‘What terrible bad luck,’ Faulkner said. ‘He was in our firing-bay not five minutes ago.’
‘Alex!’ Edmund pleaded. The icy air could not overcome the stench from the latrines. Tenderly, he touched Alex’s face, and felt it clammed with sweat.
‘Stand back, sir.’
The bearers lifted the stretcher, tilting it. Alex’s face contorted, but it was Edmund who cried out—a long, keening wail that he had not known himself capable of making, that seemed to come from some desperately wounded animal. He saw astonished eyes looking at him. And now Captain Greenaway was here—too many bodies cluttering the space. He took Edmund firmly by the arm.
‘Go back to your post. Culworth is being taken care of.’
‘But I’ve got to go with—’
‘I’ve given you an order—we’re not having a discussion about it.’ He leaned closer and spoke in an undertone. ‘Pull yourself together. Think of the example you’re giving the men.’
Edmund stared back at him, tears burning his eyes, then managed a ragged salute. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s better.’ Greenaway patted his shoulder. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’
Faulkner steered Edmund back to the fire-step. ‘I’m sorry, sir, really I am,’ he said softly.
Did he know? Did they all know?
‘Go and take over from Willerby,’ Edmund said coldly.
Galloping gut-rot! Edmund could not get it into his head, what had happened: the arbitrariness of those two events coinciding so cruelly—a stray shell and a dash to the latrines. Alex! Brave Alex who was never afraid, who never thought of his own safety, who could have been injured twenty times over in a trench raid, in an assault, in a feat of daring . . . Edmund, supposedly checking the sentries along C Company’s front, made his way unseeing. Again and again he saw Alex waiting where he had left him by the periscope; saw the bent shoulders and the head turning to him, the face that was not Alex’s. Wait — wait there! Don’t go back—
As soon as he was relieved, an interminable two hours later, Edmund went to look for him. An ambulance stood outside the casualty clearing station, a small collection of tents. Dismay tugged at Edmund as he realized that Alex would most likely have been taken away to the base hospital in Boulogne, but the news was worse.
‘He’s too ill to be moved,’ a Red Cross nurse told Edmund. ‘You can come in for a few minutes, that’s all.’
Alex was the only patient; the other beds stood empty. This, Edmund knew, did not indicate a lack of wounded, but meant that an attack was expected shortly and everyone fit enough to be moved had been sent on. Alex lay alone in the bitterly cold tent. His skin, always pale, had a strange waxy look, glossed with sweat. He shivered under several blankets. Edmund gazed, desperate and useless, unsure whether Alex recognized him. Alex’s head turned restlessly from side to side, his eyes unfocused; he made a small, painful sound with each breath. The nurse straightened his bedclothes and felt his pulse, frowning. Edmund wished she would go away, or do something more likely to ease Alex’s suffering.
‘It’s me—Edmund!’ He knelt by the bed, touched Alex’s face and felt first cold clamminess, then pulsing heat. Alex twitched his head as if shaking off a fly; he had retreated to somewhere deep inside himself. ‘Can’t you give him something?’ Edmund demanded of the nurse.
‘He’s had morphine.’ She was a kind-faced woman of perhaps thirty. ‘I can’t give him any more.’
‘How badly injured is he?’ Edmund asked bleakly.
The nurse indicated that they should move away from the bed. He got to his feet and followed her; she spoke in an undertone.
‘It’s very bad, the doctor said—extensive damage to internal organs. He’s not likely to survive the night. I’m sorry.’
Edmund clenched his fists in his greatcoat pockets and bit his lip. Absently he felt the trickle of blood, tasted it, swallowed hard.
‘I’m sorry,’ the nurse said again. She paused. ‘You’re not related?’
‘Friend,’ Edmund said. The inadequate word sounded like a flat lie. We are lovers—we are linked body and soul, he wanted to tell her, as if such a declaration would save Alex. I am him and he is me. If he dies, I will die too. He stood in the tent opening. It was sharply cold, and a sprinkling of frost lay over the grass at his feet, outlining every blade. He saw his breath as clouds in the air—it was so easy, breathing, taken for granted until you saw someone struggling with every inhalation. The sky was lightening over the dull landscape and the heaped hills of slag. Alex must not die here. Alex must not die anywhere.
‘God—please God—let him live,’ Edmund muttered, taking a few steps out into the open. He was not used to praying, not any more. As a boy he had attended church every Sunday and taken part in daily prayers either at home or at school, hardly questioning what he was taught, thinking of God as a benign, watchful presence in his life. Alex had changed that; he had challenged Edmund’s belief as he challenged everything conventional. ‘Belief in a heavenly after-life keeps people docile and undemanding in this one. I don’t intend to be docile; neither need you.’
And Edmund, unable to reconcile his Church of England upbringing with what he had discovered about his sexual leanings, had been glad to discard God. Now, though, in his desperation, he yearned for the comfort of a father-figure who would listen and heed and intervene. He closed his eyes and tried to pray as he had never prayed before. ‘God—dear God. Let him live. He must live.’
But Alex alive was reduced to an incoherent mass of pain, unable to speak, or hear words of comfort. Edmund looked towards the German lines, seeing the dawn sky flushed pink, rising to clearest deep blue, with a crescent moon fading in the light. He saw the beauty of the dawn, and resented it; of all things he did not want beauty to mock him. Not now, while Alex was dying. And how could he ask God for help, a God he had rejected and defied?
The idea slipped into his mind and lodged there. Alex’s suffering was a punishment for his homosexuality. And his own punishment was this: to be forced to stand by, helplessly, while his lover passed through torment and out of his reach. Alex had tried to demolish God, but maybe God, the God of love and forgiveness, would still save Alex.
‘Lord,’ he prayed again, silently, ‘forgive me, please forgive me. And him. If you let him live, I’ll believe properly again. I’ll break off with him—I will. I’ll go home after the war and marry Philippa and produce an heir for Graveney.’
Footsteps crunched towards him. ‘Bit parky for standing around.’ It was a Red Cross orderly, making his way to the tent. ‘You all right, sir?’
‘Yes, thank you—good morning,’ Edmund said, and waited for the man to go on his way before continuing his silent conversation. ‘Are you listening? Let me tell you again. I swear it solemnly.’ He closed his eyes and felt the pain of loss sharpen inside him with a new twist. ‘If you do as I ask, if you spare him, I will give him up. I will end it with him.’ His fingernails dug hard into his palms. ‘I promise. That’s my bargain.’
Inside his head he heard a phrase from one of the Reverend Tilley’s sermons: Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God. Edmund had never quite understood what it meant—could God be tempted? But God could not lose, though the crazy logic of the bargain was compelling.
Alex and I are the ones who’ll lose, Edmund thought. Either way.
Website
Image downloaded from the Commonwealth War Graves website: a slab of smooth, greyish-white stone, the base of a war memorial. In close-up, we read in carved lettering: THEIR NAME LIVETH FOR EVERMORE. At the base of the slab are propped two circular wreaths studded with artificial poppies. A handwritten label is attached to each wreath.
Late on Tuesday evening, when everyone else had gone to bed, Greg sat at the computer, dialling up the internet connection.
A simple search took him to the Commonwealth War Graves website. The home page showed a list of contents, and a caption Their Name Liveth for Evermore. At the bottom, To search the register click here.
The click took him to a picture of a memorial slab, and This Register provides personal and service details of commemoration for the 1.7 million of the Commonwealth forces who died in the First or Second World Wars. This was more comprehensive than Greg had hoped for. If Edmund Pearson had died in the army, he would be here. A few clicks of the mouse could reveal what had happened to him, and where. Greg’s senses quickened with a hunter’s excitement as he followed the instructions to search the register.
The search brought up a list of ten E. Pearsons, each with his rank, regiment and date of death. Greg scanned them eagerly. Not one of them was from the Epping Foresters, and only one was an officer, Second Lieutenant E. J. Pearson. Another click identified him as Edward John Pearson of Northampton, a second lieutenant in the Royal Field Artillery, who had died on 2 August 1917 aged twenty-five and was buried in the Huts Cemetery at Ypres in Belgium.
Greg checked the other nine just in case, then tried 1918, but found nothing that could possibly be Edmund Pearson of Graveney Hall. A blank. Edmund had slipped away again.
He stared at the screen in frustration. Now what? On an impulse he typed in his own name. G. Hobbs, Army, First World War yielded twenty-six names. There would be twenty-six gravestones with his name on them. Thinking of the fictional selves he had invented for himself, Jordan and Gizzard, he tried the other two names. Of J. McAuliffes there were eight, of G. Guisboroughs none, which seemed to confirm his view of Gizzard as a natural survivor. He wondered about the real men who had worn his name and Jordan’s into battle and into death. But not, it seemed, accompanied by Edmund Pearson.
He called Faith on her mobile.
‘What?’ Her voice was thick and blurry. ‘I’m in bed!’
In his urgency to tell her, he’d forgotten how late it was. He explained about the website, then: ‘He’s not listed, Edmund I mean, not in all the 1.7 million! That means he can’t have died in the war.’
‘What, then? We know he’s not in the graveyard with his relations. We know he’s not in a Commonwealth War Grave. So where is he?’
‘And why didn’t he come back to Graveney Hall?’
‘I know!’ Faith said, sounding properly awake. ‘I’ll ask Dad to help me check the Births, Marriages and Deaths in the church records. Even if he didn’t live at Graveney he’d be in there if he got married or had children, and when he died. If he came back to the area at all.’
‘What if—?’ Greg was thinking aloud.
‘What if what?’
‘What if he was a deserter?’
There was a pause while they both thought about this. Then Faith said, ‘They shot them, didn’t they?’
‘If they were caught. What if he got away with it?’
‘But why should you think he was a deserter?’
‘Because I can’t think of anything else that makes sense,’ Greg said.
At the pool early next morning, perched on his high seat, he watched the training session. There were plenty of accomplished swimmers, female as well as male, Jordan the unassuming star. Greg watched as he stood poised to dive, then the deep, clean swoop. In the water he was streamlined and powerful, somersaulting into a tumble-turn, swimming length after length of crawl, back crawl, and—his speciality—butterfly.
‘You ought to join the club,’ he had told Greg. ‘We could do with more people in the team. What’s your best stroke?’
‘Front crawl. But by best I mean least bad. You’ve seen me—I can swim for miles but I’m never going to win races. You’d leave me standing.’
Jordan was preparing now for county trials. When the other swimmers finished their session, the coach kept him a little longer to work on the butterfly. It looked so easy, done properly: as if the water itself were gathering its forces to hurl the swimmer along the surface. Humped back, head tucked in, water showering from arrowed arms, water gleaming on skin; then the darting precision of the turn, the thrust underwater, the renewed power of the stroke. Wonder if I could photograph that? Greg thought. Would the digital camera have a fast enough shutter-speed? Keeping in mind David Bailey’s comment about noticing the ordinary, he was building up a second sequence of pictures, taken at the pool. Watery images: the unbroken surface when the pool was empty; the steps dropping into turquoise clearness; the clean-ploughed wash from a strong swimmer. He wanted underwater shots too, if he could find a way of getting them.
Paul, one of the staff, came to take over at the poolside. ‘Fantastic, that.’ He jerked his head towards Jordan in the pool. ‘Our Olympic hope.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Probably. Pretty damn good though. Wish I could do butterfly. All I do is make tidal waves and half-drown myself.’
‘Same here.’
Greg went into the changing room to get out of his shorts and T-shirt and into school uniform, taking his time. When he came away from the locker, bag slung over his shoulder, most of the swimmers had gone. Jordan was standing under the shower, his back to Greg; his trunks, towel and goggles hung on a hook. He was rinsing his hair, arms upraised, head tilted back, foam sliding between his shoulder-blades. Greg stopped, looked, took in what struck him as beautifully photographable: the light, the spray, the lovely curves and angles. Frame, click went his mental camera. Jordan turned; saw him, and smiled.
‘Hi. Are you biking in? Ready in a couple of minutes if you don’t mind hanging on.’
‘OK,’ Greg said. He went to the mirror and tidied his hair. It was tidy already, but he needed to hide his confusion. Jordan had seen him standing there, looking, looking, a little more intently than was permissible, and did not know it was with photographic intent.
After History, Greg stayed behind on the pretext of explaining to Mrs Hampson that his homework wasn’t in because the computer’s ink cartridge had run out. She waved aside his excuses, picking up her pile of books. ‘Tomorrow will do. Such is my faith in human nature that I’m prepared to believe you.’
‘Actually, I wanted to ask you something. You know the First World War?’
‘Greg, I’m a History teacher.’ She dumped her pile back on the desk. ‘I may have heard it mentioned once or twice.’
He ignored the sarcasm. ‘You know how people got shot by firing squad for deserting? If that happened, would they still be buried in the proper war cemeteries?’
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Hampson said. ‘In fact there’s been a lot of controversy recently—you may have heard about it. Whether the records should be put straight now that we know about shell-shock and war neuroses. I’ve got a book if you’d like to borrow it.’
‘Thanks. The gravestone inscriptions wouldn’t say anything, would they—about the men being executed?’
‘No. They’d have exactly the same style of wording as all the others. Just the regimental details and date. Hang on—I’ll get that book from my office.’
It took her a few minutes to find it. Jordan was waiting outside in the corridor; they’d be a little late for their next lesson. Greg shoved the book into his rucksack, and they walked together to the Maths block on the opposite side of the campus. This took them past the staff car park and through the area behind the kitchens where the recycling bins were kept, a couple of storage sheds blocking the view from the main building. A group of Year Nines loitered there, smoking. Most younger boys would have scarpered if two sixth-formers came along, but not these: with a sense of inevitability Greg recognized Dean Brampton and friends. Dean stood firm, eyeballing Greg. Yusuf, who had made a move towards the recycling bin, saw that Dean wasn’t giving way and put on a tough pose.
‘Oooh, look who it isn’t! Hobb-Knobb! Thinks he’s hard,’ Dean said loudly, then spat at the ground.
‘Hard Knob!’ Yusuf gave Dean a shove and lurched about with exaggerated laughter.
‘If you want to carry on walking about in one piece,’ Greg said, ‘you won’t touch my bike again. Go anywhere near it and I’m calling the police.’
‘Who says we touched your poxy bike?’ Dean jutte
d his chin at Greg. ‘You grassed us up to Rackley. We’ll get you back, don’t worry.’
‘Have you got all day to stand round being unpleasant?’ Jordan asked. ‘No lesson to go to?’
‘What’s it to you, tosser?’ Dean flicked his cigarette end at him. Jordan, not used to getting into arguments with mouthy Year Nines, sidestepped neatly and made to walk on.
‘You grassed us up,’ Dean repeated, thrusting his face at Greg. ‘You’ll be paying for that. And soon.’
‘What d’you expect if you do criminal damage for kicks?’
The smaller boy, the least aggressive of the three, was looking towards the gym. ‘Mad Mitch,’ he warned. ‘Coming this way.’
Mr Mitchell, one of the PE teachers, was merely standing outside the building waiting for the Year Nine footballers, but the sighting was enough to make Yusuf fling down his fag and for even Dean to amble off.
‘Better run along,’ Greg said to Dean.
He waited for the parting taunt and it came, hurled at him over Dean’s shoulder: ‘You’re gay!’
Greg looked at Jordan. ‘As if!’ It came out too loudly.
Jordan made no response. He swivelled the toe of his boot on the glowing fag end and asked, ‘Why’ve they got it in for you?’
‘Morons like them don’t need a reason.’ Greg was more angered by the incident than he felt was dignified. Dean Brampton got to him every time. Yusuf was a pain, the fair boy was just a sidekick, but that Dean—the way he stared with utter contempt—brought out aggressive instincts Greg didn’t know he had. And this latest tactic—you’re gay . . . Kids threw that about all the time as an insult, Greg knew that. ‘You’ve nicked my pencil case! You’re gay’—it was meaningless. All the same, he didn’t like it. ‘Forget them,’ he said to Jordan. ‘They’re not worth it.’
‘But they did your bike in! We could shop them for smoking?’
The Shell House Page 12