The Diamond Waterfall

by Pamela Haines

  “Darling heart,” she called Alice. “Darling heart, did you hear what that Sister called me? I shall never like that woman. Won’t I have to say in Confession I wished her at the bottom of the sea—anywhere but Somewhere in France.”

  Confession. What was all this? Confession. Yes, Aunt Violet had spoken of it, but in a hushed tone, as if it had been something “not quite nice.” Now, sitting in a cafe near Rouen Cathedral, she asked Molly question after question about Confession. Molly, although glad to tell her, was surprised that something so everyday should fascinate.

  “And when I’ve been naughty,” she told Alice, “like kissing a boy—oh, it’s hard to say no, isn’t it now, Jesus Mary Joseph, when they want a little cuddle—oh, aren’t I glad I can confess it all.”

  She explained, “Venial sins, the little ones—you tell the Father those. It’s not so bad now if you forget a few. It’s the mortal sins you mustn’t miss out.”

  Mortal sins killed the life of the soul. She was fascinated by this world where a soul might be killed—and then brought back to life. Absolution. The priest, who was in God’s place. “Even if they’re old and cross and haven’t listened to a word, when they say, ‘Go in peace and pray for me,’ it works … you really are washed clean.”

  They went into the cathedral together. Molly said, “You see that light burning, the lamp there, that means the Blessed Sacrament. Our Lord’s really there.”

  She emptied her purse of centimes, lighting candles for her whole family. Even with some of them sharing, they nearly filled one of the circular brass stands. “Don’t they make a lovely sight—sending prayers up to heaven. Ask Our Lady,” she told Alice, “if you’ve anything special, but you think Our Lord mightn’t want it for you. Ask Her. She won’t refuse, or rather her Son won’t when She asks. It’s absolutely true. If only everybody knew.”

  On their next visit to Rouen, Alice too lit candles—one for Hal that he would be kept in England forever, another for Vesey, already in France, one for Saint on the high seas. Lastly for Gib and herself—together. Oh, make us happy soon. May I make him happy, always and forever, amen.

  “I hope you lit one now for that lovely boy you’re to marry.”

  What if, she thought, what if one day I were to become part of this lovely warm world—where a mother looks after you, a father is always right, and even the most terrible things can be forgiven. (Where dead souls can be brought back to life.)

  But then, she thought, a vicar’s son? When Gib is a schoolmaster again, what will they think of a Roman Catholic wife for a housemaster, a headmaster? It would not do.

  The next day she received a letter from him, written in great haste, telling her his expected embarkation leave had been put forward. “Everything suddenly at sixes and sevens”—could she hurry back please. She was breaking her contract, wasn’t she, so there should be no problems? If she would wire what date she could arrive by, he would arrange the ceremony for the next day but one—“so that you may have your beauty sleep!”

  Molly hugged her, full of romantic excitement. “Isn’t it the best thing in the world? You’ll be wanting a baby as soon as ever, to keep you company. How terrible that he goes—Jesus Mary Joseph keep him safe. Darling heart, how I’ll miss you. I can’t believe it’s only a month we were together—what will I do now when that terrible Sister pitches into me?”

  She arrived at Victoria Station in the pouring rain after a crossing that had taken most of the night. She had first to sign some papers in Central London before going on to Kings Cross. From there she wired home.

  I am too tired to get married, she thought, shivering exhaustedly in the railway carriage. The journey north seemed endless. She could think of nothing but how soon she could lay her head on a clean pillow, clean linen sheets covering her. (Had she left enough time—just one day—to rid herself of dirt and lice and all the unmentionables, to be clean and fresh and beautiful for my wedding day?)

  The motorcar came to meet her, Gib with it. She saw at once from his face, even before he greeted her, that something was very wrong. But during the first two or three minutes, he only asked tenderly after her journey.

  Then: “Look,” he said suddenly, stammering a little in his distress, “1-look, Alice—there’s a piece of bad news. Your wire this afternoon—it wasn’t the only wire today. You see …”

  He told her gently. But oh, it cannot be, she thought, it is not true. Who can be so cruel? He didn’t have the second wire with him. He said he could not bear for her even to see it. She protested:

  “But if they want you tomorrow, if your draft really goes early—why can’t you wire back and explain? Explain that you are getting married the day after tomorrow.” Then: “Oh, but you’re so weak, so stupid,” she cried, frantic with distress and fatigue.

  He said sadly, “Alice, Alice. You should know—part of the Forces. Life in the Army is not like that—”

  “Two more, even one more day, they could, they could, couldn’t they?” She almost wanted to hit him. As if it were his doing.

  “And France,” she said over and over again, “it’s to France you go. I might never—we might never …”

  Out of all this nightmare that was the worst. And then, she thought later that evening, at last tucked up in bed (how wonderful that was to have been), it is all my fault She wanted to blame the Kaiser, Field Marshal French, the King, Gib’s commanding officer, Gib himself. (Not God. It was not God’s doing.) It is my fault. I should have married him in 1914, when he urged me.

  It was so terrible, they were not really able to discuss it at all. Sick empty fatigue and disappointment, and underlying them—fear, and more fear. She, who had so longed for sleep, could not sleep at all. In the morning when he was ready to leave (she had thought once, wildly, Why can’t we be married by his father, before breakfast?) she insisted on going with him as far as Northallerton. She would have even liked to go on to London.

  On the way they scarcely spoke. And, as if by common consent, they did not discuss any plans for another wedding date. He did ask at one point what she planned to do about the broken contract. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said. Angry with him for even asking.

  She had to leave him. The lips that kissed him, the hands that held his, were drier, more despairing, than those which had said good-bye eighteen months ago, before Gallipoli.

  Perhaps they were of some use, all those strings that had been so unsuccessfully pulled for Hal? It was difficult usually to go back when a contract had been broken. To return to France, impossible.

  Yet within three weeks, she was back with Molly. Three terrible weeks— fending off Teddy’s sympathy, which she found irritating (what does she know of anything?) and her proprietary remarks about Gib (just because she has spent so much time with the officers). And worrying always. He was in the reserve lines now. But any moment … How could she ever be at peace again?

  She had forced herself to take some leave, have a little time at home, while her father telegraphed this high-up, and that high-up. He was successful. So soon had it all happened after her departure that her papers had not been made final yet—a point here and there was stretched. It was in some ways, she thought, almost as if it had never been.

  Molly was overjoyed at her return (“If you’d seen who they put in this tent after you’d gone. Mother of God.”), but filled with righteous anger at what the powers that be were capable of. “Jesus Mary Joseph. It’s never true. And there I was praying and praying. Our Lord must have something very special in store for you, that He makes the two of you suffer so. I’ll begin a novena at once. And a decade of the rosary a day—I can manage that on night duty, honest to God, I can. And I’ll write home. Matt’s prayers— they’re really powerful, darling heart.”

  Six weeks later Alice spoke to the RC chaplain at the hospital about being received into the Church. She had thought about it, in every free moment, for the last four weeks.

  Because of the unusual situation, and the excite
d promises of Molly to be of great help, the usual quite lengthy course of instruction was waived. In early December she was received quietly. Molly was her godmother. On December 8, the feast of the Immaculate Conception, they were both free for part of the morning and attended High Mass in Rouen Cathedral.

  She would have been happier than she had been for many years—if it had not been for the coruscating worry about Gib’s safety. And also the fact that she had not told him of her change of religion—even though Molly had urged her to. She thought she would wait till after Christmas, which seemed sensible. Occasionally she would have the wild idea of breaking her contract again, of seeking him out, of marrying him in France.

  Then came good news—she had to think of it as good. He was wounded. Leg, shoulder. Serious, but curable with time. The news was slow in reaching her; when it did he was already in hospital at the First London General. Now was not the time.

  When, rarely enough, she read a newspaper, she would seize avidly on the name of anyone said to be married to a Roman Catholic, to see if their career had prospered. It will be all right, she thought. She prayed that it might be…. Anyway it was unimaginable that anything … What could come between her and Gib?

  Icy cold winter of early 1917. Remembering what Marjorie’s father’s professor friend had said, about the guns. In their tents, the water froze. Her chilblains were the worst ever. Sister was rude about her damaged finger, saying that Alice held it in an affected way. “It would be better to use it.”

  In the coldest days of February, Molly had a sudden bright idea on one of their afternoons off in Rouen, passing by the Hotel de la Poste: “Jesus Mary Joseph, why not?”

  Going in, she arranged for them to rent a room with private bathroom for three hours. “Why don’t we forget we’re ministering angels, and look after ourselves a little while? Don’t we deserve it? I’ve the money, if you have.”

  Sheer luxury, and such a success that they did it every time they had a free afternoon off together. Molly sometimes made jokes about finding a lovely cavalry officer to be naughty with (“I’d only kiss and cuddle of course”). But Alice, lying in the deep bath, steam all about her, clean towels beside her, knowing she would soon step onto heavy pile carpet, soft, in a warm room—perhaps an hour’s sleep in the bed—could not help thinking, A honeymoon, one day, Gib and I. When it’s all over.

  She didn’t write to him as often as she should. Perhaps because, as she had not told him something so important about herself, her letters were no longer really truthful. His had become duller. It hurt his shoulder to hold a pen for long. He was in Flaxthorpe now at The Towers—he had been able to choose it as his follow-up hospital. How odd, to think of him there—as a patient She hoped his roommates were congenial, that Teddy’s well-meaning ministrations were not too overexuberant—he sounded as if he needed peace —she sensed that he was exhausted not only in body but in spirit. They cannot send him out again. Belle Maman wrote that he looked better. When I get leave, she thought, I shall tell him.

  In April she learned that Vesey had been killed during the Battle of Arras. Gib grieved.

  Molly was away on long leave for a fortnight in May. Alice missed her terribly—though as the carping Sister had been changed for a more sympathetic one, life was a little easier. Gib was soon to go to a camp in the Midlands. She’d hoped to get leave in early June, but had been told it was unlikely before September. News that Hal was now out in Flanders caused fresh worries.

  In late July she and Molly saw a wedding party come out of the cathedral—a wartime wedding, but still with some finery. The groom in French cavalry uniform, spurs glittering. She wanted suddenly for herself a wedding in that cathedral, which had become so dear to her. If she and Gib could be married like that …

  Soon after, she and Molly and several others were transferred to a base hospital at Camiers again. Once more near the sea. When they had been there only a week or two there was a bout of fierce fighting and a heavy convoy of wounded. She was all day in the operating room. When the guns rose to a certain crescendo, the instruments in the steel trays would rattle. She thought of them as teeth chattering with fear.

  A letter from Gib. She saw the beloved handwriting, and thought with a sudden surge of love, When I am next free I shall write a truly long letter. (He knows how it is here.) She would have liked to read it immediately. Quickly first, and then again slowly, when she was off duty.

  She had time only to push it into the pocket of her long skirt before going to assist in surgery with a man who appeared to have lost most of his chest and the greater part of his jaw. (Oh, let that not be Gib, let that not be Hal.)

  It wasn’t till late afternoon that she was able to open it. Her head spun with fatigue as she sat alone in the tent, on the edge of the bed, tearing at the flimsy envelope, passed by the censor.

  When she read it, she thought for a moment her heart had stopped. She could not believe what she read. Her hand trembled, holding the sheets of paper. “No, no,” she said out loud. “No …”

  “I got some news, in this letter—”

  “Darling heart,” Molly cried, “who’s gone west? Your brother—no, don’t—is it Gib? You’re white as a sheet, darling. Mother of God. Let me look now for some of the comforts, just wait now—a little drop of brandy…. Sit down, will you now, sit—”

  “Nobody’s dead, Molly. Not even wounded. It’s—”

  “Thank God for that. Jesus be praised—”

  “Gib’s marrying someone else. That’s what’s in the letter.”

  “Never! Darling heart, it’s never the truth…. Is it him says it? These days, there’s always women want to upset—”

  “He wrote it himself.”

  “Oh but that’s—Sacred Heart of Jesus, what can I say? Who could do that to you, it’s wicked! Wicked when you’re out here serving in France, and he’s …”

  (Oh but this was the indignation Mama showed, when someone thwarted me, reprimanded me.)

  “Maybe just now, he’s not himself—and he’s been trapped. Here’s the brandy, drink up now, drink up, will you? It’ll be a bad woman sure as Mary’s in heaven—you said his nerves weren’t right. He’ll never go through with it…. What we’ll do when you’ve drunk that, is sit and write him a letter that’ll show—”

  “Molly,” she said, “but Molly, he marries tomorrow. Today … I don’t know…. But it’s too late—”

  “We’ll send a telegram then—why ever not?”

  “Saying what?”

  She saw Molly hesitate.

  She said, “Whatever could we put? He’s a grown man, he may do what he pleases …” She broke down then, head forward at the table, great dry sobs. “It’s not true,” she said, “tell me it isn’t …”

  Molly’s arms went around her neck, her voice warm, consoling: “We could ask Our Lady would she make him change his mind … No, that might … Oh, but aren’t men wicked, there’s no getting away from it at all. You might feel better if you prayed, though I know well enough I couldn’t.”

  The brandy had made her lips numb. First burning, then numb. “I’ll try —I can’t think, just now. Shock.”

  “Is she anyone you know at all? I shouldn’t have said those things, about wicked and that—aren’t I always speaking without thinking? The one he’s marrying, do you know her?”

  “Teddy. It’s my stepsister. Teddy.”

  There wasn’t any way of managing the letter. She had read it once—and now could not bear to look at it. The phrases he had used burned in her mind. She tried again and again to blot out the thought: it is worse than if he had died.

  … the most difficult letter I have ever had to write. It would be so much better if I could speak to you. I have made a number of, very unsuccessful, attempts to explain everything, and have torn them up. Neither explanation nor excuse are possible, and anything at all I can say is completely inadequate. I ask you to believe that your friendship has meant more to me than … I have to ask you formally, to rel
ease me from our engagement … No way of making the cold words on paper, warm. And yet I feel … Alice, it was very wrong of me not to write much, much sooner—when first I had doubts…. We are so well suited as friends … But perhaps marriage …

  How could it all have happened? People did not get married who had not thought about it. Yes—three or four months thrown together at The Towers. But had no one noticed? And that Belle Maman should not have tried to stop it. And worse, worst of all, that Gib said nothing. Gib, whom I trusted …

  The next afternoon, sitting with Molly in the square at Camiers, outside a small cafe, she wrote a letter. Her hand shook.

  “You look very white still, darling heart, should you be having coffee now? It scalds the nerves—”

  “I’m writing to my sister.”

  “That’s a kind thought—I tell you now I’d never be so generous. Jesus Mary Joseph. Strangle her I would, you should be angry with her.”

  Between mouthfuls of pain au chocolat, she went on—indignation, concern, consolation. Alice scarcely listened. She felt, in spite of the sun, a chill that went deep inside. Inside her head too. But she wrote with great fluency. She had composed the letter during the night. It was all so simple. And she must do it while she wanted to. Tomorrow might be too late.

  This secret she’d carried for fifteen years … the Riviera, Beaulieu, going up to Belle Maman’s room—finding that note. Valentin, who she’d thought admired her, just a little. Valentin walking in the garden with Belle Maman. The secret.

  She had never wanted to know it, had hated even to think about it. If it shocked me, she thought, what might it not do to her? She meant at first just to tell Teddy the facts—as she knew them. A simple statement. “I thought you might like to know …” And let the truth itself be the upset. But as she began to write, it was not like that at all.