The Soldier's Return

by Melvyn Bragg

  ‘It’s more sensible all round,’ said Leonard, but he glanced at Grace as he said this and was relieved that she inclined her stately head in acquiescence. Grace had no fear of Leonard when Ellen was under her roof and under her thumb.

  ‘We’ve never really done anything with your old room,’ said Grace. ‘We’ll put that little camp bed in for Joe. You’ll like that, won’t you, Joe?’

  Joe did not know how to react. Everything was as it had been often enough in this room but everything was different. He was aware of something that would break or go wrong or be amazing. He did not understand it. There were no clues in his mother’s face, none on his father’s. Aunty Grace and Uncle Leonard seemed the same but they were different too. Only Mr Kneale was as he had always been and Joe sensed his father pull back from Mr Kneale and he followed suit.

  ‘Can I go out to play?’

  ‘There’s nobody out there.’

  ‘I can go and ask them.’

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ said Ellen.

  ‘Let him go.’

  Grace was in charge. Joe sped out.

  ‘It’ll be one heck of an adventure, that voyage,’ said Leonard enviously.

  ‘I should think Sam’ll have had his fill of long sea voyages,’ said Mr Kneale. ‘I should think they can have their drawbacks.’

  ‘But this is no troopship,’ said Leonard. ‘I’ve seen photographs of them setting off for Australia. It looks like a holiday jaunt to me. Fun and games.’

  Ellen bided her time and then put the plates on a tray and left the room.

  Sam lit up. Grace frowned on smoking in the front room – it got into the curtains and the cushions – but something about Sam this afternoon made her hold her tongue. Leonard also took advantage.

  When Ellen returned, Mr Kneale glanced around the company in a way which clearly teed up the stroke he was to deliver.

  ‘I have here,’ he said, producing, from under his chair, a parcel neatly wrapped in brown paper and well tied with brown string, ‘a small parting gift for Sam there.’

  Everyone but Sam looked pleased.

  ‘I know that it is premature, but I have my reasons, which will be explained after Sam opens this parcel.’

  Smiling at the secrecy, he handed over the parcel – clearly a book.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  He did not relish being the centre of attention. The parcel had to be opened. The string was knotted fast. Unthinkingly, he reached for his pocket knife, an act which drew a little gasp from Grace. Ellen took the parcel from him and with skilful tugging, including use of her teeth, she loosened it and passed it back. The guilty knife was put away.

  As this was going on, Mr Kneale said, ‘I believe very firmly in books as gifts. Joe, for example, when he was seven, I knew he would have liked a toy, but that Junior Encyclopaedia will continue to be a treasure long after any toy is broken and forgotten.’

  Sam’s book was revealed.

  ‘Read out the title, Sam.’

  ‘Campaign in Burma,’ he read. ‘Prepared for South East Asia Command by COI, written by Lt Col Frank Owen, OBE. Thanks very much, Mr Kneale. It should be quite interesting.’

  ‘Pass it round,’ urged Mr Kneale and Sam did so. ‘I saw a long reference to it in the Cumberland News,’ he went on, ‘and I thought – I must have that book. When I was about it I thought – and a copy for Sam. As a parting gift.’ The cover of the book was sternly examined by Grace. ‘And I confess to an ulterior motive.’ His face took on an expression of mock self-reproof. ‘As I’ll never see you again after you go to Australia – they don’t come back -’ Here Ellen stared straight ahead, unblinking, at nothing. ‘–I wanted your views on the book. If you have the time. The observation of the common soldier on what we might call the High Command’s version. It would be helpful for me, Sam.’ Mr Kneale was very earnest. It would mean a great deal to me. I’m taking this Burma business very seriously.’

  Sam looked at him, drew heavily on his cigarette, nipped it out in the saucer, which he knew was the height of bad manners, slipped the dog-end into his pocket and said, I’ll do my best, Mr Kneale. And thanks again. I think I’ll go and look out for Joe.’

  ‘He was rather moved,’ said Mr Kneale, after Sam had left. ‘The thoughts that must be going through his head! They have a lot to live with, those young men.’

  The days began to gather pace. It still seemed wholly unlikely, impossible, that he should be off to the other side of the world within such a short time and yet the date raced towards him mercilessly. The days began to be marked by last visits. The last visit to his relatives down on the coast. The last visit to Jackie, making no progress. The last visit to Ian’s parents. And, in the last week, the final visit to his father and Ruth.

  ‘What’ll you do with your bicycle?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll leave it for Ellen to sort out.’ He tried to smile. ‘Maybe Joe can practise on it soon.’

  ‘Father was glad you came.’

  ‘He’s losing ground.’

  ‘Just forgetful.’ Ruth shook her head. ‘He is going back. He repeats things more and more. He has this terror that he’ll end up in the workhouse – and whatever I say can’t convince him. He keeps saying that I can’t wait to get him in there. Me.’

  Ruth bit her bottom lip.

  Sam put an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘I haven’t been much help.’

  She shook her head, excusing him.

  ‘The trouble is,’ she continued, steady now, The more he talks about it and worries about it, the more likely it is to happen. Though I won’t let them take him until I can’t cope.’ Her tone was suddenly fierce. ‘They’ll not just cart him off.’

  They walked down the lane, Sam wheeling the bicycle with one hand, linking the other arm with his sister.

  ‘I thought of coming to see you off,’ she said. ‘But I think that it’s best if it’s just Ellen. And Joe. She’ll be taking Joe.’

  If he could break out of his cold fastness and talk to anyone, it was Ruth. She would not judge. Just to be listened to would be a release. To talk to no one about it was making him feel increasingly distant from everyone. No one knew what he was thinking or feeling and no one would get to know but the isolation was a curse. It was as if he were already way out to sea, out of contact with the town, the people, friends, even those he loved like Ruth. It was the strangeness and a determination beyond his comprehension which held him to the purpose. At whatever cost he would continue on the path and it was this which made him fearful.

  ‘I’ll pop through to Wigton next Thursday.’

  He was leaving on the Friday.

  ‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘I’ll come through to see Ellen and Joe a bit more often.’

  ‘It’s that…’ He looked at her, held her returned gaze, but then he looked away. ‘I’ve got to get out,’ he said. He swallowed and his tongue coaxed saliva into his throat.

  ‘I’m sure Ellen understands.’ Ruth’s sincerity meant that she could not be challenged and besides, he thought, perhaps she was right. Ellen had said so little lately, none of it critical, helping him get ready.

  ‘I think she does. I’ll send for them,’ he nodded, when I’ve found my feet.’

  But what, the thought came to him increasingly often, what if he did not find his feet, what if they did not come when he ‘sent for them’, what then? The flash of panic blinded him to such consequences.

  ‘I just have to get away, Ruth.’

  They stood apart, brother and sister, not embracing, nothing but the strain in their eyes showing the depth of the understanding and love between them and words would not have done much good.

  It was still light enough when he walked into the yard – he had stowed away the bicycle at Grace’s house – and he was pleased to see Bella, there was a lift in seeing her, innocent of the worries of others.

  ‘Mr Richardson?’

  ‘Yes, Bella.’

  ‘You’re goin
g a long, long way away, Mr Richardson.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Is Joe and Mrs Richardson going away as well?’

  ‘Not as far as me, Bella, but they’ll be going down to Market Hill, sooner or later. You worried about seeing Blackie?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Richardson.’

  ‘I’ll make sure Joe invites you to Market Hill, Bella.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Richardson.’

  ‘Here.’ He fished half a crown out of his pocket. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever given you anything, Bella. Buy something nice.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Richardson.’

  Bella looked at the large coin deposited on her palm, as if it would leap off and hop away. She closed her fist and took the money in to show her mother.

  Sam had scarcely seen Bella’s mother. He suspected she had kept in most of the time because she was ashamed of her daughter. Lately she had another reason: her sister had been diagnosed as tubercular and despite the warning of infection from the doctor, Bella’s mother insisted on nursing her. He could sometimes hear the coughing through the party wall. Bella herself, he had noticed, was beginning to look paler.

  He had hoped Joe and Ellen might be in but the house was empty yet again. He ate a couple of slices of bread but there was no real appetite. After half an hour’s wait, he went into the town.

  With winter closing in and the hint of real cold already in the air, the streets were almost bare. A few men scuttled from the fire of one pub to the warmer fire of another; better fires and better space, most times, than they could find at home. The older children were engaged in their perpetual game of chase up and down the rivulets of alleyways, across yards, over walls into lanes, darting across streets with no traffic, the town an adventure park. He came across one or two he knew and one of them said ‘good luck’. Sam remembered that first day he had come back from the war with the town so unchanged but so different and now he was soon to leave it he felt the difference again and also the sameness. He found he was looking carefully at the shops which were usually of low interest and at other ordinary features of the place, as if he were taking photographs. There were none of the lads standing around the fountain doing nothing, which was a disappointment. He liked to think they were always there, always had been, always would be, the spirit of the town.

  Two drinks in the Lion and Lamb were enough to convince him he was not in a pub mood and he went back on to the streets and tacked through the back alleys until he came on Vinegar Hill. This was where he had started from. This was where his father had brought him.

  Even in the near-dark he could make out every bit of it. The precarious-looking central tower of dwellings – houses split horizontally, houses sliced vertically, rooms of many shapes and sizes, all strung together by steps and parapet ways. The ponies were tethered in the field that muddled around it and there were two donkeys apparently leaning against a wall. Dogs scavenged everywhere. Mongrels and the lurchers they always kept. Children war-whooped and next to the building was a fire, the men and the older boys sitting around it, as Sam remembered them doing since his childhood.

  ‘Sit down, Sam. We’ve some spuds in that fire. They’ll be out in no time.’

  Diddler, the oldest of the men, extended the welcome. Kettler was also there, quite drunk, lolling like a lord on the mat of coats and old carpet and sacks they had put down for comfort. Diddler’s was the full tinker look, the wide-gashed mouth, the high cheekbones, broad forehead, narrow-socketed blue eyes, long tangled hair. His family was Irish, now based in Wigton for two generations, some of them grown fond of the town and stayed. But they had never entirely lost their own ways.

  Diddler was a big man, a kerchief around his throat, a once-fine tweed jacket, a brown trilby hat pushed back on his head, a short pipe, a jet of spit sizzling in the fire every so often.

  ‘You never wear a hat yourself, Sam?’

  ‘Not since I came back.’

  ‘And now they say you’re taking off again.’

  Sam nodded and offered a cigarette. Diddler spat, pressed a thumb pad over the pipe and reached out for one. Sam handed them round to the three others. Only one lit up. The others put them behind their ears. Kettler put the cigarette in his mouth but did not light it.

  ‘Try some of this,’ said Diddler and he passed over a large jug. Sam had a good idea of what was in it but it would have been bad manners to refuse. He took a quick gulp which brought tears to his eyes and another quick gulp which somehow did the trick of cancelling out the awful taste of the first drink.

  ‘Not for boys,’ said Diddler and took a serious pull. He offered the jug to no one else for the moment.

  ‘So where is it, Sam?’

  ‘Australia.’ The word sounded foolish, uttered to Diddler.

  ‘Believe that… the other side of the world, eh? Where the men walk upside down. And the women, Sam?’

  ‘That’s the place.’

  The drink had hit the spot. For the first time for weeks, Sam experienced something approaching happiness.

  ‘Is there any more in that jug, Diddler?’

  ‘For an old friend, the jug’s never empty.’ He passed it over and, to one of the younger men, said, ‘Rake out the spuds and have a look.’

  Sam took a serious slug, apprehending that it could be his last.

  ‘So,’ said Diddler, looking into the blaze, his face hot with it, ‘what is it in Australia?’

  Sam’s instinctive reply, now that his head was being prised away from the lock in which it had been held, was to say ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s a new start,’ he said, with effort. ‘Far away. Away from all this.’

  ‘From Vinegar Hill?’

  ‘No, no, not Vinegar Hill.’

  ‘Wigton, then?’

  ‘No. Yes. No. It isn’t Wigton. It’s just … Everything.’

  ‘How’s them spuds?’

  ‘A few more minutes.’

  ‘Surprising how you can hunger for a baked spud, Sam, with a bit of salt. Everything eh, Sam?’ Diddler smiled at him. The big handsome head held few teeth. ‘I understand about that. See the old caravan?’ He pointed. ‘Whenever I get a bit restless, off we go. We go where the road takes us. There’s no fighting it when it comes on, Sam, so I’m with you. Australia, any place, when it comes on you, you have to follow it, Sam, or that day you start to die. There’s something the old heart knows that we don’t, Sam. You have to listen to it. You stop listening and your life’s over, walk and talk all you like, your life’s over. So you go to Australia, Sam. I’ll drink to it.’

  He handed the jug yet again to Sam.

  ‘Drink up. You’re my guest tonight. I want you to remember Vinegar Hill when you get off that old boat upside down.’ He grinned, his gash of a mouth slashed wide across his face. ‘The trouble is, Sam, my old Da used to say, wherever you go, you take yourself with you.’

  ‘Spuds is ready.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  They sliced open the burnt, hot, black-coated potatoes with their pocket-knives and passed the salt around. The lurchers tried to gobble the food and yelped at the heat of it. Another jug was found and Diddler included all the company in drinking to his guest.

  Sam scarcely remembered getting home, but after he got in the house he sobered up enough to light the candle at the bottom of the stairs to go up to look at Joe.

  For some minutes, mercifully numbed by the drink and sluiced with a kind of happiness, he gazed down at his son, who looked so like his wife despite the red hair, and he had no idea at all why he was doing what he was doing but he did know, even there, that he had to go and he would go, even alone, and soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  On the last day they went to Carlisle, all three. People noticed it and approved. Sam had not been enthusiastic about a send-off party although he had had a few drinks with his shift from the factory. Going to Australia or New Zealand or other Imperial outposts was no longer uncommon and besides, he had not been much in the t
own the last week or two, spending time with Alex, working as a pair: as they had done in Burma after Ian’s death.

  Tea, some desultory window shopping and the film and they were back in Wigton before dark and Joe – who had been uneasy throughout the day – was allowed to change and speed off. Both of them wished he had stayed.

  ‘I said I might meet Leonard, at the Vic, if we were back, for a quick one.’

  Ellen had filled the kettle from the tap in the yard before they had left. She lit the gas under it. ‘Maybe we could talk?’

  Her voice was quiet.

  ‘Right’

  Sam sat down in his usual chair, fearing that he was about to be cross-questioned.

  The water seemed to take an awful long time to boil.

  After she had poured the tea she sat, in the other chair, opposite him. For the first time for many days, she looked directly at him and kindly. ‘I’ve been going over what to say,’ she began, examining the white tea cup and saucer in her hand, ‘but now we’re here

  Sam waited.

  ‘First of all. First of all it was wrong of me to say I thought you would hit me. You wouldn’t. Not deliberately.’

  To speak in the open in calm tones took effort. Ellen had rehearsed it several times. She had feared it would feel awkward and it did. It should not have needed saying. Essential matters at one time had not needed words. Understanding and forgiveness would have been in slight intimate signals, in small apparently inconsequential actions.

  ‘Right.’ He accepted what she said and was relieved, but he knew it was far from over.

  She wanted to move on to Joe. By any comparison she could think of, Sam was not a stern or brutal father. She had been smacked as a child; Sam, she assumed from her encounters with his father, had been hit, even hammered, in his time. It was common practice. She had repeated all this to herself many times. But seeing him do it…

  She took a quick breath.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t hit Joe, though.’

  Sam had expressed regret more than once.

  ‘It’s been blown up out of proportion.’