The Grass Memorial

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ What was he saying? Of course it didn’t matter, she was allowed to go out.

  ‘I’d really like to see you though. Could we meet?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She must have read his mind. ‘I’m here on my own.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Can you get away during the day?’ She was being tactful, implying that his life was busy and productive.

  ‘I’m only helping Mack. Things are quiet at the moment.’

  ‘Perhaps we could, I don’t know, go for a walk or something?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Spencer . . .?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We have a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘Seems like it.’ He knew he sounded boorish and blunt, but he couldn’t help it, and typically she didn’t comment.

  ‘Mother has a nap in the afternoons, why not come over after lunch?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

  When he replaced the receiver and looked up he could see, across the hall, his mother sitting at the kitchen table doing accounts. She looked up briefly and smiled as if seeing him for the first time. Discretion seemed to be the order of the day. He went into the kitchen and took a cookie out of the barrel on the side.

  ‘You want a glass of milk with that?’ she asked, smiling again but not looking up.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He sat down opposite her and watched as she moved one piece of paper to the side. Studied another, wrote neatly in the ledger that seemed always to have been the same ledger . . . Words and figures and columns and pages that chronicled a modest livelihood, quietly and industriously earned.

  Still not looking at him she asked: ‘How’s it going?’

  This was an open-ended question that covered just about everything, she was leaving it to him to decide what it referred to.

  ‘Not bad.’

  Now she put down her pencil and sat back. ‘Tell me something.’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘When you were in England – did you have a girl? I mean a special girlfriend?’

  ‘There was somebody, yes. But it was over before I left.’

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘I told you, it was over.’

  He made to get up but she laid her hand quickly over his. ‘It’s never really over though, is it?’

  He didn’t answer.

  The following afternoon he went back to the Flahertys’ place and this time the door opened as he got out of the car and Trudel appeared, in a black coat, and closed the door behind her. To his relief she took the initiative, holding out both her hands to grasp his and kissing him on both cheeks before standing back to look at him.

  ‘You look great, Spence.’

  ‘You’re not so dusty yourself.’ She was thinner again, but was pretty and elegant with her hair caught back in two combs and a dark blue silky scarf setting off the creamy skin of her neck. Her smile was pure time-capsule, the old Trudel, the smile that said it would all turn out just fine because the two of them were together. He felt himself unbend a little but he still couldn’t bring himself to ask the important questions.

  ‘Where would you like to go?’

  She was decisive, she’d thought about it. ‘Let’s go to Battle Park. We can walk there.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Battle Park was on the edge of town, a green area surrounded by one of the loops in the creek. To get to it you crossed a wooden bridge. In the middle was a big old stone with a plaque commemorating the brave stand of General William A. McKinley’s small scouting troop in defence of a waggon train against a raiding party of Sioux several hundred strong. ‘And in death they were not divided’ declared the plaque, above an engraving of the layout of the battle from which it was pretty clear that the engagement had been a massacre. It was easy to imagine the waggon train pulled up in this tranquil spot with the water all round, the shady trees . . . Equally easy to imagine the terrifying charge of Indian horsemen out of nowhere, storming through the creek with the water flying up around them . . .

  In the ten minutes it took them to reach Battle Park they talked about changes to the town, Mrs Flaherty’s health, the fluctuating fortunes of McColl’s Mercantile. Once they were over the bridge and walking slowly along the path that followed the creek. Spencer bit the bullet.

  ‘So, you got married.’

  ‘I did.’ She turned up her collar. ‘The biggest mistake I ever made.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We’re divorced now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He found that in spite of his relief he was sorry, for her anyway, because she sounded so sad.

  ‘It wasn’t anyone’s fault,’ she went on. ‘We just weren’t suited.’

  ‘You were—’ he skirted round the phrase ‘in love’ ‘—suited to begin with.’

  ‘Oh, yes, mad about each other.’ She gave a little ironic jerk of the head. ‘Or plain mad.’

  ‘So how long did it last?’

  ‘A year. A whole year. A triumph, all things considered.’

  He stopped, and took her left hand firmly in both of his. ‘That’s a real shame.’

  ‘It was.’ She let her hand lie there, looked down at it as if it didn’t belong to her. ‘But it’s history now. By the way,’ she linked her arm through his and began to wade again, ‘I’ve dropped the Trudel.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I never liked it. It’s sort of cute. Milkmaidy.’

  ‘But it’s your name.’

  ‘I have another one. Hannah.’ She pronounced the first ‘a’ long, so it came out ‘Harnah’. ‘That’s what I’m called now.’

  He shook his head. So many changes. ‘So it’s goodbye, Apples Flaherty. Hallo, Hannah Samuelson.’

  ‘Apples, hmm.’ She half-laughed. ‘I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘You knew about it though?’

  ‘Of course! I look back sometimes and think, Was that really me?’

  She left his side and walked over to the rock with its commemorative plaque. He thought she was reading it, but when he joined her she said: ‘I was so desperate for love.’

  He was taken aback. ‘Everybody loved you.’

  She shook her head. ‘No one.’

  ‘Your parents.’

  ‘No. Them least of all. They didn’t love each other so how could they love their fat stupid daughter who glued them together?’

  ‘Tru—you weren’t . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if I was or I wasn’t, that was how I felt.’ She turned away and he went with her. Desperate both to comfort her and to be truthful, he said: ‘I loved you. You didn’t want me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t believe you.’

  ‘And you were so different when you came back from Chicago, so full of plans, so serious and grown-up—’

  ‘Grown-up!’ She threw her head back in a silent laugh that was almost bitter. ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s talk about that.’ They reached a seat made out of a big old tree trunk with a lengthwise section carved out. She sat down and made a little gesture with her coat as if making room for him. ‘Tell me about you, Spencer.’

  He did. Slowly and stumblingly at first, apologising for not having written, and then more rapidly, rediscovering his old ease with her and what a great listener she was, attentive and sympathetic. He told her the truth but not the whole truth about Janet and Rosemary – that he had been ‘involved’ with Janet and subsequently discovered the relationship between her and the girl, and it had ended. At this point she did say quietly: ‘Was it so shocking?’

  ‘It was for me. You have to understand I’d got used to seeing things in one way—’

  ‘—and none of it was as you thought.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. I do see that. Go on.’

  He told her about his writing, and his hopes for it. With her he felt not embarrassed or
secretive but almost proud to be attempting something difficult and risky.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘It’s exactly what you should be doing. Promise to let me know what happens.’

  ‘Of course.’

  In turn she told him, as they walked on, that she was going to have ‘another shot’ as she put it at a medical training, no matter how long it took her.

  ‘I was on my way once,’ she said, ‘when we last met before the war. Or I thought I was on my way, but I was still miming. When I met Tom I just fell into his arms – like a great big apple! – and thought, This is it, I’ve got away. I put myself back to square one. He was such a lovely man, but he couldn’t love me enough, no one could. I so regret what I did to him.’

  ‘It takes two,’ said Spencer sturdily.

  ‘Yes, I know. We didn’t know each other well enough, but we were so full of hope. In my case so full of false expectation, more than any man could live up to.’

  Spencer wanted to say. Me, I could, but stopped himself in time. He didn’t know this new person, this Hannah, any more than her husband had.

  When they got back to her house she asked if he wanted to come in, but he declined.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ he asked.

  ‘Another week. Then it’s back east to my little flat and my dull job and my studies.’

  ‘Will you let me have your address?’

  ‘Of course. Let’s see each other before I go, and keep in touch. I want to know everything that happens.’

  ‘You will.’

  They touched cheeks, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist, but he seemed to feel every bone and curve of her beneath the coat.

  ‘Friends?’ she asked.

  ‘Friends,’ he replied.

  Ten days later, after she’d gone, he received a letter from the editorial office of the Moose Draw Monitor.

  Dear Mr McColl,

  I was pleased to receive your piece entitled ‘Over There’, and think that it is just the sort of thing that would entertain our readers. I should therefore like to offer you the sum of $10 for the piece, and if you have anything in a similar vein on the stocks I would be interested to see it.

  Yours sincerely,

  P.J. Clarence, Editor

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Is that all there is?

  Is it over, have we done?

  Is this the famous feeling when the bloody war is won?’

  —Stella Carlyle, ‘Is That All?’

  Harry 1854

  If Harry had thought to be spared the sight of the battlefield south of the Alma, it wasn’t to be, though he added nothing to the letter he sent Rachel. Not long after the appearance of the walking wounded through the miasma of smoke the Lights were ordered up the flank of the Kigourny Heights. By the time they reached their vantage point, they had picked their way through many hundreds of dead and dying of both sides, and had seen enough to convince the most hotblooded among them that even a famous victory had its price. It was not solely concern for Rachel’s feelings that prevented Harry from describing these scenes, but a horror of reliving them.

  Beyond the heights to the south an even more extraordinary, and this time welcome, sight greeted them: that of the Russian Army streaming away in full, flight, shedding everything in order to hasten their progress – arms, packs, caps, coats, belts, flasks – leaving a trail of potential booty in their wake.

  Now, thought Harry, now, surely, they would attack ferocious pursuit would turn this retreat into a rout. It was the role of the Lights to launch just such a harrying charge across open country, to spread chaos and confusion, and turn a defeated army into a scattering rabble.

  Leonard Palliser, to his left, spoke for them all. ‘This is it, lads! This is what we came for, now we can show them!’

  Even the weary horses seemed to catch their mood, shaking their heads and moving restlessly. When the order came down the line on no account to attack, they could scarcely believe it.

  ‘They must be bringing others up,’ ventured Harry.

  ‘Let’s hope so, there can be no other sense in it.’

  For interminable minutes they sat there, watching their defeated foe stumble away from them in disarray. At last an ADC cantered down the line, bristling with importance and excitement.

  ‘Order to advance and take prisoners! Do not attack! Only take prisoners.’

  It was impossible, though, not to feel that it was an attack as they poured down the slope, giving the horses their heads, keeping perfect formation, knee to knee in all their pride. The agonised frustration of the last twenty-four hours fell away, there seemed to be nothing but this moment, this speed and purpose and élan. Harry raised his sabre, he shouted, he didn’t know what, his blood was up and boiling.

  Within two minutes they were upon the Russian stragglers.

  ‘Get them!’ yelled Palliser, red-faced, standing in his stirrups. ‘Get them, lads, they’re ours!’

  But there was a difference, Harry discovered, between the enemy en masse and at a distance, the mighty foe who had inflicted so much damage; and the reality of terrified individuals, many of them already wounded, some begging for mercy and weeping, others running like stags, a few turning and preparing to fight bravely and madly, with nothing but their bare hands.

  They must have rounded up a few dozen and a number of those were roughly handled without cause. One of Harry’s captives was painfully young; the golden fur on his chin was soft as chicken-down. He maintained a brittle, exaggerated dignity. One could imagine the advice he had been given by some well-meaning mentor. Around him older and more experienced soldiers cursed and wept and spat and swore, but this boy walked with his head up. He appeared clean and unmarked, it was hard to imagine that he had seen fighting at all. Hero or coward, this was without doubt his finest hour.

  They had accompanied their charges no more than halfway back up the slope when the ADC reappeared, this time skidding to a stop and then trotting fussily to the brigade commander several hundred yards to the left. They were ordered to halt. There was a heated exchange of the sort with which they’d become familiar, gestures, raised voices. Harry glanced at the Russian boy. He was impassive as a statue.

  The order came down to release the prisoners. Incredulous, they did not at once do so but when Lucan himself bellowed at them they let them go with a poor grace. As they rode back up the hill, humiliated and frustrated once again, Palliser cast a scornful look over his shoulder.

  ‘Look at them. One decent charge and we could have seen to the whole pack of them.’

  Harry looked. Most of their former prisoners were running away, tripping and stumbling as if they could not believe their luck and expected to be fired on at any moment. Some were kneeling, perhaps praying, perhaps simply exhausted. The boy was still standing quiet and straight, apparently staring after them. Harry could almost believe that their eyes met, that some small bond of silent understanding had formed between them. But as he looked the boy’s knees buckled, his head sagged to one side, and he pitched forward to lie motionless. No one came to his aid.

  This Harry did mention in his letter to Rachel. ‘It may sound fanciful, but he became for me a symbol of what was happening to us all. Of this mess and confusion which brings out both the worst and the best in us – his dignity was meaningless, his death (for I am sure he died) even more so, and he would certainly have killed me without a second thought. As for our pursuit of the Russians, there was I admit the thrill of the chase, but when the prey is close it is hard not to feel a sense of comradeship, which would not have prevented me, or anyone, from killing if that had been our order.’

  The night was long. At least the vanquished had left the field while they, the victors, must make what they could of the territory they’d won. As dusk fell, the grim housekeeping of the battlefield had to be done. The French casualties were taken by covered hospital wagon to their medical station. The British who were able to walk, or to crawl, made
their way to the black flag that marked the hospital tent. The rest, British and Russian alike, lay in trenches and on the open ground with scarcely credible patience and stoicism until such time as they received attention. The lucky ones were carried to the hard-pressed surgeons working by moonlight, or to be conveyed by jolting arabas and open litters the three miles to the coast, to lie unattended below decks on a hospital ship bound for Scutari. And still there remained hundreds, mostly Russians, out there in the cold and dark.

  Harry wrote: ‘You would have been moved to tears, Rachel, by the gentleness and goodness of ordinary English fighting men doing what they could for their wounded enemy, taking them their own hard-won water, saying a few words, seeing to their comfort . . . And not only that, but bearing their own suffering with real nobility. No matter what their agony, or how much they groan and blaspheme, they are always ready to acknowledge that the medical men have more urgent matters to attend to, and that their turn will come . . . When the battle is over, every man is a casualty. And our nerves are continually plucked by the sound of random shots as horses – and, I fear, men – are mercifully dispatched, and firearms are discharged into the air as a warning by these improbable and practical angels of mercy . . . If only we cavalrymen did not feel so untried and unused. If only we could hold our heads up and know that we had shared the glory and the suffering. It is mortifying to be the objects of general scorn and derision and does nothing, either, to improve the already incendiary mood of our commanders who continue to chafe and bicker, often quite openly in front of us. The men, like Cardigan, fulminate against Lucan who once again pulled us back from the brink for no good reason that could be seen, and yet it is clear from his demeanour that he was subject to commands from on high. There is not a man among us, I think, who is, as some infantrymen are heard to comment, more enamoured of our uniforms and horses than of fighting, but what can we do? It seems we are always to be held back.’

  Reading back over what he’d written he was compelled to add: ‘I see what you must think, my dearest Rachel – that with one breath I say that I wish to embrace the heat of battle and with another that I feel pity and admiration for a Russian prisoner. Let me assure you that it makes no more sense to me than it must to you. But we are all part of this infernal game now, nolens volens, and at least to participate fully would be to hasten the end of the thing whatever that may be.’