The Grass Memorial

by Sarah Harrison

  As they sat there an extraordinary group emerged from the darkness. It consisted of three exhausted-looking men, one carrying a pitchfork and the other two lugging between them the head of a cow, not freshly killed but with one eye still, and enough flesh on it to give a thoroughly macabre appearance, its enormous flannelly tongue lolling almost to the ground as it bobbed along. Two of the men had blankets tied round their shoulders and the other one a piece of sacking, and a strip of the same stuff about his head like a gypsy bandanna, stained with blood. All three were filthy and wet, it was possible to hear the squelch of their boots as they passed by, and the smell given off by the men and their grisly burden. The effect of all this combined with the pitchfork was eerie. They ignored or were too tired to notice the officers around their fire, but when they’d disappeared into the night Fyefield gave a low whistle.

  ‘What the deuce was that?’

  Gough laughed nervously. ‘Old Nick by the look of it, serving us a grim warning!’ And then added, none too convincingly: ‘Locals, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe,’ suggested Harry lifting his glass, ‘we should not drink on short commons.’

  It was almost an hour later when it dawned on them what they’d seen, and he said softly,‘Poor fellows’, to think what British soldiers were reduced to.

  The following morning when the soft breeze wafted the smell of fresh coffee and bread from the French camp, two hundred and fifty men of the Lights, with two guns from the Horse Artillery, were ordered to saddle up and accompany the same number of infantrymen on a reconnaissance expedition to bring in supplies. There on the edge of the infantry camp, as the Lights rattled briskly past, was the cow’s skull, picked clean and shining in the sun.

  That day turned into one of scorching heat such as they hadn’t known since leaving Varna. It seemed that they were constantly to be buffeted by extremes of temperature and conditions, and to find themselves equipped for neither. The men who had been obliged to swathe themselves in blankets and sacking for the previous night’s foraging were this morning dragging at their collars, sweating and cursing. The gently rolling plain, the perfect cavalry country of which Fyefield had spoken, now shimmered like a desert, an impression confirmed by an occasional sighting of camels. These fantastic creatures at least broke the baking monotony, and had the effect of cheering the foot soldiers, who laughed and jeered when the animals broke into their comical, loping stride.

  There were scarcely any farms, precious little food and forage and virtually no water. All through the middle of the day they were tortured by mirages which trembled and gleamed, always in the middle distance. They came across one substantial lake but the horses showed no interest in it, understandably, for when the men plunged their faces into it open-mouthed they found it to be thickly saline. To make matters worse those who failed to wipe the solution off their skin were badly burned. The cavalry did succeed in acquiring half a dozen arabas but the only thing they carried back to camp were infantrymen collapsed through dysentery, cholera or heat exhaustion, several of them dead on their return.

  Neither did Fyefield’s bullish predictions about the horses prove correct. They were disastrously out of condition and in need of shoeing, and Harry was not the only officer who walked back into camp that evening, his feet slick with blood inside his boots (causing him to wonder what on earth the surviving infantry must be suffering) and Deny nodding at the end of his rein like a seaside donkey. He was only glad that he had not ridden Clemmie, who would certainly not have survived the day, and whom he had left in the tender care of Betts. For the whole of the dismal trek back he was haunted by the memory of Hugo on Piper, thundering through the trees in the fresh green English spring . . . and of the words spoken at his funeral: ‘He paweth in the valley and knoweth not fear . . . the glory of his nostrils is terrible . . .’ Perhaps it was true that the poor chargers needed to ‘smell the battle afar off’, but at this most dispiriting juncture it was hard to imagine them being anything but cowed by the prospect.

  Though the cavalry did not for some days come to hear of Lord Raglan’s decree that they should be kept ‘in a band-box’, there could be no doubt that they would now have to be rested, and that consequently there could be no advance for at least another thirty-six hours. The time was spent tolerably profitably, with the saddlers and carriers working long hours, kit and arms brought up to scratch and inspected, convalescent men ditto, and the usual drill for those men and horses well enough to do it.

  On each of the two nights in camp, aching and blistered after a day which began at five a.m., Harry wrote his reply to Rachel. Though he had determined not to tell her ‘everything’ as she had requested, the picture of her which the act of writing conjured up, and her own injunction that their correspondence should be like a conversation, persuaded him otherwise. He tried, though, to paint a picture of events as he saw them rather than a litany of largely depressing facts. So that when he told her about Piper bolting he did not conceal his own distress, but added what was also true, that in view of all that had happened since it was a glorious escape. He described the voyage, the illness, the death of so many good men including Bartelmas and Roebridge, the kindness of Roebridge when nursing him, the devotion of Betts and his gallows humour, the suffering of the horses and the chaos of camp life. He described the sailors galloping in the surf, the strange, diabolical group who had passed the fire on the previous night, the loping camels and the cruel mirages. It was a comfort to do so, and his writing became less careful as he progressed. But when he turned to more personal matters he paused, and chose each word with the utmost care.

  ‘I have done as you said and spared you nothing,’ he wrote. ‘And I only hope that I have not said too much nor said it too baldly, but I believe you capable of all women of absorbing these things. I have found it a great solace to be able to write of them so freely, and perhaps you knew this when you urged me to do so. If this is so, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. In addition, I can scarcely tell you how much it means to me to know that you are near my parents at this time when I cannot be, and that you are so good to them. They are, as you say, both unusual people whom it is not always easy to understand, and that you have done so after what is a relatively short acquaintance, disfigured by tragedy, is a marvel to me. Again, dearest Rachel, my thanks.’

  His pen hovered for a moment as he debated whether to cross out ‘dearest’, but he left it in place and ended: ‘I have no way of knowing when this letter will reach you, but it is my dearest hope that I shall receive another from you very soon, whenever our trials and tribulations allow. I remain your affectionate brother-in-law and friend, Harry.’

  The morning after he completed this letter, the allied armies struck camp. The French were ready two hours before the British, whose preparations for departure were characterised by all the usual confusion.

  At last, at nine a.m., sixty thousand men were massed and ready to move off. At this time in the morning the sunshine seemed a blessing, the air was balmy and sweet with the scent of flowers, warm grass and wild thyme, the sweeping plain melted, softly inviting, into the haze. Thin and pure above the armies’ boom, a lark was heard to sing.

  And then they surged forward in a wave a mile long of brilliant scarlet, green and blue, shining flashes of white, glittering gold and silver . . . the swing of capes, the gallant bobbing of cockades, the jingle of harness and the creak of leather. A gorgeous, mighty force riding out in the hope of a terrible glory.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘When first you start to tease and flirt

  Nobody tells you it’s going to hurt,

  Nobody warns you ’cause nobody cares

  You’ll get yours the way they got theirs’

  —Stella Carlyle, ‘Nobody Tells You’

  Stella 1996

  Stella was surrounded by flowers – a wash of colour all around her feet. Yellow, red, blue and white, so many she couldn’t count or identify them, too many to gather up. Short-sightedly amid the daz
zle and the din she stooped and picked one up, a fluffy yellow carnation. Having done so she wasn’t sure what to do with it, this was a new sensation for her. She turned and looked at Derek who sat at the piano, facing the audience, his big hands on his knees, his face wreathed in smiles. She held out her hand to him and he stepped forward amid a fresh surge of noise, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Mouthed: ‘Brava, baby!’

  The curtain swished shut, and he put his arms round her in a swamping hug that almost lifted her off her feet. They were both furnace-hot, sweating as though they’d been in a fight or having wild sex.

  ‘Yes!’ Derek found another gear on the hug, clamping her against his big drum of a stomach. ‘What a lady, what a night!’

  He released her and executed a mini haka of his own devising, hips swaying, fists punching up and down like valves on a trumpet. Over his shoulder she could just make out the crew in the wings, their clapping hands like fluttering birds in the dark. From the other side of the curtain came the thunder of stamping feet and a shouted cascade of ‘Encore!’

  She peered at the wings stage left; she could identify Miles, their producer, by his first-night affectation of a white tux. He lifted his arms and made ‘More, more’ gestures. There was no let-up in the audience’s enthusiasm.

  She turned back to Derek. ‘So what shall we do?’

  ‘Make ’em laugh, make ’em cry – make ’em wait.’ His face was one enormous grin. ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘All right. Only one, though.’

  ‘Suits me, we’ve all got drinks to go to.’

  ‘ “Are You There”?’

  He jerked his head in acknowledgement. ‘That was where I came in.’

  ‘Start and finish on my own.’

  ‘You got it, darling.’

  He went back to the piano, she nodded to the wings, the tabs opened and the applause rolled over them. She was still holding the carnation, and now she tucked it in the front of her dress between the little cloth-covered buttons, knowing they’d love it out there because at this moment she could do no wrong.

  Make ’em wait ...

  She stood stock still, feet a little apart, hands at her sides, creating her own pocket of concentrated stillness that spread like water under a door until it reached the audience and they became silent.

  Make ’em wait ...

  She allowed the silence to extend to where they could hardly bear it, and then let the first words drift, on a sigh, into the hush.

  ‘Darling, you were wonderful!’

  That was where the luvvies had got it from, thought Stella, they got it from their mothers. There was no approval so warm, so adoring, so steeped in unqualified admiration as that which you got from your mother.

  ‘Well done, dear girl, magnificent show . . .’

  She embraced both her parents, then George and Brian, the latter looking – perhaps intentionally – a little out of place in the green room in his blazer and regimental tie.

  George said: ‘I want you to introduce me to Derek Jackman, who is quite the sexiest thing I’ve seen in ages, present company excepted.’ She slapped her husband’s midriff. ‘I like men about me who are fat.’

  ‘That’s not awfully kind,’ said Brian without rancour. ‘Go on, you painted Jezebel, go and get introduced.’

  The moment they were out of earshot, George grabbed Stella by the arm. ‘Quick, I need to know – are you sleeping with him?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Jackman. Are you and he . . .?’

  ‘Good grief, no!’

  ‘Don’t say it like that, he’s adorable!’

  ‘Adorable, and married.’

  George pulled a face. ‘I want it minuted that I forbore . . .’ Stella wished her sister would get the message that she no longer found this funny.

  ‘Is she here?’ asked George.

  Stella shook her head. ‘They’re not as married as all that. Derek – excuse me – this is my extremely shortsighted sister George, who thinks you’re adorable. Treat her nicely and you’re on a promise.’

  ‘Charmed, and I mean that very sincerely . . .’

  She left them to it. Besides herself, her family and Derek, there were only about a dozen people drinking the management’s competitively priced champagne, but even that was a dozen too many. She didn’t want to see any of them. Not Miles, not the bright-eyed and youthful stage crew, the handful of theatrical friends and the clutch of couples. She wished them no ill, but she didn’t want them here. The cheerful clamour of celebration echoed with the absence of the one person who wasn’t here – who hadn’t rung, or sent a card, or flowers, or even a message. Who hadn’t fucking showed.

  She went back to her parents who had been joined by Brian. Her mother had sat down, and the two men, flanking her like punka-wallahs, presented an interesting contrast to one another. Brian, in spite of the blazer and the tie, wore his wavy hair slightly more than regulation length at the back, in the manner of more doggy Army officers, and was also managing to flash navy braces decorated with pigs and a glint of red sock ‘twixt twill and brothel creeper. The tout ensemble simply screamed, in a well-brought up way: Wolf.

  On the other hand, retirement had done nothing to make Andrew Carlyle more clothes conscious. For the first night of his daughter’s show he wore a suit that looked new, but which he had as usual bought hastily and cheaply, so that the trousers were a shade too long with a hint of concertina at the ankle. He had also indulged his preference for double-breasted jackets, to produce an overall effect like one of the comic gangsters in an amateur production of Kiss Me Kate.

  ‘We were just talking,’ he announced, putting his arm about her shoulders, ‘about the charms of reflected glory. All the adulation and none of the sweat.’

  ‘And excuse the expression but you were sweating like a pig out there!’ said Brian. ‘It was frightfully sexy.’

  ‘Ah—’ Andrew raised a finger ‘—horses sweat, men perspire, but ladies merely glow.’

  ‘Who said anything about ladies?’ Brian gave his snarfing, lecherous laugh.

  ‘Just a minute . . .’ Mary got to her feet. ‘I think it’s high time I took some part in this conversation.’

  ‘Mary dearest, please,’ said Brian, ‘you’re surely not going to pull rank at this late stage in our association?’

  ‘It’s never too late.’ She tapped her son-in-law’s lapel with her finger before turning to Stella. ‘But, darling, such hard work, and all that new material – how long is the run for?’

  ‘A month. We’re sold out for three weeks, and with a bit of luck this should do it.’

  ‘Won’t you be exhausted?’

  ‘It’s her job, for goodness’ sake!’ exclaimed Brian quite tetchily. It irritated him to hear showbusiness characterised as tough. ‘It’s meat and drink to her, the roar of the greasepaint. I mean, I’m not saying it’s not hard work, and I couldn’t do it if anyone were mad enough to ask me, but I’m sure even Stella wouldn’t put it up there with germ warfare, would you? You’re simply making a bloody good job of entertaining a bunch of people who’ve come out with the express intention of enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Stella had long since given up rising to this particular bait. ‘Money for old rope ready.’

  Andrew looked around at the room, his brow furrowing. ‘Have we been here before?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said his wife thoughtfully. ‘Or is this where we came to see that musical about Al Jolson?’

  ‘No,’ said Stella, ‘that was the Palladium.’

  ‘It looks familiar,’ insisted Andrew. ‘Maybe I came here on my own.’

  Brian gave the laugh both barrels. ‘Talk about a dark horse! How many other performers are you on backstage drinking terms with?’

  ‘You just meant the place generally, didn’t you?’ said Mary. ‘I can never distinguish one theatre from another once I’m inside.’

  Andrew turned to Stella. ‘Where are the girls, are they here?’


  ‘Which girls?’

  ‘The ones you do your show with.’

  ‘No, darling, they’re not here.’ Mary handed her glass to Brian. ‘Would you be a dear and find some orange juice to put in that?’ She watched him go before adding: ‘I don’t suppose Stella invites them now she doesn’t work with them any more.’

  Andrew looked quizzical. His manner was as lively as ever, that was what hurt. ‘You don’t? You’re on your own then?’

  ‘No,’ said Stella, ‘Derek plays the piano.’ She bit off the word ‘remember.’ ‘He’s over there.’

  Andrew looked. ‘Ah, yes, of course, got it. He’s rather a find, isn’t he? You can tell he’s done it before.’

  ‘So how do you feel about the rest of the evening?’ asked Stella, addressing both of them, desperate to break the circle of misunderstanding. ‘Do you think you’ll come to the restaurant?’

  ‘Try and stop me!’ Her mother’s brightness could have shattered glass. ‘The feet may be weak but the spirit’s ready for anything. This is our big night out, and anyway I’m absolutely ravenous.’

  ‘We’ll have to hang on here for at least another half an hour, but if you want to go on I’ll give you the name of the place.’ Go, she thought, go. Please go.

  Mary had always been able to read her mind. ‘Perhaps that would be best. Why don’t we do that. Drew? Hop in a cab and go to the restaurant, then Stella won’t feel she has to fuss over us instead of circulating.’

  ‘Whatever suits. Come on then but be gentle with me.’ Andrew placed his hands on Stella’s shoulders and leaned in for a kiss. ‘Bye-bye, old thing, come and see us again soon.’

  Far from circulating she was still standing there when Brian returned with the orange juice. ‘Where did they beetle off to?’