Tunney, had defeated Jack Dempsey to become world heavyweight champion. But Guy felt too distracted to concentrate, terrified of missing them. After only ten minutes, he could not bear to sit still a moment more. He slurped down the last of the coffee and, leaving the newspaper on the table, went back out onto the main concourse. He paced up and down, searching every face that passed him – male, female or child. For a moment, he thought he saw them from a distance, a couple with two young boys. He called out her name but she didn’t turn around. On closer inspection, he realised his mistake. Perhaps, he thought, he should wait near the taxi rank, but there was always an outside chance they would arrive by tram or Underground. There was nothing for it; he would have to maintain his vigil on the concourse.

  Half past seven. Guy glanced up at the indicator board for the hundredth time – still no platform number. He made his way to a bench at the side of the concourse from where he could still watch what was going on, and sat down with a sigh. He was feeling nervous again, his palms sweaty, his head thumping. This sort of dramatic confrontation was alien to him. He tried to think what on earth he would say to her and tried to imagine her reaction at seeing him there. Would she consider his bravado as romantically heroic or merely pitiful? His mind fluctuated between the two extreme possibilities – one in which she falls gratefully into his arms and allows herself to be whisked away to a new and freer life, and the other in which she looks him up and down contemptuously, and then turns her back on him in a defiant gesture of rejection.

  After ten minutes, Guy made his way back to have another look at the indicator board. It was quarter to eight, and the platform for the 8.02 to Manchester had been announced – platform eight. He walked quickly to the ticket barrier at the end of the platform. There was already a small queue of passengers waiting as the train from Manchester pulled in. Dozens of carriage doors opened simultaneously and the platform quickly filled with outgoing passengers, and the immediate area around the ticket barrier soon became congested. The number of people waiting to board was increasing by the minute. Guy tried to keep pace with the density of people coming and going. Eventually, the ticket inspector allowed the ongoing passengers through the barrier. Guy looked at his watch; it was just gone five to eight. He heard her before he saw her.

  ‘Clarence, don’t run off please.’

  He spun his head around. There they were – the four of them, accompanied, much to Guy’s surprise, by Josephine, clutching a small handbag, together with three attendants lugging numerous suitcases and bags. As Lawrence and Mary approached the ticket barrier with a child each, Guy called out her name; he was only a few feet away.

  She looked up and saw him immediately. ‘Guy? Guy, what are you doing here?’

  Before Guy could speak, Lawrence stepped between them, his face looming inches away from Guy’s, his eyes burning with anger through his spectacles. He spoke quietly but menacingly. ‘What in the blazes do you think you’re doing, man? Just get the hell out of here.’

  Guy saw George in the corner of his eye. Sidestepping Lawrence, he dropped down onto one knee and spread his arms open. George needed no second invitation; he flung himself against Guy’s chest. Guy wrapped his arms around the little chap and squeezed him as tightly as he dared. Guy couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He closed his eyes and breathed in as much of George’s smell as he could. The smell of his smooth, pink skin, the fresh odour of his beautiful, silky hair, the smell of his son, his only son. He could have died in that smell, that unmistakable smell. His mind flashed back to Jack, hugging his brother for the last time, the smell of him beneath the stale sweat, the hint of rum, the stench of fear. Here he was again, using smell as the last desperate thread by which to remember. By this time tomorrow, he thought. ‘Uncle Hobbly!’ squeaked the little five-year-old, his words muffled into Guy’s chest. Guy could feel the tears coming, his heart breaking. ‘George, George, George, my darling George,’ he whispered.

  ‘George, George let go of Uncle Guy now.’ Guy heard Lawrence’s piercing voice, bringing to an end his desperate embrace. ‘George, this instant!’ Reluctantly, Guy loosened his grip and George stepped back fearful of earning his father’s displeasure. Guy pulled himself up. Mary had turned her back, unable to bring herself to watch the scene of severance. Josephine sidled up to her and placed an arm around her shoulder. Guy glanced at Clarence and tried to smile at him. But Clarence looked concerned; he was old enough to know something was not quite right.

  ‘Mary...’ said Guy quietly.

  Josephine removed her arm and Mary turned around and looked at him beseechingly. ‘Guy?’

  This was it, thought Guy, in front of Lawrence, in front of Josephine, he had to say it and she had to believe it. ‘Mary, I don’t want you to leave.’

  Lawrence tried again to intervene, but Mary brushed him aside with a withering look to which he quickly submitted. She looked pale, almost petrified by what Guy was asking of her. ‘Don’t do this to me, Guy.’

  ‘Mary, you don’t have to go, you know that, you don’t have to take George away from me.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh Guy, I have two sons, we just couldn’t do it.’

  ‘Uncle Hobbly.’ Guy looked down at his son. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  ‘No, sweetheart, but...’ He looked back at Mary. Nearby, the ticket inspector announced two minutes for passengers boarding the Manchester train. ‘Mary, please, I love you.’ He realised he’d never said it before. He wondered whether Jack had ever said it.

  Lawrence spoke, his voice raked with uncertainty, the former confident and menacing tone all but vanished. ‘Mary, love, we ought to board, otherwise we’ll miss it.’

  Mary looked at her husband, glanced at Josephine and then turned back to Guy, her hand at her mouth. Guy noticed she was wearing Jack’s ring again. The two cousins watched her intently; both men knowing their respective futures with Mary hung on the very words she was currently struggling to find.

  ‘Last call for Manchester please.’

  ‘Mary, please, we have to go now.’

  ‘Tickets please.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Mary, don’t take him away from me.’

  She opened her mouth as if about to speak and for a moment Guy feared she was about to faint. But instead she let out a cry. As her face crumpled under the tears, she spluttered, ‘Oh, Guy, I love you too...’ She tried to catch her breath through the tears.

  George tugged at her sleeve. ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ he said, his little voice filled with incomprehension.

  ‘It’s OK, darling, Mummy’s all right.’ She took his hand to reassure him. ‘But Guy, I can’t truly give myself to you when not a day, barely an hour passes, when I think of Jack and how much I miss him so, so terribly and how much I still love him. It wouldn’t be fair on you, or me, and it wouldn’t be fair on him. Jack would destroy us, Guy, and you would end up resenting him for it.’

  ‘But...’ He couldn’t say it; his conscience wouldn’t allow him to form the words. But Jack never really loved you, not properly, not in the way I love you. From the moment Jack, dressed in his new uniform, had stepped onto the train bound for France, Mary had lived with the illusion of love. And she would continue to live it to her last breath, thought Guy. He cared too much for her to shat
ter her love for Jack and, with the realisation, Guy slumped, the moment of resignation. His false leg seemed to have disappeared and for a moment, he feared he was about to tumble. He felt a sudden resentment for Jack. How could Guy live a life for both of them, when Jack wasn’t prepared to allow him to live his own life the way he wanted to, with the woman he wanted to live it with, and with the son he wanted to be a father to? Why had Jack made such an effort to save him from dying in no-man’s-land, if he was then quite content to allow Guy to rot slowly from the inside? He’d gladly forfeited his inheritance for Jack, for Jack’s honour, and what did he have to show for it? It was the ultimate betrayal.

  The ticket inspector approached Lawrence. ‘Sir, if you’re planning to catch this train, this really is your last opportunity.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry.’ Lawrence turned to his wife. ‘All set?’

  She nodded. ‘Come on, Clarence,’ she said to the older boy lurking behind the attendants, who were tactfully talking to each other. Clarence took his father’s hand as Lawrence led the way. Guy stepped back to let them pass. Lawrence glanced at Guy briefly as he passed, but there was no exultation in his eyes, no joy in his victory, just a fleeting glance of concern. Then Mary followed, holding onto George’s hand. She paused in front of Guy, leant up to him and kissed him politely on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, my love.’

  Guy shook his head, his lips pursed, shocked by the sudden and overwhelming sense of Jack’s betrayal. He looked down to George, who seemed preoccupied by a pigeon that had landed a few paces away. Guy could not face the torture of holding him again, fearing he’d never be able to let go. He bit his lip and, as the little boy ambled past pointing at the pigeon, ruffled his hair. George looked up at his unknown father and grinned momentarily before being gently dragged away by his mother. Guy felt a hand tenderly clasp his wrist – it was Josephine. ‘Be strong,’ she whispered before letting go and following the others.

  Guy watched as the five of them walked quickly towards the train, the attendants struggling closely behind. They stopped at an open carriage door, two carriages away from the ticket barrier. First class. Josephine climbed aboard first and helped Mary lift George up the steep steps onto the train. Carrying a small suitcase, Clarence followed with his mother directly behind. After various coming and goings with the baggage, Lawrence boarded the train last, slamming shut the carriage door as the conductor blew his whistle and waved the green flag. He didn’t look back.

  Guy waited, staring at the door, hoping it would suddenly reopen, that there would be a change of heart and a reappearance. The platform became engulfed in billows of smoke, obscuring his view. He watched as the train slowly pulled out of the station. In four hours, thought Guy, they would arrive in Manchester. Only four hours away, just a couple hundred miles but, for the size of the gulf that Jack that driven between him and Mary, it might as well be the other side of the world. At the far end of the platform, the train emerged from the darkness of the station and into the bright morning sun. It began to pick up speed as it turned a corner and slowly disappeared from view. Guy remained rooted to the spot, looking idly at the swirling smoke rise and diffuse. It reminded him of the smoke rising menacingly above the trenches, gradually revealing the sight of the mutilated and dying. Guy closed his eyes and let out an audible groan. He suddenly felt very tired and in urgent need to get home and away from the empty deserted platform in front of him and the crowded concourse behind him. ‘I’ll see you again,’ he said to himself. And in his mind, he heard his brother’s voice echoing back, ‘Yes, but not too soon.’

  He opened his eyes to see a figure slowly emerging from the rising smoke. She paused, strands of curling hair blowing across her face, clutching her handbag. He’d assumed she was going with them, but obviously not. She smiled, almost apologetically, as she approached. ‘You know as well as I do, don’t you?’ she said. ‘But you never told her.’

  Guy shook his head. ‘How could I?’

  ‘It could have made all the difference.’

  ‘But, Josephine, she was besotted with him. I couldn’t destroy that.’

  She brushed her hair back. ‘After Father left us, she wanted a man to fill the gap. When Jack proposed, she was delighted. Jack’s death deified him, made their love seem all the more real, a marriage made in Heaven. It would’ve never worked out otherwise.’

  ‘I know. Jack was just a boy looking for adventure and a girlfriend to go with it. Could have been Mary or anyone... could have been you.’ He smiled. ‘Especially you.’

  ‘I know. And I know you know – I saw you lurking behind that tree when Jack... you know.’

  ‘At my parents’ party.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘Care to buy me a coffee?’

  Guy thought of his aching leg. He desperately needed to remove the wooden limb, to ease his throbbing thigh. ‘I ought to be going really.’

  ‘I understand. I’m sorry.’ A look of embarrassment flashed across her face and she quickly turned to leave.

  Guy watched her for a few moments. Perhaps his leg wasn’t that bad after all. ‘But there again...’ he called out. She stopped and turned around to face him, a hint of an expectant smile on her face. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I do have the time. In fact...’ he added, ‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  THE END

  Dedicated to the three hundred and six British servicemen executed during

  The Great War of 1914 to 1918.

  During the First World War, there were 238,000 British courts martial – 3,080 resulted in the death penalty. Of these, 346 (11 per cent) were carried out – 40 for murder, the other 306 for offences such as desertion, cowardice, falling asleep while on duty, etc. 3.6 per cent of soldiers tried for desertion were executed. In November 2006, the UK government pardoned all 306 servicemen executed during the war.

  The Unforgiving Sea

  The Searight Saga, Part Two

  Rupert Colley

  ©2015 Rupert Colley

  Ebook Edition

  rupertcolley.com

  Prologue

  A Village in Devon, Southern England, August 1944

  I never felt so relieved to be home. I looked in the hallway mirror and thought how I’d aged. What did I expect? But from tonight, I was starting a new life, a quieter, more peaceful existence. I’d had enough adventure to last a lifetime. All that was behind me now.

  I called for Angie, my little Jack Russell. Mr Jenkins, the headmaster at the village primary school, had been looking after her during my long absence. She came to me, wagging her tail. She hadn’t forgotten me. I picked her up and ruffled her coarse fur and, laughing, turned my face away as she tried to lick me. Jenkins had been my first visitor, earlier in the afternoon, the dog at his feet. He shook my hand firmly and welcomed me home. He seemed sorry to have to return Angie to me. My next visitor, within minutes of Jenkins leaving, was Joe Hamilton, the village shopkeeper, wearing his habitual apron and bearing a basket of foodstuffs to ‘keep me going’. How kind. I thanked him profusely. I’ll have to settle up with him soon.

  The third person to call was June Parker. She kissed me on the cheek and hovered at my doorway declining my offer to come in. The wife of a soldier, she wore a long dark coat despite the warmth of the afternoon sun and lipstick of the brightest red, her blonde hair curled at the back.

  ‘You’re to go the pub tonight, Robert,’ she said in a conspiratorial tone. ‘The White Ship, but no earlier than eight o’clock, you hear?’

  ‘That sounds intriguing.’

  ‘You’ll find out. Come and pick me up at eight and we’ll go together. That way I can keep an eye on you. Pleased to be back?’

  ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am.’

  ‘And we’re all very pleased to have you back. It must have been awful.’

  After she’d gone, I went up to my bedroom, the dog overtaking me on the stairs. The room was sparse – pastel flowery wallpaper, just the single bed, an ugly wardrobe, a be
dside table. What does one expect from rented accommodation? Above a dresser was a pleasant moorland painting depicting Highland cattle with their long horns. And above the bed, a wooden crucifix supporting a metal figurine of Christ. I unhitched it off the wall and noticed the shadow of the cross left in its wake on the wallpaper. Sitting on the bed with Angie lying behind me, I studied it. It was heavy but crudely produced, the extended arms overly long, his nailed hands out of proportion with the rest of him. It was cheap. And ugly. The idea of his contorted face staring down at me every morning was unnerving. I hid it in the top draw of the bedside table.

  Across the landing from my room, the second bedroom – Clarence’s room, a mirror image of my own. Although the same height, Clarence had been thinner than me, and looking in his wardrobe I found a number of his clothes that would fit me now. I’d lost so much weight that my own clothes, down to the last pair of trousers, were all too large for me. I stretched the fingers of my right hand. With a bit of manoeuvring, I slid the gold band off my index finger. It had lost none of its shine in the intervening weeks. I tossed it around in my palm. With this ring, I’d made a promise. To deliver it to a woman. A woman who lived in the village. It was all I had to do. To deliver this ring. Tomorrow. I placed it in the bedside table drawer – next to the crucifix.

  It was almost eight now and having washed and shaved and changed my clothes for Clarence’s, I was ready to go. I wore a navy blue jacket and a plain dark green tie. The tie at least was mine. I swept the dashes of Angie’s white fur from my trousers and checked myself in the mirror one more time. Yes, I thought, I looked fine. It was time to reacquaint myself with the ordinary world encapsulated in this tiny Devonian village, a world I often thought I’d never see again. I patted Angie, promising her I wouldn’t be too long.

 

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