Heart of War

by John Masters

  He kept on, sliding in and out with luxurious control, licking his lips, savouring her flesh, her agony of need.

  ‘Hurry,’ she cried again, but he would not, or could not, and she burst into tears, struggling under him, jerking this way and that, biting desperately at his ear, his chin, his shoulder. That made him thrust deeper and faster, his breathing became a series of shuddering gasps, and at last it was done, and he was still on top of her spreadeagled body, dragging breath into his lungs.

  ‘Now, now!’ she cried. ‘You promised!’

  He did not move for a while, then slowly got up and went to sit in a chair facing her. She lay in the same position, her sexual parts exposed, her dress fallen back on her thighs, shivering.

  He said, ‘We opened a Pandora’s box when we started giving you heroin, didn’t we? It was my fault. I wanted you so much … but the heroin wasn’t necessary for that, was it?’

  ‘Hurry, hurry,’ she cried. ‘Give me a pill, an injection, a sniff even.’

  ‘We’ve got to cut down or your baby will suffer. You don’t want that to happen, do you?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she moaned. ‘It’s too far away … this is here, now.’

  Dimly she saw him stand, go to a corner cupboard, get out a syringe. He said, ‘I’m going to reduce the doses. This is a sixteenth of a grain … Relax.’

  The needle pricked and she winced. Slowly Deerfield pushed the plunger home, slowly the drug entered her vein.

  The lights grew dim, bright, from white to yellow to gold. The itching and dryness began to slip away into a bad, but momentarily vanishing dream. She was back in reality, happy, secure, expanding wonder and love filling her. She realized that Charles was approaching her again and from a thousand miles away heard him say, ‘Let us make love again, now, before you float away altogether.’ She held out her arms to enfold him, opened wider her thighs to receive him into her warmth and love. She could take in the universe.

  It had rained the night before and the footpath on Chetney Marsh was slippery with mud. Alice Rowland and Dave Cowell leaned their bicycles against the wooden base of the little windmill and headed north, then east on the footpath as it wound on between tall reeds and marsh grass. The sun was sinking, and scattered bands of cloud, turning to orange and pink, heralded a dramatic sunset. They had arrived before ten in the morning, after the twenty-mile bicycle ride from Hedlington, and spent the day between Chetney Cottages and Deadman’s Island, at the far end of the marsh.

  They came to the bank of Long Reach and settled down, binoculars ready, Alice facing south along the water toward the road and railway bridges at Swale Station, and Dave Cowell up toward Deadman’s Island and across the Reach toward the houses of Queensborough in Sheppey.

  ‘Not a bad day, it’s been,’ he muttered to her as they sat on the ground, back to back, leaning comfortably into one another.

  ‘It’s been wonderful, darling,’ she whispered, ‘like every day we’ve been able to spend together … I hate to see the sun beginning to sink now, though I used to like sunsets – because I think of these days with you … the lovely birds, the wonderful sky … even in the rain … the fresh air, of forest, or down, or marsh.’

  ‘And the goodbye,’ he said, heaving his back against hers so that they rubbed together for a second.

  ‘That, too … especially,’ she whispered. She had long since ceased blushing when she thought of physical love. It was now a part of her, an absolutely necessary part, that shone in her always, like an inner sun, even when she was alone, even when she was filling shells in the factory.

  He said, ‘Sixty-one different, from nine families, and…’

  She interrupted him – ‘Dave! My side, swooping near the windmill!’

  Dave turned and knelt beside her, his glasses to his eyes. ‘Harrier,’ he muttered under his breath – ‘Coming closer, sweeping the edge of the Reach … lost him.’

  He put the glasses down and turned to her, eyes shining – ‘I couldn’t tell the colour for sure, and the sun’s almost gone, but it didn’t look brown enough for a Marsh.’

  ‘Montague’s?’ she asked. ‘That’s pale, too, isn’t it?’

  ‘Light greyish blue for both of them. Montague’s has a distinct dark bar on wingtips and tail, pale grey head …’

  ‘There he is again,’ she interrupted – ‘Coming over the marsh on the Sheppey side.’

  Cowell lifted his glasses: ‘It’s definitely not a Marsh … I’ve seen them before. They nest in Suffolk and come over sometimes in summer, about this time …’ He paused a long time, his head moving steadily to keep the binoculars focussed on the big bird. ‘Hen Harrier,’ he said at last with triumph. ‘No dark bar, and he definitely has a light patch on the rump. This is the tiercel.’ He leaned back against her with a sigh of pure pleasure. ‘That’s the first I’ve ever seen, dear. They mostly breed and live in Scotland – very few in England or Wales. You always bring me luck!’ He turned round and found her mouth with his, closed his eyes, and kissed her. Her lips parted softly. In the shadowless light, the water still and salt in the quiet air, without a word spoken, they rolled over like animals at play onto the thick grass beside them, he fumbling for the bottom of her skirt, she helping him. Their breaths coming faster, gasping love into each other’s ears, they began to mate. The Hen Harrier continued his hunting course toward the estuary of the Scarrow.

  Margaret Cate sat with Michael Collins in the small back room of a stone house in Tulla, County Clare. Collins was one of over a hundred prisoners from Easter Week, 1916, recently released from English prisons by Lloyd George. Another of the released prisoners was Eamonn de Valera.

  Margaret said, ‘I don’t think de Valera’s right to take part in the election. It’s being run by the English – for the English Parliament. We should boycott all their institutions … especially this convention.’

  Collins said, ‘Ach, the convention’s only being held as a sop to the Americans but I think Dev’s right. We’re all being treated like heroes now – we were thunderstruck – quite different from when we were being led off to gaol the day we surrendered … What de Valera’s doing is making Sinn Fein respectable, gathering supporters, who’ll likely stay with us if we do have to go into the streets again.’

  ‘He’s telling the people that a vote for him is a vote for our independence, and freedom,’ Margaret said, ‘but he doesn’t say how he’s going to get them.’

  ‘Ah, if he mentions violence, he’ll lose the people he wants to attract,’ Collins said. ‘We don’t want to talk about violence now, Lady … when the time comes we’ll just do it! Most people will follow along with whatever we have to do, by then.’

  ‘Sinn Fein clubs are certainly springing up everywhere,’ Margaret said grudgingly. ‘We have more support, in numbers, than we’ve ever had … I just wonder how much they’ll be worth, when the time comes for something harder than dropping a vote in an urn.’

  Collins said earnestly, ‘Look, Lady, let’s get de Valera elected. You know and I know that he’ll never take the oath of allegiance … We’re going to demand independence and the only real question is whether we’re going to demand it from a post-war peace conference, as a small nation – same as Serbia or Montenegro, or even Poland … or demand it in the English Parliament. If either or both of them say no – then we go out in the streets, and the fields … the way you wanted to last year … What’s the time?’

  ‘About ten.’

  ‘I have to go to Limerick to set up a Volunteer escort service. On Election day the other side’s bully boys will be attacking any car they think is one of ours … and we’ll be ready for them.’

  Margaret watched him go, then returned to her business, of cleaning the arms – rifles, pistols, and shotguns – stacked in various parts of the house, against the day when votes failed and guns were again called upon to speak for Sinn Fein.

  Christopher Cate walked through the twilight of Walstone, wearing a light tweed suit and cap. Isabel Kramer
tripped neatly beside him in a light dress with a straw hat, the brim not excessive, the colours of her clothing bright but not garish. The sun had set in a blaze of gold and red, but there was still strong light from a clear sky. Hunting swallows raced up and down the Scarrow beside them, and the clock in the Saxon tower of the church was striking nine.

  The village constable passed, strolling portentously in the opposite direction, and raised a finger to his helmet in salute. Cate touched the peak of his cap and stopped, ‘Evening, Fulcher. No serious crime over the weekend, I hope?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ the constable said. ‘There was some soldiers creating a commotion in the Beaulieu Arms about dinner time Saturday. Danged if I know why they don’t get drunk in Hedlington, ’stead of coming all the way down here to do it.’

  ‘Perhaps they hope to meet some nice country girls, Mr Fulcher,’ Isabel said.

  Fulcher’s tone softened. ‘Ah, Mrs Kramer, the girls here won’t look at them when they’re drunk. They know that.’

  ‘Well, I hope you weren’t too hard on them,’ Cate said. ‘They’ll all be off to France soon enough.’

  ‘Set ’em out to dry in Ormer’s hayfield by the river,’ Fulcher said.

  ‘Good man … Good news from Tip, I hope.’

  ‘No bad news, anyway, sir. He’s with the Grand Fleet still.’

  ‘Then I don’t think any harm will come to him. The Germans won’t come out again.’ He nodded and moved on, passing Quick the postman’s house on the other side of the narrow street. Henry Quick and his wife Flora were standing in the doorway, talking to Miss Morelock, the schoolmistress. Cate stopped and raised his cap. The three turned with respectful greetings – ‘Good evening, Mr Cate … Good evening, Mrs Kramer …’ The schoolmistress added, ‘That’s such a pretty dress you’re wearing, Mrs Kramer. Is it American?’

  ‘Yes,’ Isabel said, laughing, ‘and it must be twenty years old … but fashions come round in circles, don’t they, Miss Morelock? If you just look in your old trunks you’ll find an up-to-date Paris creation again.’

  Good, Cate thought, everyone knows her by now; and she knows everyone, which is not so easy; but she’s done it. He turned to Quick. ‘How’s Stan, Henry?’

  ‘All right so far, sir,’ the postman replied. His wife’s face was sad, as she added – ‘We pray for him every night.’

  ‘We must all pray,’ Cate said.

  They walked on. ‘Pray for peace, too?’ Isabel said in a low voice – ‘They deserve it … the soldiers need it. What do the people here think of John and his pacifist campaign?’

  ‘About the same as Louise does,’ Cate replied. ‘The English countryman is a tolerant person. He’s had a lot of practice at it. They’ve all known John a long time and they don’t think he’s suddenly become a Hun because he’s joined the peace movement. Mostly they don’t agree with him, either.’

  ‘Not even the Englands there, with one son gone and the other likely to at any moment, if they start another Somme battle?’

  ‘Especially not them, or those like them … Hullo, Probyn, any news from Fletcher?’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ the wizened figure in the deerstalker hat said, stopping and touching his forelock.

  Cate slowed down – ‘I know what his new name is … What’s his news?’

  ‘Lots of shelling … thinks the generals are going to start another big battle any moment now … and they’re going to make a regular mess of it, like always … They’ve made him a sniper and he’s killed a lot of Germans. Mostly officers, but he’s afraid he killed one poet … just felt it was …’

  ‘Has he sent you any poems from the Front?’

  Gorse shook his head – ‘Gives ’em to a captain … he was in this captain’s company afore they made him battalion sniper. The captain sends them to some bloke in London, an editor, like, who prints books.’

  ‘A publisher,’ Cate said. ‘That sounds hopeful. Fletcher will be famous yet, Probyn. How’s Mrs Gorse?’

  ‘Got a bellyache, Squire. She’ll be all right tomorrow … Has Garrod found another girl to take Hilda’s place?’

  Cate shook his head – ‘We’re not trying to, Probyn. We’re all right as we are. Hilda’s in Coventry, working in an aeroplane engine factory. She wrote to Tillie.’

  ‘Flighty, that’s what she is,’ Probyn grumbled. He moved on, with another touch of his hand to his cap.

  Old Commander Quigley passed, peering shortsightedly. ‘Oh, hello, Christopher … and Mrs Kramer, isn’t it? The lady from Yankeeland. Our ally at last.’ He cackled heartily. Isabel Kramer moved easily round Christopher. The old Commander liked to pinch ladies’ behinds. ‘The Huns keep sinking ships with their damned submarines,’ Quigley said. ‘Swine – lurking under water like sharks. We’ll get ’em, though … drown the whole lot of them.’

  ‘We’d better,’ Cate said. ‘The figures of tonnage sunk are alarming.’

  ‘But improving, improving!’ the Commander croaked.

  Cate and Isabel moved on. A voice called – ‘Christopher … Squire!’ Cate stopped, turning. It was the rector, stocky, upright, white haired, seventy-seven years old – ‘How’s that boy of yours? In France, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Christopher said. ‘To his hearty relief. They had kept him back in the Depot partly because he was still rather young and partly because he seemed to have developed quite a knack for teaching the recruits shooting and patrolling. He’s stalked birds with his binoculars all his life, so I expect that was it.’

  ‘But he didn’t shoot the birds,’ Isabel said in a low voice.

  The rector said, ‘I expect they all find it a bit different out in France … You know, last time he was down here, he came to see me?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Cate said.

  ‘Well, he came and talked to me … said he might like to come into the Church after the war. Had he ever mentioned that to you?’

  ‘A long time ago,’ Cate said slowly. ‘Before Christmas, 1915, when he was home from Charterhouse. I told him that his great-great-great-grandfather had been squarson.’

  The rector said, ‘It would be wonderful if he could follow me … He’ll have to hurry, though. Kimball’s told me I’ll kill myself if I go on hunting, and I know I’ll die if I don’t – not that the hunting’s been even fair, these past two years … It was good to see you at evensong,’ he said to Isabel.

  ‘Thank you, Rector. You have such a lovely church … and we all have so much to pray for.’

  Cate said, ‘We’d better be moving on, Rector. I have to put Mrs Kramer on the train.’

  The rector toddled on. Isabel said, ‘Laurence might want to leave Walstone, you know.’ Cate thought, Laurence not want to live in Walstone? What would happen to the Manor? Isabel said, ‘It is a possiblity, Christopher. In fact, Laurence may be thinking of joining the Church in order to get away.’

  Cate said, ‘I can’t believe it. Surely, when he comes back, out of the trenches, he’ll want to come home. This will seem like … what it is … his place, his land … Walstone.’

  Isabel said, ‘It’s possible that these things, this portion, which to you are just love, are oppressive responsibilities to him.’

  The Manor trap rattled past, the new girl who had replaced the stable boy at the reins. She raised her whip in salute as she passed, then the gold glow of the twin lamps receded in the twilight and Isabel said, ‘Let’s not talk about that any more. We have so little time … We’d better go to the station now, dearest.’

  They turned down the lane that led to the railway station. Others were going the same way – soldiers down from Hedlington returning to barracks, relatives returning to London … Sunday evening, young summer, the Weald of Kent. The trap was standing in the station yard, the horse tethered to the rail at the far end.

  ‘She must have taken my suitcase onto the platform,’ Isabel said.

  They walked through the little booking office and onto the platform. The rails reflected red light from the up
starter signal, the heavy trees lined the open trench of the railway, the evening was hushed and still. They saw the girl with the suitcase, talking to a pair of soldiers, but walked past her, silent, to the end of the platform. There, under the white glow cast down from the open underside of the up home signal, she turned and whispered, ‘Darling – how long, how long?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.

  ‘My body yearns for you … I’m parched.’

  ‘I could come up to London … or Liverpool again.’

  She touched his hand with hers – ‘It isn’t enough, dearest. I want peace, a place … my place, beside you.’

  ‘You know it can’t be, yet.’

  She dropped her hand, and tears glistened in her eyes. The stationmaster, Frank Miller, bustled by on his way back from some distant errand, and said, ‘Evening, Mr Cate … evening, Mrs Kramer – going back to London now?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Cate said, ‘Any news from the boys, Frank?’

  ‘They’re all right, sir … they was all right, middle of May. That’s the last letter we had … sort of postcard, really, from Alf, with printed words like “I am well,” “I am sick,” “I have been wounded,” “Hoping this finds you as it leaves me”; and then you cross out words, like. Those boys never was much of a hand at writing, especially Gerald. Miss Morelock used to say they’d best go into some job where they could shout, instead of writing … Mister Laurence well, sir?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  The signal above them dropped with a metallic clang. From the east, an engine whistled high and long out of the dusk; a barn owl swooped across the rails and vanished silently into the woods opposite.

  The lovers walked back down the platform to where the stable girl waited with Isabel’s suitcase.

  Rachel Cowan let herself into the little house near eleven o’clock. It was dark but not dense, impenetrable dark – it never was, in England, in June, for the sun was never far below the horizon. Bert was in the front room, where the new printing press had been installed, smaller and older than the first, and liable to frequent breakdowns. He was drinking ale from a bottle, and there was a newspaper thrown on the floor beside him.