Wheels of Grace

by Crosse, Tania

  It was when she had the business’s paperwork up to date and went back out into the workshop that a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. No longer in ‘hospital blues’, Martin was dressed in his civilian clothes rather than his uniform which had been damaged beyond repair when he was wounded. His health regained, the only difference in his appearance from pre-war days was the walking stick he was using. Grace’s heart gave a little leap. Perhaps with a good long rest in the harmonious peace of the village, his good spirits would be restored as well.

  ‘Good morning, Martin!’ she called cheerfully as she sprang across to him, spreading her face into a welcoming smile. ‘It must feel good to be home again.’

  He gave an indulgent nod almost as if he considered her a child still. But Grace didn’t feel piqued. He hadn’t been there for two years apart from that short leave, and perhaps didn’t realize how she had matured in that time.

  ‘You can make yourself useful if you want,’ Larry told him. ‘Not that I imagine you do. Always a bit work-shy if I remember.’

  Grace noticed Martin pull a wry face. But then his features hardened as his gaze took in the all so familiar scene. He appeared to hesitate, but as if steeling himself, he then limped over to where Bob was chiselling out some joints on a farm gate. Grace turned away. Better to let Martin take things at his own pace, but she couldn’t help keeping an ear open for any conversation.

  ‘Bob,’ she heard him say, his voice expressionless.

  ‘Martin,’ the older man acknowledged him. ‘It’s good to see you recovering.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Martin paused as if he were summoning up supreme courage before he continued. ‘I was so sorry about Paul. You know I was with him when he was killed. He died bravely. And … if it’s any comfort, it was quick.’

  Every muscle in Grace’s body locked rigid. Sweet Jesus, of course. Bob’s son would have been in the same company, possibly the same platoon even as Martin and Reg and all those from the village who had signed up at the same time. Nowadays, with the desperate necessity to replace the thousands of casualties as swiftly as possible, the system of keeping local ‘pals’ together was breaking down somewhat. But it meant that, for Martin, being back home was a cruel reminder of horrific events on the battlefield.

  ‘Thank you, son,’ Grace heard Bob reply, and she saw Martin continue to stand there as if he wanted to say something else, but couldn’t bring himself to do so.

  ‘I-I …’ he stammered, and Grace was aware of an electric tension quivering from Martin’s hunched shoulders.

  ‘Aw, there you are, Martin, bain’t it?’ Gladys burst in through the open doors with Elsie in her wake.

  ‘Remember us from yesterday afternoon, does you?’ the other girl chimed in.

  Martin appeared to draw back, half reluctant and half relieved, it seemed to Grace, before he turned round to face the two broad-shouldered lasses with a sensuous lift of one eyebrow. ‘How could I forget such apparitions of beauty?’ he replied.

  For an instant or two, not even the irrepressible Gladys was sure if he was being sarcastic or flattering. But her natural ebullience immediately came to her aid. ‘Aw, you’m a proper tease, you are!’ she guffawed. ‘So what you’m doing tonight, then? Good looking soldier like you shouldn’t be on your own in a quiet place like this.’

  ‘Doesn’t look as if I will be, does it, ladies?’ Martin answered with all his inherent charm.

  Grace glanced across at Larry and he met her gaze, neither of them knowing if this could be a good or a bad thing. Time alone would tell, and Grace was only pleased that Geoffrey happened to be inside the house.

  ‘Are you sure, Daddy?’

  ‘Of course I am, cheel. You gets little enough time to enjoy yourself.’

  ‘But it’s your only time off, Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘But you’m young, and you takes care on your mother so much. If you’ve been invited to tea at the Vencombes’, then you must go. Besides, look at your mother,’ Ernest instructed, glancing over his shoulder. ‘She’m quite calm this afternoon.’

  Grace sucked in her cheeks. Since he had started his apprenticeship, George had taken over Stephen’s room over the workshop, but he always went home on Sundays. Now he was sitting up at the table, very much playing the big brother as he oversaw Faith and Maggie’s artistic attempts with a box of crayons on scraps of waste paper Grace had rescued from the office. George was growing taller by the day, aided perhaps by the good dinners Verity provided. He was looking more like Stephen than ever, and Grace wondered if somewhere in her mind, her mother believed it was her elder son who sat before her. Temperance certainly appeared content, neither in a state of agitation nor enshrouded in silent misery, and so Grace shrugged into her coat.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  Outside, a keen November wind blustered about her, and Grace was glad it was such a short walk to the Vencombes’. As she crossed the village triangle, a strong gust snatched the little hat from her head, and she only just managed to retrieve it before it was blown into the stream. Stupid thing, she tutted to herself as she hurried the last few yards, and almost collided with Larry as she rounded the corner of the house. He was coming out of the back door, pulling on his jacket over his collar and tie and the grey jersey Grace knew that Verity had knitted for him. His face was set and Grace frowned since this should be a happy afternoon for them all.

  ‘Hello, Gracie,’ he greeted her. ‘Haven’t seen Martin anywhere, have you? We all thought he was in his bedroom, but he’s not. Mum and Dad haven’t realized he’s gone missing, so I thought I’d try and find him before they do. Mind you, I saw Aggie loitering around earlier, so you never know what they might be up to.’

  Grace gulped hard, and the vision of Martin and Aggie down by the stepping stones on that distant summer’s day slashed across her memory. She had never breathed a word about it to a living soul, and the idea that Larry knew there could be something between the pair of them brought colour into her cheeks.

  ‘Do you … want me to help you look for him?’ she stammered, deliberately ignoring Larry’s mention of Aggie.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind. Look. George remembered to lock the workshop, good lad.’ Larry nodded towards the giant padlock. ‘Can’t risk any tools going missing these days. Anyway, it means Martin’s not in there. Maybe the store room? Ah.’ His voice tumbled as he glanced towards the barn-like building at the far end of the yard where, among other large items, the wheelwrights’ own wagon was kept. The single door to one side was slightly ajar and Larry cocked an eyebrow towards it. ‘I bet they’re in there,’ he said, suppressing a sigh, and then raised his eyes to where a sheet of the corrugated iron roof was suddenly lifted by the wind and banged back down again with an echoing crash. ‘Must remember to get up there tomorrow and nail it back down. Wouldn’t need a much stronger wind than this to tear it right off, and that could be dangerous.’

  He seemed to hesitate, and Grace guessed he was about to tell her to go into the house – while he extracted Martin from whatever embarrassing situation he had got himself into. But in that moment of stillness, their startled eyes met.

  A piercing, petrified scream reached them from inside the building. They both hesitated only as long as it took the sound to register in their brains before springing forward. Larry hurled himself towards the door and Grace followed, her heartbeat accelerating wildly.

  She almost crashed into Larry’s back as he halted just inside. The light was dim, and but for the booming clatter as the loose roofing sheet was rattled by the wind again, there was no sound to indicate where the human shriek had come from. But just then, another gasping cry squealed from the further corner and Larry shot forward.

  What Grace saw was Martin towering over a shorter figure forced back against the wall, a choked hiss wheezing from its mouth. Grace’s heart caught in her throat as she realized what was happening. For some inexplicable reason, Martin had his hands about Aggie’s neck and wa
s throttling the life out of her.

  ‘You bloody Hun,’ he was grating between clenched teeth. ‘I’ll kill you for what you’ve done.’

  Horror streamed through Grace’s veins, rooting her to the spot. Dear God Almighty. As the roof above them slammed down again, thundering like the explosion of a shell in the contained space, Grace knew that the sound had transported Martin’s tortured mind back to the battlefield. And in the absence of a weapon, he was using his hands instead.

  ‘Let go of her!’ Larry was shouting as he tried to drag his brother away, but Martin’s terror had given him a superhuman hold on Aggie’s throat. Grace leapt forward. Aggie’s lips were turning blue, her eyes bulging. Instinctively, Grace grasped hold of the little finger of Martin’s right hand and pulled it backwards. He let go with that one hand with a yelp of pain. It was just enough for Larry to be able to wrench him free.

  Aggie collapsed into Grace’s arms, spluttering and fighting for breath. They sank on the floor together, Grace protecting the limp form while Martin lashed out at Larry with demented force. Grace’s stomach knotted in fear as the brothers fought tooth and nail, crashing about the barn, punches flying, until Larry, with his surprising upper strength and slightly heavier weight, finally pinned Martin to the floor.

  ‘Wake up, Martin!’ he panted desperately, shaking his brother with restrained force. ‘It’s me, Larry! And you’re safe at home.’

  Even in the murky light, Grace saw Martin’s eyes flash savagely, but then they seemed to focus on Larry’s face. His jaw slackened and he gazed about the barn in utter bewilderment.

  ‘W-what happened?’ he mumbled as his heavy breathing slowed.

  ‘I reckon you thought you were under attack in the trenches,’ Larry gulped, breathless himself from the struggle. ‘You tried to strangle poor Aggie here.’

  ‘What?’ Martin’s eyes stretched wide as he looked at the two girls huddled by the wall. ‘Bloody hell. Oh, Aggie, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s … all right,’ Aggie croaked, rubbing her neck as Grace helped her stagger to her feet. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You’d better take her home,’ Larry ordered brusquely, dipping his head at Grace. ‘And we’d better calm down before we go back inside. I don’t want Mum and Dad knowing anything about this. I just hope neither of us develops a black eye.’ And then frowning at Aggie, he said pointedly, ‘I trust I can rely on you not to say anything to anyone. People might want to know what you were doing here alone with Martin.’

  Aggie nodded silently, not taking any umbrage, Grace noted, as she led the trembling girl towards the door. She would need to sit her down quietly somewhere, perhaps on the low wall of the little bridge, until she was recovered enough to go home without arousing any suspicion. After all, it wouldn’t look out of place for them to be sitting there chatting. Grace shook her head as she hurried Aggie forward, hoping that neither Geoffrey nor Verity would spot them out of a window. Poor Aggie. Whatever Grace thought of her, it must have been terrifying. And poor Martin. They would all of them need to keep this secret buried, but Grace was sure it would fester in her own mind, at least, for ever.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘MY LAST AFTERNOON back at the homestead,’ Martin declared in a partly jocular, partly wistful tone as they walked up the steep lane towards the open moorland. ‘I can’t think of a better way to spend it than with you two. Pity it’s such rotten weather, though. But that’s Dartmoor for you. And I guess that’s the way I’ll always remember it.’

  Grace bit her lip. The way Martin had spoken was as if he would never be coming back – which of course was a strong possibility. She must drive the thought to the back of her mind and not let it spoil her last few hours with this life-long friend.

  But, she pondered sadly, this wasn’t the same Martin she had grown up with. He had changed. He still had that air of flamboyance about him, but it was tainted with sarcasm and bitterness. Grace felt awkward in his company and hated to admit even to herself that she would be relieved when he left in the morning to rejoin his battalion. When this dreadful war was over and he came home for good – if he came home – she prayed that he would eventually return to the likeable, devil-may-care young man he always used to be.

  ‘Mum’s preparing the best meal she can for tonight in your honour,’ Grace heard Larry reminding him. ‘It’s her way of coping, keeping busy with domestic chores. I’m sure she and Dad were secretly hoping you wouldn’t make such a good recovery and be invalided out of the army.’

  ‘What, you don’t think one lame son is enough for them?’ Martin joked, clapping his brother boisterously on the shoulder.

  Grace cringed. In the ‘old’ days, Larry’s disability would never have been mentioned. It was just accepted, part of life. Now Larry exchanged a swift glance with her, and from his expression, she knew exactly what he was thinking. Better two lame sons than two dead ones.

  ‘We’ve started using armoured tanks since you were wounded, haven’t we?’ Grace tried to bend the conversation in a more optimistic direction. ‘Maybe that’ll give us the upper hand and bring the war to an end afore too long.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Martin scoffed. ‘From what I’ve heard, it’s been so bloody wet out there, the damned things keep getting stuck in the mud. You haven’t the faintest idea what it’s like as soon as there’s a hint of rain,’ he went on scathingly. ‘The shells have destroyed everything, trees, grass. There’s nothing left to hold the soil together. I can imagine what it must be like with all the rain there’s been. Just a bloody great sea of mud.’

  The rancour in his words seemed to kill all conversation. Even Larry couldn’t think of any comments to ease the tension, and as they reached the open moorland, they all retreated into silence. As Martin had observed, it was hardly the kindest late November day. Fine, icy drizzle topped the hills in mist, and the unusual calm meant that it was unlikely to be driven away any time soon. There was little point in climbing to their favourite spot on Peek Hill as the view would be obliterated by the low cloud. Instead, they followed the course of the railway before branching off to skirt the farm at Routrundle. From there, they picked up the track that would provide a complete turn back along the Walkham Valley and hence eventually take them home.

  It was as they were descending the hill that they came to a natural halt as if of a single mind. Given the weather conditions, it was the best view they would have, with the wooded valley stretching below them, while the higher ground on the far side vanished eerily into a bank of grey obscurity. The scene nevertheless held them spellbound, a murky blur without colour or life, and the still, heavy dampness deadening all sound.

  ‘You’ll miss all this, won’t you?’ Larry whispered at length. ‘The quiet. It’s almost mystical on a day like this.’

  ‘Like hell I will,’ Martin snorted, the force of his sudden outburst astounding his companions. ‘All I can hear when it’s as quiet as this is the damnable ringing in my ears. I’ll never hear silence again. So you can keep it. The sooner I get back to the noise of the trenches, the better.’

  His vehement words turned Grace’s blood to water and she wanted to rear away from them. Pretend this wasn’t real. They weren’t standing there in the drizzle, gazing out over the valley. It was just a dream. A nightmare. And then Larry spoke, echoing her own thoughts.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ he said gravely. ‘You can’t possibly want to go back. In time, your—’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do.’ Martin cut him short. ‘It’s not just the quiet that makes my stomach churn. It’s knowing that I should be out there, leading the men in my platoon. You haven’t been there, so I can’t expect you to understand.’ He turned to Larry, and Grace saw his eyes, burning and yet steady as rocks. ‘While this bloody war goes on, my place is out there. On the Front. I don’t belong here any more. I-I don’t deserve it.’

  His mouth compressed into a thin, challenging line, and he turned away as if the conversation was finished. But Larry caught his arm, spinni
ng him back to face him. ‘Of course you deserve it. You’ve done your bit. Fought in two of the biggest battles mankind has ever seen. Been wounded so seriously you were brought back home. You deserve not to be ordered to go back. In my opinion, you’re not in a fit state—’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am. And I’m not going to let myself off the hook until I’ve done my duty. Atoned—’

  ‘Atoned?’ Larry was angry now, frightening Grace as she witnessed the heated argument. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘For …’ Martin seemed to stumble, mentally as well as physically as he took a step backwards. ‘For killing a man, if you must know.’

  ‘Killing a man? Well, of course you killed a man. Lots of men. It’s in the nature of war. You can’t be blamed for that.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand.’ Martin rolled his head agonisingly, eyes shut as he strained away from some terrible, vicious truth. ‘One particular man. I-I killed Paul. Bob’s son, Paul.’

  Grace felt herself sway, trying, in the most appalling silence of her life, to stay upright. She glanced instinctively at Larry. His eyes had darkened to mahogany, his square jaw set like granite as he stared at his brother.

  ‘What? You mean…?’ It was his turn to stammer. ‘You mean, enemy fire? But … it happens sometimes. Mistakes. We’re all of us human.’

  ‘No. Not that. He was caught on the wire.’ Martin’s voice was hoarse. Dry. The words scraped from his throat. ‘Tried to free himself, but the more he struggled, the more entangled he got. Sitting target for the Boche. Only they didn’t kill him. He was hanging there, riddled with bullets. Screaming in agony. But there was nothing we could do. We were in the middle of a battle, for God’s sake. We’d never have got him out, and every one of us would have been killed as well. And Paul looked at me. There was blood coming from his mouth. He knew he was a goner. And then he looked at the revolver in my hand. And he said, quite calmly, Do it, Martin. Do it. So I … I’ll never forget his eyes. Looking straight at me.’