The Grass Memorial
Page 64
‘Absolutely. You’ll see the footpath signs on the other side.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s lovely up there, quite magical.’
‘So I hear.’
‘Good luck!’
He thought for a moment that the dog was going to follow him as Tallulah used to do at Buck’s, but when he reached the stile on the other side it returned to the sunny doorway.
The receptionist had been right, it was a long climb, and a tough one for a man of his age, but he took it in easy stages, pausing every hundred yards or so but trying not to look back, saving the view till he reached the top.
The church was a ruin, its squat outline and scattering of graves like a partridge with her chicks amongst the long grass and high-summer wild flowers. Up here there was a wind, its long breaths combing the hill, shivering through the arches and between the standing stones. Spencer sat down and leaned his back against one of the tilting graves, its surface warmed by the afternoon sun. Seen from this angle the village was a tiny huddle of ancient roofs and the White Horse leapt away from him. He recalled a hymn they used to sing during the war. He hadn’t thought of it once till now, didn’t even realise it had lodged in his memory. Before the hills in order stood, or earth received her frame . . . It seemed to him that these small English hills, and the valley between them, represented that order, created by divine will or the budding of the earth’s crust, and now bearing the hallmarks of man’s endeavours, old and new. Tomorrow, with the long tedium of the transatlantic flight ahead, he’d walk up the other side to see the horse close to.
He dozed for a little while and was woken by a drop in temperature. The sky had clouded over and the wind had become cool and blustery. It was hell getting to his feet, he was glad there was no one about to see him. He got on to his knees and used the grave stone to haul himself upright, noticing as he did so that it was another Latimer, ‘Hugo, beloved husband of Rachel, 1830– 1854’ – another Victorian life cut cruelly short by something or other. Poor Rachel. All the same Spencer found himself thinking of the funeral cortege winding its way up the hill – how in hell had they done it? She must have loved him.
He began to retrace his steps, descending slowly, chary of his knees. At the first bend, taking a breather, he glanced back and saw to his surprise the silhouette of a woman in the churchyard, a youthful, hippyish figure with long strands of hair and a billowing skirt whipped by the wind. He hoped to God she hadn’t witnessed his undignified struggle a few minutes ago.
He continued on his way and when he next looked back, she was gone.
WAKING
1854–1997
The photographer had taken care till now. He wished faithfully to record the people and places of this strange war, but not in such a way as to cause undue distress at home. So where a place had been the scene of a famous victory or a heroic defeat he was careful to wait until the dead and wounded had been removed. The text could describe what had happened, the numbers and scale of casualties: for them to be seen would be altogether too brutal a shock.
Yet the events of today were so extraordinary that they defied belief even in those, like him, who had witnessed them. He could not be sure whether what had taken place was heroism, or sheer folly, or both, nor how the news of it would be received in England. The glory, the élan, the stupidity, the carnage – they were still warring in his head.
That was why he wanted to take this photograph – to still those terrible mental pictures. The bareheaded young officer was lying alongside his horse for all the world as if the two of them were asleep in an English meadow: an image of war’s waste, and of the peace of those it snatched from the midst of life. A symbol of trust, devotion – tranquillity even – after the shocking madness of the day.
He did not even go round the still figures to the other side, to study another angle. He did not wish to see the hideous wounds from which they’d died. From here they appeared unmarked. Quietly and deliberately, with a sort of reverence, he climbed down from the waggon and set up his camera.
When he had finished he left them as he found them, just as if they really were asleep. In the distance, the bells of Sevastopol were pealing, sounding a great victory.
First the mare struggled to her feet, then the foal.
They watched as it tottered and stumbled, its pipe-cleaner legs threatening to buckle, its small wild head scything and questing for its mother’s nourishment. As it locked on, the mare tenderly licked the gummy fluid off its hide. Strands of the stuff hung from the foal’s stumpy tuft of tad. A crow settled about ten metres off, its cold black eye on the smoking afterbirth.
Robert took Stella’s stained hands in both of his.
‘Look at us.’
‘Bloody but unbowed.’
‘I’ll say.’
She felt washed through by a pristine, exhausted bliss. The sun was warm on their backs. Her hands were enfolded in his, lost to her. Slowly she allowed her head to droop on to his shoulder. As she did so, the crow took off and flew away. They could hear the soft, urgent suckling of the foal.
One at a time the bells of seven parishes began to peal, and the White Horse leapt in jubilation towards the sun.
Sarah Harrison
Sarah Harrison is the bestselling author of more than twenty-five books. She is best known for her adult fiction, which has included commercial blockbusters such as The Flowers of the Field and A Flower That’s Free (both now re-released, along with the third part of the trilogy, The Wildflower Path). She has also written children’s books and the successful writer’s guide How to Write a Blockbuster, as well as numerous short stories and articles.
Sarah is an experienced speaker and broadcaster, who has taught creative writing both here in the UK and on residential courses in Italy. She has been a judge for literary and public-speaking competitions, and is also an entertainer – her three-woman cabaret group, Pulsatillas!, has an enthusiastic and ever-growing following.
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First published in 2001 by Hodder & Stoughton
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