The Grass Memorial

by Sarah Harrison

  He and Palliser went out and set pickets, guards and vedettes, as much to restore a sense of stability as to defend against an enemy in such thorough disarray. Also, there was a sense among the Lights that they should, however late in the day, be seen to be useful, and so it was night when they finally sat round the fire. Sporadic explosions that at first had them leaping to their feet in alarm turned out, following investigations by their own cook, to be the result of Russian gun-barrels used by the men as cooking-grates. As these became red-hot, they exploded and some discharged their load. Awful screams and shouts in a distant part of camp told of at least one grim accident caused in this way.

  The cook, a stone-faced Scot, was unsympathetic. ‘No brains,’ was his comment. ‘What little they’ve got deserves to be blown out.’

  Harry’s night was not entirely sleepless, but sleep and consciousness merged into a confused restlessness. The shouts and moans from the hillside mingled with those in his dreams. When he awoke at four a.m. he flung his arm out to find himself touching the outstretched hand of a body on the ground next to him. It was that of a Russian soldier, already stiffening, one half of his chest blown away. Harry could scarcely imagine by what tortuous, agonising means he must have found his way here, or with what intention. To kill? To beg for help? Or had he, poor chap, been too far gone to know where he was? He crouched next to the man, gazing into his dark, bearded face and clouded half-closed eyes, trying to read something there. Unlike the boy prisoner, this was a mature man, coarse-featured, his skin pock-marked and webbed with broken veins. The hand that had reached for Harry’s had a forefinger truncated by some earlier accident at the first joint so that it was no more than a smooth stub.

  Harry detailed a couple of men to restore the Russian to his fellows. In the clammy grey light the piles of bodies on the hillside resembled clumps of manure on a field with the burial parties digging mass graves like farm workers.

  They were assigned the rearguard for the day’s march, but the likelihood of that beginning soon seemed remote. The regiment was saddled up by five and still standing by their mounts at ten, as the heat intensified. Tiredness and tedium hummed round them like the clouds of flies and midges which the horses barely had the energy to shake off.

  Stories rippled through all ranks as the previous night’s pickets returned. They had found the spot where the Russian spectators had sat, and there was every sign that a famous victory had been anticipated: parasols, champagne bottles and glasses, opera glasses, gloves and hats had been scattered on the grass as the fine company took flight, a prosperous civilian echo of the kit left in the valley below.

  Harry wondered to himself whether Rachel would have been in such a company in similar circumstances, and found that he could not imagine it. Yet the image of Rachel herself, he found, grew stronger and more vivid the longer their separation lasted. Her face with its calm, steady look hung in his mind like a lantern. She had become the focus of his longing to return, the very embodiment of the idea of home, though he knew all too well that he had no right to think of her in this way. She was his sister-in-law, still in mourning, expecting his brother’s child. When – if – he went back to Bells, what could he say or do that would not in some way betray the strength and duration of his feelings and so in some way harm Hugo’s memory and her reputation? He was certain that he sensed, in every line of her letters, a reciprocal feeling, an empathy and understanding beyond what was appropriate in the circumstances. But whether this extended to the overwhelming strength of his own passion he dared not speculate, and could never presume to ask.

  Betts, by some means or another, had come by a memento of the Russian ladies so rudely put to flight. It was a single black plume from a fan, the shaft beaded with jet.

  ‘Pretty bit of nonsense, sir.’

  ‘May I see?’

  ‘All yours, sir, if you like.’

  ‘Don’t you want to take it back with you – as a souvenir?’

  Betts pulled a wry face. ‘If I get back I shan’t want to remember, I’ll want to forget. Besides, there’s no woman waiting for me.’

  Harry did not say that there was none waiting for him, either. As Betts did his quiet, concentrated work around Clemmie, he himself stood at Derry’s side and turned the plume over in his hands. It was poignant not just for its feminine frivolity, but for the reminder it brought of Hugo’s last journey to the church on the hill: the flutter of Piper’s tossing mane, the soft sweep of black veiling, the dark heavy suits and the fragile country roses . . . He tucked the feather into his pack.

  The first meet of the season had always been at Bells, by usage and invitation. Maria made no secret of the fact that she considered hunting barbaric, but first Percy’s, then Hugo’s, fondness for it, and her own liking for spectacle, meant that she acceded to the event taking place there. Sensible of her position as newcomer, Rachel too was content to let the tradition continue, and it was agreed that if Percy were well enough he and Maria would come up in the gig, well wrapped up, to watch the proceedings either outside if it were fine, or from a vantage point at the study window.

  What chiefly attracted Rachel to the idea, apart from Percy’s pleasure in it, was that it was one of those occasions when the gates of Bells stood open and any who wanted could come in. Most of the time she was solitary by nature as well as through circumstance, and she liked her own company well enough. The largely silent companionship of Ben, Cato, and the baby inside her was all she required. But she was well aware that Hugo in particular had been a popular and expansive landlord without any ‘side’ or airs and graces, and that whatever her natural inclination she must show herself willing to be a worthy successor. Her connection with the Bartlemas family had gone some way towards demonstrating this, but was also she knew taken to be a sign of her slight peculiarity. So it was a source of satisfaction to her to be able to stand at the door of Bells, big with Hugo’s child, on this brilliant early October day, and welcome not just the hunt but all those who came to watch.

  Happily, Percy was having a good day, and the gig carrying him and Maria was able to draw up at the front of the house as the hunt began to convene. Rachel went over to them and saw from the warning look on Maria’s face that she must not react to or comment upon Percy’s appearance, which was almost transparently fragile. Perhaps it was seeing him in the light of day and the bright, unforgiving out-of-doors, but he seemed a mere whisper of a man, his bones pushing at the glistening taut skin of his face and hands, his eyes sunk beneath lids frail and veined as butterfly wings.

  ‘It’s so good that you could come, Percy,’ she said. ‘It means so much to everyone that you both are here.’

  ‘A perfect day for it.’ His voice was firm, but his gaunt cheeks were pink, and she noticed a little intake of breath before and after he spoke, as if this short utterance had taken a great effort.

  ‘And how are you, Rachel?’ Maria asked, checking both her own and her husband’s agitation by changing the subject.

  ‘Well. Enormous.’

  ‘Longing for it to be over?’

  ‘Wishing for it to begin.’ Rachel wondered as she often did if she had sounded unintentionally sharp, and added: ‘I mean that I’m looking forward to holding Hugo’s child in my arms.’

  Percy said: ‘Hope it’s less trouble than its father.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Maria, ‘Hugo could charm the birds from the trees.’

  ‘And more obedient than his damn’ dog . . .’

  Rachel smiled. ‘Charm and trouble so often go together, don’t they?’

  Percy reached out his hand to cover his wife’s. ‘I know.’

  Maria twitched her head in mock offence, but Rachel saw how her eyes shone.

  By the time the hunt moved off there were fifty or sixty people from the village there to watch. Rachel had arranged for punch to be served to the onlookers in lieu of the stirrup cup and Jeavons and Little passed round with trays and prevented small children from getting beneath the horses’ feet
. They made a proud sight, the heavy hunters with their well-turned out riders, the officials in their pink, hounds nosing and milling in amiable anticipation within the ambit of the huntsman’s whip, their tails waving like long grasses in a meadow. Cato, shut in the stables for the morning, bayed mournfully.

  Rachel found the Bartlemas family, or at least Ben found her and she asked him where his parents were. Dan Bartlemas removed his cap. His wife was as usual slightly on the defensive.

  ‘Is he being a nuisance?’

  ‘No. We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  He nodded, caught between his mother’s suspicion and Rachel’s approval. ‘Can I go and see Cato?’

  ‘You may, he’d like that.’ Ben began to run off and she called after him: ‘But don’t let him out whatever you do!’

  He waved a hand to show that the message was received and understood. Dan Bartlemas, colouring, asked: ‘Did I see old Mr Latimer over there?’

  ‘You did. He was well enough to come up and see the hunt move off.’

  ‘He used to like a day out with the hunt. How is he?’

  ‘Very frail. But cheerful.’

  ‘Our Colin thought the world of him,’ said Mrs Bartlemas. ‘He never gives much away, not a great talker, not free with his smiles like Mrs Latimer, but a really good man.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And Mr Harry’s just like him.’

  Her husband nudged her and she frowned.‘I didn’t mean anything by that – about Mr Hugo—’

  ‘I know that.’ Rachel touched her arm briefly. ‘I understand.’

  The horn sounded and the clamour and jingle of the hunt moved away up the drive to the north, in the direction of the first covert. The spectators began to disperse, some in the same direction, most towards the village, saying their goodbyes and thanks to the Latimers though Percy’s head had fallen back and his eyelids drooped.

  Jeavons collected such glasses as remained, and Oliver brought a rake and levelled the gravel. Rachel went to release Cato from his imprisonment. When she entered the stable she was amused to find boy and dog lying side by side in the straw, not touching, but apparently in perfect soundless communication with one another. Ben lay on his back, hands behind his head, with one ankle resting on his upturned knee: Cato faced the door, front paws together, head held upright with a ponderous sphinx-like composure.

  ‘You can come out now, you two.’

  Cato rose slowly and came to her and Ben followed.

  ‘Has the hunt gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Can I stay for a while?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned you can, Ben, but I think you should ask your parents.’

  ‘They’ll say no.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Can I tell them you said yes?’

  ‘Of course. But you must always do what your parents want you to no matter what I say. You’d better hurry, they were all leaving.’

  He disappeared. She expected Cato to follow him but he did not. The dog remained at her side, padding along with his hide, looser in old age, rippling and jouncing on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. She knew that he was instinctively keeping her company, adjusting his pace to hers now that she was heavy and slow and her time was near.

  Around the side of the house two small tableaux had formed. On the far, south side of the park, near to where the wicket gate opened on to the path to the village, she could see Ben bargaining with his mother while Dan towered over them in silence. In the gig, Percy slept while Maria leaned forward with her hand on its side, talking to the driver, Edgar, and Oliver, leaning on his rake. Something urgent in her mother-in-law’s attitude struck a warning chord with Rachel. She quickened her pace.

  ‘Maria . . . Won’t you both come in now and have some lunch with me?’

  ‘Thank you. I was just asking Edgar if my husband could be carried into the house.’

  Rachel turned to the groom. ‘Oliver, will you help to bring Mr Latimer into the study?’

  Both men said that it was no trouble and indeed it wasn’t, for Percy weighed no more than a child. He did not stir as they lifted him down and carried him, making a seat of their arms, through the hall and to a chair in the sunlit window. Maria removed her hat and gloves and laid them on the window seat. Still in her short red plaid cape she sat down by him and took his hand in both of hers. Percy’s nails were bluish, she chafed the hand gently. There was the fierce, frowning look on her face which her former employees knew only too well. Edgar retired to take the gig round to the yard and Oliver returned to his raking. Beyond him on the grass stood Ben, hands in pockets, uncertain of his territory. Rachel went to the door and shook her head at him and he went at once, in the direction of the stables.

  She closed the front door. Now it seemed dark in the hall except for where long fingers of dusty light rested on the foot of the stairs. Seeking the warmth Cato plodded into this patch of sunshine and flopped down, rolling his eyes up at Rachel.

  ‘Stay,’ she ordered him and he laid his head on his paws.

  She went into the study. ‘Is he waking? Do you think he would like a glass of something? Madeira? Or a whisky?’

  Maria shook her head. ‘No, I think not.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  During this short exchange Maria had not taken her eyes off Percy’s face, and she still sat on the footstool with his hand in both of hers. Rachel went over to them.

  It was odd, but when Hugo had died, swiftly and suddenly, she had felt death’s approach. One moment she had seen him on Piper careering between the trees towards his brother: the next she had been out on the lawn, perfectly aware of what had happened, the knowledge whole and crystal-clear as if the script and her part in it were already written.

  Percy’s death was expected, long-awaited even, an event for which they had had ample time to prepare, and yet now that it stood as it were at his shoulder she could not accept it. That it was just about to happen, that they were going to sit here and watch it steal over him, was almost too much to bear.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Surely . . .’

  Maria put up a hand, without looking at her, and grasped hers, so that she now held both of them, the link between them. Rachel recognised in her already the stoical serenity of widowhood. With her husband gone, nothing and no one could take him away from her again.

  Rachel withdrew her hand and sat down on the windowseat next to Maria’s hat and gloves. The low autumn sun meant that she cast a shadow on Percy and she moved so that the warm light was on his face again. He was still there, just, his eyelids fluttered and his breathing scarcely perceptible, a dwindling trace of life.

  Maria said: ‘He has been my great love, all these years.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I could never love my boys as I loved their father. Is that a dreadful thing to say?’

  ‘No.’ Rachel could believe that. Even expected it to be true. That she would love her child less for itself than because it was Hugo’s.

  Maria gave her a quick, tormented look as though she’d read her thoughts. ‘So I was glad that Hugo had you, if only for so short a while. And I hope that if Harry comes back he will find such love, for he deserves it.’

  ‘I hope for that too.’

  Maria lifted Percy’s hand to her lips. Said, firmly and with feeling: ‘It is the only thing worth living for. And the only thing to make death bearable.’

  They sat in silence for another few minutes. It was tranquil in the sunlight. At one point Cato pushed open the door, looked in cautiously and when no reprimand was forthcoming padded in and lay at Rachel’s feet.

  She herself could not have pinpointed the moment when Percy died. It was a gentle drift from one peace into another. Even when Maria had laid his hands quietly together on his lap, and kissed first his brow, then each eyelid, then his mouth, the women did not move but sat bearing him and each other company. Rachel suspected, and was sure th
at Maria did too, that once Percy’s death became known a great wave would break over them and they would all, for a while, be tossed about by it, separated, unable to focus on their own mourning or on the one taken from them.

  The balance of authority, always delicately poised between the two women, had shifted for a while, almost imperceptibly, to Maria. At some point not long after Percy’s death Rachel felt it return to her. Maria was widowed. Her life had changed for ever. She had suffered, a second time, one of the greatest losses that a woman can sustain. This house which had once been hers was Rachel’s now and she must assume responsibility.

  She got up and touched Maria’s shoulder.

  ‘I shall go and tell Jeavons, and send Oliver for the doctor. Stay with him.’

  She left the room. Cato laid down his head and slept in the sun.

  Due to the French having to reclaim their packs – seven thousand of them littered over the fields north of the Alma – it was another thirty-six hours before they moved off. To begin with the spirits of most of them were high: no matter what the missed opportunities it had still been a great victory and they could not yet guess at how inconclusive it would prove to be.

  All too soon they were overtaken by the heat, flies, and a chronic shortage of water, the thirst of the troops made worse by the injudicious amounts of looted vodka consumed since the battle. And though allied losses at the Alma had been relatively small – a few hundred as opposed to the thousands of Russian dead – they were still at the mercy of cholera. As their exultant early-morning pace slowed, so they saw clearly, for the first time since reaching the Crimea, the vultures soaring overhead. It was impossible not to imagine these creatures gorging themselves on the abandoned battlefield, and though none mentioned it the picture haunted many of them. A single English army doctor and his servant had been left behind to tend the Russian wounded, with only his own courage and the promises of his grateful charges to protect him.