Half the World in Winter

by Maggie Joel

  ‘Certainly not! I should hope I have too much common sense for such an absurd course of action.’

  His words, spoken in haste and without forethought, had the effect of dousing an already uncertain mood and they ate the remainder of the meal for the most part in silence.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  London

  IN THE THIRD HOUR OF the battle his troop charged the Russian lines and Austin found himself temporarily cut off from his men.

  The smoke from the battery of guns up on the hillside and from the shot of the percussion muskets used by the Russian infantry created a fog that smothered everyone and everything, a fog that caught at your lungs and made you choke, reducing visibility down to an arm’s length. It was disorienting, even for the most hardened soldier. Made you lose your way. Made you stumble into the enemy and not realise it until the fellow was right there on top of you with a sword a yard from your head. It muffled noise so that a voice on your left sounded like it was behind you, a shouted order to retreat sounded much like a command to advance. Even the bugles were distorted.

  He had become cut off from his men, from his own side, and he was no longer mounted—his horse had been shot from under him. He could not recall when or where.

  In the melee he had been aware only of the need to prevail. He had cut down two Cossack troopers—knocked them out of the battle at any rate: one with a slash of his sword that caught the fellow in the neck, and he had gone down in an arc of blood. The other he had slashed at across the chest and had not stopped to see the results of his strike, pushing ever onwards. And now he found himself alone.

  He stood perfectly still and let the muffled noise, the fog, swirl around him. No point blundering about like a damned fool. More chaps killed that way. Stop for a moment, get your bearings.

  He crouched down to make himself less of a target, rehousing his sword. His left hand was covered in blood, he saw with surprise, for he felt nothing. He reached with his right hand for his handkerchief and attempted to wrap it around his injured hand: it was his little finger. It had been cut clean off. He saw the bone. For a moment he felt faint. He clapped the dressing over the hand and rallied. The finger was no longer his concern. It was not his finger. He wondered why it did not hurt.

  He reached for his sword and, as a brief gust of wind caused the fog to momentarily lift, thought he saw a dragoon from his own regiment over to his left just as the man fell, a dead weight, to the ground. Behind him, perhaps ten yards away, sat a Russian cavalryman, mounted, a rifle smoking in his hand.

  He was a fine-looking fellow in his tall cylindrical peaked red cap, in a jacket and pelisse both of dark green, the braiding across his chest torn and stained with the blood of battle: a giant upon a great foaming chestnut horse. He sported a massive moustache, his face white, his eyes very black. As the smoke swirled about him Austin could see the nap of the man’s tunic, the red stripe down the length of his breeches, the ridges of the man’s knuckles as he held the rifle steady before him. He saw all this and more and he drank it in because he knew this was the man who would kill him.

  But you didn’t wait like a lame dog to be shot at.

  Austin raised his sword and let out a shout, launching himself at the man.

  When he opened his eyes the smoke had dispersed. He could see clearly. Even the smell of gunshot had gone. And there was an odd silence, aside from the slow and steady ticking of a clock.

  He turned his head and saw a furnished room in daylight. Heavy curtains in red velvet hung beside a bay window, reaching to the carpeted floor. Through the window he could see sunlight, a patch of sky, rooftops, chimneys, smoke—but not gunpowder smoke.

  The walls were papered in crimson flock and a painting of the Madonna and Child atop a cloud and observed by two pensive cherubs hung above the mantel. A confusing array of ottomans, upright chairs and easy chairs cluttered around a writing desk, a console table, an occasional table and a large round table in the centre of the room. A highly polished grand piano stood in the corner, a palm in a brass pot nestling beside it.

  He knew this room though he could not recall how he knew it. He recognised the painting: it was Raphael’s Sistine Madonna and it had hung on the wall of his father’s house though this was not his father’s house.

  But his injuries did not hurt and that was the thing. What injuries had he sustained? Had the Russian fellow shot him? Yes, he believed now that the fellow had indeed shot at him, he distinctly recalled the recoil of the weapon, the puff of smoke and an instant later the noise of the explosion.

  Then … nothing.

  Had the fellow missed? At that range? It seemed unlikely. And yet here he was.

  Austin put up a hand instinctively to his head and his fingers found a face that was not quite as he remembered it: an indentation, a groove that had not been there before. He lowered his fingers thoughtfully. What must he look like, with this new face? He moved uneasily in the chair. There would be a mirror, surely, in a room like this (what room was this like? He did not know). But what did it matter what new face he had: he was not a vain man. There was no wife waiting for him back in England. He was a soldier.

  He knew at that moment that he was in England, that this was no field hospital. This was not the Crimea. This was undoubtedly an English sitting room. He stirred uneasily again. How long, then, had it been since he had faced the Russian cavalry officer in the smoke?

  He looked down at his hand, at once fearful. The little finger had been cut clean off and he had wrapped his handkerchief around it. Yes, it was gone and yet the skin had grown back over the wound, was as smooth and aged as the skin elsewhere on his hand.

  He touched the stump of the amputated digit and felt nothing. No pain, no tenderness. The stump felt exactly the same as all his other fingers.

  And now he saw that the skin on his hand was not as he remembered it at all. It was wrinkled, spotted. The fine hairs on the back of his hands were quite white. He looked at the other hand and it was the same.

  At once the fear of standing on a confused, bloodied battlefield surrounded by an unseen enemy and armed only with a sword was as nothing to the fear that welled up inside him now. He gripped the arms of the chair with both hands to steady himself and watched in horror as the flesh puckered into deep ridges.

  He pulled himself to his feet and staggered forward, only saving himself from falling by putting out his hands towards a long mahogany sideboard that ran the length of the room. He was injured, naturally he would be weak. Stiff. Yes, his limbs felt stiff. He waited, catching his breath, feeling his heart beating rapidly but feebly.

  It was silent in the house, aside from the damnable ticking of that unseen clock. Where was everyone? Why had they brought him here? Why had they left him?

  He turned slowly around. A young woman was standing in the doorway observing him. The woman—in fact, he saw now that she was not much more than a girl of perhaps eighteen—wore her hair up and was dressed in a long silk gown of an unusual style. Could ladies’ fashions have changed so rapidly whilst he had been away at war? She had a sweet face, high cheekbones, clear grey eyes, a pale and unblemished complexion. He envied her.

  She came into the room, smiling a little, and said something to him, then went over to the fireplace and stood quite motionless with an expression that spoke of so much yet told him nothing. There was no fire in the grate and the coals were lifeless but she reached for the poker and stirred the dead embers and it occurred to him that the girl was holding something tightly in, that she was shielding something from him. Or from herself. He found he no longer envied her.

  She stooped then, as though she might light the fire.

  In a moment of appalling clarity Austin knew exactly what was going to happen for he realised he had seen it once before: the coals would flare into life and the flames leap up as a wind rushed down the chimney. The swirling silk skirts of the girl’s dress would brush against the flames and catch and with a whoosh the girl’s hair would ignite unt
il, in a horrifying instant, she was a column of fire.

  But before it could happen Austin launched himself at her with a roar, intent on saving her. He could smell burning flesh and he knew it was not a smell from the battlefield: it was the smell inside this room.

  From other parts of the house people came running.

  Aurora stood outside her husband’s study preparing her words carefully. She imagined Lucas sitting in his armchair, poring over some Board of Trade report and nursing a glass of port. He would not welcome her intrusion, but it could not be helped. She would make him listen. She knocked briefly on the door and opened it.

  He was seated, not in the armchair but at his desk, papers spread before him, and he looked up as she appeared in the doorway. Aurora hesitated. She had intended to be strong but a fear suddenly gripped her and for a moment she could not catch her breath or form her words.

  ‘Lucas, I must speak with you. I am sorry to report that I believe we can no longer maintain my uncle.’

  She closed the door behind her and awaited his reply. He had turned away and now placed his elbows on the desktop, his fingers locked together, chin resting on his hands. He did not move for some moments. Finally he stirred.

  ‘By “no longer maintain” I presume you mean no longer keep him here in our household?’

  ‘Yes, I do. He is my uncle and I believe I know what is best.’

  ‘For him?’

  ‘Certainly. And for us.’

  ‘And this, I presume, is because of the incident earlier?’

  ‘I am afraid so, yes—he all but attacked Dinah!’

  Lucas frowned. ‘I have never known him violent before this, at least not towards others.’

  ‘Nor have I and yet Dinah says when she entered the drawing room he appeared alarmed by her and he lunged at her. Dinah was very much frightened.’

  Lucas considered this. ‘I believe it takes much to frighten Dinah,’ he said quietly.

  ‘There you are then, is it not proof of how much distressed she was? I too was not a little disconcerted, for her safety as well as my own.’

  Or was he unconcerned for her safety?

  He did not agree nor disagree with this statement. Instead he replied:

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Mrs Logan is with him. I believe she calmed him.’

  For Mrs Logan could calm her uncle when she no longer could. The failing appalled her. And the way their housekeeper forced her presence into the room between them without even being here, that appalled her too. But she would not be put off. She would make Lucas react! She would force him to care!

  ‘Lucas, I no longer feel safe. I no longer know what he is capable of.’

  He made no reply. His fingers softly tapped on the desk. In the distance a horse clattered noisily across Cadogan Square, passing the end of the mews and away.

  ‘What do you propose?’ he said at last.

  ‘He needs proper care and attention from people who know how to deal with his sort of problems.’

  ‘The mad house.’

  ‘An asylum, yes. Is there some alternative?’

  Lucas turned back to his desk and reopened the report he had been reading.

  ‘I will consider it.’

  Aurora stood silently behind him as he began to read but clearly the interview was concluded. She turned and left the room.

  No sooner had she gone than Lucas threw down the Board of Trade report in disgust. He was aware of the incident that afternoon and of Dinah’s own recounting of the event: the major had been confused and disoriented, as he was much of the time, but something had frightened him. The fireplace, or her proximity to it, Dinah had guessed. Well, little wonder after what the old man had witnessed. And now Aurora wanted to rid herself of him—why?

  He very well knew why and the reason sickened him: Austin had been the only witness to the drunkenness that had resulted in his daughter’s horrific death. No wonder she could not face him. Or his secret. Well, he would be damned if he would agree to her wishes.

  He crushed the papers in his hand.

  Let her suffer.

  A serving woman had assisted Austin back to his quarters and the major allowed himself to be partially undressed. He lay down on the bed. He felt so tired. His limbs appeared to have no strength in them. It was good to lie down. He would close his eyes, just for a moment. It was safe here. The battle was a long way off and in the meantime he was safe here.

  He closed his eyes.

  In the third hour of the battle his troop charged the Russian lines and Austin found himself temporarily cut off from his men. The smoke from the battery of guns up on the hillside and from the shot of the percussion muskets used by the Russian infantry created a fog that smothered everyone and everything, a fog that caught at your lungs and made you choke, reducing visibility down to an arm’s length. It was disorienting, even for the most hardened soldier.

  It made you lose your way.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘I AM AFRAID I HAVE some sad news,’ said Mr Jarmyn, seated at the head of the table, and he nodded briefly to Hermione, who was hovering behind his chair with the soup tureen and a ladle.

  Everyone paused, spoons poised midway to mouths. Dinah had just that moment lifted a glass to her mouth and she replaced it now on the table and waited. She was aware of an increase in her heart rate, of the slightest quickening of her pulse.

  ‘Your cousin Roger has, I am sorry to relate, been reported killed.’

  Gus, sitting opposite her and with his spoon still poised, looked to left and right as though in some confusion and after a moment placed the spoon back in his soup bowl. Jack, sitting to Gus’s left, looked down at the table and shifted his position in his seat without looking up. Bill reached out a hand and moved the silver salt cellar an inch to the left then moved it back again. Their mother, sitting at the far end of the table, a crystal tumbler in her hands, smiled brightly and her eyes glistened in the gaslight. She took a sip from the glass then replaced it silently on the table.

  Dinah saw all this very vividly yet from a great distance as though she were peering at them down the wrong end of a telescope.

  Her father nodded again to Hermione who withdrew the tureen and her ladle and moved around the table till she reached Mrs Jarmyn. Mrs Jarmyn shook her head once, sharply, without looking at the girl.

  ‘And are there any details, Father, about our cousin’s death?’ said Bill and his voice rang out very clear and brutal and Dinah thought she might faint or she might kill him. She took the silver napkin ring from the table and closed her fist around it until its edges cut into her flesh.

  Her father did not look up from his plate. ‘Other than the date upon which his death occurred, no, it appears there are not.’

  To his left, Gus, again caught in the act of trying to sip his soup, once more paused in confusion, spoon midway to his mouth.

  ‘What was that date?’ said Bill, and Dinah squeezed harder until tiny red dots appeared in her vision.

  This time Mr Jarmyn paused. He appeared to study the surface of the soup in his bowl. ‘On New Year’s Day, I believe. The day his troop-ship docked at Durban.’

  New Year’s Day. The news of his death had taken a week to reach them. He had been dead all this time. Into Dinah’s head crowded all the things she had done, all the mornings she had awoken and dressed and breakfasted, all the lunches she had eaten and the walks she had taken and calls she had made, all the dinners she had sat down to and the conversations she had had, all the nights she had undressed and lain shivering in her bed. Now it turned out Roger had been dead all this time.

  And it turned out that she herself had done very little in all that time.

  They had all fallen silent, not just herself, and it seemed that they must all be thinking the same thing: Poor Roger—who had sat at this table less than a month earlier in his splendid scarlet lieutenant’s tunic, talking importantly about the war and about his own important role in it—had died the day h
e docked. How had he died? Their father had not said. Quite likely no one yet knew. Bill, who had not been here for Roger’s last dinner, who was seated where Roger had sat, who had too much common sense to take a commission and go to the Transvaal himself, moved the salt cellar an inch to the left and then back again.

  ‘It is unlikely there will be a funeral,’ said Mrs Jarmyn, slicing through the ice with a pickaxe. She meant: They will not return his body, Roger would be buried in the Transvaal. He would not be coming home.

  ‘There will be a memorial service presumably,’ replied her father curtly, picking up his spoon and dipping it into his soup, and in the silence that followed something hung heavily in the air stifling further conversation.

  And Jack, who had sat in silence since their father’s news, pushed back his chair and ran from the room.

  For the briefest moment no one moved and it seemed to Dinah they were each holding their breath and she thought,

  I cannot bear it, and her father said, ‘Bill, pass me the salt, please.’

  Then there was an almighty crash from outside.

  Jack flew through the dining room door and straight into Hermione, who had her hand on the dining room doorhandle and in her other hand was holding a large tureen of Cook’s best salmon and basil bisque. The two collided so that Hermione was thrown backwards, the tureen was knocked from her hand and clattered to the floor and the bisque shot in an arc into the air and down onto the girl’s dress and legs and across the cedar-panelled wall, narrowly missing the portrait of his mother that had been painted in 1872 by the Royal Academy artist E.G. Hunt, and ending up in a pink and green pool on the carpeted floor.

  Hermione screamed: first when Jack collided into her and a second time, more loudly, as the hot liquid splashed onto her legs.

  Jack, who had landed on his bottom at the foot of the stairs, stared dumbly at the havoc he had wreaked and, as the dining room door opened wider and various people spilt out, he scrambled to his feet and fled up the stairs.