by Liz Trenow
They were duly introduced and he nodded his assent to their being shown around. ‘I will return in an hour, Father, is that sufficient for you?’ he said, taking out a pocket watch on a chain that reminded Alice of the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. It was her favourite childhood book, of course, and she completely identified with its eponymous heroine, after whom, her mother said, she had been named.
‘We are most fortunate,’ Tubby whispered, after he left. ‘Word was he became so irritated with visitors clamouring to see the old place that he put his foot down, so to speak, which was a shame, because people gain much solace from such a pilgrimage. But there you go. It was only ours on loan – we can’t claim it forever.’
Even though the rooms were echoing and empty, Alice felt she could still sense the presence of soldiers who had come here for rest, friendship and solace. Jokey notices still adorned the walls. By the front door, a sign read: To pessimists, way out! Another, at the foot of the stairs: Owing to the descent of a meteorite upon the electric lighting plant, the House is temporarily reduced to the oil and grease expedients of a bygone age.
‘We had a bit of bad luck in the winter of 1917,’ Tubby explained. ‘The Germans found their range and we thought we’d be blown to kingdom come.’
‘My old office is up here,’ he said, panting a little as they mounted the stairs. Above its door hung another sign in painted lettering: All rank abandon, ye who enter here.
‘I like that,’ Ruby said. ‘When my Bertie was in training he said they hated the captains, how you always had to salute them and they got the best food and a clean bed to sleep in. But after a bit he wrote that they were mostly good chaps, once you got to know them.’
‘Nothing pleased me more than to see them getting along man to man, like normal human beings,’ Tubby replied.
A single piece of furniture remained in the former office: an enormous dark oak desk. ‘We had to leave in a hurry and, like a fool, I left all my papers inside, so please forgive me while I look for them, ladies. I won’t be long.’ He began to pull open drawers, rummaging through bundles of paperwork and notebooks with small yelps of recognition. ‘Feel free to explore while you’re waiting.’
Rooms were still identified with hand-lettered signs. The library was echoing and empty save for the dusty shelves, but the reading room felt cosy, like an Edwardian lady’s drawing room with its floral wallpaper, mahogany desk and a small stove in the fireplace, a large enamel kettle atop it.
‘There’s something about this place, isn’t there?’ Alice said. ‘Those men having a few hours of normal life before going back to the trenches.’ She could visualise large sofas and easy chairs, and Sam sitting with a book, his legs crossed, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, the small crease forming between, just as it always did. When she was six and he only four she’d taught him the alphabet, and then how to read. After that she’d felt a great sense of pride every time she’d seen him with his nose in a book.
After ten minutes or so Tubby emerged from the office with a wide grin on his face, puffing slightly, the shabby leather case now so crammed that it appeared in imminent danger of splitting at the seams. The thought came to Alice with a suddenness that felt like a physical blow. ‘I don’t suppose, among that paperwork, you have any kind of record of the people who came here?’ she asked.
‘Of course!’ He hit his forehead with the heel of his palm. ‘What a dolt I am. Whyever didn’t I think of that before? That is exactly what I’ve come back for – our visitors’ books.’ He put the case to the floor and opened it to show five green leather-backed books.
Beside her, Ruby sighed. ‘Oh! Just imagine . . . what if?’
‘And in here somewhere, I’m sure’ – he rummaged further – ‘are some of the notices people put up when they were searching for friends.’ As he pulled out a fat buff folder, scraps of paper escaped and fluttered like confetti to the floor. ‘Here they are,’ he muttered, scrambling to gather them up. ‘I knew there must be more. I’ve been trying to get in touch with everyone who came here to see whether they would support a new organisation in London. We want to try and keep that wonderful spirit alive, that spirit of comradeship, I mean, that we witnessed here in war but which seems to have disappeared in peacetime.’
He paused, the scraps of paper now safely gathered, his eyes taking on a faraway look. ‘And to remember those who didn’t come home.’
Alice’s fingers were itching. ‘I don’t suppose you would let us have a look at them, Reverend Clayton?’
‘Of course, of course. Please call me Tubby, I can never get used to being called Reverend. Here I am wittering on about my plans and what you most want is news of your loved ones. Tell you what, ladies, why don’t we take them back to the cafe? We could have a drink – my goodness, I could do with one.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped a brow shining with sweat from his exertions. ‘That way you can take your time looking through them.’
‘That is most generous,’ Alice said.
‘But first, I have in mind to say a final prayer in the chapel, before I leave the place for good. Would you care to join me?’
*
‘Mind your step, ladies,’ he called, his ponderous form disappearing up a steep flight of wooden steps, more of a ladder in reality. At the top they emerged into a large and airy attic space that smelled of incense and dried leaves, its sloping whitewashed walls reflecting the light from windows at either end.
‘This room was originally used for drying hops,’ Tubby explained. ‘When we suggested it might make a good chapel they told us it was unsafe, not suitable for more than a few people at a time. But with His help and a few more joists put in by some of the lads we proved them wrong. There must have been more than a hundred up here sometimes.’ He wandered slowly around, examining each corner of the room and cleaning with a squeaking finger the glass of a semi-circular window, one of a pair set either side of the chimney breast, to peer into the gardens below.
‘My goodness, it’s marvellous to be here again,’ he sighed. ‘You should have seen it, in all its simple glory, my dears. We received so many generous gifts: a great gilt candelabrum hanging from up there.’ He pointed to a broad king beam. ‘And a pair of magnificent candlesticks made out of carved bedposts either side of the altar over here. We used a carpenter’s bench for the altar itself. Very apt, don’t you think?’
‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘Join me, if you wish.’ He crossed himself and lowered heavily to one knee. Instinctively, Alice followed. In the silence, she noticed the rise and fall of her own breath and a sense of serenity, like a light silk shawl floating down over her shoulders, soothing the constant thrum of anxiety. Ruby came to kneel beside her, still and quiet. The only sound was the trill of songbirds from the gardens.
Tubby began to pray in the most comforting, mellifluous voice she had ever heard, taking long, reflective pauses between each phrase: ‘Dear Father. Bless this house and keep it safe, in memory of all those who found sanctuary here and in particular those who gave their lives so that we may find peace. Bless this country and its countrymen, who suffered so sorely, that they may in time recover. And finally, Lord, please bless these two young women so that they may find some kind of solace after their losses. Amen.’
When he began reciting the Lord’s Prayer, Alice joined him. Beside her Ruby muttered the words, hesitantly at first, and then more confidently: ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us . . .’
At the end was another long moment of stillness.
‘I am so glad you are with me,’ Alice whispered.
‘I am glad you brought me here,’ Ruby whispered back.
*
Scanning the names in the visitors’ books was a slow business. Many had been so hastily scribbled that they were almost illegible, others partly erased by spills of something liquid. Coffee or tea, Alice assumed. No alcohol was served, Tubby had told them. ‘Plenty of that to be had elsewhere.’ There were other mar
ks, too, darker brown stains, of mud, or even perhaps dried blood, smeared across some of the pages. Even in the peace of Talbot House, the signatories of these books carried with them signs of the war from which they had been taking a brief moment of respite.
Each time she saw an entry listing the Canadian Corps, often decorated with rough renditions of their maple leaf symbol, Alice’s heart seemed to skip a beat. She read these with special attention, trying to imagine the men who had written them. Even if they weren’t Sam, these Canadians may have been his comrades. If only she could talk to them. She considered, briefly, writing down the names so that she could track them down once she got back home, but the brutal truth was that many of them would now be dead. Each time she reached the end of a page her confidence seemed to dip a little further.
‘Any luck?’ she asked Ruby, at the next table, scanning other books, while Tubby sat nearby, sorting his papers.
‘Nope. Not a dicky bird.’
‘Dicky bird?’
‘There are entries from men who were in Bertie’s regiment but there’s not a single name I recognise. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
Alice laughed. Two more quaint English phrases.
She had just opened the fifth and final book when an entry on the first page caught her eye. Lance Corp. Samuel Pilgrim, 3rd Canadian Division, 3rd February 1917. What really arrested her attention was the comment that followed: A little haven in a hellish war. These were the exact words Sam had used in his letter.
‘Can I show you something?’
‘Of course, my dear,’ Tubby said, rising from his chair. ‘What is it?’
Fingers trembling, she showed him the entry and then took out Sam’s letter, pointing out the same phrase. ‘Is that something people commonly said about Talbot House? I haven’t seen it anywhere else.’
Tubby took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. ‘I have heard it said and even seen it written, I think. I take it your brother is not Samuel Pilgrim?’
‘No, he’s Sam Palmer.’
Tubby put on his specs again, peering at the signature. ‘That’s curious. Palmer, Pilgrim. They have the same meaning, you know? A palmer was someone who carried palm leaves to prove that he’d been on a pilgrimage.’
The realisation seemed to knock the breath from her chest. It was so obvious: Sam must have been hiding himself in plain sight. She inhaled slowly, deeply, deliberately trying to remain calm. ‘But the handwriting is so different.’ The letters were much larger, looser, more forward-leaning and less carefully formed than Sam’s usually neat hand.
Ruby leaned over. ‘May I see?’
Ruby studied the signature on the letter intently, comparing it with the entry in the Talbot House book. ‘Do you know, I can see definite similarities,’ she said quietly. ‘The loops on the letter G are just the same. And the uprights on the H letters are a bit loose, like an upturned V. It’s not really surprising that it looks different when you consider the circumstances these men were in.’
‘Wow, Rube. Where’d you learn all that stuff?’
‘It’s just a thing schoolgirls used to do,’ Ruby replied. ‘Trying to analyse your boyfriend’s writing to find out his character and whether you are compatible. There’s a special word.’ She shook her head. ‘I even borrowed a book about it from the library.’
‘Graphology?’ Tubby suggested.
‘That’s the one.’
Alice rubbed the tip of her finger gently over the script. The idea that her brother might have written these very words tingled all the way up her arm, and she could feel the tears welling up. ‘You think this could really be my Sam?’
‘It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ Ruby said. ‘The timing is right, the name has the same meaning, he uses the same phrase here as in the letter and the writing has quite a few of the same characteristics.’
‘But how can I prove it?’
‘My dear,’ Tubby said quietly. ‘There is only one way to find out. You need to contact the Canadian authorities.’
‘We’ve asked them time and again. They say that without a name . . .’ She stopped herself. ‘But now, oh my goodness, I do have a name!’ Her head spinning with excitement, she began to gather her coat and bag. ‘Where’s the post office? I’m going to telegraph my father. Back soon.’
15
MARTHA
At a quarter to eleven they were waiting in the hotel lobby for Monsieur Peeters.
Martha had slept restlessly, despite the warmth of Otto, the comfort of the soft mattress and the clean white linen. Her belly was heavy with so much rich food, her mind filled with too many anxieties.
In a small shoulder bag clutched close to her chest was a hat for herself and one for Otto. He’d never wear it but she felt it a mother’s duty at least to try to protect her boy from the harsh sunshine. Folded carefully inside was a linen napkin containing a couple of bread rolls and an apple that she’d surreptitiously secreted from the dining room at breakfast.
Tucked carefully away in a secure inside pocket was the medal in its green leather box and an envelope addressed to Mein Liebling Heinrich.
My dearest Heinrich, the letter inside it said.
You were, and still are, our precious, greatly loved first-born son. In your hands you held our hopes, our dreams and our future.
The world is a sad, grey place without you and we can hardly bear to believe that we shall not see you again until, God willing, we will join you in heaven when our own time comes.
But we know that you died doing what you wanted – upholding the honour of our great country – and we could not be more proud of your courage and your determination to do what you felt was right.
Sleep well, our darling boy.
Mama, Papa and your little brother Otto.
Otto sighed impatiently. ‘When is this man coming, Ma?’
‘Any moment now,’ she said, trying to reassure herself as much as him. Silently, she berated herself for being so trusting; she had no receipt for her ten-franc deposit, nor an address for Monsieur Peeters should they need to contact him. What if he should fail to show up? And would he know where to go? Langemarck was just a name; she had no idea whether it was a village, an area, a battlefield or a cemetery. She’d read that the villages of Poelcapelle and Langemarck had been taken and retaken several times throughout the war. Surely, if that was the case, there must be more than one burial place in the area?
But then, even if Monsieur Peeters took her to the right graveyard, would she be able to find the place where the Kindermort were buried? Even then, what were their chances of finding a single name among so many thousands?
*
By half past eleven, for lack of anything else to do, they had already eaten their bread rolls; Otto had stopped asking and Martha was beginning to lose hope. Sun-warmed air wafted in through the open door of the hotel, carrying the heavy-sweet aroma of roasting malt.
The pale-eyed Englishman wandered past. ‘Still here?’ he asked kindly. ‘Who are you waiting for?’
She shook her head, pretending not to understand. It was simpler that way.
‘I’ll get Maurice,’ he said.
When the hotelier appeared she explained her predicament, describing the man in the square, and showing him the leaflet she’d been given.
‘I know Geert Peeters,’ Monsieur Vermeulen said, nodding affably. ‘He uses the van belonging to my brother Max, the baker. I’m sure there’s no problem. Perhaps the deliveries were running late today. Cécile wants me to collect more bread for lunch, so I will find out for you.’
She thanked him and settled down to wait some more.
Twenty minutes later he reappeared, puffing slightly from his walk across the square and clutching three large loaves of bread, wrapped in newspaper. He took them into the kitchen and returned, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. His smile had disappeared, replaced with a dark, disconcerting frown.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.
‘
Would you mind stepping into the office, madame?’ His eyes slipped sideways at Otto. ‘Let the boy stay here, if you don’t mind. I think it best if we speak alone. We’ll only be a few minutes.’
‘What is it, Mama?’ Otto whispered, grabbing her hand. His brow was crumpled with alarm. The metallic tang of fear – that taste she knew so well – seared her mouth, making it hard to form words. ‘It’s probably just about the bill,’ she managed to reply, squeezing his hand before following the hotelier down the corridor.
The office was so chaotic she wondered how he ever managed to track their bookings or produce any accounts, and furnished with just a couple of rickety old chairs and a table entirely covered with books and folders. He took the desk chair but did not invite her to sit; indeed, there was nowhere for her to do so as the only other stool was piled high with paperwork.
She waited, now almost light-headed with anxiety, while he searched beneath the piles of correspondence, magazines and newspapers. Finally he unearthed a packet and extracted from it a slightly crumpled cigarette which he straightened out and lit with a match scratched on the underside of the table.
He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Weber, I am most pained to have to ask you, but my brother Max tells me that Geert agreed to take you to the cemetery at Langemarck.’ The word came out as a growl. ‘Is this correct?’
‘Indeed, that is so, monsieur. As you know, my son and I are Swiss, but we have come at the request of my sister, who is unable to travel herself, to visit the grave of my nephew.’ She felt sure he must be able to hear her heart hammering against her chest.
‘You are aware, are you not, that the cemetery at Langemarck is for German soldiers?’ In a narrow ray of sunshine slicing through a broken shutter, swirls of cigarette smoke reeled and dispersed into a blue haze.
‘I am aware of that, sir.’
‘So you acknowledge that you were planning to visit a German grave?’
‘Indeed I do, sir. I made no secret of this to Monsieur Peeters.’