Otherwise

by Jonathan M Barrett

  #

  To be there as they disembarked: William thought this might be a kind of reaching out to his comrades, some show of solidarity. No, he's clueless why he came, he's only in the way. Weeping mothers buffet him when they break ranks to surge towards sons they no longer recognise. Uncles, who've polished and pinned on their Boer War medals, have come to clap the lads and show their stiff upper lips, but buckle and blub when they see the blasted legions of wounded. William stares agog at the new breed of men emerging from the hospital ship, men recreated as monsters without limbs or eyes. Lads, who could run and climb and hit cricket balls to the boundary, have been made anew as purblind creatures in creaking wheel chairs; an ambulatory species devolved into the perambulatory. Two men with bandaged heads are fused into one being: two eyes, two arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, and three legs between them as they lurch down the gangplank.

  William fancies he can see Green in the crowd, clapping and shouting "Bravo, boys!" But he's just imagined him. Now fearful he'll vomit at the monstrous show, William staggers away. He slips on the cobbles, and grazes his palm when he flails at a crate for support. There's a sharp sting as a splinter pricks his palm. When he bites out the tiny pick, a single drop of blood bubbles onto his skin. He rubs his hand on his leg, then runs until he's breathless.

  William's thighs stiffen into cramp as he climbs up through the Botanic Gardens. He punches the bone hard muscle with the heel of his palm. Ever the dreamy boy, for once he's fully aware of his body.

  11

  The book is engrossing and the armchair in Frampton's library so comfortable that William doesn't hear Edith come in. He starts at the sound of her voice.

  "William, are you looking at the pictures in Daddy's anatomy book again?" She has a look of triumph above the vase of agapanthus she's carrying.

  "Good lord, Edith, you gave me a fright." He marks his page and shuts the book. "And, no, I'm not reading about anatomy."

  "Then let me see what you are reading," she says.

  "No, it wouldn't be of any interest to you."

  "I think I should be the judge of that." When she holds her hand out, with that look of determination, William knows he'll give in sooner or later; he marks his page with the ribbon, and hands her the book.

  "Myths of Ancient Greece? I'm surprised you've got time for this sort of thing." She scans the page and reads aloud from the place he's marked. William really doesn't appreciate her sarcastic tone. "'Hermaphroditus, son of Hermes – quod vide – and Aphrodite – quod vide – captures the heart of the nymph Salmacis." Edith turns to William. "No qv. Obviously mere nymphs do not warrant a separate entry. 'The wretched nymph, having been enraptured by the handsome youth, entreated the gods to make them one, whereupon their bodies became united, and he assumed the worst traits of both men and women."

  Edith hands back the book and, feigning anguish, says, "How awful! Poor creature." She holds the back of her to her forehead, a heroine in a melodrama. "Cursed with the worst traits of both men and women!" She flops into an armchair.

  "What do you think they could mean by that," William says, "'the worst traits of men and women'?"

  Edith leans back and gazes at the ceiling. "Really, I would have thought that was rather obvious – even to you, dear."

  "Well, I'm not sure it is."

  "I really do wonder whether you're wilfully dense sometimes. All right, then: everyone knows emotion is female and logic is male. So, an unfortunate combination would be no emotions and no logic. Or, I suppose, you could have a logic ruled by the emotions – that would be just as bad." Her expression is triumphant as she stands.

  William says to himself, "Logic ruled by the emotions." Then to Edith, "Ah. But what about the cause of their downfall then? What about the physical passion: do you think that's believable? Do you think that one person could feel an all consuming passion for another?"

  "It's an ancient myth." Edith moves around the room, straightening books. She pulls one from the shelf and repositions it. "Oh, sometimes I do wonder sometimes whether Mary really can read, or whether she does it deliberately."

  William recognises her tactic but won't give in. "Yes, I do understand it's an ancient myth. Still, do you think, for instance, you could feel that sort of physical passion, for someone – well, for me?"

  Now she's behind his chair. "Oh really, Willie, we're engaged. What more proof would you want of my feelings for you?" She squeezes his shoulder. "And, as for things physical, I'm sure we'll have lots of children." She leans to whisper in his ear, "And lots of trying too."

  William presses her hand, and turns to face her. "It says her complete yearning for him was so great it could only be satisfied by her becoming part of him–"

  Edith removes her hand and raises her index finger. "Or his becoming part of her."

  "If you like, but that doesn't matter."

  "Ah, you say that because you're a man."

  Edith's back is to him. Her slim figure is almost boyish; her waist doesn't nip and her hips don't swell like the cello curves of Frances Napier. "No, no, don't try that line, it's just a diversion." He stretches and tugs at the hem of her skirt. "I know you're only trying to get away from the point in hand."

  Edith turns. Two pink blotches on her cheeks, as round as pennies, tell William her dander is rising. "Then, no. I've told you, it's only a myth, a story made up by prehistoric peasants before the philosophers came along to lead their minds to higher things. It says nothing to us young modern people contemplating our future. There. I'm sorry if you don't like it but that's what I think."

  William allows her a few moments to cool. "And yet you said that the worst traits of men and women were obvious. You said these ancient peasants understood them, and you implied that you do too. You even gave me an example."

  "Oh really, William, this is so tiresome." Edith strides to the window and lifts a sash high. The wind fills the curtain like a spinnaker and scatters papers. She tugs the window down, and sinks onto the bench seat. "What's really on your mind?"

  "I can't say I know exactly." William rises and goes to stand before her. "I suppose what it is, is that we live such closed and sheltered lives. We talk about being modern and progressive, but I think there's another world from which we've become estranged. These days we seem to have too much knowing and not enough living, and perhaps these ancient myths are clues about a life of vitality and passion that we've all but lost. I think we need to rediscover those things."

  Edith looks up. "We'll travel the world when this war is over. Athens, Paris, wherever."

  "But don't you see," William says, "it's not just a matter of travelling, visiting different countries and collecting postcards to help us remember those places when we're old. There are different worlds on our very doorstep. And we have no experience of these things. We're as ignorant of them as we are of life on the moon."

  Edith is up and past him, searching in drawers. "Not – the demimonde of Wellington!"

  "I dare say things happen right here on our doorstep that are beyond our experience or understanding. But it's not a matter of place, as such – Wellington, Paris or even Timbuktu for that matter, that's not the point. It's our imaginations that are so provincial – so fettered, I suppose. We just can't imagine things being otherwise."

  "What, do you think I should crop my hair, have a child out of wedlock, and play being a bohemian? I'm sorry, Willie, but that's not who I am. Don't you understand? As a woman, I want to be fully accepted in society, not cast out of it. It's all right for you, you're a man; you can take a few risks."

  "At Johnstone & Petherall?"

  "You've chosen to become a lawyer, and you can choose to do something else. I haven't had your choices. Let me tell you something: there's a photograph of James Nairn in the entrance hall of the School of Arts of and his students up at his Pumpkin Cottage in Silverstream. I love Nairn's work. It's everything I could ever hope to achieve."

  "You don't need to tell me that, dear. It was
me who had to carry you from the gallery." He smiles as he remembers:

  The gallery of the Arts Society had been packed. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder and shuffled between paintings. Edith took her place before the vibrant Nairn canvass. She cocked her head one then the other; she stared, then, drop-by-drop, tears ran down her blanched cheeks.

  "What is it, dearest?" William put his arm around Edith's shoulder, fretful lest she might faint in a public place. Her eyes flickered, and she slumped. As he held her close, she became limp.

  "Excuse me – excuse me – excuse me, please." He scooped her up into her arms and made his way through the crowd. On a bench outside the gallery, Edith laughed through her sobs. "Oh, Willie, there's nothing wrong with me. It's only the shock of beauty."

  He harrumphed. "Oh it's all very good, I must say. But it's not something to go into shock over." And he felt quite a man then, having to carry his Edith from the gallery, as she looked up at him pitiful, and pitying his immunity to transcendent beauty.

  Now Edith smiles too, but her expression soon turns grave once more. "And so, I often stop to look up at Nairn with his students gathered around him, and think how marvellous it would have been to be there. But one day, when I was admiring the photograph, Rose saw me and came over to look herself. And, after a while, she said, 'Do you notice anything funny about the picture?' Of course, I'd looked at it so many times I thought it was an ideal. But Rose pointed out there were no women in the picture. So, I went to see Miss Ellison, who'd been a student under Nairn, and she just laughed. 'Of course, female students weren't allowed to go to Pumpkin Cottage.' She seemed to think it was the most natural thing in the world. I went to the lavatory and cried my eyes out."

  "Well, that was very small-minded of him, and I don't doubt he was the loser for it. Still, it doesn't change what I've been saying."

  Edith lights the cigarette she's been searching for. "This isn't about us at all, is it? In fact, I think I can detect the influence of that wretched Napier creature in all of this nonsense."

  William looks down to the harbour where a northerly is whipping white flecks onto the water. Like poking the tip of your tongue around your mouth for an ulcer, he's trying to catch a glimpse of the Waitemata. It's out of view. "Well, of course, her imagination is otherworldly." He knows Edith will have found his tone wistful, but doesn't care.

  "Her imagination? And when exactly did Napier become female?"

  When William turns, he tries to present an innocent expression. "That's for the tribunal to decide. But surely if I am to defend her properly, I must believe what she tells me?"

  "Mmm."

  He wouldn't normally court Edith's disapproval, but says, "You're right, she really does make you think about everything differently. You know, it's really quite amazing – she can start a sentence as one person and end it as another." He smiles broadly, as he shakes his head. "On successive days this week, she's been a visiting member of the Fabian Society, a Sister of Compassion, Katherine Mansfield incognito and a Maori princess. And you'd believe she was any one of them. I really do think she would make the most wonderful actress."

  "Yes, particularly for those parts in Shakespeare's comedies where girls get mistaken for boys."

  "You may think that, but you'd be quite wrong."

  Edith's voice sounds brittle. "Would I?" She pauses before starting again, an octave lower, from the smoke, perhaps. "Rose observed how strange it is the army should allow you to spend all this time on this man-woman business, when all the other chaps called up at the same time as you have already gone to France."

  "Did she? Good old Rose," William says, "never one to mind her own business when someone else's can be minded."

  "That's quite uncalled for."

  "Well, as she of all people should know, plenty of those poor chaps are back already. The 'lucky ones', they're calling them now. I went down to watch some of them disembark from the Waitemata today. Quite a few were blind, some crippled, others with their lungs rotted by gas. None of them, I suppose, full men any more by ant measure. Is that what she was implying?" William can't stop his voice rising. "That it's high time for me to share the same fate as her brother? I mean to say, is she – are you – implying that I'm malingering – that I'm dragging things out to avoid going to France? Is that what you're all saying behind my back? Come out with it; is it?" He's taken Edith by her shoulders. For the only time, her eyes show fear of him.

  William loosens his grip to a gentle squeeze. Edith closes her eyes. He hears her deep inhalation.

  "Get some control over yourself, William." She bats his hands away and moves so that an armchair is between them. "I really don't know what you're talking about. Rose didn't imply anything about you. She just said it was strange, that's all, the situation, the way the army is behaving, allowing you to waste your time on this silly business."

  William feels a complete fool, and knows he should beg Edith's forgiveness straight away, but says, "I must say I'm surprised you should find it strange to care about justice, to care for the dignity of a person who's been condemned for her life as a prisoner of a different sex, just because some incompetent clerk filled in a form incorrectly or because the world values baby boys more than baby girls."

  "Don't get overwrought again, please. Listen. Do you honestly think the army could care less about this pathetic creature?"

  "I don't care what the army thinks. I do care, and I'm going to make damn sure that justice is done for 'this pathetic creature' as you so wrongly describe her." William folds his tunic over his arm and takes his cap. "I can find my own way out."

  "What, aren't you going to stay for dinner?"

  "No. I don't think I will."

  "What will I tell Daddy?" Edith starts to pace the room. "He's expecting you, um … Mary's bought for you."

  12

  William strides away from Braeburn, as though for good. He fancies he will never nestle again in Frampton's library with its countless books, a glass of good port to hand, and the comfort of the old man's ponderous artworks. And now perhaps he would never explore the treasures of Edith's studio. Already he feels the nostalgia of the excommunicated. He's never argued so violently with Edith before – or seized the last word – and now she'll have to make up a story for her father to explain his absence. Who's he fooling? Frampton couldn't care less whether he's there or not and, will no doubt be glad to have Edith to himself.

  William follows Kelburn Parade, cuts through the grounds of the University College to the Terrace. The tram from Lambton Quay will take him home, but he needs to walk more. He could make a circuit, through the Aro valley, and be back, penitent, before Frampton has finished his house calls. He presses on, down into the city bowl.

  Green says it's all a matter of knowing the right street, the secret knock on the alleyway door, if you want to satisfy your appetites. You go to Haining for gambling and opium dens, there are bordellos in Ghuznee, and cheap whores for rent in Vivian. Green claims to frequent a place where the girls are all French. They line up before you naked, and you take your choice. William doesn't believe Green. Still, he wonders what the sum of the notes in his wallet and the coins in his pockets would buy him in the way of unknown pleasures.

  William has spent his life surrounded by women and their things, and yet knows so little about them. From his father's shop, he's gained an intimacy with the complex layers that cover a woman's body. He knows about their dresses and petticoats, about the foundations most unmarried men would have no idea, but he has no real understanding of what lies beneath the last layer. Once, his sisters had played a trick on him: they peeled off the underwear from a display torso to reveal the naked mannequin beneath. "That's what a woman is like naked. Touch her, Willie." He'd played along with them. In closed eye ecstasy, he'd felt the mahogany stump, caressed the rough cotton skin, and pressed the bosom plump with horsehair.

  Mrs Holloway, William's landlady, has a telephone. He could ring Edith to apologise, but he can't stomach the
eavesdropping and interrogation afterwards. Against house rules, he lies on his bed and smokes. In the morning, he sponges from his sheets the evidence of his filthy dreams.

  13

  "Hello, how – or should I say – who are you today?"

  Frances looks up from the bed and attempts a smile.

  "Sorry," William says, "that was uncalled for." Her meekness takes the wind from his sails. At the table, he unpacks his brief case. "So, how are you bearing up? This is a pretty dismal place after all."

  "My life hasn't been easy, William." She sits. "So I promise you I've found myself in far worse places than this."

  "Yes, I don't doubt that Russian palaces can be pretty draughty in winter."

  "I suppose they must be, but they never give you those sorts of details in books: it's always about grand balls and tragic heroes." She pulls the grey pillow into a hug. She seems to shrink as she rocks slowly. "Between the beating and the praying, they taught us to read at the orphanage. It's strange, though, I can't remember a time when I couldn't read. Of course, there were words and names that I didn't recognise or couldn't say, but, as far back as I can remember, I've always been able to escape into books. Remembering before I could read would be like recalling a time before seeing or thinking."

  William stares at Frances; he can't muster any words.

  "Don't you want to write this down?"

  "No," he says softly. "No, I don't think that's necessary."

  "We had little framed sayings above our cots. They were terrible things for children to go to sleep under – telling us how our mothers had sinned and would be damned for eternity. I was the only young one who could read, and so I pretended to tell the others what the mottoes said but I would make up messages of comfort – 'My mother is searching for me and will find me soon', 'My mother is an angel and is looking over me from heaven'. And they did, these little lies, they comforted the children then. But when they finally learned to read and realised what the mottoes really said, they never forgave me for lying to them, for bringing them comfort when it wasn't due to them. Ha! Of course, once they understood exactly how different I was, then, believe me, they had the means to make my life a hell on earth.

  "And so, all my life I've tried to escape my pain through books, so much so that sometimes I can no longer tell the difference between a story in a book and my life." She looks up and smiles, though her suffering is obvious. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

  William shakes his head. "Listen. I must admit I'm not what you might call well read, but even I can tell you've borrowed from books – that Russian name, for instance."

  "So, am I a liar in your eyes?"

  "No, no, not to me." He hesitates as he searches for the right thing to say. He remembers his favourite sister Kitty, how, though she was seven years his elder, he would put his arm around her to console her when she wept. Did she make herself upset so that they could be close? Was it their complicity? "I would prefer to think of you as a physician who uses stories as her medicine. No. You are an artist."

  Frances laughs and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Oh, you are an exceptionally kind person, William. I really can't say that I have ever met anyone quite like you before."

  He's flustered. Where has his Carmen gone? "No, I'm not at all kind. I'm sorry, I should have brought you some decent books."

  "You've done more than enough for me. Besides, the padre has given me a bible to read." She holds up the stout black book with its carmine fore-edge.

  "Hardly riveting entertainment for you, I would have thought."

  "There's plenty in it for me, believe me. Before you came, I was reading about the Immaculate Conception. Have you ever wondered how difficult it must have been for those around the Virgin to believe her story?"

  "No, I haven't." In the Stephens' household, church going was a time to reflect on the fashion errors of fellow congregants, not the miracles of the gospels. "I suppose it must have been."

  "Yes, here was a simple girl telling the world she was big with God's child. It was too impossible to believe, and yet they did believe her, didn't they? – and the faithful still do."

  "It seems like that."

  "Do you think this military tribunal would have believed her?"

  William doesn't mean to laugh. "No, I doubt it," he says but quickly adds, "I'm sure they would have given her a fair hearing."

  Frances sits up. "What do you think the District Surgeon would have reported? Would he have spied on her or poked her with his instruments? Or do you think they would have put her on display in a paying exhibition?"

  "I don't know."

  "Tell me, would you have believed her, William?"

  He avoids her gaze. "I can't say definitely say 'yes' but I do think I would have tried to believe her, if she was a plausible sort of girl."

  "Yes, I know you would have, you have that most precious gift of trust."

  "Edith thinks I'm too trusting," William says.

  "No, she's wrong."

  "Well, I must say I do find it a bit much that it's me who supposed to be too trusting, and yet she falls for any cock and bull story her friend Rose tells her."

  Frances stands behind him. He feels her fingertips touch his shoulder, just once, so briefly, experimentally.

  "See, I've brought your spirits down. That was so mean, when you have been so kind to me. But, sometimes, I can't bear the burden of being me, on my own. I need someone to suffer with me. This morning, I saw how jaunty you were and became jealous. You see, I knew you must have been with your girl last night."

  William jabs at the paper with his pencil. "I've told you; we're not married."

  There's the rustle of her dress, as Frances is quickly around the table to face him. "Why on earth should that stop two people who love each other from fucking?"

  William has never heard a woman use that word before. He stares at her lips: they're still slightly apart, a shadow of the profanity. He imagines an indentation on her lower lip, left by her tip of her teeth forming the fuh.

  "A woman who would deny her body to her man when he's off to war doesn't deserve her sex." She flounces away, and sits on the bed. "I'm sorry, that was unforgivable of me."

  William shrugs, and minutes pass.

  "Tell me, William, will this go on forever, you coming here every day and asking me to tell you a new story? And, like Sheherazade, I may live another day, if my imagination doesn't fail me?"

  William stands. "No, I think, one way or another, this will be the last time. Major Hacker has ordered me to report to him tomorrow."

  "And me?"

  "No," William says, "he only wants to see me."

  "What kind of trial is that, if the accused can't speak for herself?"

  "I told you, I haven't been able to find out all the ins and outs of the procedures. I could complain I suppose, but I'm not sure to whom I could appeal. I'd probably have to get permission from Hacker himself, and that's not likely."

  "Oh."

  William yearns for something from outside to interrupt, to relieve the choking silence that's filled the room.

  At last, Frances says, "This Hacker, would you say that he's a good man?"

  "Good?" William hesitates. "He's a brave man all right, they say he's insanely courageous, but I can't honestly tell you whether or not he's a good man."

  Frances sits to the table. "I'm so scared. I can no longer keep fears in check. William, please. Hold my hand."

  William glances to the door. "What about–"

  She looks beyond his shoulder. "I know they're not watching now, they wouldn't dare, not with you here."

  Beneath the table, William reaches out. The tips of their fingers touch, and then press together. His touch glides over the back of her hand to her wrist and underneath. He traces her palm and outstretched fingers. Her hand is no smaller than his but so much softer and smoother. Edith's hand is cooler, more delicate but there are always small calluses on her finger joints from the paintbrushes. Their fi
ngers mesh.

  "If I hadn't asked, when would you have told me this was the last time?"

  William doesn't answer.

  "Was it your turn to be cruel to me?" As Frances laughs, she flings back her head. With its pale veins and faint creases on show, her throat seems obscenely naked. "What a good teacher I must be."

  William can only shrug. She squeezes his hand tight.

  "What will happen?" Now she's weeping.

  "I must be honest with you, Frances, I really don't know."

  14

  "Don't keep me waiting, tell me precisely how you're going to present your defence?" Edith has taken William's hand, and pulled him along the corridor and into the library. She pats her father's armchair for William to sit, lugs across the ottoman, and settles at his feet.

  William feels a little above himself, talking defence strategies and all, but if he can't tell Edith, he's hardly going to be able to present his case to Hacker. "All right. My intention is to appeal to the tribunal's sense of justice. I ask you, can anything be more worthy of justice than a woman's right to be recognised as a woman? That's what all the recruiting posters say, that we're fighting this war to protect womankind, and here we are, so let's take them at their word."

  Edith claps her hands. "William, this is so exciting!"

  He studies her face. "Are you taking a rise out of me?"

  "I am certainly not."

  "All right then. My strategy is to hold back their attack with doubt regarding the District Surgeon's report, and then–" He punches his palm. "–Strike them with a barrage of appeals to justice."

  "Appropriately martial, I must say." Edith bites her lower lip. "But William, I think I understand your game plan and, of course, I really do hope for your sake it all works–"

  "For my sake?"

  "Well, yes. You do seem to have become a little, um, obsessed with this whole thing. Isn't it the simple truth that Napier is a man? He may really think that he should have been born a woman, but he wasn't. It's like me, I would dearly love to have been born a great artist but I simply wasn't."

  "No. You're quite wrong. Let me ask you this: are you a woman?"

  "Oh, don't be ridiculous." Edith stands.

  "Why is it ridiculous to ask that?"

  "Obviously, I am a woman."

  "And it's equally obvious to Frances that she's a woman."

  Half to herself, Edith says, "Frances is it now?" She adopts her governess look. "It's not good enough to think you're a woman, the whole world has to think so too. Listen, Willie, I really don't want this to sound unkind, but Daddy told me about one of his patients who really does think he's the Prince of Wales. But he's not – he's just mad. And perhaps this Napier is plain mad too."

  "Oh no, she's definitely not mad. In fact, I don't think I've ever met a person who understands things better than she does. She spins tales, make no mistake, but that's just her way of dealing with the cruelties and absurdities of the world. Quite honestly, I don't know or care who she really is, but I do know-" He rubs his burning eye with his palm. "-she doesn't deserve to be Francis Albert Napier, with that miserable bloody history."

  "Really, for your own sake, William, don't say that to the tribunal. I don't pretend to know the first thing about the law, but surely what you think he deserves to be can't possibly be relevant."

  "No, no, of course, I wouldn't say that." He doesn't attempt to hide his sarcasm. "Sorry, I was talking to you as a woman, as an artist, not as your father's proxy."

  "Don't try to be hurtful, it simply doesn't suit you. Remember, I'm just trying to help you."

  "Fine." William slaps his knees and stands. He removes his tunic and drapes it over the chair. "All right, let me present my speech to you. You can be Hacker."

  Edith tries a gruff voice. "Get on with it, lad."

  "That's about right, but I think I'd prefer you to be blind – and mute – justice. Right–" Left hand on his hip, a scroll of papers in his right hand, William apes Sir Archibald Carmichael KC, whom he watched in awe, conducting the defence in the Jarvis murder case last year. "Major Hacker, gentlemen of the tribunal–"

  "Will the tribunal all be men?"

  "Quiet, please, Edith, of course they'll be men – the charge which has been brought before this tribunal is one of refusing to report to duty after being duly selected by the ballot."

  "Let me just ask one thing; then I'll keep mum. Will you be fighting against anyone else?"

  "It's not called 'fighting'."

  "Whatever, but doesn't one of you stand up and say something, and then the other jumps up and tries to tear what the first one has said to pieces?"

  William feels himself slump. "Actually, I don't know. Damn it, I see what you mean. I might not be able to lead things. I hadn't really thought of that. Well, I'm not going to worry about details now, I'll just continue as planned. Right–"

  "Why can't I be Napier? That would be much more fun." Edith rummages in William's tunic pocket for his pipe, then reaches up to unclasp her hair. "Look, I could use your pipe and make myself a false beard." With a ponytail, she makes a whorl around her mouth, and bites on the lip of his pipe.

  "What? Oh no, you really have misunderstood everything. There's not a touch of the masculine about her. In fact, I'd venture to say she's the most feminine person I've ever met."

  "Oh, what a foul taste." Edith removes the pipe from her mouth and slips it back into his pocket. She turns her back to him as she refastens her hair. In the mirror, William sees that her gay expression has gone, and, when she turns to him again, there's bitterness in her voice. "Well, thank you very much on behalf of all the women whose sex is not in dispute." She sits on the ottoman. "And I would remind you that Dr Chapman formed a very different opinion from yours."

  "But surely you can see; that's the whole paradox? Her features, her mannerisms, the tone of her voice, the way she moves and laughs, her hands – everything about her – without doubt, are those of woman. I suppose only a doctor could mistake her for a man, an artist never could." He can't read Edith's expression; he's in unchartered waters but will press on. "So, I ask you as an artist, which should justice side with – Science or Art?"

  "I'm not really bothered about that, but, as far as I'm concerned, the purpose of Art is to reflect the glory of Nature, not its mistakes. So, when you say things like that, it makes me scared you're going to make a complete fool of yourself tomorrow."

  "And why exactly do you fear that?"

  "All this talk of Art and Science is fine for an after dinner ragging to get Daddy's dander up, but it's just going to make you look an ass in court."

  "If that's the case, then my being made to look an ass is a small price to pay for justice to be served. Anyway, I need to sleep." William snatches his tunic from the back of the chair.

  "Look, Willie, perhaps I've been too harsh with you." Edith is quickly across the room; her hand presses firmly on his forearm. "You worry me when you talk like that. Daddy will be back from doing his calls soon, and I really think it would be a good idea if you waited to discuss this whole business with him."

  "I don't think so. It seems that I'm quite capable of making a fool of myself without your father's help." He pulls away from her touch. "Good-bye, Edith."

  Edith beats him to the door. "No, Willie. You're not going to do that again." Her back is to the door; her knuckles are white as she grips the handle. Despite her slenderness, she's athletic, and, if he had the nerve to try, he knows it would be quite a struggle to move her aside. He turns away, pulls a book from the shelves at random, and sits down once more.

  15

  William opens the door and stands to attention on the threshold when he hears Hacker's bellowed, "Enter."

  Hacker motions. William thinks he's meant to sit but he's not sure, and despises himself for hovering.

  "Sit down, lad. I'll be with you presently."

  William perches on the edge of the chair, and looks around. Perhaps they'll move to the court martial f
rom here.

  Hacker looks up. "Right, what have you got for me?"

  "Sir, I understood there would be a tribunal."

  "Did you, now?" Hacker says. "Well, let's just say I am the tribunal."

  "With respect, sir, a tribunal, by definition, must be comprised of three people."

  "Is that so? From the Latin is it?"

  "Yes, sir, I believe it is."

  "Well, it doesn't sound like you're showing much respect to me. So, get on with it, I don't have all day."

  "Get on with what, sir?"

  "You were instructed to investigate whether this Napier person is or is not a female. Which is it?"

  "With respect, sir, the issue isn't that simple."

  "Well, I say it is. In fact, I can't think of an issue that could be simpler. Is the person male or female? If she's female, she can go back to streetwalking and if he's male, I'll have him shot for desertion. Now that sounds pretty straightforward to me."

  William closes his eyes momentarily and breathes deeply before speaking. "I believe the prisoner is a female."

  "You believe the prisoner is female?" Hacker sounds incredulous, not the furious William had anticipated.

  "Yes, sir. Having considered all available evidence, I am led to conclude that, she, that is, the prisoner is a member of the female sex."

  "I see." Hacker's fingers tremble as he rifles through his papers. "All the evidence, is it? Here we are. The District Surgeon gave his opinion, and he concluded that, from an anatomical perspective, and from his thirty years of practice in the medical profession the person in question is a man. What do you say to that?"

  "As I understand it, the District Surgeon's examination was brief and only concerned itself with certain anatomical matters. I've had the opportunity of questioning the prisoner at length, and my observations have led me to conclude that she is a female, sir."

  William feels himself shrinking under Hacker's gaze. He closes his eyes. He should concede that she must be a man: Science says so. He might even be able to walk away, perhaps even marry Edith before leaving for France. Then he pictures an abandoned child, a child with a precocious talent for reading and a terrible secret, and feels just a splinter's prick of her torment. He answers Hacker's stare.

  "What are you in civvy street, lad?" Hacker says.

  "A solicitor, sir."

  "So is this Napier, I believe, eh?" William supposes he should laugh along with his superior's heehawing but doesn't. "You weren't brought up on a farm, I take it?"

  "No, sir."

  "No, I gathered as much. You see, if you'd been brought up on a farm, then we wouldn't have had all this 'in my opinion' balderdash about the wretched creature."

  "I'm sorry, I don't follow you, sir."

  "I would expect a cocky to be able to tell me the difference between a heifer and a bullock."

  "I suppose so, sir, but the crisp issue is not about sexing cattle, it concerns the life of a human being."

  "'Human being' you say? Either a blasted circus freak or a Jessie boy – in my considered opinion; and, let me tell you something, I couldn't give two hoots about either of them – with respect. What do you say to that, then?"

  William allows his eyes to close once more. When he speaks, he cannot be certain that the voice and the words are his own. "We must see the prisoner as a woman. Despite his conclusion, the District Surgeon conceded that certain parts of the body in question are without dispute those of a female. But it's her demeanour, her deportment, her mind, her features, her very actions and behaviour which, being so unmistakably feminine, would lead any reasonable man to conclude that she is at bottom a woman."

  William squirms when he realises how Hacker might have taken the last phrase as a filthy pun. No doubt, if Hacker were the guard Sampson, he would raise an ironic eyebrow at William's slip, but Hacker's brow has been immobilised by shrapnel, and he says, "Have you, you know, checked the obvious?"

  "Ah, no, sir. Although I believe one of the guards has made every effort to."

  "Is that so?" Hacker slaps the desk with delight. "Well, he would, wouldn't he?"

  Hacker stands and goes to the window that overlooks the parade ground. William watches as the major's hand reaches for the latch. He must be contemplating bellowing at some unfortunate wretch, but he turns and says in measured tone, "I must say, it would have been a good deal easier for us all if you hadn't expressed such an equivocal opinion."

  "With respect, sir, my opinion is not equivocal. I have no doubt she's a woman."

  "Surely, lad, you've read it yourself – the District Surgeon concluded this she, as you put it, is a man."

  "If the District Surgeon had found she had all the anatomical attributes of a man, which I repeat, he did not, then, I would conclude that she is a woman imprisoned in a male body."

  Hacker sits and rests his head in his hands. He says to himself, "'Woman imprisoned in a male body', the lad tells me it's a 'woman imprisoned in a male body'." When Hacker looks up again, William is shocked by those pale blue eyes that seem to be without pupils. "You do know what they call me, the diggers, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And what's that?"

  "It's rather insolent I'm afraid, sir," William says.

  "No, no, don't hold back, I know the answer, you see."

  "They call you 'Mad Bob', sir."

  "'Mad Bob', yes they do." William thinks Hacker is a volcano ready to erupt, but he doesn't. His voice remains clear and calm. "Well, let me tell you, something, laddie, they don't call me Mad Bob because they think I'm incapable thinking straight. Is that what you had in mind, giving me this balderdash? Is that it? Did you think? – 'I'll concoct some cock and bull story, and old Mad Bob Hacker, he's a bit batty, he's got a lump of Ottoman shrapnel stuck in his brain, he won't know any better.' Is that it?"

  "No, sir." As he waits for the explosion, William battles to master his shaking, but the eruption still doesn't come. Instead, Hacker's voice drops almost to a whisper.

  "No, sir? Well, I think you did. You thought you could play the smart aleck. Pull the wool over my eyes; that's it, isn't it? I've rumbled you, young Mr Johnny Barrister, haven't I? Admit it."

  "I'm not a barrister, sir."

  "What?"

  "I told you, sir, I'm a solicitor, in fact, a conveyancer. I arrange for the transfer of real property."

  "Ah." Hacker sits back, as if this explains everything. "I see. A conveyancer." He seems distracted by the hexagonal faces of the pencil he's rotating deliberately in his fingers. He places the pencil on the desk and looks at William. "And what, in particular, of your experience in the field of conveyancing do you think qualifies you to draw conclusions in this matter. Would you care to explain that to me?"

  "I can't think of anything in my professional life that has qualified me to do that, sir." Hacker doesn't respond immediately and William adds, "With respect, sir, I didn't ask to do this."

  Hacker snorts. "Well, you'll find the army doesn't normally ask you what you want to do." He stands again. "Look, you've had almost a month to investigate this matter, and in that time all you seem to have done is muddy the waters more." He stops still. "All right, let me ask you this: how do you think we should proceed from here?"

  "It's clearly a matter of natural justice, sir. I think once that's understood," William says, "everything will become clear. I've prepared a statement for the tribunal explaining my rationale. Perhaps I should read it to you."

  Hacker holds up a hand. "No, that won't be necessary."

  "I do think it would clarify matters."

  "I said, 'no'!" Still, Hacker gives William an indulgent smile. "If I want–" Hacker must be searching for a phrase. "–Grandiloquent peroration, I'll go to the theatre, thank you, lad. As I see it, we have two problems. First and foremost, the District Surgeon has declared the creature to be a man. If we let it go and it really is a man, we'll have every other Johnny in the country answering the ballot in a dress, claiming he's really Mary."r />
  "This seems to be making light of the issue. There are important matters of freedom and truth at stake here. I mean, if I may ask, why are we fighting this war?"

  Hackers stares blankly. "To win it, I would have thought." His thick moustache quivers. Despite his best efforts, William's eyes are drawn to a neat pink scar that starts half an inch below Hacker's right eye and bisects the hirsute lip like a firebreak through forest.

  "I understand that, sir. But, what are we fighting for, if not for freedom and truth?"

  "Let me tell you something, laddie. We've lost more than 10,000 men, in this war so far, and twice that many will come back as cripples. So, I couldn't give a tinker's cuss about the freedom of this freak or your courtroom truth. In fact, do you know what I said to General Chaytor; I said, 'Sir, let me put the blasted creature up against the wall and shoot it; we can let God sort out the details – after all, it's His mistake in the first place.' What do you think about that, eh?"

  William feels woozy. He'd like to run away but he doesn't flinch. "If the army conscripts a woman, we might become the laughing stock of the Empire, and I do believe her situation is unique."

  Hacker pauses as he mulls this over. "Now, that's a good point, lad. Still, there's the small matter of the District Surgeon. Old Chapman can cause trouble in high places if he's made to look a fool."

  Despite himself, William blurts out, "Give Dr Chapman a bottle of pusser's rum, sir."

  "What?" Hacker's body goes rigid. This must be the trigger for the eruption.

  "A bottle of special reserve pusser's rum, sir. You could tell him that, in accordance with the military code the case was not proved, and give him a bottle of rum to take his mind of the subject. I understand he's very partial to pusser's rum and, because of the war, he can't get his regular supply."

  A moment of terrifying silence passes before Hacker breaks into his hee-hawing laugh as he rocks back and forth.

  "I'm sorry, sir, if you find my suggestion ridiculous."

  "I don't find it ridiculous at all, lad, I'm sure you've hit the nail on the head." He's up and slaps William hard on the back. "I'm laughing because I kept cutting you short to spare myself some longwinded humbug about justice, and all you wanted to do was tell me to dash the District Surgeon with a bottle of rum."

  16

  William slides the escutcheon to seven o'clock, stops, then, with trembling fingers, fully open. He feels a cool draft as he puts an eye to the peephole. Frances is lying on the bed, reading the Bible. Does she know he's watching? Green says you can pay a tart to do this sort of thing, to play a role for you, while you spy on her. And it is just like she's acting out a parody of reading, performing a chaste act for a fee, before she disingenuously undresses. She traces the lines with her finger. Her eyes are open wide as though miracles are being performed on the page before her. Damn Green and his filthy fantasies! He's a disgusting rotter. Once more, William's heart pains for the poor abandoned child, precocious and gifted, and curses all her tormentors. He grinds the escutcheon shut.

  Frances looks up as William opens the door. She marks her page with the crimson ribbon and stows the book by her pillow. She sits on the edge of the bed. Her voice is barely audible. "Well?"

  William can't keep a straight face any longer. "We won. They're letting you go."

  Frances leaps from the bed and rushes towards him but stops just short as though chained like a dog.

  As she came near to him, the embodiment of joy, William imagined his arms enveloping her, and, then, their twirling round and around the room, two dervishes locked in ecstasy. But his real hands hang by his sides and she is stock still just a yard away. "I don't mean immediately, of course, forms have to be filled in, you understand what the army's like. It's definite though. Hacker gave me his word."

  William must walk around this statue of Frances Napier to get to the table. He puts down his briefcase, takes off his tunic, and loosens his tie and unbuttons his collar.

  Frances follows him; the rustle of her dress tells him she's close. "Oh, William, you must have been brilliant to win them over so quickly."

  William shrugs; he can't face her. "I did what I could." Frances must take this as a rebuff. His eyes stay cast down at the table, but he notices, as she passes into his field of vision, how she's gripping her fingers, tugging at them, pulling off imagined rings. She paces quickly, distractedly; there's the swish, swish of fabric. She lets out a queer, strangled laugh. "Oh, I do wish I could have been there to hear you make your speech."

  "Really, it was nothing to boast about. I told the truth, nothing more than that."

  She stands before him resolute. "Listen to me."

  He glances up, then immediately down again to avoid the fire in her eyes.

  "When this war is over, you must give up this pettifogging work you do and concentrate on becoming a barrister. You have a special flair for advocacy. I knew that as soon as I heard you speak. Perhaps we could go to London, I mean you and Edith, because obviously you'll be married then. And you'll need a solid wife to support you. You could build a career there. Believe me, London, that really is the only place for this sort of work. It's right in the heart of things. For sure, it's the only place for a man with your talent. And I know men there, I do really, I would be able to introduce you to all sorts of people who could help you."

  "Thank you, it's very kind of you to say that." William feels his upper lip twitch. He presses the point of his pencil down against the tabletop until the lead snaps.

  "What's wrong?" Frances says. "Don't you believe me?"

  "Of course I do, you know that."

  "What is it, then?" She leans across the table, trying to catch his eye. "Please tell me."

  "All right. Hacker made it clear that I must now embark for France, almost straight away in fact. The Waitemata sails on Friday and I must be on it."

  "Oh, no. Will you have time to get married first?"

  William tries to laugh. "I scarcely think I shall have time to pack my kit." He slumps. "And then it will all be over."

  "Please don't say that. Your life is just beginning. Believe me, this little victory here is the point from which it will all start."

  "No, I'm sure it's not the beginning of my life, rather its peak. I can feel it in my bones I won't come back from France."

  "No!" Frances pulls his hands from his eyes. "Listen to me. You are so fine, you are so – good. You cannot die in this stupid war."

  William sniffs. The green blotch his teardrop has left on the khaki shirt distracts him. "Do you really think so?"

  "Yes, I know it. You will survive to do great things. And, do you know what, I will follow your progress in the newspapers and make up stories about you. People will say to me: 'We can believe your father was a Russian prince but, really, how could you expect us to believe you knew a man like Sir William Stephens KC?'"

  "I'm really not the man you think I am." William stands, and wipes his eye with the heel of his palm. "Still the important thing is that you're now free." He laughs. "Justice has been served."

  Now she comes close, face-to-face with him. "Ah, your courtroom justice maybe," she says, "but there will never be real justice for me. Besides, do you honestly believe it will be any kind of freedom for me outside of here – away from you? Because your Hacker has been persuaded, do you think the whole world has now been won over, and I won't spend the rest of my life as a freak?"

  William has become enervated, too weak to argue. He offers: "You're not a freak. It's everyone else who's a freak." He turns away from her.

  Frances laughs. "It comes to the same thing." William senses her presence so near behind him, that, if the rhythm of their breathing were to change, they would surely touch. "I think the only time in my life I've felt free has been this last month in this room, having you to believe in me." She crouches by his side to look into his eyes. "And, I feel, perhaps, you've also come to care for me a little."

  He hangs his head. "I would be lying if I denied
that."

  "And I have let myself believe that if the path of fate had taken a different turn, we might have become–" She hesitates. "–close."

  "Perhaps," William says. "But it won't do us any good to speculate on what might have happened otherwise. Fate hasn't taken that path."

  "Yes, but I am sure of this: if I were in the skin of your precious Edith I would not have held back my passion for you – in my canon that would be an unforgivable sin."

  "Please don't judge her when you don't know her."

  "No, that's unfair of me – but you must understand that passion and justice are not found together. You shouldn't ask me to be fair to her when she has you."

  "Don't talk like that."

  "Yes, yes, I must, and, if we're never to see each other again, I will speak my mind."

  She's kneeling beside him like a child at prayer. "When I have lain in this room, day after day, night after night, there have been times when I have secretly wished to be declared a man. And then I could go with you to the war as your comrade. We could share our rations, drink from the same billy, we would have the same discomforts and happiness–" She touches his knee. "–Sleep in the same billet."

  And I dream of becoming a hero: you are lying wounded on the battlefield – you call out for me, and I crawl to you, but, as I tend your wounds, I am hit, and I die in your arms, my blood mixed with your blood. I have prayed in that way I could somehow become one with you because I have become enraptured by you." Frances reaches out her hand; William takes it and guides her from her knees. Her cheeks are streaked with tears. "Go to her now, William, but I swear I will find you again."

  17

  William waits as long as he dares outside the gateway to the Alexandra Barracks. The sentries will ignore an officer taking one slow smoke in the shadows, but a second pipe might attract attention. Frances doesn't come, and he retreats, one lingering pace after another.

  He could catch a tram but chooses to walk to his digs, where he'll pack his kit. It's not a great distance but far enough for a sentiment of estrangement to take seed and, creeping like a vine, overcome him. He fancies that every woman he passes is one of those harridans at the railway station who hand out white feathers to any young man who's not in uniform, on crutches or in a wheel chair. He's forgotten he's in uniform. Perhaps they glance at him because they suspect him of being a hero, not the coward he knows himself to be.

  Mrs Holloway, his landlady allows him to telephone Edith without charge, and promises to keep his room for him, but William knows she'll be composing one of her quaintly worded adverts before he's reached the end of Adelaide Road.

  As he packs his kit bag, William tries to picture Frances free. It's not easy; he's only known her caged. He presumes the guards – Cord, for sure – will now show her due respect, and, in turn, she will be gracious. William has explained to her that Cord is a good man – and Sampson, too, in his way. Her smile will heal Cord's scars, and she'll laugh off Sampson's clownish cupping of his privates. But, outside their room, what will she do then? Before, she'd been able to protect herself in a malicious world, but he fears his sympathy may have left her vulnerable. Will she escape into the last blissful pages of a novel or, one day, will Green brag to a junior at Johnstone & Petherall about using her fantastical services? William retches at the thought