A Nightingale in Winter

by Margaret K Johnson

  “Yes,” she answered simply. “My mother. She died in childbirth when I was eight years old.”

  Dirk’s eyes widened at the connection between them. “Me too. That is, my mom died giving birth to me.”

  For a moment, she returned his gaze, and he sensed she felt the connection too. Then she looked away, busying herself with his wound, carefully repositioning her finger to better staunch the flow of blood. He could feel his shirt, stiff with the stuff. How much had he lost? And how much was too much? Best not think about it.

  The ship gave a sudden lurch, and he heard Eleanor’s sharp intake of breath. Were they going sink after all?

  Somehow, it seemed important to keep talking. If he kept talking, he wouldn’t have to think about the possibility of drowning. And besides, he wanted to maintain the connection between the two of them. “My mom was alone; my father had already gone off somewhere. So, when she died, I was adopted. Not that I knew it. I only found out my parents weren’t my real parents last year.”

  Even now, lying half-dead on a stricken ship God only knew where, he wasn’t able to keep the edge of bitterness from his voice. When he closed his eyes, he could see his mom’s sad, reproachful expression as clearly as if she were standing in front of him. If only he hadn’t been so angry when he’d found out the truth. Maybe then, he’d have seen her again before she died. Maybe his dad wouldn’t hate him quite so much. There was so much he’d like to change. Like his decision to get on this damn ship, for starters.

  “Were they good parents?” Eleanor asked.

  As he felt her breath against his face as she spoke, it occurred to him that if he and Jimmy hadn’t taken this boat, he would never have met her.

  “Yes, they were the best.”

  He heard the crack in his voice as he spoke, and he closed his eyes again. As he did so, the ship made a loud creaking sound. Was it breaking up? Were they going to sink after all? Suddenly he was so profoundly tired, he found he didn’t entirely care. It would be all too easy to slip into a cocoon of forgetfulness to a place where his head wasn’t pounding and there were no harsh realities to face. As easy as slipping over the side of the ship into the waves.

  The ship creaked again, louder this time, the sound forcing a chink of light into Dirk’s brain, just as it was preparing to close down, reminding him of the creak of the trap door to the attic at home, a surprisingly loud sound for something so small that he’d had to squeeze his body up through it.

  He’d gone up there to find a valise when he was packing for New York. It was dark up in the attic, musty and neglected, and he had stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust, with the muted sounds of the farmyard reaching him through the eaves. A cow mooing, the clank of a metal pail. Chickens.

  It had seemed to Dirk as if the attic, with its unidentifiable lumps of objects, was a bit like the future he was about to head toward. Up there, he’d known the lumps and shapes were boxes and bags, but his parents had been hoarders who never threw anything away, so goodness knows what any of them contained. Next week—next week!—he would be on his way to start his job at the newspaper in New York. But this, together with the room he’d rented in an apartment block, had been the only certainties about his new life. For now, the rest was just boxes and bags in the darkness. But he’d find out all the details soon enough, and he couldn’t wait.

  Smiling to himself, Dirk had taken another look around the attic, spotting a valise that seemed about the right size. When he’d opened it to examine its contents, he’d found a bundle of papers tied up with ribbon. Probably just some old farming paperwork, he’d thought. It would have been just like his mom to tie them up prettily like that before she put them away. He’d taken them over to the trap door so he could take a closer look in the light coming from down below. What he’d read after he’d blown the dust off the front page changed his life forever.

  “Dirk, please.” Eleanor was speaking again. “You have to try to stay awake. The rescue ship’s been sighted. It won’t be very long now.”

  “I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “Just couldn’t believe the words I was reading. It had to be a mistake. It had to be.”

  “What?” she asked, sounding very far away. “Please, Dirk. You mustn’t distress yourself.”

  “But I was distressed,” he said. “And so very angry. You can’t imagine how angry. They’d lied to me all those years, Eleanor. Why did they do that? Mom said she didn’t want to hurt me. Only she wasn’t my mom at all, and I said some hateful things. Some really hateful things. Dad was so mad at me. And I was mad back, and then the next day I caught a train for New York. Soon after, Mom got sick, and I never saw her again.”

  Dirk was shaking violently now, and Eleanor looked around, desperately trying to find shelter or help. Anything. If they stayed out here like this for much longer, Dirk would die from hypothermia instead of blood loss. She couldn’t make out exactly what he was talking about—something about an attic and a suitcase. His voice was slurred as if he’d been drinking, but she knew he hadn’t. It was the effects of the cold. His incoherent ramblings were an indicator that he was sinking fast.

  A crewmember hurried past, the first Eleanor had seen in a long while, and she called out to him. “Please. Can you help? I need to move this gentleman out of the cold, but he can’t stand.”

  The man came over. “Of course, miss. Let’s get him down below.”

  Eleanor explained about Dirk’s injury and the necessity of her keeping her hand on the wound, and together they made slow progress down to the saloon. Dirk remained quiet all the while, and Eleanor saw that he had finally given in and lost consciousness.

  “He looks bad,” the crewman said. “Think he’s going to make it?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Eleanor. “He’s lost a great deal of blood. He’ll need a transfusion I think.”

  The crewman was looking at her. “If you don’t mind me saying, miss, you don’t look so good yourself. Best let me take over here; I can do it. Had my first aid training, I have. That French trawler that’s just docking up, it’s going to take those that still want to go on to France. The injured, like this one, they’re going back to England. Captain says there’s a second ship on its way to pick them up.”

  Eleanor looked at him and then down at Dirk, feeling undecided. She couldn’t leave him, could she? She’d been with him for so long now. What if he woke up and panicked when she wasn’t there any longer? He might thrash about, and the crewman might lose control of the wound. Dirk couldn’t afford to lose any more blood.

  Suddenly Kit was there, by her side, looking excited. “Eleanor! There you are. I wondered where you’d got to. They’re calling for us to embark on the rescue ship. It’s going to take us to Boulogne. How’s Dirk?”

  “I was just telling your friend, miss,” the crewman said before Eleanor could reply. “She ought to get on that ship and let me take over here. England’s the best place for this one, and the other ship will be here soon.”

  Dirk’s face was at peace now that he was unconscious, but it was deathly pale.

  “We do need to report for duty, Eleanor,” Kit said. “And if all the injured are being returned to Blighty…I’m sure this man will take good care of Dirk.”

  “I will, miss,” the crewman said. “Here, show me exactly how to hold the wound.”

  Eleanor showed him, allowing herself to be persuaded. It was the logical step to take, after all. Kit was right; they did have to report for duty in France, and an English hospital was the best place for Dirk. If this crewman could do as much as she could for him, there was no reason for her to stay. Who was she to think of herself as so indispensable? Dirk was a grown man, not a child. He wasn’t going to panic. He wouldn’t have the strength to panic even if it were in his mind. Of course she must leave him in this man’s hands. She had her duty to perform in France. And yet…and yet…It was somehow so difficult to nod and walk away, to surrender Dirk to the man’s care.

  “All right, thank you,” she
said at last, making her decision.

  “He’ll be all right, miss,” the crewman assured her. “I’ll take good care of him.”

  “Thank you,” Eleanor said again, giving the man a final nod before she walked away behind Kit. Her last thought as she climbed up to the deck was that very likely she would never know whether Dirk had survived or not.

  Part Two

  Chapter Five

  Paris, March 1916

  THE FADED STUDIO CURTAINS billowed into the room, bringing with them snatches of conversation from the Severinis’ bedroom next door.

  Lying on the chaise longue, Leo enjoyed the sensation of drifting in and out of sleep, with sunshine falling on his face through the parted curtains. Down below in the street, a concierge with a guttural voice was reprimanding a child for some misdemeanor.

  Leo could understand French, but this morning he lay half-listening to all the sounds as if they were music—the brashness of the concierge, the shrill entreaty of the child, Severini’s pleasing bass, all interspersed with the flap-flap of the curtain. The only thing missing was a warm, receptive female body, but since this was a rare omission, its lack didn’t spoil his sense of peace.

  He liked being here. It wasn’t the first time he’d stayed over in the studio after late night debates with Severini about the direction of modern painting. Although, to be more accurate, Severini did most of the talking, while Leo hungrily lapped up his every word. An Italian now living in Paris and married to Jeanne, a French woman, Gino Severini was one of the leading members of the Futurist movement of painting, and Leo thought his paintings were some of the most exciting he’d ever seen. But even more exciting and inspirational still were the Italian’s ideas.

  The breeze got suddenly stronger, blowing the window open further and sending the curtains almost horizontal. The child and the concierge had gone, and the Severinis’ conversation stopped being music and became words. Leo opened his eyes, listening intently.

  Jeanne was speaking. “Well, I am sorry, Gino, but I cannot like him. I have tried, really I have. But a man who paints a picture of his woman giving birth…This man I cannot like.”

  “My little old-fashioned chicken…”

  “No, Gino, it is a question of what is right. Edouard says he pushed himself into the room of labor, then left without even stopping to see the child or to check that his woman was in good health. He returned to his studio and painted a picture about the birth, and then he left England and came here, leaving that poor woman to manage all alone. And who knows how many more children he may have fathered since he has been here in Paris? He does not care about people, this man.”

  “He cares about us, I think.”

  Leo heard Jeanne give a snort. “He is polite to me, and he encourages you to talk so that he can bleed you of your ideas. All he cares about is art. He is a fanatic. Gino, I do not wish to upset you, but really I would prefer that he didn’t come here anymore with the baby on the way.”

  Severini laughed gently. “I do not think he will burst into your room of labor, mi amore.”

  “Do not laugh at me, Gino!”

  “Oh, my sweet, do not be angry, please! You will make our baby sad. And besides, how can I be laughing at you when I love you so much?”

  There was silence, and Leo imagined the Italian soothing and embracing his wife. If previous occasions were anything to go by, they wouldn’t emerge from their room for a while. This was not the first time he’d been a witness to one of their lovers’ tiffs, although it was the first time he’d been the subject of one.

  He slid from the chaise longue, leaving the bedding in a crumpled heap, and stretched luxuriously before pulling on his trousers. It was no surprise to him that Jeanne disliked him; right from the start he’d sensed her discomfort when they were in a room together. If Severini left them alone even for a moment, the waves of antagonism were almost tangible. It was always the same with happily married women. They desired him—as most women did—but because they loved their husbands, it made them feel deeply guilty. They put up the antagonism as a defense.

  Sometimes Leo chose to break that barrier down, but in this case, it was the husband he wanted, not the wife. He just hoped that Jeanne’s complaints wouldn’t rub off on Severini. Leo hadn’t learned all he wanted to from the artist yet. A ban on his visits would be very disappointing.

  Crossing over to the window, Leo drew the curtains wide, filling the room with even more light. Severini’s paintings were stacked all around the walls. Only one was faced outward, the one on the easel which was currently in progress. Taking a cigarette from his jacket, which was hung over the back of a chair, Leo lit it and inhaled deeply, standing naked from the waist up as he considered the painting. Entitled Red Cross Train, it measured about three feet by four feet, but it packed a punch worthy of a painting over twice its size. It was carefully chaotic, a statement about man and machines, an ordered world gone out of control. He could see in it the influence of Picasso and the Cubists, but clearly and excitingly, it went far beyond that, and Leo remembered the words Severini had quoted to him from the Futurist manifesto. “Let us shake the gates of life in order to test the hinges and locks.”

  And Leo knew that the painting which seemed to have so offended Jeanne had gone wrong because he’d tried to produce a figurative representation of the event: the gaping, screaming mouth; the raw, stretched gash between the legs. The result had been powerful, but he knew now that it would have been ten times more powerful still if he’d found some way to portray the experience of the birth: the pain, the inhuman sounds, the smells, and that desperate claustrophobia—all expressed in paint.

  Severini had told him that he believed originality was all, even if it was reckless, and Leo’s mind and body had burned with pleasure as he’d heard this, recognizing the truth of it for himself.

  A hand fell on his shoulder; Severini had come silently into the room.

  “Good morning, my friend.”

  “Good morning.” Leo searched the Italian’s face to see whether Jeanne’s words had had any effect, but saw only the amiable expression he’d become accustomed to.

  “Of course,” said Severini, looking at his own work and speaking just as if their conversation of the previous evening had never been interrupted by sleep, “there is one major flaw with this painting.”

  Leo returned his gaze eagerly to the painting, unable to guess what such a flaw might be. “What is that?”

  Severini’s shoulders rose expressively. “It is a second-hand impression. I cannot express what it feels like to be caught up in the middle of this war, because I have never been there. I have not existed in those trenches; I have not shivered with terror before an attack. Just think how much more power such an experience would lend to a painting. To be able to show how war feels.”

  This was so similar to Leo’s recent thoughts about his childbirth painting that he felt a shiver run down his spine and a fire of excitement kindle in his belly. Yes. To be able to show how war feels.

  Severini was looking at him quizzically, and Leo realized he must have spoken out loud.

  “I will go,” Leo said. “I will experience it.”

  “You will enlist?” Leo fancied he heard admiration in his great colleague’s voice.

  “Yes. You have Jeanne. And the baby on the way. I have no commitments.”

  Severini clapped a hand on his shoulder and nodded. “But you do possess strength and youth and a pair of lungs that do not threaten to collapse as mine do,” he said. “My friend, I envy you.”

  Leo smiled. Gino Severini envied him. And it would be he, Leo Cartwright, who would be the one to advance the work of the Futurist movement.

  Chapter Six

  London, March 1916

  THE HOUSES GREW STEADILY SHABBIER; the gutter smelled of urine. Youths who were too young for the draft sat on walls in the darkness, the glow of their cigarettes giving away their presence before their voices did.

  Leo walked doggedly on throug
h the rows of terraced streets, head down, steering a meandering path through the litter and the dog effluent. There was a smell of soot in the air, although there were precious few chimneys smoking despite the chill of the evening. Browsing through a newspaper someone had left on the train from Folkestone, Leo had read about coal shortages. Any shortages would hit an area like this first of all. The gentry would always have a fire in their grate.

  Leo thought about these things without passion and without a sense of injustice. He no longer separated the world into rich and poor. For him, there were simply those who possessed vision and the very much larger number who didn’t. That was what had gotten him away from here all those years ago, having the imagination to know that another life existed apart from this one. That, his talent, and the fact that he possessed sufficient charm and cunning to inveigle his way into the good books of a different class of people.

  And why not? He was every bit as good as they were. Better, in fact, since he was more talented and intelligent than many members of the upper classes. He’d made it his business to study them, observing their way of life, their gestures, the way they talked. Then he’d very carefully reconstructed himself. Nobody from his new life would ever guess he originated from surroundings such as these.

  A few streets away from his destination, he stopped to light a cigarette. As he did so, he noticed his hands were shaking. He drew deeply from the cigarette, closing his eyes, filling his mind with the mantra of the Futurists to give himself courage. Shake the gates of life in order to test the bolts and the hinges. Shake the gates of life in order to test the bolts and the hinges. He went through the procedure once more: cigarette, mantra. And all the time he despised himself for the need of them. Then, finally, he walked on.

  There were no lights on at the front of number sixty-three, but then he hadn’t expected there to be. Rose never even used the front door, let alone the front parlor. Walking deliberately past the house, he continued past three more until he came to the passageway which led to the backs. He went quietly along it and saw light spilling out through Rose’s broken-down gate. Stepping through, he crept across the yard and immediately saw her through the uncurtained window.