‘Hurt? Yes, that’s why you’re here.’ The doctor kept his thumb on Alan’s wrist a few moments longer. ‘You were caught in a shell blast. Cuts and bruises everywhere, a few places that needed stitching. But that’s on the outside. We can’t always tell what’s happened inside. The blast can kill without puncturing the skin. You’re to stay in bed here for twenty-four hours at least. If there’s no sign of any problems by then, we’ll release you to one of the general hospitals. But I don’t want to see you in the line again. Is that clear?’
Alan nodded. He felt a wave of relief and the urge to giggle. He shoved his head into his pillow to muffle any sound, and the doctor and nurse left in silence, too busy to pry.
24
Two men from one of the New Army battalions of the Royal Scots escorted Alan to the hospital. Alan tried to thank them, but he couldn’t find the right words. He fell into bed and slept for six hours. When he woke, he ate, drank, then tried to sleep again.
He couldn’t.
His emotions were blocked, like a flood that has blocked its own path with a jam of fallen trunks, boulders and landslip. He was filled with an indescribable sense of loss. He thought about his beloved platoon, about Major Fletcher, about how nothing would ever be the same again. And he kept dreaming about Tom. He asked the nurses if they knew whether Lieutenant Creeley was alive, dead or wounded. They didn’t know.
For three days, he lay in hospital. As for his own well-being, it became clear that he wasn’t dying, that he wasn’t permanently crippled. The doctors advised plenty of rest and predicted complete recovery.
Alan wasn’t so sure. He’d never known himself to feel like this – or rather not to feel like this. He ate what he could (not much) and drank (a huge amount). He slept, fainted or dozed through sixteen hours in twenty-four. He could think clearly, or at any rate, he was able to answer correctly the questions put to him by the RAMC doctors: name, rank, place of birth, regiment. But his feelings were gone, both physical and emotional. He lay as if doused in an anaesthetic that reached all the way to his heart.
Then one morning, he woke up. For the first time, the images that swam around his consciousness resolved themselves into just two: Tom and Lisette. He had to know if Tom was dead or alive. He had to see Lisette.
He climbed out of bed, dressed, and went outside, falling four times and clutching at the walls of the hospital like a drunk. By chance, he found a transport captain he’d once had dealings with and was able to beg himself a ride to Saint Tess.
The village had changed. Lightly wounded men were everywhere. The Lincolnshires and London Irish, who’d been billeted there a few days before, had all gone now, either fighting or dead. There were new voices now: pink-faced boys from the Ox and Bucks Light Infantry and a company of fit-looking Canadians. A group of cows had broken into an apple orchard, and some of the Canadians were throwing the hard green apples at their flanks to try to cause a stampede.
Alan sat down in the village square. His body felt as though it had been dismantled and reassembled. A man in major’s uniform approached him: a good-looking officer with a drawn and tired expression. The major’s face lit up as he recognised Alan.
‘Alan, man! Thank God! What on earth … ?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ mumbled Alan. ‘Do I … ?’
‘Alan, it’s me. Guy. Your brother.’
‘Guy! Good God! You look …’
‘Are you all right, old man?’
‘Yes, perfectly, just a little muzzy. How do you do?’
‘Alan,’ you’ve been in hospital, have you? Did you take a knock?’
‘Something like that.’ Alan raised his hand and fluttered it down. ‘Wheeee-BANG!’
Guy looked his brother up and down, checking for signs of obvious injury. Apart from some violently coloured bruises, there was little enough.
‘Thank God you’re all right! I’ve been worried sick. Staff haven’t heard a straight word from anyone and all I knew was your crowd was in the thick of the whole bloody shemozzle. I got word that you’d been hit, but the RAMC weren’t able to tell me where you were, let alone how you were.’
The two brothers embraced. Later on, looking back on it, Alan was genuinely surprised by the warmth of Guy’s feeling.
‘And Tom? What about Tom? Where’s Tom? Don’t tell me –’
‘Alan, old chap, Tom’s absolutely fine. He made it up to German lines – unlike most of his men – and held on to his bit of trench despite a pretty nasty counterattack by Fritz. He was relieved three days ago, completely unhurt. He’s been going out of his mind trying to find out what happened to you.’
‘Thank God. Thank bloody Jesus. Thank … Thank … Thank … and he’s hurt, you say? How badly? How … ?’
‘No. Completely unhurt, I told you.’
Alan made a face, as though ready to argue. His breath came in hard pants that hurt his lungs.
‘Don’t you think you should still be lying down?’ said Guy. ‘Why the hell did the medics let you go anyway?’
‘The whole platoon went down? The poor bloody platoon!’ Alan was upset now. He began reciting the names of the men who’d been under Tom’s command.
‘Let’s get you home.’
‘Not hurt? Not wounded?’
‘Typical of the gardener’s boy, eh? No, completely unhurt. Not a scratch. Now come on back.’
Alan giggled in relief, but his emotions were still all over the place. He was laughing but could just as easily be crying. ‘Sounds like he’s the hero once again. You must have been pleased to see him. So pleased. Soooo pleased.’
‘Mmm,’ Guy agreed, without enthusiasm. Tom’s extraordinary record through four days of intense fighting had been somewhat muddied by a blazing row he’d had with one of the brigadier’s aides on the day of his return to the rear. Tom, incensed by the massacre he’d been in the middle of, had accused High Command of butchery. He’d more or less called Haig a murderer. It had taken Guy’s intervention to prevent Tom from getting into serious disciplinary trouble. ‘He can be a damn fool, that man. Now look, old chap, you’re looking awfully queer. Don’t you think you’d better –’
But Alan’s mood had become suddenly belligerent. ‘You’re the fool, a big bloody fool. And what’s worse, much worse, you’re a bloody staff officer fool.’
Guy’s voice tautened. He could see Alan was hardly himself, but it was dangerous territory that he was entering. ‘Alan, that’s enough –’
‘Bloody staff officers. Just as Tom says. Bloody, skulking, yellow, behind-the-lines, staff bloody –’
‘Stop it!’ Guy gripped his brother’s arm, attempting to swing him back round to the village. ‘I’m taking you home. You need some –’
‘No, I don’t.’ There was a roaring in his ears and a buzzy quality to his vision. He suddenly thought of Lisette, and wanted her with a passionate longing, rejoicing in the knowledge that if Tom was alive, then everything in the whole wide world would be all right. He pushed Guy away with both hands.
‘Don’t touch me. There’s someone I need to see … I have to go.’
Guy looked at his brother with sudden acuteness. ‘You’ve got a girl, have you? You?’
‘“I’ve got a little lady by the name of Sue,”’ sang Alan. ‘Not Sue actually, Lisette.’ He was babbling. He waved at the farmhouse where she lived. ‘Lisette, Lisette.’
‘That farm? The one just there, with the red-painted gables?’ Guy’s tone was half urgent, half incredulous.
‘That farm there.’
A delighted smile spread across Guy’s face. He released his grip so suddenly that Alan tottered and almost fell.
‘Go on then. Go.’
‘I’m going.’
‘Go to your precious Lisette. You’ll see just how precious she is. Her and your beloved twin.’
And Guy escorted Alan the two hundred yards to the farm. Before they were even halfway, Alan lost his desire to go there. He wanted to see Tom and he wanted to sleep. ‘Lisette will be t
here for me in the morning,’ he chanted.
But Guy’s determination was fixed. When Alan’s feet stumbled and dragged, Guy lifted him bodily, so anxious was he to get Alan to the farmhouse door. When Guy finally had Alan propped against the doorpost, he left him there, saying, ‘Go on, go in. I’m sure your arrival will be a delightful surprise. I’ll catch up with you later, old man. Toodle-oo.’
The farm door was never locked and Alan let himself in. The range was warm and a couple of cakes, yellow and creamy with egg, were cooling on the sideboard, a wire net over them. Lisette wasn’t there, probably out. Alan felt too happy to think. He was safe. Tom was safe. And nothing else in the whole world mattered.
There was some old coffee cooling in a pot. Alan drank it. The smell jerked at a memory. ‘Mind the bloody coffee’ – Major Fletcher – polished leather boots on a map-covered chest – loping monkey arms – ‘Keep your own bloody head from being shot off – then nothing: just a poor sod with his left arm loose between his knees and all his precious company lying dead about him.
Alan lifted the mesh from the cakes and stole a piece. It was good cake and he ate hungrily, before noticing that the cat was eating hungrily too. He chased the cat off and replaced the mesh. Upstairs, there was a sound: a creaking of floorboards and laughter. Of course! Idiot! Naturally, Lisette would still be upstairs. Why not? It was morning. What better place to be than bed?
Alan went upstairs, using his hands as well as his feet to avoid falling on the steep wooden staircase. The sound of laughter was louder now.
‘Lisette?’ Alan bounded along a corridor and burst through a door. ‘Lisette!’
The word died in his throat. There in bed lay not one person but two. Lisette and, next to her, naked and at home, was Tom.
25
There was a moment’s silence. All three people were shocked. In that tiny gap of time, nothing had yet been said, no damage done, no lives ruined.
The moment didn’t last.
Alan’s emotions looped again. An indescribable fury surged through him. ‘You bastard!’ he screamed. ‘You thieving, sodding, bloody bastard!’
Alan flung himself at Tom, fists flailing, blind with hot tears of rage. Tom defended himself. Although Alan was hitting with all his strength, he was exhausted and weak, and his lungs were rasping for breath. Tom slid from bed, grabbed his clothes and attempted to hide from the hail of blows. He didn’t fight back.
‘You bastard! You steal every fucking thing that matters to me! Lisette was all I had! All I wanted was Lisette.’
‘Alan, old chap – steady on – I didn’t know you were coming back.’
‘Alain, tais-toi, sois sage!’ cried Lisette, frightened and appealing for calm.
‘Everything that ever matters.’
‘Jesus, brother. There’s no need. You can have her. I didn’t –’
‘I don’t want to have her because you say I can. I don’t want …’ Alan’s attack was hardly serious now. Tom struggled to get his trousers on, keeping Alan at a distance with his stronger right arm. Lisette helped as well as she could.
‘Guy was out there, wasn’t he? Why in hell didn’t he keep you away? He knew I was here.’
‘Guy? He knew, oh yes, he knew. He carried me here. Carried me. So I would know who you were. And I know now, all right. I know.’
Tom was dressed from the waist down now and had his hands on his boots. ‘Take care, Alan, take care what you say.’
Alan steadied himself with his back against the chalky lime-washed wall. Although his face was purple with bruises, adrenaline had given him more control than he’d had with Guy. His extreme shock and nervous collapse was no longer obvious. It was easy for Tom to mistake him for a man upset, but otherwise in control of his faculties.
‘What I mean is,’ said Alan, speaking as distinctly as he was able, ‘that Guy has been right about you all along. You have some fine things about you, no doubt, but in the end you’re the sodding little gardener’s boy. Please get your hands off my girl and get out of here.’
‘Alan, for God’s sake, be careful. Some things can’t be unsaid, you know.’
‘Alan, s’il te plaît, calm down, I’ll make you coffee, I’ll explain.’ Lisette implored Alan for calm, but the situation had travelled too far.
Alan tried to pull a revolver, but he managed to snag the barrel as he pulled it from its holster, and the gun clattered uselessly to the ground. Tom snatched the gun up and tossed it out of the window into the cattle trough below.
Alan lurched to the doorway and steadied himself on the doorpost. ‘Guy is my brother. You’re a gardener’s boy who fucks my girl.’ He shook his head. ‘And by the way, I’m never going to drill in Persia with you. Why would I? As far as I know, the concession belongs to the Montague family. It doesn’t belong to the fucking staff.’
He stumbled away, slipping on the fourth step of the staircase and crashing all the way to the bottom. He dragged himself back to the village, found an empty bed and fell into it. He was asleep within three seconds of his head hitting the pillow.
And here was the odd thing.
He slept well. He slept without dreams, without pain, without fogginess or delirium. It was a strange way to sleep the day the world collapsed.
26
Tom buttoned his shirt. His hands were shaking violently. His face was ash.
‘I didn’t know you were friends,’ said Lisette, begging pardon from the world. ‘I didn’t know … he was such a nice man, I really adored him.’
‘Don’t worry. Not your fault,’ said Tom in French, before adding in English, ‘Damnation. I had no idea he … Dammit, dammit.’
Tom sat on the bed and tried to calm down. Guy is my brother. You’re a gardener’s boy who fucks my girl. He pushed the words away, but what Alan had said was too big to be so easily dismissed. I’m never going to drill in Persia with you. Why would I? As far as I know, the concession belongs to the Montague family. It doesn’t belong to the fucking staff. Tom breathed heavily, trying to calm himself. Alan was shocked. Alan was upset. Alan was talking rot –
‘Will he be all right?’ said Lisette, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Look, he’s just come from battle. It’s awful up there. He’s a sensitive sod at the best of times, and as for girls, he’s never … well, I don’t think that before you, he’s even –’
‘No, never. I had to teach him everything.’
‘Shit!’ Tom was doubly angry because he felt guilty. He’d known Alan was seeing Lisette and until recently he’d been careful to avoid seeing her too. But the last three days had been from hell. Tom had known that Alan had been hit, but, like Guy, he’d had no end of a time finding out where Alan was and in what condition. When he’d finally heard that Alan was essentially fine, his relief had been overpowering. In some strange way, Tom had felt drawn to seek out Lisette, the one other person who had been truly intimate with Alan. He’d gone in search of her and charmed his way into her kitchen. He’d had no intention of making love with her, but Tom wasn’t very strong-willed in the matter of sex and, in any event, with Alan safely in hospital, it didn’t seem to matter all that much. He should have known better.
They were quiet a moment. Then Lisette kissed Tom on the earlobe. He smiled and stroked her shoulder.
‘Do you go with many other men?’ he asked.
She thumped him gently on the bicep. ‘Cochon.’ Pig.
‘But really?’
‘Some. A few.’
‘For money, I suppose?’
‘Usually. Not with him. Never with him.’
‘With me?’
She shook her head.
‘He had no idea, none at all … Look I’ll give him time to get over all this. Explain it. I’d better not see you again. I won’t if it means upsetting Alan.’
‘What is that about brothers? You are or you aren’t?’
Tom explained briefly, ending by saying ‘Guy’s his blood brother, I’m his real brother. He knows that. In sol
emn truth, he knows that.’
‘And will it be all right?’
Tom nodded, kicking his bare feet out on the unvarnished floorboards. He was annoyed with himself for his stupidity, but he was furious with Guy for provoking things. Anger boiled inside him, hot and dangerous.
‘Well? It will be all right?’
Tom sighed heavily. ‘Yes. It’ll be all right.’
And once again, he was wrong, dead wrong.
It was getting to be a habit.
27
It was the following day: 19 August.
Tom was back in the support trenches when the fighting resumed. He was making a report to brigade staff, short of sleep, and stained with sweat, blood and dirt. The sound of fighting ended the brief conference. Tom excused himself, received a brusque, ‘Carry on then, Creeley,’ and raced on up the line.
It was an evil day. It felt like the first cold day of autumn, with enough rain to have soaked everything and given the air a biting edge. A wicked little breeze carried the smoke of guns over the battlefield, until everything was seen through the greenish, cordite-smelling glow. The wet chalk was slippery and unreliable. The way ran uphill and the trench bottom had become a gutter for rainwater, mud, rats, and blood.
Tom made his way up the trench, fast but with care. He passed two men digging it out, trying to repair a collapsed parapet, and another man who was heaving a Lewis gun into place at the bottom end. Tom charged on past, and, going too fast round a corner, clattered into none other than Guy, who’d been running fast in the other direction.
It was an extraordinary coincidence: not that they should meet, but that they should meet in a trench. Guy, as a staff officer, hardly ever entered a front-line position, still less during a time of heavy combat. But, Tom remembered, the divisional telephone exchange had been completely smashed during earlier shelling, and he supposed the divisional staff must have been desperate to obtain a reliable picture of action on the ground.
The Sons of Adam Page 8