The Return of Captain John Emmett

by Elizabeth Speller

  His mate, Perkins, who'd enlisted with him and who was definitely part of the scheme, caled him Bunny from then on, but nobody else would have dared.'

  'How on earth had he got to sergeant?' Laurence asked.

  'Wel, they were very short of NCOs at the start and he'd been a factory foreman, somewhere in the Black Country, so actualy he was quite good with the men

  —the ones he hadn't taken against—and he was fearless, albeit vicious, or he would have been in trouble before. But there were always rumours. The men said he was a devil with the ladies and we'd nearly had him up on a charge for seling coloured water as a cure for the clap. The lads didn't like getting the lecture from the MO, and Tucker's stuff worked a treat because most of them never had the clap in the first place. First-timers, boys, with nothing worse than a guilty conscience. But we were a long way forward at that time, so there weren't a whole lot of mesdemoiseless in petticoats waiting for Tucker's blandishments. I seldom dealt with him directly but the man was a clever opportunist and, I can quite believe, a brute at heart. And he'd disappear from time to time. I suppose we thought he might have been out poaching.'

  Again Laurence must have looked puzzled because Wiliam's expression changed to one of weary distaste.

  'You must have come across them. Loners? Men made for kiling? Couldn't have enough of it, so went out to find the odd extra German for sport or mementoes?' He ran a finger across his throat.

  Laurence nodded. Angels in the sky; bulets deflected by prayer books or cigarette cases; footbal armistices; berserkers. Battlefields acquired their own myths; he'd rarely found much truth in them.

  Wiliam went on, 'Stil, John had him down for something else. He wouldn't say, or not to me—I was new to the unit then—but he clearly loathed the man. I went to see Emmett once he was strapped up and waiting to go. He was stil very pale but quite composed, and he asked me about Perkins, and where Tucker had been when the tunnel colapsed. He was more suspicious than grateful. I told him I hadn't seen Tucker at al until everyone came running and that he owed his life to him.

  But I got the feeling that John thought Tucker might have had something to do with the accident itself. Perhaps that's a bit strong. He didn't say anything specific and he'd had a bad shock.'

  'He didn't like smal spaces,' Laurence said. 'He had claustrophobia, I suppose. Even at school.'

  'God.' Wiliam puffed at the pipe. 'Must have been hel, then. He was two hours down there, at least. Must have seemed like a lifetime. Anyway, a few weeks later everything goes up. John's in hospital, localy until the casualties start pouring in, then shipped home. Never gets a chance to cal it with Tucker. Not then.'

  'And when he died he left you the money?' Laurence said. 'Do you mind me asking?'

  'Of course not. It was as much a surprise to us as I fear it must have been to his family. In fact, when John's solicitors wrote, we asked them what the family's circumstances were. Didn't want to leave them in dire straits. Can't say but that the money was helpful—you can see how it is—but no reason for them to do without.

  Chap said that he didn't know the family personaly but that John had left his people the house they were already living in, which he owned, and most of the rest of his estate. The solicitor seemed to think their needs were covered quite wel. Eleanor wrote to the family, too—partly with condolences, partly to try to find out what John had meant by it. No answer.'

  Laurence stayed silent, trying to remember if Mary had mentioned a letter.

  'They're not in trouble are they—the Emmetts?' Wiliam looked concerned.

  'No. There's no question of that. His mother and sister would be grateful you saved him, even though the end came as it did. They just—wel, his sister mostly, to be honest—wanted to understand.'

  Wiliam nodded. 'It's a funny thing,' he said slowly. 'I was angry when I heard John had shot himself. There were so many men who didn't come back, and then John makes it, and makes it in one piece, and then ... puts his family through al that. But Eleanor understands it. She saw plenty of men with their nerves gone. She was a nurse; that's how I met her. Shel-shock, that's what they cal it now, and it didn't seem to matter how strong a man was before the war; it could hit anyone, any time.'

  The faintest of smiles flickered. 'Wel, not Sergeant Tucker, obviously. War had its own rewards for his sort.'

  Laurence thought of Charles, another man whom war suited very nicely. Charles was an ideal officer: not over-imaginative, unflappable and robust. But what happened to those men who had found some pleasure in the fighting and the routines, once it was al over?

  As to what pushed him over the edge,' Wiliam went on, 'who can tel? I've no idea. He came back from convalescence in England once he was patched up but I never saw him again. I'd been injured by then. We were wiped out, or damn nearly, at Lateau Wood. One leg virtualy blown off.' He pointed to the limb, which ended at the knee. 'Other leg went septic. I hovered between life and death—I don't remember a thing—and was nursed by Eleanor, who viewed their having to take off the other leg as a personal insult and wasn't prepared to put up with me dying after al her labours. I don't know exactly what John did when he got back. Seconded to another outfit's my guess.'

  'And Tucker?' Laurence asked, not quite knowing why.

  'No idea. I expect he survived. His sort tended to. Probably came home with his clap tonic and the Military Medal in his bag.'

  Wiliam was starting to look tired. Laurence fired off one last question. 'I don't know if you were told but there were another two bequests besides yours. A Mrs Lovel. That doesn't mean anything to you, does it?'

  Bolitho shook his head. 'The solicitor implied there were other beneficiaries, mostly to put my mind at rest about taking the money, but he was far too circumspect to volunteer names and I didn't ask.'

  'Not Tucker, anyway,' said Laurence, feeling guilty that he'd been so much less discreet than the legal advisors. 'So there were limits to John's gratitude. And there wasn't any Lovel involved in the rescue?'

  'No, I'm pretty sure not. Perkins died. I think it was Smith who was probably buried alive. There was Tucker, and the major's batman and a couple of other Welsh lads whose names escape me, if I ever knew them. But I don't think I remember a Lovel at al. Not there, anyway. Certainly never came across a Mrs Lovel.

  What are you thinking: somebody's wife? Mother?'

  'I haven't a clue. It's the wildest of wild cards. I hope to speak to her, if she stil lives at the address I have.'

  'And could she even have been somebody's sister? A Miss Tucker or Perkins or whatever at one time, I suppose?' Wiliam said. 'Or maybe she was a young widow with hopes of being a Mrs Emmett?'

  'Possibly. And a Frenchman—caled Meurice? No bels ringing?'

  Wiliam shook his head.

  It took Laurence nearly an hour to tel Mary about the afternoon and his impressions. She had not interrupted once although at one point she picked up a biscuit, broke off a piece, dipped it in her tea and carried it to her mouth, al without dropping her eyes from his face. He liked her for it.

  'Bolitho was a good man. Perhaps you'l meet him one day. His wife too. If it helps, John's money must have made a big difference to a decent couple. There's a child too: a little boy.'

  Mary looked thoughtful. Finaly she spoke. 'Thank you. It means a lot, even these little bits: John's war in mosaic. He never told us how he got injured. We didn't think much of it; we saw it more as a good way of keeping him from the fighting for a while. We didn't know Captain Bolitho had saved his life, only that he'd been in the same regiment. John simply wrote and told us that he'd been in an accident. He didn't mention the sergeant at al, but being trapped would have been helish for him: John hated being in smal spaces or, realy, being constrained in any way. Even rules irked him.'

  Laurence nodded. It had been obvious at Marlborough. He wondered again why on earth John had rushed to volunteer, to become part of such a regulation-bound environment. 'But didn't Eleanor Bolitho tel you some of this in her letter
?'

  She frowned. 'They never bothered to write. None of the beneficiaries wrote,' she said, with a trace of bitterness.

  'How odd,' Laurence said.

  It didn't sit with what he'd seen of the Bolithos and contradicted what Wiliam had told him.

  'Look, we need to push on to catch the concert, but I did wonder whether I should go and see Mrs Lovel soon. Unlike Bolitho, we realy haven't a clue how John knew her but she must know why she was a beneficiary. Although Bolitho was certainly surprised, he wasn't completely at a loss as to why the bequest came to him. One thing I did mean to ask you was where John was when he got in the fight you mentioned? Presumably he was wherever it was for a reason?'

  She shrugged.

  'Never mind. It's probably nothing but then there's Coburg,' he went on. 'It was written on that list John had.' He could see he had lost her. 'It's just that Coburg's in Germany, in Bavaria. And you said John had been engaged to a girl there, in Munich I think you said, which is also in Bavaria.'

  Mary didn't respond.

  'I know it's al a bit far-fetched. I just wondered whether he'd had any correspondence with someone there.'

  Mary stil didn't answer. She looked down at her lap, turning the clasp on her handbag and finaly raising a solemn face to him. 'He didn't tel me much. Ever.'

  She seemed keen to change the subject. 'Look, I ought to give you some money. I do have some. From John. It's not fair that you do al this charging about at your own expense.'

  She gazed at him intently. He couldn't help smiling. She was so beautiful and so alive. A long lock of hair had falen forward and curled towards her lips. She blew it away, then tucked it back behind her ear.

  He almost let slip that he was enjoying al the 'charging about', but it seemed tactless. 'It's good to be busy, funnily enough,' he said. 'I haven't realy done anything, not since the war.' He paused. 'Not since Louise—died. Not realy. I've only been writing because I had to do something.'

  Suddenly, her hand was on his, and stayed there, calm and warm. She said nothing.

  They had to hurry to the concert hal. The concert began with Elgar's Salut d'Amour, and then there was some Debussy, which he liked less, though he thought how Louise would have enjoyed it. Next was a Brahms quintet, which drew enthusiastic applause. Mary was rapt. He was aware, al the way through, of her closeness.

  From time to time her knee touched his. A couple of times he stole a glance at her in profile. The second time she caught him and returned a smal smile.

  As they left the auditorium he left her for a moment while he went to fetch her coat. She was standing behind him as he queued. Reflected in the wal of mirrors above the attendant he saw that a man had stopped to greet her and had even taken her hand in his. Their bodies were very close as they talked, Mary's head bent towards his to catch his words. Then she looked towards Laurence's back and obviously said goodbye. The man was quickly gone. The attendant handed Laurence their belongings and he returned to Mary, expecting her to explain, but as he helped her into her coat she simply said, 'Wasn't that fun!' Her face, however, was serious and pale.

  Al the way to the station he wanted to ask her who the man was but could think of no way to raise it that didn't seem clumsy. He told himself that if the meeting had been insignificant, surely she would have explained. As the wish to know loomed larger, the opportunity to do so receded. He could think of nothing else to say.

  Mary kept looking at her watch in the dark of the cab. From time to time she gave him a nervous and, he thought, slightly distant smile. She was no longer eager to talk but anyway they made it with just minutes to spare. As she stepped up into the carriage, she placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. He waited until her train had gone, waving with a joliness that he didn't feel.

  He decided to clear his head by walking back. The city was quiet. The monumental architecture of the great financial institutions rose up either side of him, dark and oppressive. He supposed they had fought to protect these as much as they had the idea of vilage greens or royal palaces, had fought to keep things as they were. The dome of St Paul's came into view against the night sky, its silhouette softened by a veil of cloud. The night was cool and slightly damp; autumn was wel on its way now with leaves beginning to fal from the plane trees. He felt indescribably sad.

  That night was the first bad one for a while. The banshee scream of shels. The distant crump of other men's catastrophes. The stink of burning and sweat, and al the time his heart pounding. He placed his hand on his chest to steady himself but his heart pulsed loudly through the dream. He put the whistle in his mouth. He was supposed to blow but couldn't get enough breath. Then somehow he was alone in the remains of a traverse, digging as fast and as desperately as he could. It was raining and Louise was there, under the earth. The wet soil made his hands ache with cold. His fingers found first her face and then her nose, entered her open mouth, felt the edges of her teeth. As fast as he dug, earth fel on her from above. Rain pooled in the crater he had dug to let her breathe and slowly, though he held her muddy hair, it filed up and she slipped away from him.

  Chapter Eight

  Finding a man in France was obviously far beyond his resources, so Laurence mentaly set Monsieur Meurice on one side. Kentish Town was another matter entirely.

  He had decided not to write to Mrs Lovel but simply to go to her house on the chance he would find her in.

  At four o'clock he arrived at the address given in John's wil. It was a smal, slightly shabby, dark-brick house, one of thousands like it in London. He noticed grass sprouting in the gutter and that a single spindly rose needed deadheading. Rain was pattering on a faded canvas screen hanging over the door and when he knocked, several tiny spiders were dislodged. No one came. He looked up at the grimy windows and thought how Mrs Lovel must have welcomed John's bequest. He knocked again and caled out self-consciously. 'Mrs Lovel.' He waited for a while and then turned away. A woman in a print pinafore was watching him from over a bowing fence.

  'They're long gone,' she said. 'Those Lovels. Four—five years? She kept it nice but there's been another lot since and they've gone too. Bad drains.'

  'Do you have an address?'

  'No, but my daughter might. Used to help with the children. She liked her.'

  She turned and went into her own house, leaving the door open. He heard no voices but a few minutes later a skinny younger woman came out with a baby in her arms. She handed him a grubby bit of paper with an address written in capital letters.

  'That's where they were, last I heard.'

  It was a fifteen-minute walk, through increasingly heavy rain, to a modest street, but one much less drab than the first address. The semi-detached house sat back behind a low hedge where large cobwebs held drops like jewels. The smel of privet after rain was one he always associated with London.

  A tiled path led up to a dul black front door. He walked up and puled the bel, hearing it jangle in the rear of the house, and almost immediately he heard swift footsteps inside. The door swung open and a young woman stood there, her fair hair loose on her shoulders. She had a sleeping cat draped over one arm and looked surprised, as if she had expected someone else.

  'Can I help you?' She was much younger than he'd imagined, just a girl realy, but her face was quite composed.

  'Mrs Lovel?' Laurence began.

  ' Miss Lovel,' she replied. 'Catherine Maude Lovel.'

  Laurence was suddenly and embarrassingly aware of how impulsive his decision to visit had been. In his haste to help Mary he hadn't thought of the effect of his enquiries on those at the receiving end. How the hel could he explain himself to the slender girl in front of him?

  'I'm looking for someone caled Lovel who knew one of my friends.'

  'Who?' she said.

  'A man caled Emmett. Captain John Emmett.'

  There was no sign of recognition on her face.

  'He died a few months ago.' He was beginning to feel it was hopeless. Rain was starting to fal ag
ain.

  'My brother was kiled in the war,' the girl said, matter-of-factly. 'But I don't know a John Emmett. Perhaps it's my mother you want? She's out but she should be back soon. I thought you were her, forgetting her key again. You could wait if you want?'

  How could he have been so stupid? Of course this girl was too young to have known John. She was what—fifteen? Younger? But he had at least established that the family had a son who had fought. That was the likely connection to John.

  He folowed her indoors with some relief; water was now trickling down the back of his neck. A daily woman, by the look of her, emerged from the back of the house. She took his hat and coat, shaking them out as she did so. Catherine Lovel showed him into a smal sitting room. It was neat, respectable, perhaps a little old-fashioned, and decidedly cold, but there were some good books in a glass-fronted case. He looked sideways and read those with larger lettering on their spines: Trolope, Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop, Sir Walter Scott, Tennyson, Wordsworth; it was more or less the sort of colection he had at home. There were even some bound operetta scores. The girl sat opposite him talking to the cat.

  Eventualy he heard the door open, and the gasps and protestations of someone retreating from a downpour.

  'Martha. Martha, oh thank you—no, I'm not soaked. I had my umbrela. Just take my hat and coat and put them in the sculery, not too near the stove, mind.'

  A handsome woman, in her early forties perhaps, came through the door. She was dressed entirely in dark blue and, like the room, her dress was sedate and unremarkable. But she had an alert face, pale, fine skin and hair almost as fair as her daughter's, though fading with middle age.

  Catherine jumped up and spoke before either she or Laurence had a chance to do so. 'He's looking for a man caled Captain Emmett.'

  'Catherine—' Mrs Lovel looked anxious for a second but then her expression lightened. 'Not now, my love, I don't even know who our visitor is. Mr—?' She had a slight provincial accent.