A Last Goodbye

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A Last Goodbye Page 18

by Dee Yates


  If the guards were not watching, Ellen stopped for a few words with Josef. She asked him whether he had managed to learn more English and, when he replied in the negative, next time she brought with her a book of Netta’s, full of pictures and vocabulary, apologising for its babyish appearance. He smiled and told her that it was just what he needed and he would learn it from cover to cover. From then on, she always tucked a book into the end of the perambulator before each visit to the Murdie farm. Looking forward to these encounters, she was despondent on the occasions that he wasn’t there. When the baby books ran out, she brought old farming magazines and he would laugh and say that she was trying to turn him into a farmer.

  *

  Margaret Murdie's friendship had a mothering quality which had been absent from Ellen's own life. She knew, because Duncan had told her, that her mother's favourite time of the year had been when the heather was in bloom, the last reminder of summer before the chill of autumn took hold. Therefore, on her latest walk through the valley, seeing the hillsides purple with the blossom, she stopped and picked a bunch to put on her mother's grave that evening. Then, on an impulse, she bent down a picked a second bunch of heather, intending to place one on Oliver’s grave also. She knew that there was no one else to decorate it and she would not have it forgotten and overgrown.

  The light was going and grey clouds were racing across the face of a three-quarters moon when she set off on her mission. She often chose an evening such as this to visit the graveyard, waiting until Netta was asleep and her father dozing in his chair. It was a long walk but one she knew well and moonlight brightened the path ahead. The iron gate of the graveyard creaked on its hinges as she opened it.

  Ellen found Oliver’s grave first. Josef had told her that the captain was arranging for the place to be marked with a headstone, but as yet there was nothing but bare earth and a small wooden cross bearing the name ‘Oliver Tauber’ scribbled in ink. She lay the bunch of heather reverently down and stood for a moment, reminded of the service she had attended with Josef and the soldiers.

  Next she crossed to where her mother was buried. She placed the bouquet in a glass vase that decorated the front of the plot and then sat down at the side of it, as she always did if the weather was dry, to talk to her mother.

  ‘Well, Mother. It’s more than five months now since I heard from Tom. I don’t know what to think. Margaret says no news is good news. What do you think, Mother? Is there any hope that he is still alive?’

  She held her breath to listen, but the only answer was the leaves of the rowan sighing in the wind.

  ‘I’ve lent Josef another of Netta’s books.’ She laughed. ‘He tells me he will soon be able to find a job looking after children because he understands their language.’

  The iron gate creaked and she glanced nervously over her shoulder. There was no-one there.

  ‘I went to Oliver Tauber’s funeral. He’s buried in yon corner away from everyone else, though of course you know that. You were here.’ She paused. ‘I don’t think this war will ever be over. I’m sick of it… all this waiting. It’s much worse for the men who are fighting of course. Margaret Murdie has only heard once from Iain. That’s her son. You ken Margaret, don’t you? Father says you were all friendly when you were younger. She’s a bit like a mother to me… though not as you would be, naturally. I ask her advice and…’ She stopped abruptly, certain that she heard voices. There was nothing.

  ‘Do you think it’s wrong of me to be friendly with Josef, Mother? Father isn’t happy about it. He says they’re the enemy, even if they are doing the work of our young men. But I can’t help it. I looked after him when he was so ill and we…’ She spun round at the snap of a dry twig. Behind her a dark shadow moved, two dark shadows, blotting out the face of the moon. Ellen sprang up in alarm and whirled around to make her escape.

  ‘Mrs Fairclough. Is it you?’

  ‘Captain! What are you doing here?’

  ‘We have come to check Oliver Tauber’s grave. It’s only right that the army should care for it. After all, he was in our charge when the accident happened. And Kessler here heard you, er… talking.’

  Ellen stared into the near-darkness. ‘Josef?’

  Josef stepped closer and squatted down beside her. ‘The captain let me visit Oliver’s grave. I find flowers. I think you put them. You are very kind.’ He hesitated, before continuing. ‘You talk to your mother?’

  ‘Aye. I come often. I never saw her. She died when I was born. But I feel as though I know her. I like to tell her things. I come here in the evening, when I can leave Netta with my father. It’s easier on my own.’

  ‘But you must allow us to give you a lift back, Mrs Fairclough… unless, of course, you prefer to walk.’ The captain had stepped up behind Josef and she could see his tall outline against the fading light.

  ‘Thank you, Captain. I would like to have a lift back.’ Ellen turned to her mother’s plot. ‘Goodnight, Mother. I’ll be here next week.’

  Catching up with the shadowy figures, who had turned away to afford Ellen some privacy, she followed them through the creaking gate, clanging it shut behind them with force enough to dislodge any ghosts that might be lurking within the crumbling walls of the old graveyard.

  Josef turned to Ellen as the captain steered the horse and wagon up to the road and proceeded at a steady pace towards the valley. The rhythmic clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and grate of the wheels on the road meant that the two could carry out a whispered conversation without fear of being overheard. Josef took hold of Ellen’s hand within his own in a way he was sure was invisible to the captain. Ellen glanced at the captain uncertainly.

  ‘Why does the captain come to the graveyard?' she whispered. 'Why not send one of the other officers?’

  Josef shrugged. ‘Maybe he thinks it is his fault that Oliver die.’

  ‘But why does he come in the wagon? Why not drive a truck?’

  ‘He says it is good to “take the air” in the evening.’ He increased the pressure on the hand that lay within his. ‘I think it is good for us, yes?’

  She squeezed his hand by way of reply and looked into his eyes, her heart too full for words.

  ‘So, you talk to your mother. You ask for her help?’

  ‘She listens to me, I’m sure of that, but she never tells me what to do.’

  ‘And you do not know what to do? You think to be friends it is wrong, you and me, because I am the enemy?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If you say it is wrong, I understand. When you walk along the road, I go inside the hut… not talk.’ His gaze dropped to their joined hands and he made to pull his away.

  ‘No, you mustn’t,’ she gasped. ‘I want to talk. Please be my friend.’

  ‘I am your friend. You save my life. You understand me.’

  ‘Will the captain be coming again?’ Ellen asked, after the silence had stretched to minutes.

  ‘I think yes, but not yet. Maybe one month, two.’

  Ellen watched the clouds speeding across the face of the moon. She glanced at the captain’s strained face, fixed on the road ahead, and thought that her own path was just as murky and uncertain as the road they followed back to the cottage. How was she to reconcile her life as a married woman with her increasing feelings for this man who sat at her side… her enemy, but in reality less so than the husband who had abandoned her?

  25

  Facing the Truth

  The air breathed an uncanny silence. Tom lay on his back, his ears strained for gunfire. Daylight was fingering round the ill-fitting door. He stared at the roof of the barn, grey with cobwebs. A private began to shout in his sleep and Tom jumped nervously at the sound. Elsewhere there was gentle snoring. Earlier in the night it had been louder, helped, no doubt, by the generous rum ration, but the culprit’s neighbour had quietened him with a none too gentle prod in the ribs and a colourful barrage of obscenities.

  The men were exhausted, barely able to
cope with the bathing and delousing and attention to their uniforms and equipment that had occupied them on their arrival. They had been relieved during the night before and sent down the tracks to the waiting lorry, which had taken them to a farm near the small village of Neubeuge. Both the farm and the village had, by some miracle, remained intact. A large barn filled with fresh straw was chosen for their billet. Here they were told to rest.

  Rest! Tom turned slowly onto his side and removed a sharp stalk that was sticking into his neck. Rest was impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the bodies of men and horses; every time his mind began to drift off, it was jolted back to reality by imaginary gunfire. At last he sat up quietly and pulled on his boots.

  ‘Where you off to, pal?’ His neighbour on the bed of straw was watching him with unblinking eyes.

  ‘Can’t sleep. Going for a walk. Back later,’ Tom whispered.

  ‘Well remember how the saying goes – “If you can’t be good, be careful,”’ the man muttered and closed his eyes.

  Tom forced his legs to step one in front of the other down the village street. His bones ached so much that he felt like a man of a hundred. The signs of normality – smoke curling from a chimney, chickens emerging from a garden gate to scratch in the road, late roses clustered over a kitchen door – all these served to create in Tom an overwhelming feeling of unreality. Ahead of him a young woman was encouraging a cow across the road and through an open gate into the field. Its engorged udders hung heavily, impeding progress. As the woman shut the gate, she glanced up and saw Tom. She smiled and spoke. Crossing slowly to where she stood, Tom studied her, too weary even to smile in return.

  ‘Engleesh?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye. Resting… on the farm.’ He pointed back the way he had come.

  The girl reached for a stool and bucket that had been left at the side of the gate and, sitting down, began to milk the cow. The rhythmic squeezing of her fingers on the cow’s udders and melodious drumming of the milk as it hit the sides of the bucket were almost unbearably tender. Tom felt his eyes brim with tears. He brushed them away with the sleeve of his coat but they kept coming. The girl looked up and saw that he was crying. And she left off milking the cow, picked up the pail and came to where Tom stood. She took him gently by the arm and led him over the road and into a barn, where she sat down in the thick covering of hay that lay over the floor. She indicated for him to do the same. And she cradled his head in her lap while he sobbed without restraint. It was as if his tears carried the pent-up emotions of all the months he had fought in the war and in his stormy relationship with his wife. The sobbing slowed at last. Only then did the girl stand up slowly and, saying something he did not understand, disappear. A minute later she was back with an enamel jug of milk and a mug. She filled the mug and offered it him. Still warm from the cow, the milk was delicious.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He fumbled in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. ‘I didn’t mean to do that. It’s the war you see. It’s so… so…’ He gave a convulsive sob and blew his nose hard.

  The girl smiled and nodded. It wasn’t difficult to understand what had occasioned his outburst. She rose again, spoke a few words and once more disappeared.

  Tom propped himself on his elbow and took another gulp of the milk. Then he lay back and closed his eyes.

  When he came to, the sun’s rays were piercing the warm air of the barn and landing at his feet. Dust motes danced languidly in the slanting beams and he lay watching them, poised between sleep and wakefulness, relaxed in body and mind. And then, with awful abruptness, he was precipitated into the hell of the front line by a sound as of shellfire. He rolled onto his side, shaking uncontrollably, curled embryo-like in the hay in an attempt to escape the onslaught.

  ‘Ssh! Ssh!’ Someone was stooping over him, arms outstretched, comforting. The shaking eased. Something was tickling his face. He opened his eyes slowly, scared of what he would encounter. The young woman was bending over him, her long dark curls, escaping from her head scarf, falling onto his cheek. She stepped back, lifted a bucket from the floor, shrugged in apology. He grinned and shrugged. Catching hold of the dark curls, he drew her face towards him and kissed her. She pulled back slowly and pointed to a plate of bread and cheese, the mug filled with fresh milk.

  ‘Later,’ he murmured, pulling her toward him.

  *

  He slept that night, better than he had in months, a deep dreamless sleep from which he woke refreshed. The captain arrived with the instruction that they were to be ready at four o’clock to return to their positions on the reserve line.

  Amid the general groans of dismay, Tom made a silent exit and retraced his steps towards the farm with considerably more energy than the day before. She was in the field, her head buried in the flank of a nearly milked cow. The animal stood patiently until she had finished and removed the bucket. She rose, smiled a welcome, dipped a mug in the bucket and handed the warm milk to him. Drops ran down the side of the mug onto his uniform and she laughed and brushed them away. Still laughing, she led him across the road and into the barn.

  *

  Darkness was falling as the men stepped off the lorry and made their precarious way along the duckboards to take up position.

  ‘Home, sweet home,’ one of the group joked, as they hunkered down in the trench.

  ‘Could hardly wait to get back,’ came a reply. ‘Hot and cold running water on demand, haute cuisine… and the sweet smell of success to boot! What more could a man want?’

  ‘Shut up, Thomson. I’ll tell you what I could do with… a bit of what Fairclough managed to find… am I no’ right, Tom?’

  Tom gave a small smile but kept his counsel. He wasn’t going to have his two days of pleasure, bandied about in the trench, by those who had been unsuccessful in finding anyone willing to relieve them of the frustrations of several weeks in the mud.

  The padre visited them that night.

  ‘Perhaps he knows something that we don’t,’ a private said, in an attempt to make light of the man’s appearance further down the mud-filled trench.

  ‘He’s probably here to tell us there’s no room left up there.’ The man jerked his head upwards, to where a couple of stars twinkled bravely in the distance.

  ‘What makes you think you’d be going up there, anyway?’ his companion replied. ‘I’ve heard they’ve plenty of room left the other way.’

  It was quiet in no man’s land, eerily so, Tom thought. As though the enemy was hatching a plan to attack with renewed vigour. He felt a return of the anxiety that the last couple of days had lessened. Leaning back on the wall of the trench, he closed his eyes. The two days of relaxation, while they had served as an outlet for his long bottled-up emotions, had also raised other dilemmas.

  When he had taken the young woman in his arms and buried his hand within her dark curls, he had imagined that it was Clara he was holding and that it was she who was responding to his kisses. And yet he knew, if he were honest with himself, that Clara would never do such a thing. Hadn’t she told him often enough? She would never be his, however much she filled his thoughts. He slid his hand into the inside pocket of his greatcoat and felt the two photographs, dog-eared but intact.

  The other, greater dilemma was the fact that he had been unfaithful to Ellen. True, he had accused her of being unfaithful to him… but, in his heart of hearts, he recognised it was unlikely. The baby had no doubt been his, and she had lost it and suffered the consequences without any consolation from him. It was the fact that she had nursed a German… and in his own home… that had really made him mad. And now he himself had done what he had charged her with doing. What an unholy mess.

  ‘Can I help?’

  Tom jerked his head up to see the padre standing there.

  ‘Er, no. I don’t think so, padre. This is summat I’ve to sort out myself.’

  ‘It often helps to talk… sorts things out in your own mind, you know.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose it does.’ He l
ooked round. ‘I’d ask you to sit, but all the best seats seem to be taken. I was thinking about my wife.’

  ‘Only natural, I would say,’ smiled the padre. ‘You must miss her a lot.’

  ‘The thing is… last time I was on leave, I accused my wife of sleeping with the enemy. She were asked to look after a sick prisoner of war, you see. They… the Hun… had been put to helping build a road and railway near our farm. One of them were taken ill. I don’t really think she would have done any more than look after him. I was angry, though, that she even agreed to do that. I suppose my anger got the better of me and I accused her of summat she would never do.’

  ‘I suppose some would say nursing one of the enemy was a very brave act. After all, there were probably others who were willing to condemn her for what she did.’

  ‘Aye. Happen there were.' He paused and took a deep breath. ' I was so mad, I hit her… more than once. But that’s not all – I’ve slept with a woman in the village here. Now I’m the one who’s at fault.

  The padre put a hand on his arm. ‘You know the Bible story of the woman taken in adultery?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Remember how Christ didn’t condemn her. He told her not to do it again. She learned a valuable lesson. And it seems to me that you have too. You’ve realised how precious your wife is to you.’

  ‘Aye. I suppose I have.’ Tom looked up at the padre.

  ‘We must hope and pray that this war ends soon so that you can get back to her safely. It’s not an easy job watching and waiting back home either, you know.’

  The padre moved on down the line. Tom’s heart broke as he thought of the months Ellen must have waited for the letter that never came. Hers came regularly. He read them and stashed them away in his kitbag unanswered. He hadn’t even replied to her letters telling him about the baby. That was cruel, cruel to have left her like that without a word of comfort or any knowledge of what had happened to him.

 

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