On the morning of Monday 11 November she was going over accounts in the shop when the letterbox rattled on the shuttered door. It was Eddie Kane’s mother.
‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock,’ she told Maggie. ‘Come and listen for the Armistice bells.’ And as Maggie hesitated, the older woman put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and led her outside.
Some villagers were travelling to Edinburgh to join in the Armistice celebrations but Maggie had turned down an invitation to go with them. There would be fireworks and speeches and bands and cheering crowds, but she knew that this would make her sad beyond bearing. Her spirit was with the men and women in Belgium and France. She’d rather take part in the street party which was to be the village’s own quieter celebration later. Most of her family’s friends and neighbours had staged at home: Stratharden had lost too many of its sons for there to be any flamboyant noisy celebration today. She stood close to Mrs Kane and saw all down the main road people waiting by their front door or gathering together in little groups. As the church bells began to ring to signal the cease-fire the sense of relief was tangible, people shook hands and hugged each other. Maggie looked up and saw her parents at the upstairs window. They were leaning against each other and both of them were crying. She was glad that they had attained some kind of release. Maggie thought of Francis somewhere in England, and Charlotte in France. She silently prayed for her two brothers reunited in death, then she returned to the shop and went on with her work.
Chapter 40
CHARLOTTE CAME HOME, stopping in London to meet up with her mother and brother, the three of them travelling to Stratharden together. Her friendship with Maggie was unchanged. She came to the shop and often had tea with Maggie’s mother. Sometimes she would ask Maggie’s father to accompany her part of the way home, and would take his arm quite naturally as they walked together.
Prisoners of war were being released and shipped back to Britain. Although neither Alex’s nor Kenneth Kane’s name had ever appeared on any list of captives, if a ship was due to land at Leith, Maggie would always make the journey through to Edinburgh to wait by the dockside. She did this more out of a sense of duty than entertaining any real hope that Alex might be there. Sometimes Charlotte would go with her, and it was on one of these journeys together that she told Maggie of her intention to go back to France.
‘The flu epidemic has caused a nursing shortage, and I have need of some occupation.’
Maggie thought of Charlotte’s use of the word ‘occupation’. Scarcely two years ago it would have been an incongruous statement for her to make. If there had been no war then Charlotte’s future would have been constrained by her social circumstances; her achievement would have been to marry into a good family. As for herself, this war had changed her life the way a river might alter course after a landslide. She did not dress, speak, act, or even think as she had done previously. Her reading and consequent self-awareness would make her seek new challenges, her experiences had given her the confidence to face the responsibilities that these might bring.
‘I’d like to find John Malcolm’s burial place,’ Charlotte went on. ‘There are people in France who are trying to take care of the war cemeteries. I know that I will find his grave near where he fell, around Beaumont Hamel where the Twenty-Ninth Division fought. I hope that there are green fields around …’ her voice began to break, ‘with a river close by.’
Maggie held Charlotte’s hands. ‘Put flowers there for me,’ she said.
‘You are so like him,’ said Charlotte. ‘That day on the bridge, when you came to tell me of his death, the sun was on your hair. It was the same colour as his the day we said goodbye.’ She wiped the tears away. ‘Some days I feel good about how he went. He’ll never change for me now, always laughing, happy, bright … Not crushed by circumstance.’ She looked at Maggie. ‘My brother carries it all within him.’
Maggie thought of how she had first met Francis on his return. A little group of villagers had gathered as he and his mother and sister had descended from the bus. She saw him to be frighteningly thin, his face around his eyes crosshatched with tight lines. He had stood awkwardly in the street as people came and shook his hand. Embarrassed, Maggie had hugged him briefly, and he, under the eye of the village and cautious of her reaction, had been reserved, formally polite. How strange and distant they were with each other after the night in the supply hut of the hospital at Rienne.
Charlotte had told Maggie that Francis rarely ventured from the house but Maggie had caught sight of him out walking once or twice. This had upset her. He had need of her when the War was being fought. Now that it was over he seemed to need her no more. Finally Maggie decided to send him a letter, and do as she had always done, write her own truth.
Then she added a postscript.
The next evening, alone in the shop she was adding up the weekly orders when she heard someone whisper her name.
‘Maggie.’
She looked up from the account book. Francis was standing in front of her.
Maggie undid the strings on her apron and took it off slowly. She folded it carefully and laid it on the counter between them.
‘I have lost my judgement of what is, and what is not.’ He spoke with difficulty. ‘I am unsure of almost everything.’
‘I am constant,’ she replied.
‘I could never say anything before, never declare myself. It would have been too cruel, to create a bond that might have been destroyed.’
Maggie nodded. Like a spring uncoiling with relief, she breathed out, as if she had been holding her breath for a long time and could only now let it go.
Francis leaned across the counter, and with both hands outstretched he gripped her shoulders. He kissed her, and she took his mouth onto hers and held him there, body and soul, existing only in that moment of time.
He stepped backwards and looked keenly into her face. ‘You do love me, then?’
‘Yes,’ she said, as though she’d known it all of her life.
Chapter 41
TOWARDS THE END of November, Charlotte, who walked to the bridge nearly every morning before breakfast, met the post boy on his way up the drive. He handed her a letter, touched his cap, and cycled away without a word. Charlotte turned the black-edged envelope over in her hand. It was addressed to Annie, the housekeeper. When Charlotte returned to the house Annie was serving her mother breakfast in the morning room.
‘Annie,’ Charlotte said gently. ‘I met the post boy when I was out. There is a letter for you.’
Charlotte’s mother put her knife down. She looked quickly at Charlotte. ‘Annie,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you would like some privacy to read this alone.’
Annie shook her head and took a step backwards. ‘No.’ She spoke to Charlotte. ‘Give it to your mother. She will read it for me.’
Charlotte saw her mother’s face turn pale. Mrs Armstrong-Barnes took the envelope, opened it, and spread out the folded piece of paper flat on the table in front of her. She began to read the words very slowly. ‘I am commanded by …’ Charlotte’s mother stopped reading. She raised her head and looked directly at her housekeeper. ‘Annie,’ she said, ‘your boys are dead. Rory and Ewan’s bodies have now been found. It is believed that they were killed on the day they went missing in 1915.’
‘Oh, Annie,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘As am I,’ said Charlotte’s mother, in a strange, strangled voice.
Annie looked at her. ‘They are definitely gone?’
Charlotte’s mother recovered herself. ‘Yes.’ She said the words purposively, so that there could be no mistake. ‘Their bodies have now been positively identified. Both of them are now officially designated as killed in action.’
‘I’d always hoped …’ Annie couldn’t finish the sentence. She took the edge of her apron to wipe her eyes, which were curiously dry.
And Charlotte suddenly had a clear memory of the old couple who had arrived at the hospital in France to visit t
heir son who had died the day before their arrival. They had the same stunned look as Annie had now. The boy’s mother, dry-eyed, bewildered, reaching for her handkerchief in her small purse of soft lilac lace, saying to the Matron, ‘Lady, I knew that he was grievously wounded, but I had hoped …’
‘I had hoped …’ The same words Annie had just spoken.
But now there was no hope. No hope for them, no hope for Annie, no hope for her, Charlotte. And as her mind tried to encompass the concept, Charlotte knew that in times like this there was no difference in class or wealth or religion or race; that people cried, and wept, and broke with sorrow – in Britain and in France, in Belgium and Russia, and in Germany too.
Charlotte pressed her hands to her head. It was too much. This great collective grief was swamping the whole world she knew. Every home was flooding with inconsolable lamentations. On the street, in villages and towns, people met and passed each other and barely nodded their heads. There was nothing they could say to each other, there was nothing to say. In the shop, John Malcolm’s mother smiled a welcome with eyes that were elsewhere. Her face composed, her hands restless, plucking at her clothes. Charlotte shook her head as if trying to rid herself of these images. She needed to talk to Francis. Francis, who had understood this from the beginning. Those angry outbursts when reading the newspapers; he had seen it all to come, had known what would happen.
And, as if he had heard her thoughts, the door opened and Francis entered. Annie gathered herself and moved quickly past him.
‘What’s amiss?’ said Francis. He looked after Annie as she left the room, and then back to Charlotte in alarm. He hurried across to his sister and led her to a chair, where he sat her down and began to stroke her hair, and soothe her with baby talk. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘I’m here. It’s all right. Your big brother is here.’
‘But it isn’t all right, Francis!’ Charlotte cried. ‘And it never will be now!’ And she began to cry great gulping sobs, all her unspent mourning for John Malcolm pouring out. The sadness of the joy of all the times they’d had and that were gone for ever, the despair of everything now denied to them, the things that would never be.
Francis signalled his mother to bring some brandy and between them they managed to calm Charlotte. His mother told him of Annie’s telegram. Francis said nothing, only bowed his head and put his face in his hands.
It was left to Charlotte’s mother to see to the running of the house for the rest of the morning and it was she who prepared lunch, took some to Annie, and insisted that Francis and Charlotte eat something with her.
‘Francis,’ she said when they were almost finished. ‘There is something I want you to do this afternoon. There is to be a party in the village hall to celebrate the end of the War, and I think it is your place to represent this house.’
‘A party?’ said Francis in disbelief. ‘You want me to attend a party today to celebrate our victory?’
‘I see no reason why you should not,’ said his mother severely.
‘I could give you very many reasons why not.’
‘This is not the time nor the place, Francis,’ his mother said in a warning voice.
Francis felt his hands begin to tremble and he pressed them together. ‘Tell me why I should then,’ he demanded.
‘Leadership, Francis,’ said his mother. ‘Leadership.’
Francis threw back his head and laughed. It was a hard, humourless sound. ‘Please do not talk to me about leadership, Mother. I became a leader. I led men to their death, day after day.’
His mother was unflinching. ‘I am talking about our place in this community. I would like you to represent me at the village celebrations.’
‘Why don’t you go?’
His mother screwed up her napkin. ‘I am uneasy about going myself. I suppose I feel guilty that you both returned safe and …’ there was the slightest pause, ‘… well.’
Francis smiled, but his voice shook. ‘Mother, I am as well as any decent human being might be after taking part in such a war. Personally I think that it is those who try to justify this war who should be locked up in an insane asylum. Do remember that I had these strange ideas before I went out to France. Being at the Front only confirmed what I already believed.’
‘You could at least allow yourself to rejoice in the fact that it’s over,’ his mother said sharply.
‘Mother has a point,’ said Charlotte quietly.
Francis raised his eyebrows. He opened his mouth to reply but at that moment there was a quick knock and Annie entered. She was dressed for going out.
She spoke to Charlotte’s mother. ‘I’d like the rest of the day off, ma’am.’
Charlotte’s mother half rose from her chair. ‘Of course you may,’ she said. ‘Take whatever time you need.’ She looked to Francis. ‘You will drive Annie in the car if there are relatives she has to visit.’
‘That won’t be necessary, I can walk to where I’m going,’ said Annie. She adjusted her hatpin and secured her hat more firmly on her head. ‘The village party is today, and I intend to be there.’
There was a silence, from which Charlotte was the first to recover.
‘How very brave of you, Annie,’ she said quietly.
‘The way I look at it is,’ said Annie, ‘my boys would have wanted to celebrate the Peace. They can’t be there, so I’m going for them.’
Francis got up and crossed the room. He offered his arm to Annie. ‘Would you allow an ex-soldier to escort you there?’
Charlotte looked at her mother. ‘Perhaps we should all walk down?’ she suggested.
Charlotte thought later that it was the children who had really made it worthwhile, as they charged about amongst the chairs and around the long tables with the adults prepared to allow them their freedom. They gave meaning to the bunting and the flags. But afterwards she was tired and needed some solitude, so that when Francis asked if he might walk her home she declined.
‘I would prefer my own company,’ she told him. ‘When I take that walk I remember John Malcolm. I will sit on the bridge for a little while.’ She sighed. ‘It seems so long ago now. I was such a child then.’
‘And of course now you are a mature woman,’ Francis teased her.
‘We certainly grew up very quickly,’ said Maggie, siding with Charlotte.
‘There is something quite terrible about the death of so many young people,’ said Francis, after Charlotte had left. ‘By the end of the War, more than half the army was under nineteen years old. The old die, and we are accustomed to that. It is almost a proper thing. They signify the past which slips away, as it should. But the death of youth denies us what might have come. Our present is obliterated and our future altered irrevocably.’
‘I was thinking that if I have children,’ said Maggie, ‘they will never know John Malcolm as their uncle. My twin brother will become the one who died in the Great War. His personal identity has been taken from him. He will be their mother’s brother, the one who was killed at the Somme.’
Francis slipped his arm through Maggie’s own. ‘Your brother went to his death believing he fought for his country. Charlotte told me of John Malcolm’s letters. They are full of enthusiasm.’
‘Wasn’t there any glory in it at all for you?’ Maggie asked him.
Francis looked Maggie full in the face. ‘Yes, and that is the most awful part of it all for me. Seduced by tales of derring-do, I ran across the benighted piece of land that separated us from them hoping to kill or be killed. I went with all the others, shell-fire roaring in our ears, exhilarated when we reached the other side.’
‘But there were many acts of bravery.’
‘Do deeds of heroism justify the cause?’ said Francis.
Maggie wondered if she would ever completely understand this complex man.
‘Would you return to nursing?’ he asked her, as they walked together towards the shop.
‘Not nursing, no,’ said Maggie. ‘Charlotte is more of a nurse than I. She is calm a
nd kind, and yet there is fine mettle beneath that.’
‘Are you thinking of going back to help your father in the shop?’ Francis persisted gently.
‘Not the shop. No. Willie has all the makings of a general manager. If you listened to him he would extend it halfway down the street. He’ll have it expanded into a three-floor emporium in a few years,’ said Maggie. She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I would like to study. I’ve applied to work in one of the city libraries, and I plan to attend a night school of some kind in order to obtain higher certificates. University College in London is offering a new course leading to a Diploma in Librarianship. I would like to do some work which helps spread the use of books. It appeals to both my organizing skills and my belief that Knowledge, more than anything else, can overcome oppression.’
‘Would you have time to write to me?’ Francis asked carefully.
‘Francis, I would be bereft if we did not sustain our relationship.’
He took her hand. ‘I would like us to have an understanding, so that in time I might speak to your father.’
Maggie smiled. ‘On the understanding,’ she said, ‘that first you speak to me.’
Francis drew her closer to him. ‘It has taken me time to appreciate that we were linked by more than my piteous need and your charity. To find both solace and stimulation within such beauty seemed to me a miracle that I could scarcely lay claim to.’
They had reached the entrance of the shop and Maggie stopped at the doorway. Francis leaned across and blocked her way inside. ‘I cannot imagine a life without you.’ His voice was thick in his throat and his eyes met hers. He put one hand on each side of her face. ‘That which I hold, I adore,’ he whispered, and he bent his head and kissed her.
After a moment they drew apart. The sky had darkened towards evening. Maggie looked up at the bright points of starlight which were appearing. ‘And that is by way of being a small miracle also,’ she said.
Remembrance Page 17