Wake

by Anna Hope

  The flat has the blank, slightly surprised feeling of a weekday afternoon. The air is still, a little stale. Several days’ worth of dirty dishes are piled in the sink. Her bedroom curtains are drawn. She can’t remember the last time she opened them. She does so now, and a movement in the flat opposite catches her eye. Someone is over there, in the shadows; she can’t quite see them in the depths of their room. She stands there for a moment longer, looking out, but the view blurs in the rain.

  She turns back and winces. Her bedroom is atrocious in the daylight. A pit. Why has their char not been? Then she remembers. She is away, visiting her mother; Dorset, Devon, something like that. Doreen left a note about it last week. She takes off her wet coat and leaves it on the bed, then goes to the bathroom and runs cold water into the sink. She lifts her face and stares at herself in the glass.

  Her brother was lying.

  Liar, Edward Montfort. Liar.

  She splashes freezing water on to her skin and gasps.

  He knew exactly who Rowan Hind was; she could see it all over his face.

  So what has he got to hide?

  She splashes the water again and again until the top of her camisole is wet through. She pulls that off, too. Then she brushes her teeth thoroughly, dries herself off with a towel, and goes back into her room.

  In the flat across the road the shadows move. Evelyn jumps. She had forgotten that she had opened the curtains. She is naked from the waist up. The rain has lifted now, and the view is clear. The shadows thicken, then part and reveal themselves to be a man—a man in a wheelchair staring out over the street toward her.

  As she stands there, watching him, he wheels himself closer to the glass. She can see the pale line of his skin, his hooded eyes, and the shadows beneath. He is younger than her; from where she stands he seems no more than twenty. He has a beautiful face, and he is looking straight at her—straight into her eyes.

  She can feel the skin around her nipples contract.

  Her cigarettes are lying on the corner of the bed. She can just see her case and lighter from here. Carefully, and without turning, without taking her eyes from the boy’s face, she bends and picks them up.

  She lights one, inhales and lets out the smoke, letting the lighter fall. It lands on the bed beside her with a soft thud. The boy unbuttons his trousers. She watches as he reaches his hands inside. She can feel the air across her skin; hear her breath, low in the room. She takes another deep pull at her cigarette. The boy’s hand begins moving slowly up and down. He doesn’t take his eyes from her face. She opens her legs slightly, feels the friction of her knickers against her skin: the swollen pulse of herself. She pulls again at her cigarette. They stay there, eyes locked together as he moves faster, faster. Her breath catches in her throat. When she sees him slump she lets out her breath in a sigh.

  His head is bowed. He stays like that for a long moment and then, without looking up, wheels himself from the light.

  She puts her arm across her chest and pulls the curtain, plunging the room into sudden darkness. She sits on the edge of her bed and puts her head into her hands. For a moment, she feels as though she might weep.

  But she doesn’t. She stands. Pulls herself together, takes another camisole from her wardrobe, and pulls a jersey on over the top.

  She is over an hour and a half late when she finally arrives back at the office. By some miracle the queue is not so bad, and only ten or fifteen men wait outside.

  Robin doesn’t notice her as she slips into her seat. She feels the exact moment when he does, though, a few seconds later. She can feel him shift, feel a slight buzzing in the air between them. It is odd, the buzzing, but she doesn’t look up to meet his gaze.

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  “Ada!” Ivy stands in the doorway. Her broad cheeks are rosy and there’s a fine film of sweat glistening on her skin. “This is a nice surprise. Kettle’s just boiled. I’ll make us both some tea.”

  Ada touches the envelope in her pocket, and then follows Ivy down the dark hall to the kitchen, where something sticky is simmering on the stove. The windows are covered with mist and the table is a jumbled mass of branches, the smell of cut wood mingling with the sugary steam. “Something smells good.”

  “Rose hips.” Ivy lifts a bowlful of the shucked fruit. “You know me. I always make a bit of a syrup for the winter colds. I’ll bring you some over when I’ve done.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “Sit down and I’ll get the tea on, shall I?”

  Ada sits at the scrubbed table, watching Ivy as she bustles about the room, lifting the lid off the teapot, peering in, shaking in a few more leaves, and then pouring the steaming water inside. Ivy is heavier than she ever used to be and moves more slowly now. They have known each other for years: Ivy was living here when Ada moved on to the street. Ivy is older, by three years or so; she already had her two girls then. They were pregnant together with their boys, though, Ada with Michael, and Ivy with Joseph, her third. Ivy was lovely back then, always throwing her head back and laughing at the smallest thing. She lost her son in the summer of 1916. She didn’t laugh for a long while after that.

  Ivy carries the pot over and arranges cups and saucers and pours.

  “Feels like ages since I’ve seen you.” She smiles, and Ada, as always, is taken aback. Ivy got given new teeth, just at the end of the war; her daughters saved up and bought them for her, she had the old ones pulled out and new ones fitted, bottom and top. They look funny, as though they were made for someone else. They don’t fit too well either; they clack and whistle when she talks. “Jack doing all right, is he? Much coming out from that allotment still?”

  “There’s still a few things coming out.”

  “That’s good.” Ivy takes a seat. “I’m glad you popped over actually; I’ve been wanting to ask you something for a while.”

  “What’s that?”

  “About whether you’re going to go to town, for the burial. The Unknown Warrior. You know.”

  So far, she and Jack have avoided this subject. Ada knows without asking that he will not want to go.

  “I was reading in the papers,” says Ivy. “They’re going to put up barriers in the streets. They’re expecting thousands.”

  “Is there going to be space for everyone, then?”

  “That’s the point, isn’t it? For everyone to go—for all of us to pay our respects.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I thought I’d be going with my girls, but neither of them want to.” Ivy looks saddened briefly, and then brightens. “But then I thought, we could walk there together . … If you like?”

  “I’m—not sure. Can I have a think about it?”

  “Of course. You take your time.”

  Ada touches the letter in her pocket, puts down her cup. “Can I ask you something, Ivy?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s something about your Joe.”

  “What about him?”

  “You got a letter, didn’t you? Telling you how it happened? After he died?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And then did you get another one? Telling you about his grave?”

  Ivy nods.

  “Can I see it?”

  There’s a moment in which Ada worries she has said too much. Then, “Of course,” says Ivy. “If you really want to. I’ll fetch it for you now.”

  She goes into the parlor and Ada can hear her moving about. In the darkened garden, beyond the window, a sudden breeze picks up, tossing a spray of small leaves into the air. The Unknown Warrior. It sounds so grand. She knows the meaning behind this burial: the one to stand for all of the many bodies that have not come home, but why didn’t they just call him a soldier? Just like everyone else?

  “You read it.” Ivy is back, standing in the doorway, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” She puts two brow
n envelopes on to the table in front of Ada. “I’d better start clearing these anyway.” She lifts an armful of the branches and takes them over to the counter, where she begins snapping them in two.

  Ada slides the first of the letters from its envelope.

  Madam,

  I am directed to inform you that a report has been received which states that the late Private Joseph White is burial about 2000 yards North West of Gueudecourt, South West of Bapaume.

  The grave has been registered in this office, and is marked by a durable wooden cross with an inscription bearing full particulars.

  I am,

  Madam,

  Your obedient servant,

  Captain,

  Staff Captain for Brigadier—General, Director, Graves Registration and Enquiries.

  The other letter is longer, in a denser type. There’s a stamp on the top dated 20 March 1920. She squints at the page. It is difficult to read in the failing light.

  Madam,

  I beg to inform you that in accordance with the agreement with the French and Belgian Governments to remove all scattered graves and small cemeteries which were situated in places unsuitable for permanent retention, it has been found necessary to exhume the bodies buried in certain areas. The body of Private White has therefore been removed and re-buried in Grass Lane Burial Ground, Gueudecourt, South of Bapaume.

  I am to add that the necessity for this removal is much regretted, but was unavoidable for the reasons given above. You may rest assured that the work of re-burial had been carried out carefully and reverently, special arrangements having been made for the appropriate religious services to be held.

  I am,

  Madam,

  Your obedient servant,

  Major D.A.A.G.

  For Major-General,

  D.G.G.R. & E.

  “They don’t half put in lots of big words,” says Ada, folding it back.

  Ivy slides the pan off the stove, shaking her head. “It’s all a load of old balsam though, isn’t it? They’re just making it easier for themselves. They’re just lumping them all together so as it’s easier to count them up. I don’t like to think of it. Why couldn’t they have just left him in peace? And that bit at the bottom—that bit about religious services. They never even asked me what religion he was. He might have been a flaming Hindu for all they knew. He was an atheist, though, wasn’t he? Like his dad.”

  “They didn’t even ask?”

  Ivy sucks her teeth. “No. And you seen the other bit there?” She brings a candle over to the table. There’s a second piece of paper tacked on to the back, which contains only the information:

  Name Joseph White

  Regiment 10th London.

  Location of Grave. A.I.F. Burial Ground (Grass Lane) Gueudecourt. Plot 7. Row. D. Grave 4.

  Nearest Station Bapaume

  Nearest Town “”

  Nearest Enquiry Bureau. Albert.

  “I know that place.” Ada points, feeling a thrill of recognition. “That was on the card that Michael sent back. Albert. It’s the place with the church, with the woman and the child.”

  “That’s right,” says Ivy. “I’ve seen pictures of that, too.”

  “Here.” She takes her own letter out of her pocket. “Would you have a look at this for me?”

  Ivy eyes the envelope. “Sorry, Ada. I don’t know if I can.”

  “Please?”

  Ivy relents. Taking the thin letter from its brown envelope, she reads it quickly, then nods and pushes it away. “I got one of them, too, at the beginning. That’s what they always send, don’t they?”

  “I know,” says Ada. “But I never got anything else. Nothing about how he died. Nothing about where he was buried. None of this.” She gestures to the letters on the table.

  Ivy starts. “Why didn’t you say something at the time?”

  “I kept thinking he was coming back, didn’t I? That they got it wrong.”

  “Didn’t you ever try to write to anyone?”

  “Jack wrote to the company. They wrote back and said that he had to write to the war office. So he wrote to them. Then he heard nothing back.”

  Ivy sucks the moisture from her teeth. “God, it makes me boil. After all those boys did, and they just don’t care. Here, take a look at this.” She goes over to a drawer, comes back with a folded piece of newsprint and puts it down on the table. “You seen this? They’re doing tours now, so as you can look at the graves.”

  “I’ve seen.”

  “You seen how much they’re charging then?” Her finger hovers over an advert in a bold box at the bottom of the page,

  All-inclusive tour. Graves and battlefields. Led by sympathetic veteran. £6—food and transport included.

  Ivy shakes her head. “They asked me for an inscription, for the gravestone. That was sixpence a letter on its own. You’d think they’d pay for that, wouldn’t you? An inscription at the least. Then I sat down with my Bill and I counted up how long I’d have to save. Twelve pounds for both of us to go on a tour. What’s that, then? I’ve got fifteen shillings a week to manage this house on. If I save two shillings a week it’ll take over four years. They didn’t think about that, did they? When they decided not to bring them home?” She is shaking with anger. “It’s all right for those who can, isn’t it? Like every bleeding thing else.”

  A light, acrid smell is coming from the range.

  “Hang on, let me have a look a this.” She goes over to the stove. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows. Ada plaits her fingers in her lap.

  “Ada?” Ivy sounds calmer now. “You remember my cousin May? Lives out Islington way? Lost both her boys? You met her last summer—Ellie’s wedding.”

  Ada looks to where she stands, slowly stirring the contents of her pan. “That’s right. I remember.” May was a small birdlike woman, sadness struck through her.

  “Well, she got a letter about her boys just the other day.”

  “Oh?”

  “Said they were going to be on a memorial. A big one in France, where people would be able to go and pay their respects, with the name of her boys on it along with all the rest. It was in one of those places with a funny name. Began with a T, I think.”

  Ada nods. She cannot really conceive of this. Of how this might look. Of how it might possibly help.

  “They didn’t find anything of her boys, you know.” Ivy speaks quietly. “Not one little bit.”

  There’s a silence.

  “You’ve not had a letter like that then, Ada?”

  “No.”

  “It might be coming, though.”

  “It might.” Ada puts down her cup and picks up her own letter, turning it in her hands. “Ivy?”

  “What’s that?”

  “What about that woman? The one you saw.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one who said she could speak with the dead.”

  Ivy puts the lid back on the pan, turns, and wipes her hands on her apron. “What about her?”

  “Could she do it, do you think? Did it work?”

  Ivy crosses her arms in front of her chest. “What’s this all about, Ada? What’s brought all this on? What you got to go digging around for now?”

  Ada rubs the side of a knuckle with her thumb. “A boy came to the door,” she says, speaking quickly. “Selling some rubbish. I don’t know why, but I invited him in.” Something occurs to her, and she looks up. “Did anyone come here? Sunday morning? Did you have anyone knock on the front door? Selling dishcloths and that?”

  Ivy thinks and shakes her head. “No, and I was in all day.”

  “He came into the kitchen. I didn’t want to buy anything, but he was cold, so I let him have a smoke. And then, then he—he said Michael’s name.” She looks up. “And I know this is daft, but when he spo
ke, this boy, it was as though he was looking at him. As though he could see him in the room.”

  Ivy comes to sit in the chair beside her. “What do you mean? Like a ghost?”

  “I suppose … yes.”

  “But Ada,” says Ivy gently. “You know there’s no such thing.”

  “I know that—but then, yesterday … I saw him in the street.”

  “Who?”

  “Michael. And I followed him all the way to the house, but when I got home—he had disappeared.”

  “Oh, Ada darling.” Ivy reaches out, and for a brief moment they sit there, clasped together, until Ada pulls her hands away. She hasn’t finished. Not yet.

  “Then yesterday, I went and got out all his letters. I haven’t looked at them for two years. And I kept thinking, Why? Why didn’t anyone tell us what happened? And why did that funny boy come to see me? He didn’t come to see you, did he? He can’t just have been selling cloths.”

  “You never know.”

  “No.” She shakes her head, fierce now. “He came to see me. I know it. I know he knew something about Michael. And then I thought, he’s never coming back. And I’ll never know. And then I kept thinking of her, that woman you saw. And I couldn’t get her out of my head. Where was she? That woman? Where’d she live?”

  Ivy’s face closes. She pulls her hands away and stands, shaking her head. “I don’t like to talk about it. The dead are the dead. Best just leave them be.”

  There’s a knocking at the window. The two women freeze. There’s a shape out there, a humped black mass, but with the candle so close it’s impossible to see just who or what it is. Ivy stands and goes over to the glass. “It’s Ellie,” she says, and Ada can hear the relief in her voice as she opens the door. There’s a blast of cold air as Ellie, Ivy’s daughter, a smart, tidy girl, bustles into the room, baby on her hip.