She had not been in a hurry. She had felt safe, even in the face of Papa’s evident discouragement. If it was necessary she would defy him, when the time came. But now, with war declared, Gib was behaving quite differently. He said, almost every day now:
“Alice, dear Alice, let’s get married.”
But it was the maddest of times to choose, with the whole of Europe in turmoil, no one knowing what was to happen. He could not mean it.
“Alice, darling, there are hasty marriages everywhere. People who a few weeks ago hadn’t even thought … We’ve been decided over eighteen months—and have known each other for—”
“All the more reason to be sensible. We know and can trust each other.”
“But if we truly want to spend our lives together, we should commit ourselves now. Or at least very soon. For, darling Alice, men are being killed.”
She did not want to hear of that, of what might happen to him, even expressed in so roundabout a way. She said in a voice cold with fright:
“Why would it be better to make a widow of me?”
“I never said … Ah, Alice,” he sounded despairing, and she thought suddenly that she might perhaps be wrong. And yet, if he would wait just a little longer.
“I could,” she began, “perhaps if we—when it’s all over by Christmas we can talk again.”
“And if it’s not—over?”
But it would be, must be. And anyway, she told him, it was always best to let things rest before hurrying a decision.
“I love you,” she said, burying her face in his neck, just above his stiff collar. “You do know that I love you?”
She did not care to meet his eyes.
“I just want,” he said, his arms tight about her, so that her face was trapped, “I just want—us.”
23
In the days of Stephen and Jack he had never been lonely, even when alone. Now he was always lonely. They did not seem to think of that. Teddy, who spent much of her time with Amy and now had a Belgian refugee friend, was no companion.
Everything was wrong and changed and sad. Six months of the war had altered everything. Since the end of September, The Towers had been a hospital for officers: a small one, and only for lighter cases so that it was halfway between hospital and convalescent home. It had no operating room but offered treatment such as electrical massage. The conversion took up most of the house, and the family had separate quarters. Teddy and Amy liked to busy themselves helping: reading to the officers, writing letters. Mother was officially Lady Director, and had a lot to do with the organizing of everything.
Meanwhile he was a schoolboy (even though he had never been to school). Alice had said only the other day, on five days’ leave from London, where she was learning to be a nurse, “You’re lucky that you are still a schoolboy,” and had paid no attention when he answered sulkily that he would really prefer not to be.
Gib’s departure in September—although he was still in England—had meant the engagement, as threatened, of a new tutor, the promised “retired schoolmaster.” His name was Mr. Stainthorpe, and he was worse, far worse, than the bandy-legged Mr. Pettinger, shared long ago with Jack. Among other faults, he was critical of Gib, which Hal could not tolerate:
“I think my rather young predecessor, although we must not of course speak ill of those who presently risk life and limb … but one would have thought more emphasis on Euclid and perhaps less on Horace, and by the way I do not care for Conington’s translation to be used.” He would also make glancing, dry, insulting remarks to Hal himself, adding immediately afterward, “Of course you must not take what I say litteratim et verbatim.”
Since he lived with them, his presence had to be endured at mealtimes too. He was aptly named, for his large, drooping, auburn moustache was stained always with food or drink. And even (spied during Greek parsing) small particles of meat or vegetables lodging there. Ugh. Oh come back, Gib.
Studying had once been fun; now it was meaningless. What had it to do with what was happening in the real world?
From the very first days of the war, he had worried about Stephen. How not? Stephen was in the Army, a Regular. But he was always without real news. Once he spoke to Olive and her mother outside church, wishing them a good Christmas. He learned through other sources that Stephen was in France.
Then in the third week of January he heard his name read out in church. Killed in action. None of the Ibbotsons were at the service. He thought of going up to the farm, but then he thought, I do it only for myself, that I may feel better. He would not want to distress them further, especially Olive.
For the rest of that day, and most of the night, he raged. He was not sure who he was angry with. God? The Hun? His parents, who had caused the break? Stephen, gone now forever. We were once blood brothers.
His mother said to him, kindly enough, “That is sad news, Hal, about the Ibbotson boy.”
In his pain the next day he said angrily to Mr. Stainthorpe, “Yes. No. Yes, you silly old beggar.”
“Henry/ You realize the meaning of that word?”
“Sir—”
“Then apologize. At once, Henry.”
There was no one to whom he could talk. He did not believe there was anyone who cared. In his free time he walked about the places they had trout-fished together, often going perilously near the farm. It is all hopeless, he thought.
But then, waking up one morning, he knew suddenly what he must do. He wondered he had not thought of it at once. How often had Mr. Stainthorpe said unctuously, “If only it were possible for me to have a go at the Hun.”
But I, Hal thought, I can.
It was a little more difficult than he had expected at first, and he had to make unnecessarily elaborate plans. The essential was that he should not be found and brought back at once. (He remembered a tale of Mother locked in her bedroom for over a week—not that modern parents would do such a thing.)
From the moment of his decision he was filled with energy. Where had it all been hiding? Everything he did, everywhere he went, he felt purposeful. If he were to join up, to enlist, it would at once solve everything. The dreadful half-life that he led, the chafing, the restlessness. This life where everyone, even Teddy and Amy, seemed to be some part of the war effort. And since he, too, was beginning to be a nuisance, he didn’t expect to be missed—or at least not too much. Mother might worry a little at first. But the hospital, which obviously she found all-absorbing, would soon take care of that.
To keep Mr. Stainthorpe off the scent, he did two unasked-for theorems, beautifully set out. (“Well, well, young Firth, we’re beginning to pull ourselves together just a little, eh?”)
Money. He had four guineas, three half sovereigns, and five sovereigns— from Christmas, his birthday, and a secret hoard.
The practical aspects of his departure occupied him a great deal. He thought he would like best a Yorkshire regiment, but he didn’t want to go and enlist in Richmond or York. Leeds? The idea pleased him. Mother had run away from Leeds. I shall run away to Leeds, he thought. Name? He could not dare to be Firth, just in case. (They might go to all sorts of lengths. Father’s friends. The War Office. Mother again: she’d changed to Greene. So why not be Greenwood, the name she’d left behind as the train for Kings Cross steamed out that Sunday?
Henry Greenwood. The new person took shape. Henry Greenwood spoke with an accent—the one Hal knew best, here in the dale. He was a farm laborer staying with his auntie in Leeds. And there was nothing wrong with his heart.
In any event, he managed to get away less than seventy-two hours after he had first had the idea.
He left a note: “For King and Country. My country needs me, more than you do. Please do not worry about me. Love from Hal.”
He reached Leeds about midday. On the way there, he had spoken only with his accent—when he had spoken at all. Now, once arrived, there was a proper order of doing things. He was thinking all the time, with a keyed-up excitement, that it must not go wrong. The
sooner he signed on, and was in …
At the station, he thought, They will want an address. It would not do to invent that. He bought a newspaper to give himself some ideas, taking it with him into the nearest eating rooms. He had had nothing all day, and now, ravenous and nervous, he ordered sausage and mash with a mound of onions. But after a few mouthfuls, he thought people were watching him, guessing, and he left the plate half-eaten.
He took a tram from the station and got off in Briggate. He was in the center of Leeds. Passing a branch of Greenwood’s, he colored, as if already found out.
He had visited Leeds only a handful of times, taken to see Grandad Greenwood. He could remember only that the house had been in Roundhay. Aunt Ethel lived at Huby. She had all Grandad’s money, and wanted nothing to do with anyone else.
He was pleased to find a large arcade, which looked to have in it everything he wanted. He began with a cheap suitcase. Then as he walked along the marbled floor, he saw a huge pair of spectacles, the trade sign above the optician’s, and thought of buying a pair to alter his appearance. But then, They won’t take me with bad eyesight, he thought.
At a draper’s he bought underwear, and then, two doors down, a dark suit for twenty-two shillings (it was his clothes he feared might give him away) and a cap for a shilling. He came out of the shop wearing them: his Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers in the suitcase together with his new underclothes. Secondhand boots he bought for four shillings. He was ready then for the barber’s, halfway down the arcade on the right. He asked for a lot to be cut off, telling the barber he’d been ill. Seeing the close crop, the gaunt face —yes, he did look older.
By now he felt hungry again. He had noticed the Lyons sign when he first entered the arcade. Now, suitcase beside him, he had two tea cakes and a pot of tea. As he sat there, cheered by the tea, mischief got into him, so that, wildly, he thought of pretending to be German. He felt a great temptation to tell the woman opposite him, in the voice of Fräulein, all the woes of Augustin.
Before he left he bought from Mooney’s a quarter of creme toffee. Then through to the street outside. He had entered the Arcade, Hal Firth. He came out now, Henry Greenwood.
“Age?”
The recruiting sergeant had a red face, with one eye larger than the other. His voice was not unkind.
“Age, sonny?”
“S—sixteen—”
“Right, well … come back when you’re nineteen, sonny. Tomorrow, eh?”
Dismissed. After all the care he’d taken, the rehearsals, the preparations. And his accent that had never slipped. Sixteen. Sixteen. How could I?
He went to one of the addresses he had noted. Albert Terrace. He explained that he’d enlisted and would soon be leaving. He took a room for three nights—the least she’d take—and paid in advance. She was a small, distracted woman who kept looking over her shoulder as she spoke. He remembered he’d neither brought nor bought nightclothes and wash things. He cleaned his teeth with soap and the edge of the rough towel provided.
“Age, sonny?”
He had it pat this time.
“Not run away from home, none of that, eh? Address now. Address…”
Heart, troublesome heart. It was that that he feared the most. Already it had begun its thumping, its missed beats. It could not, must not, betray him.
There were others there: boys, men, but he could scarcely notice them. A short, pale-skinned youth, stretching (to appear taller?) said something he didn’t catch. Outside it was raining. Inside it smelled damp and nervous.
“Chest out. Say ninety-nine.”
Ears, eyes, limbs, private parts, reflexes, feet, skull, heart. Heart. Heart. It was all over in moments. Stethoscope on bare chest. Tap, tap. Sandy-haired doctor with a Scotch accent, talking to a colleague, not talking to him. “Sound as a bell, this one … farm … life in the fresh air. As I said … city lads …”
Address? Next of kin. “Miss Olive Ibbotson.” I must be mad, he thought afterward. I am mad.
He was sworn in with thirty others. Hand held up. Holy words. God, swearing. He wondered if it was blasphemous that he’d kept his accent. And who was it had sworn—Firth or Greenwood?
He had till nine the next morning to report at barracks. He told his landlady. “I shan’t need the third night. I’ve to report tomorrow.”
Never, he thought, had he seen teeth so white, so plainly, triumphantly false. Their owner was stocky, with coarse dark hair, a sallow pitted skin, and a wide smile. He was known as Snowy because of his name, White. Not, he told Hal, on account of the teeth.
“They don’t fit, like. They look good, but they don’t fit.” And they didn’t: seeming to slip up and down as he spoke or ate, or even just thought. Hal couldn’t take his eyes off them.
“I’d thought, you see, to go back, have ’em tightened. Folk said as they might fall in the works.”
Snowy worked for Glovers at Wortley Low Mills. He’d enlisted with his next-door neighbor, Bert Varley, who at twenty-five was older by six years. Bert’s pale brown hair, already half receded, gave him an air of great maturity. He was a grocery assistant at (of all places) a branch of Greenwood’s.
“They’ve said they’ll keep my job open. Said that, Greenwood’s did.”
Earlier he’d asked Hal, suspiciously, “You’re never one of those Greenwoods?”
“Never,” Hal said, and Snowy had added, “Him here, he’s a farm lad, nowt to do with grocers.”
Bert said then, but pleasantly enough, “There’s another Greenwood at the barracks so I thought maybe—”
“It’s a northern name.” Hal cut him short.
“Any road,” Bert said, “there’s no Greenwood at the head of it now, it’s someone else from the family. I’ve been with ’em twelve years all but—eight behind the counter. Kirkgate branch and then Boar Lane.”
It was important he got the job back because he had been courting Winnie Mason for six years—and would be marrying her as soon as he got his first leave.
“They’ve to give it me back—after Duration.”
They spoke often of the Duration, because they’d signed on for “three years or the duration.” It was easy to guess which was the sooner.
Leaving Yorkshire. They had marched about midday to the station, and he’d feared that in the crowd there might be someone looking for him. Many of the recruits had parents and relations, little brothers and sisters come to wave good-bye. Tears in eyes. Not France yet, though. Going southward.
As far as Derby only. They were cheered as they marched to barracks. On the way in the train compartment he’d learned three new swear words, and how to play Crown and Anchor.
Margarine on bread—he had never eaten margarine before. From the quartermaster’s stores they were given straw palliasses: his bed was numbered eight. Sorting themselves out, time to kill before roll call at half-past nine. They weren’t allowed out that first evening—what might they not get up to? Some might go into the town and never come back. Rushing to the canteen, suddenly hungry, spending the last of his one and ninepence daily ration allowance.
It was there he’d first seen those teeth of Snowy’s biting into a pork pie.
“Farm lad, eh? Know all about pigs—help put t’pigs in pig pie, eh?”
Then Snowy had called over Bert, who bought them both a pint, and told Hal all about Winnie. Snowy said with a wink:
“He’ll not be wanting any dick here in Derby, won’t Bert. Keeping it all for Winnie, he is.”
Bed number nine, next to Hal, had a boy whose face looked nicely wicked. He had curly hair, eyes that darted about, and teeth that were the opposite of Snowy’s. Too many of them, crooked and crowding his mouth. He was small too. His pals had been stretching him for two weeks, he said. He’d only just made it.
Gus Wilkinson. Gus was another who hoped to get his job back—but feared he wouldn’t. He loved it. Butcher’s boy with a bicycle and a basket full of joints and sausages, and a chance to chat at the tradesman’s ent
rance. Gossip, stories continued week by week, cups of tea, girls … whistling through the gaps in his teeth, getting a song on the brain and taking it all around Leeds. Him and his bike.
“Me and my trike. They said to me, ‘Right, lad—you go, and there’s plenty’ll want your place—and they’ll get it.’ “
Snowy. Bert. Gus. Henry. Somewhere in the strangeness and rush of those first days they had all chummed up together. No particular reason, he thought afterward. It just happened.
“Squad! Squad shun! To the right in fours—form fours—right! By the left, quick march, left right, left right …”
“You may have broken your mother’s heart, but you bloody well won’t break mine …”
Drill, getting punished. Grousing, not sleeping, reveille, unbelievably early in the icy cold February dawn. Hungry. The one and ninepence didn’t go far in the canteen—and why was he so hungry? As if everything he was trying not to feel and trying not to think had left him quite empty. Meat and turnips, pie and turnips, liver and bacon, another helping, one’s not enough. He was determined not to touch the remainder of his gold. Just the silver change—soon gone.
Easy enough to keep up the accent, easy enough to make them believe he had worked on a farm, since he had. Had he not once felt, wished himself, more Ibbotson than Firth?
There was another Greenwood, he learned soon enough, who’d been sworn in before him, so that Hal became 6904 Greenwood to distinguish him. With all the exercise, he toughened up again, as he had been in those farming summers.
He was Henry Greenwood, and he had his pals Snowy and Gus and Bert —one of the four of them always in some sort of trouble. Even Bert, who tried hard enough but ended each day, each march, each drill with a patient, puzzled, slightly hurt expression. (Sarge: “Don’t look so pained, Private Varley—it’s me what’s suffering.”)
Bert: Hal could imagine him at the counter taking down patiently the grocery orders of vague old ladies, demanding housekeepers. When he wrote to Winnie, which he did every other day, he would moisten the pencil tip and then, when he’d finished, from habit put the pencil behind his ear. (Just like Snowy, who kept a half-smoked fag behind his ear—and got into trouble for it.)
The Diamond Waterfall Page 25