Then there was silence.
Leo went into the kitchen and lit a candle. Then he took it back into the cellar, making his way carefully down the steps. Rose was sprawled on her front, legs splayed, her face pressed into the dirt. He looked at her, no longer feeling the urge to lash out. She was nothing now; he had extinguished her. More than anything else in the world now, he wanted to paint what that felt like.
Murder. Severini had never painted about the experience of murder. Leo had not only committed murder, he’d murdered his own mother.
Suddenly anxious to be on his way, Leo dragged Rose’s body across the cellar floor to a large pile of untouched coal. It was typical of Rose to have a stockpile of the stuff when everyone else was short, and it seemed fitting to conceal her body with the coal—shovel full after shovel full until there was no trace left of Rose at all.
When it was done, he picked up the candle and climbed slowly back up the stairs, closing and bolting the cellar door behind him. The first thing he saw when he went back into the room was Rose’s chair, grimy and bloodstained and every bit as intimidating as her glittering eyes. The chair was Rose somehow; it was impossible for him to separate the two in his mind. But Rose was dead, so the chair had to die too.
Seizing the open gin bottle from the floor where Rose had left it, Leo began to slosh its contents over the chair until every last drop had gone. Then he let the bottle fall to the floor and reached in his pocket for a match. The alcohol caught straight away. By the time Leo let himself out of the house, the chair was ablaze and the fire had begun to take a grip of the rest of the room.
Chapter Twenty
July 1916
ELEANOR WATCHED KIT tugging at the too-tight neckline of her blouse.
“It really is the absolute end that we have to wear our full uniform in weather like this.”
It was a blisteringly hot day, and it was hotter still in the bell tents Eleanor and Kit had been assigned to at Casualty Clearing Station Number Six. They’d been moved here from the abbey a week previously in preparation for the big battle everyone knew was about to take place. It hadn’t taken long for the novelty of living and working under canvas to wear off.
Conditions were extremely basic. Each tent had a folding bed with a lumpy mattress and a folding washstand. There was also a bucket, a table, and a bath chair of stiff green canvas. So far it hadn’t rained, and although Kit complained about the heat, Eleanor was grateful for it. She wasn’t at all confident that their tents would prove to be watertight.
Beyond the bell tents, two huge marquees had been erected to serve as wards. These were currently empty, but for experienced nurses like herself and Kit, it was all too easy to imagine what it would be like inside them if this heat continued when the first casualties began to arrive.
Eleanor had written to Dirk immediately after she had details of their posting. When they’d been told—two weeks before their departure date—that they were to be moved, Eleanor had been apprehensive. She was used to life at the abbey, and she enjoyed the comfort of her courtyard garden and the cat. Without her, he’d probably return to his pursuit of the doves.
Kit, on the other hand, had been thrilled at the thought of a change, and especially at the prospect of life without Sister Palmer, who was to remain at the abbey. Only now Kit was coming to realize that life under canvas was even less luxurious than life at the abbey had been.
Eleanor’s own sense of unease had passed once the move had taken place. She and Kit were part of a fairly large number of staff from the abbey, so in some ways the familiar faces made it almost a home away from home. It was very unfortunate that the priest, Edwards, had been posted with them as well, but lately he hadn’t seemed to be trying to inflict Eleanor with his company so often, which was a distinct blessing. And the fact that there’d been a letter from Dirk waiting for her when she arrived had also played a part in the upturn of her spirits. But perhaps it hadn’t contributed so much to Kit’s.
“Are you and Dirk courting?” she asked Eleanor now, fanning herself irritably with a newspaper.
They’d both brought their canvas chairs outside their tents in the hope of it being cooler, but it wasn’t. Save for a group of trees a little way off, the whole camp seemed to be devoid of areas of cooling shade.
Eleanor was silent, looking down at Dirk’s letter in her lap. She remembered its contents by heart.
My dear Eleanor,
How are you? And Kit? Is she back at Revigny yet? I do hope she’s not hurting too badly. I think of the two of you hard at work making your patients’ lives a little better all the time. Though, truth be told, I think of you most of all.
As each day passes since our wonderful weekend together at Royaumont, work and this hideous war seek to make our time together seem unreal. When I’m out there in the field reporting on bombardments and casualty numbers, it gets harder and harder to believe that we did actually go for that walk together in that magical wood with the nightingale singing its little heart out to us all the while. When I’m lying in bed, trying to get to sleep, and my head’s pounding with the shellfire of the day, I do my best to force it out by thinking of that bird singing. It calms me a little and helps me to relax. And of course, it brings me closer to you.
Beacham has an encyclopedia with him. Can you believe that? The thing weighs an absolute ton. I used it the other evening to look our bird up. Did you know that it’s only the unattached males who sing like that at night? So, our poor fellow was all on his own, hoping to attract a mate. I do hope he’s successful, don’t you? Even though that would mean the end of his wonderful singing. I can’t bear to think of the poor little guy not being as happy as I am.
I can’t wait to see you again, Eleanor, and in the meantime, I hope you can dream of nightingales at night.
Yours truly,
Dirk
“Come on, Eleanor,” Kit said impatiently when Eleanor didn’t answer her question. “I’m supposed to be your friend, aren’t I? Friends are supposed to talk to each other.”
Eleanor flushed, recalling how Kit had once declared herself capable of dealing with Dirk’s preferring Eleanor to herself. Had that been strictly honest? Could Kit be jealous?
Kit sighed. “Listen to me. What a grump! I’m sorry. Anyway, you’re not the only one with a secret.” She smiled to herself. “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.”
Eleanor smiled. It was good to see her friend looking happier. Although Eleanor knew Kit wasn’t nearly over her brother’s death, she did seem to have found a measure of acceptance.
“What secret?” she asked, and Kit dimpled delightedly.
“Well, you know that dashing officer who lost his legs? Lieutenant Montague? Well, we had rather a lot of chats when I returned to work, and we’ve been writing regularly since he was discharged. Oh, Eleanor, I rather like him.”
Eleanor was pleased. “He struck me as a charming man.”
“Oh, he is,” agreed Kit. “He is. I shall certainly endeavor to visit him next time I’m on leave. And by the way, you really don’t need to answer my question about Dirk. I already know the answer. Nobody writes to each other as often as you two do unless they’re courting. And all I can say is you’re a very lucky creature. Dirk is divine!”
When Leo’s wound had healed sufficiently to allow him to return to his regiment, he found the mood of the others to be of high optimism. They were to have a real crack at the Hun, and this time it would definitely be all over by Christmas.
The high spirits and camaraderie grated on Leo’s nerves. His head wound may have healed, but he wasn’t sleeping well. Far from setting him free, Rose’s death seemed to have brought her closer still. Night after night, she visited him in his dreams until he no longer wanted to sleep.
“Good to have you back with us, Leo.” It was Baines, expecting to carry on where he’d left off.
Leo looked at him and remembered the battlefield. Baines, his talisman, there and then suddenly not there. The panic he�
��d experienced when he could no longer see him. No, it didn’t do to be dependent on anybody. Anybody at all. After all, look how Edie had rejected him.
So, Leo walked away without acknowledging Baines’ greeting, moving over to his bunk to deposit his kit bag.
“Miserable bugger,” somebody said behind him to Baines. “Don’t know why you bother with him. Why don’t you leave him to sulk and come play a hand of cards with us?”
Any reply Baines might have made was inaudible, but when Leo next looked, he found he was alone.
And he was still alone at seven o’clock in the morning on the first of July as he waited with hundreds of thousands of other men—the largest gathering of men in the war so far. It was the Battle of the Somme, the battle that was expected to change the course of the war.
Leo stood in the communication trench with his face pressed against the pack of the man in front of him. Afraid. His lust for experience seemed to have suddenly deserted him, and, closing his eyes, he pictured Severini’s sunlit studio in an effort to get it back. The wafting drapes, the jolly bustling street sounds coming in from outside, the stacked canvases revealing a train here, a machine there…It all seemed so close, almost close enough to touch. At any moment the door would burst open, and there would be his friend, brimful of enthusiasm for a new day as usual.
“Leo, my friend!” he imagined Severini saying. “You slept well? Jeanne is preparing coffee and croissants for us. Mmm, bellisima! Now, tell me what you think I should do with this painting. I awoke this morning with the thought that the foreground is too weak. Do you not agree?”
Without warning, the image in Leo’s mind changed. A huge explosion blew the windows of Severini’s apartment in, causing fragments of the ceiling to rain down on Leo’s head. He watched himself cowering amongst the canvasses and looking up at Severini, who was standing with his arm around his wife, smiling. Laughing.
“Get off me, Cartwright! Ain’t this bleeding pack heavy enough as it is?”
Adams, the man in front of Leo in the trench, had to bellow in order to make himself heard. Since about half past six, the British bombardment had been stepped up in preparation for zero.
“He’s only being friendly, Reg,” cracked Forbes, the man behind Leo. “Wants to give you a cuddle for luck!”
Neither man seemed surprised when Leo failed to respond. Miserable bugger, they were likely thinking. Let him miss out on the fun if he wants. For in a bizarre way they couldn’t have begun to put into words, this was fun. They’d been waiting for this, the lot of them, week after frigging week, day after frigging day. It was what they’d signed up for: a proper go at the enemy. Berlin before dinner, then home after it was all settled.
Many of the men covered their ears to drown out the thunder of the bombardment, not that it helped. It had been going on non-stop for five days now, and all that was left of the chateau on the ridge was a heap of rubble that could only be glimpsed occasionally through clouds of yellow smoke. Commander Hutchins had told them that the general had taken a look and was of the opinion that all they’d find when they reached the chateau was the caretaker and his dog. The Hun lines would have been pulverized by the bombardment; it was going to be almost too easy.
Leo didn’t think he could stand their relentless cheerfulness a moment longer. He no longer knew what he was doing here. He only knew he longed to paint with every fiber of his being. He needed painting like a lifeline; it was who he was—an artist. Without it, he felt adrift. And yet…he no longer felt confident that, if presented with canvas and brushes, he would know what to paint, or even how to paint. The certainty, which had cloaked him like a second skin for as long as he could remember, had worn thin to the point of transparency.
Suddenly the bellow of the bombardment ceased, leaving in its wake a shocking silence. Those men who were able to do so in the cramped space turned their heads, exchanging baffled glances. There were still ten minutes to go before zero. Why had the bombardment stopped so soon?
The lake of silence was as vast as the inferno of noise that had preceded it. Any talking was done in whispers. Leo’s heart pounded in his ears, and he felt as if he were falling. Then a voice inside his head called out for his mother. Standing there in that sweat-stinking queue of men, he knew with an awful certainty that by killing Rose he’d destroyed the one thing to have truly given him purpose in life. He’d always lived his life despite her, because of her, to show her, to prove to her. Even his paintings were done despite her scorn. And now she was gone, and he was left face to face with an abyss of loneliness and lack of purpose.
He was drowning somewhere that Severini and his ideas couldn’t help him. Nobody could help him. But even as he thought it, a face filled his mind. Eleanor. He saw the vulnerability in her face after Pryce had challenged her about her father’s parish. How, he wondered, had she looked at her stepbrother, at sixteen?
Tension was mounting in the line. It was almost Zero Hour, and all around him soldiers were wishing each other good luck. Adams spoke to Forbes over Leo’s shoulder. No one spoke to Leo.
The whistle blew. It was time. Leo felt a deep frisson of fear shiver through his body and thought, as he often did, of Severini. The man was always so sure of himself. How would he be feeling if he were here now, instead of Leo? In Leo’s mind, Severini began to laugh, his features unpleasantly mocking, and Leo felt sick. Had Severini really been his friend, or had he just wanted him out of the way? Jeanne hadn’t liked Leo, but more than that, Leo—young and talented—was a rival to Severini. Could Severini have plotted for Leo to come here to die? Had Severini wanted to dispose of him? If so, then Leo had been severely duped.
There was movement ahead of him. The troops at the front of the line were going over the top. To refuse to do so meant death by firing squad; they all knew that. Feigning insanity would doubtless have the same result. There was no alternative but to go through with it.
The tide of movement reached Leo. Inexorably, the ladder loomed nearer. He was climbing, emerging into a shimmering crop field of tin helmets—a fascinating, constantly-changing pattern as the men slowly moved, fell, picked themselves up, fell again, were replaced.
And as Leo joined the morass, he smiled to himself like one who had truly gone insane. For amazingly, there was a beauty in this shifting pattern of humanity, a beauty with the potential—when painted—to eclipse any work created by Severini.
All he had to do was survive.
“It is, on balance, a good day for England and France. It is a day of promise in this war…”
“Everything has gone well. Our troops have successfully carried out their missions. All counter attacks have been repulsed, and large numbers of prisoners have been taken…”
“Thanks to the very complete and effective artillery preparation, thanks also to the dash of our infantry, our losses have been very slight…”
Along with the other correspondents, Dirk sat at his typewriter during the early hours of the second of July, clattering out a story that he hoped would convey the drama of the day’s battle better than anyone else’s.
As yet, they had very little concrete information to go on, but nobody who’d witnessed the scale of the bombardment, even from an upstairs window of GHQ, could possibly believe that the first day of the Battle of the Somme had been anything other than a success.
Could they?
Filled with an unease that didn’t seem to be shared by his colleagues, Dirk screwed up sheet after sheet of paper until finally he all but gave up.
“For goodness sake, stop pacing, man,” said Robinson of the Times, who already had a stack of typed pages by the side of his typewriter. “The morning dispatches will be here soon.”
Dirk threw himself down onto a chair and lit a cigarette. “Not soon enough for me,” he said with feeling. “What have you been writing about?”
“I’ve been trying to give a true picture of the bombardment,” Robinson told him. “Not easy after writing about so many of the damn things
these past two years. I’ve had trouble showing how much bigger this one was to the rest.”
Dirk got up again and read Robinson’s copy over his shoulder. It was an account of how the journalist had succeeded in counting the number of times a shell had exploded per second first by winking his eyes—a method that had proved too slow—and then by clicking his teeth together, which had enabled him to just about keep up.
Sweet Jesus.
Dirk was sickened by the image of Robinson’s readers, sitting in their parlors, reading the article then trying out the method for themselves.
Click, click, click, click, click. There goes another shell. It was obscene.
“I think it gets the idea across fairly well, don’t you?” Robinson asked.
Mercifully, the dispatches arrived, and Dirk was saved from having to answer.
All the journalists, Dirk included, fell on the information like vultures to a carcass, digesting it with feverish eyes before returning to their typewriters to add a backbone of positive fact to their skeleton impressions. They all had newspapers eagerly waiting for the latest news from the Front.
It was a long day after a long night. Later, when the others were catching up on their sleep, Dirk slipped from the house. The censors had passed his story with minimal interference, and it had been sent on its way together with the efforts of his colleagues. He ought to have felt content, but he didn’t. The censors’ approval had left him feeling uneasy, and he knew there was no way he could sleep. He hoped with all his heart that the glorious stories of British victories had been true accounts, but knew he would not rest until he found out for sure. But in order to find out, he would have to get as close as possible to the Front.
Aware of the dangers, Dirk distracted himself with thoughts of Eleanor at Royaumont: at the dinner table, a stray blond curl lying on her forehead, her lips curved into a shy smile as she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. And later, outside the hospital, her face glowing with wine and, he liked to think, with happiness.
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