by Liz Trenow
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Alice said, returning with a whisky for herself and a coffee for Ruby.
‘It’s nothing. When are you expecting your friend?’
Alice laughed. ‘Oh Ruby, there’s no need to sound so suspicious.’
Ruby shrugged. ‘I am a bit, if I’m honest.’
‘Will it help if I explain? We had a bit of a fling, but that was six years ago, when we were both at the Sorbonne. I couldn’t come all this way, to his home territory, and not catch up with him. I knew he was training to become an architect so we looked him up in a French business directory – my friend Julia’s father is a diplomat and knows how to do things like that – and I sent him a telegram.’
‘An old flame?’
‘I suppose you could say so.’
She wasn’t sure why, but it just came out: ‘Old flames can be dangerous.’
‘Woah. That sounded a bit heartfelt.’ Alice raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘What happened to you, then?’
Ruby shrugged. ‘I got a bit burned, that’s all. It was a long time ago.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve never told anyone before.’ Why did I start this?
‘Only if you’re sure.’
‘Not much to tell, to be honest. It’s the same old story: just a one-night stand, so stupid, so unimportant. I was lonely and he was charming and made me laugh and I drank too much. But it wasn’t long after that we got the letter saying Bertie was missing. I saw it as some sort of divine retribution, if you like. I’ve never got over the guilt. It just eats away into you and never lets you go. In some ways that’s why I’m so desperate to find Bertie’s grave, so I can confess to him, ask his forgiveness.’
‘Oh my goodness. You poor kid.’
‘I can’t help thinking that if I hadn’t been unfaithful, Bertie would still be alive.’ Ruby swallowed, close to tears now.
Alice leaned across the table, put a hand on her arm. ‘You know that’s not how it works.’
Ruby sighed. ‘That’s how my mind works, though. I can’t help it.’
‘I’ll be careful, I promise,’ Alice said.
*
As soon as they were introduced, Ruby appreciated exactly why Alice had been attracted to him. Daniel Martens was neither tall nor especially handsome in any classic kind of way, but he exuded confidence and an easy charm which made her feel instantly wary.
His eyes sparkled as, encouraged by Alice, he talked passionately in excellent English about his work, about how Belgians were outraged at the British suggestion that Ypres be left in ruins as a monument to the lives lost in the area, and how they were trying to persuade the authorities to let them rebuild the Cloth Hall just as it had been for six hundred years. ‘It’s where the heart of Ypres lies,’ he said. ‘There, and the cathedral. Putting them back together will be like a giant three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. But it is such an exciting project. If only we can raise the money to do it.’
In his company, Alice’s demeanour softened. Even the tone of her voice modulated, becoming sweeter, more feminine, less strident. The chemistry between the two of them was unmistakeable. As a second round of drinks was ordered the conversation became increasingly flirtatious. Ruby began to feel like a gooseberry. She had no trouble in summoning a polite yawn.
‘Time for bed,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Monsieur Martens, it was nice to meet you. See you at breakfast, Alice.’
*
Much later, when she’d been asleep for what felt like hours, she was woken by the creak of a floorboard in the corridor. She assumed it was new guests arriving until she heard a single stifled giggle and a brief whispered expletive in an American accent, unmistakeably Alice.
She lay rigid in the bed, heart pounding, her ears finely tuned for further sounds: the deep timbre of a male voice, the squeak of a bed. She was shocked. Surely even Alice would not be so blatant as to invite that man into her hotel room?
But there was another feeling, one that Ruby couldn’t name until her own body gave her away. In the silence her imagination began to embellish the scene: the increasingly passionate kisses, the slow removal of clothes. She found herself flushing hotly in the dark. She envied their intimacy. It had been so long that Ruby could barely remember what it felt like to kiss a man, let alone have his hands on her. Against all her better instincts, she began to feel desire.
It was such a long time ago – in a different lifetime, it now felt – but the persistent, agonising guilt of that reckless moment still haunted her today. It had left her feeling sickened with self-reproach, terrified of an unwanted pregnancy and disgusted with herself for betraying Bertie when he was facing dreadful hardships on the other side of the Channel. Not even two hundred miles away.
When the letter arrived telling her that Bertie was missing, all became clear: this was a punishment for her infidelity. If only I had not been so weak, she reproached herself, perhaps Bertie would still be alive. However much she’d tried to reason that there was no such thing as divine retribution, that Bertie’s fate was pure coincidence, that it was nothing to do with her ‘lapse’, as she thought of it, she had been unable to rid herself of the corrosive guilt that was always in the back of her mind, tainting every memory.
It was her lowest moment. She believed herself to be worthless; she did not deserve to live. One dark day she went to the chemist and bought a bottle of aspirin; after her mother had gone to bed she grabbed from the kitchen cupboard an old bottle of her father’s brandy, left over from before he died. Choking and gasping, she managed to down the lot.
The next thing she remembered was lying in a pool of her own vomit, her mother shaking her shoulders, keening and calling her name. She came round in hospital the next day and her mother was still there – a pale moon face peering into her own, holding her hand and promising that everything would be all right.
It was not, of course, but she was soon allowed home and deemed well enough, after a week, to return to work. ‘Just a touch of the flu’ was the official story. Neither she nor her mother ever spoke of it again. Grief sealed them into their own private worlds, tiptoeing around each other’s rawness. Life went on, in its way.
*
She held her breath, listening again, but could hear nothing more. Either Daniel had already left – although she heard no sound of a door opening or closing, no further creaks on the floorboards – or they were simply resting silently in each other’s arms. She sat up and turned on the light, took out her diary and read what she had written earlier this afternoon and then scribbled out so furiously.
Then, taking up her pencil, she started a new paragraph. Dearest Bertie, I have to tell you about something terrible that I did, long ago, when you were alive. You felt so far away and I was so lonely without you, you see, and I met someone who made me laugh, who made me feel special, and pretty . . .
Fifteen minutes later, she paused, reading back through what she had written. Then she added: So, you see, Bertie, now you are dead I can’t make up for it, or ask for your forgiveness. She chewed the end of the pencil. But I have to go on living because there is no alternative. And so the only option is to find some way of forgiving myself. I don’t know how to do this, but coming here is helping me to make a start.
14
ALICE
Alice woke with a sickening lurch, her mouth dry, her stomach churning. She became aware that she was lying on top of the bed fully clothed, shoes still on her feet. Sunlight sliced through the slats of the shutters.
Ruby called through the door. ‘Are you coming for breakfast? We’re meeting the chaplain at ten, remember?’
‘Go on down. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ The effort of talking made her head throb. Whatever was the time?
Daniel had persuaded her to finish off the evening with a brandy – a drink she rarely touched – and it arrived in what looked like double measures, although it was hard to tell in those ballons the size of tennis balls. She’d already drunk two glasses of red wine at din
ner followed by a whisky with Ruby, and then he’d insisted that she try the Belgian beer which, although light in colour, was strong in both taste and, she discovered, alcohol.
After this, the brandy was sweet and delicious, slipping down a treat. They ordered another. By now they were the only ones left in the bar except for Maurice, noisily washing up behind the counter.
‘I should go to bed.’ Her tongue felt too large for her mouth.
It was only when she stood up and discovered her head was spinning like a top, and realised she’d been so distracted by the pure enjoyment of being with Daniel again, all the serious conversation and light-hearted banter – she hadn’t laughed so much in years – that she’d really overdone it.
‘Whoops.’ She felt his hand steadying her, steering her towards the open doorway.
‘Come into the fresh air. It’ll clear your head.’
They turned a corner into the shadows and, before she could figure out what was happening, he was holding her face in his hands, gazing into her eyes as though she were something infinitely precious. Then he pulled her to him, his lips on hers. For a few brief, delicious moments she responded, her lips opening, desire coursing through her body.
It was then that they heard ferocious barking and turned to see the dog haring across the square towards them: a thin, mangy cur the size of a wolf, with its hackles raised and teeth bared. ‘Cripes, it’s going to attack,’ she yelped.
Daniel stepped boldly towards the creature, waving his arms and shouting loud French curses. Alice watched, her knees weak with relief as the animal retreated, growling, turned and trotted back across the square.
‘Now, where were we?’ he whispered, turning back to her.
Her heart was still pounding with the shock and she leaned in to him, at first, for the comfort of it. But when, after a few seconds, he put his finger beneath her chin, lifting her face for a kiss, she pulled away.
‘We’d both regret it, Daniel.’
‘I wouldn’t.’ He caressed her cheek with the lightest of touches before releasing her.
‘It’s been wonderful, seeing you again,’ she said.
‘And you too,’ he whispered. ‘What might have been, eh?’
They said goodbye at the door of the hotel and she made her way unsteadily up the stairs, clutching the banister for balance. At the door to her room she attempted to unlock the door and giggled, muttering to herself – Get a grip, girl – as she failed, several times, to get the key into the lock.
Finally she managed to open the door and fell onto the bed.
*
Now, as she sat up in bed and sipped a glass of water, listening to the sounds of the hotel and smelling the delicious aroma of coffee from the dining room, she felt deflated. Daniel had promised to follow up her request for local contacts but wasn’t particularly encouraging. ‘So many died but have no graves, dearest Aleese,’ he said. ‘You must be realistic.’ He made no mention of further meetings.
Thank heavens she’d come to her senses last night. And yet, try as she might to dismiss the thought, she couldn’t help wondering what she was missing. Would she regret, for the rest of her life, not knowing? Had Julia been with her, they would have talked long into the night, weighing up the pros and cons. Here she only had Ruby, and she already knew what her views were.
*
‘Sorry to be so long. Glad you didn’t wait for me.’
‘So am I,’ Ruby said. She wasn’t smiling.
Pretty much what I deserve, I guess. Alice ordered coffee and a large glass of water. She made it clear last night that she disapproved of Daniel. Not that I care. ‘I’m afraid I drank a bit too much last night. I never learn,’ she said. A touch of British self-deprecation might ease the tension.
Ruby folded her napkin a little too carefully. ‘He seemed nice. You were getting on like a house on fire.’
Cripes, another of those weird English sayings. ‘Nothing happened, you know,’ Alice said. ‘We didn’t burn down any houses.’
Ruby hesitated for a second and then, at last, she smiled. ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she said. ‘We’d have been drummed out of town. Did he have any suggestions about who you might contact here in Hoppestadt?’
Alice shook her head. ‘He wasn’t very encouraging, to be honest. Said Talbot House is our best bet.’
‘We’d better get a move on then,’ Ruby said.
*
The Reverend Philip Clayton lived up to his nickname. ‘Call me Tubby, everyone else does,’ he said, with a great booming laugh.
Shortish and generously upholstered, he had broad, restless hands, an oversized head and an innocent expression. A strong, forward-leaning jaw suggested he liked to get his own way, albeit through charm and quiet determination.
His garb was an eccentric combination of religious and secular: the white dog collar and black cotton cassock, below the skirt of which could be seen scuffed brown brogues. Over this he wore a baggy tweed jacket with leather elbow patches that Alice recognised as the uniform for Englishmen of a certain intellectual leaning.
There was such a pent-up energy to the man, as though constantly bursting to pursue the next project. And yet, when he came to sit with them, and she began to describe her search for Sam, the quiet focus of his attention was so powerful that Alice could almost feel it as a physical sensation, like a beam of light.
Kindly brown eyes peered myopically through round, professorial spectacles; his hands were stilled into a clergyman’s fold, his mouth set into an expression of deep thoughtfulness. Just being in his presence was calming, encouraging. As Alice told him about her brother, she felt her optimism returning.
He didn’t respond at once. After a few moments, raising an index finger to loosen the dog collar from the folds of his neck as though trying to release himself from its bonds, he began to speak: a parson’s tone, quiet, measured and reassuring.
‘In my experience, when someone is determined to remain hidden, they can be extremely difficult to find, but that is not to say you should give up hope. Plenty of Canadians came to Talbot House – although my cloth ear for languages always failed to distinguish between true Canadians and Americans flying under the maple leaf flag, as it were. Let me put my thinking cap on.’ Alice tried to picture what shape that cap might be.
‘And what about you, my dear?’ he said after a few moments, turning to Ruby.
‘I’ve come in search of a grave,’ she said quietly. ‘My husband died at Passchendaele in 1917, but they never found his body.’
‘I am so sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘I am afraid you are by no means alone. What was his name?’
‘Bertie. Albert Barton.’
The chaplain whispered the name to himself as he studied the empty coffee cup, twisting it around on the saucer. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t spring to mind. Not that I remember the names of all those who came to Talbot House. And my memory is not what it was – I think war addles the brain. Was your husband a believer? I mean, a man of faith?’
Ruby shook her head with a rueful smile.
‘Not that it matters a jot,’ he added. ‘Everyone was welcome at the house. It’s just that I have a better recall for those who joined me in prayer.’
‘What about your brother?’ He turned back to Alice.
‘My parents were – are – churchgoers,’ she said. ‘Sam too, although he seemed to lose his faith after his fiancée died on board the Lusitania. I remember him cursing God then, saying he’d been deserted.’
‘That was not uncommon,’ Tubby said. ‘I have known it myself. But at least he felt there was someone to curse. Better than a void, I always think.’ He tugged at the collar again, as though his own faith bothered him.
The church bell began to chime. ‘Oh, dear me, is that the time already? I must be getting along, I’m afraid, ladies. I’ve an appointment at Talbot House to collect some of the bits and pieces we didn’t manage to pack when we left. It was all very rushed, you understand. The owner will be w
aiting – a very punctual man, he is. Not like yours truly, who alas enjoys a regrettable reputation for tardiness.’
Alice’s heart leapt. He was going to the house? ‘Is there any chance we might come?’
‘Oh my dears, I’m such a silly old fool. Of course,’ he jumped in. ‘I’m sure Monsieur Van Damme won’t mind a couple of charming young ladies to leaven the dull company of my own good self. There’s not much left there from the bad old days, I’m afraid, but there’s still an atmosphere to the place, the air they all breathed. You may find something to give you solace. We might even climb the ladder to the chapel, send up a prayer or two to the Old Man.’
*
The ornate cast-iron gates at the entrance to the house were open today, leading into a wide hallway. What had once been a gracious residence now felt sad and abandoned, musty and unloved, the ornate plasterwork on walls and ceilings felted with grey dust.
The hall was unfurnished apart from a scruffy Persian carpet but a blackboard still hung on the wall, with a notice handwritten in white chalk:
Welcome, to all who enter.
Ground Floor: Canteen & Rest Room
1st Floor: Warden’s Office (Don’t be shy, he will be pleased to see you)
Friendship Corner
2nd Floor: Library & Writing Room
3rd Floor: The ‘Upper Room’
Chapel with Sacred Altar, The Carpenter’s Bench
Monsieur Van Damme arrived, a tall, well-built man in a fine three-piece suit, every inch the prosperous member of the local community. An impressive girth suggested that he hadn’t suffered overly much during the starvation years.