Currently he had the dugout to himself. Wilson, the previous occupant of the other bunk, had been blown to spots a few weeks ago and his replacement had yet to arrive. There was also a problem with the second bunk in that the ceiling area above it smelt foul and maggots kept dropping from above. There was only one reason why there might be such a concentration of maggots in the earth. When Wilson was alive he had tried to work out how the maggots got through the wood panelled ceiling since it was expertly tongued and grooved. Eventually he had given up and had solved the problem by hanging his groundsheet overhead to catch them. Each morning when he woke he gathered up the four corners of the groundsheet and carried the collected maggots outside and emptied it. The night he was obliterated it had been raining and he had been on duty with his groundsheet draped over him. So now there was no Wilson, no groundsheet, only a steady fall of maggots and the lingering stench.
‘Dinner, sir?’
Private Chase’s face appeared at the door, with a tin plate in his hand.
‘It’s hot, sir.’
‘Thanks, Chase.’
Chase deposited the plate on the table. The food appeared to be some kind of stew with potatoes and carrots and a greasy film over it. An hour ago Lewis had been hungry and looking forward to his dinner. Now he couldn’t eat. He never could before something like this. He wouldn’t want to anyway – better to have an empty belly in case he got a stomach wound. His gut felt like it was tied in knots. He was tempted to finish the whiskey but he knew it would slow his movements and make him clumsy. He took Helen’s photograph from his wallet and propped it against the bottle. She was smiling – impish and innocent all at once like she had just proposed that they do something that they had never done before and was waiting for his reply. In one of his letters to her a few weeks ago he had written about the lack of any beauty in the trenches. He had been thinking then of her and of all things feminine. Stray strands of long hair, red lips, skin like peaches, ribbons, lace, frilly things, sheer stockings, straps, bows, fabric pulled taut, her curves against him in bed, fragrance on a pillow or sheets.
With her reply she had sent him one of her stockings, sprayed with perfume. Grossmith’s Shem-el-Nessim. He remembered the first time he had seen the exquisite little bottle on her dressing table. ‘The Scent of Araby’, it said on it. He took the stocking from his inside pocket. The scent of the perfume was almost gone now – just the faintest hint of it lingered. He inhaled it deeply. Smell. The most evocative of the senses. He covered his eyes with the stocking as though it were a blindfold. She had blindfolded him with one once. Then he touched it to his cheek and held it there for several moments.
He stroked each of her cheeks in the photograph with his fingertips; then the cascade of her hair with the backs of his fingers. Finally he ran his index finger down her nose. He opened his greatcoat and took out the pen from the side pocket of his tunic.
My dearest, darling Helen,
It’s your birthday. Happy birthday, my darling love. Of course this means that that silly age difference between us has opened up a bit again – but I’ll close it in November, never you fear.
I don’t know how it is where you are, but there are rumours that the War might be coming to an end. Of course, we have heard such rumours for years but maybe this time it’s true. Certainly the signs are encouraging. And if it were would it be too much to hope that we would spend this Christmas together? We never have. And your next birthday. And mine. And all our birthdays & Christmases after this together & never be apart again.
If the War is over, what shall I do? I shall have a little money so maybe there will be time to think about all of this. Maybe we shall return to where it all started – though no, maybe we cannot go there. But we shall find some place & be together.
We have a little job to do tonight, but don’t worry, it’s nothing serious. After it I shall go to bed & dream of your lovely face & your body – the body of a goddess. My goddess.
Sleep well, my darling until we hold each other in our arms.
Your adoring,
Lewis.
He folded the letter and kissed it, put it in an envelope and placed it on the table. He felt better. It was like he had invoked a spell. The certainty that he would die had receded from his mind somewhat. The talk of a future together had driven it away. Eight thirty, his watch said. Another three and a half hours. He ate a couple of spoonfuls of the food – he didn’t want to feel weak from hunger later. It was slop. He pushed it away and found the remains of a bar of French chocolate that he had bought in Amiens.
Some time later Sergeant Robinson and Corporal Jackson came in. Robinson had none of the extremes that Bennis had. He was balanced, practical, level-headed. Lewis knew that Robinson had a wife and two children and imagined that before the War, he probably adored his wife, was a good father and did everything he could to provide for his family. He was the same here – caring about his men, resourceful, a good man to have beside you in a crisis. Jackson, Lewis was less sure about. He was new, young, pimply and didn’t say very much. He looked far too young to be in uniform, never mind a corporal. Lewis wondered what the men thought of him.
‘Drink, Sergeant, Corporal?’
Lewis lifted the bottle from the table, uncorked it and offered it to them.
‘Thank you, sir,’ they said in unison.
The bottle was passed around and back to Lewis. Without wiping the top of it, he took a deep swig. He considered what remained and handed it back to them.
‘May as well finish it.’
There was only one chair so Lewis got the other two to sit on the edge of the bunk while they decided how they would deploy their men. Lewis’ right hand began to shake again. If they noticed, they said nothing.
They were to bring back documents and prisoners. On entering the trench, Robinson, Jackson and two men would go left. If they found Germans they would subdue them and make them prisoner but their main job was to find documents. This would involve going into dugouts. Standing orders were not to throw in any grenades in case valuable documents were destroyed. Nobody ever obeyed these orders. Go into a dugout not knowing what was there? Those staff people were out of their fucking minds. Robinson would bomb first and look for papers afterwards.
Lewis would take the remaining four men and go right. They needed to bring back at least three prisoners. That was the minimum Division would settle for. As Lewis’ party found Germans they would subdue them, tie their hands and then each would be accompanied back to the entry point by one of Lewis’ men. When the third German was captured, Lewis would issue the order to withdraw. The man who would accompany the third prisoner to the entry point would then find Sergeant Robinson’s men and tell them to withdraw. He would also do the same with the Left Blocking Party. The fourth man with Lewis would communicate the order for withdrawal to the Right Blocking Party and then return with Lewis to the entry point.
If it all went according to plan then, Lewis and the fourth man would return to the entry point where they should find Robinson, Jackson and the five other men. Ideally, the prisoners would already be on their way back to the British lines, taken there by the men of the Covering Party. With all nine of them accounted for, they would then exit the trench and return.
There was nothing else.
‘I’ll go over it with the men, sir,’ said Robinson.
He and Jackson saluted and went out.
22
The next day Lewis brought The Wind In The Willows with him and gave it to Helen. She said she would start reading it that day. He hoped she would like it and wouldn’t find him stupid for having recommended it. With anybody else he might have talked about more serious, adult books, but with her he could say exactly what he felt.
Later on the beach, she said to him, ‘Tell me about losing your Mum at such an early age.’
‘You must have thought I was a real cry baby yesterday,’ he said. ‘You know, when you thought I was crying because I missed home and my Mum. Anyway, I
’ll tell you what I can remember.’
He told her about Mum going into hospital and the day that Dad told him she was dead. He told Helen what he had never told anybody – about the wardrobe, and that Mum’s ghost would come back and about his devastation when she didn’t. She touched his hand.
‘You poor boy,’ she said so softly that it was almost a whisper.
Her fingers were warm on his skin. They looked so graceful and beautiful.
They were sitting on their towels looking out at the water. A couple of swimmers in the water were silhouettes in a pool of sunlight-splashed sea.
‘You know that expression, he said. ‘“Every cloud has a silver lining”? Well, I really think that’s true. Because even though it was a terrible thing to happen – terrible for my Mum, for my Dad, for me – it had some good effects. It made me terribly independent. I remember so clearly thinking after that third night, when she didn’t come back, that I would have to look after myself from now on. I think it’ll hold me in good stead in what’s to come. And I suppose, after something like that, you feel that nothing worse can happen. Though maybe I’ll have to revise that opinion after I join the Army.’
‘But you’ve lost so much.’
‘I suppose you don’t miss what you never had,’ he said, with a lightness he didn’t feel.
She was looking at him and it was as though her green eyes could read what was written on his heart.
‘I think I don’t actually know what I’ve lost, and maybe that’s what is worst of all. I think there are many things that she should have taught me but didn’t get the time to. I don’t know what they are, but they are things that mothers teach children. About the world. About people. I think in many ways I am innocent of the world. In some ways my growing stopped or got stunted when she died.’
He paused.
‘I’ve never spoken to anyone like this … about these things before. I don’t think I even knew I felt like this.’
The sunlight shone on her hair showing tints of gold and honey.
‘Maybe that’s why you’ve come into my life,’ Lewis said. ‘To teach me these things – whatever they are.’
‘Maybe I have,’ she said.
‘How long are you going to stay here for?’ he asked.
The sun illuminated a silver pathway on the water out to where the shoulder of land that marked the right hand side of the cove dropped to the sea. Beyond the entrance a ship moved slowly past on the horizon. She turned away from him and faced out to sea, pulling her knees up to her chin and circling her arms around them.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
He knew she didn’t want to say any more but he pressed on regardless.
‘It must be terrible for you having your husband at the front.’
‘It would be nice to know whether he’s going to come back alive or not,’ she murmured.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Easter. But he writes every day – and expected me to write back.’
The use of the past tense sounded odd.
‘You must miss him terribly.’
She said nothing more. The silence lengthened and Lewis thought he’d better give up on it. He too began to look out to sea. A small boat with a mast and a sail set appeared round the headland and turned into the cove. He heard her snuffle and glanced across at her.
Helen’s shoulders were shaking and her eyes and cheeks were wet with tears. Lewis was suddenly guilty. He shouldn’t have probed so much – shouldn’t have been so nosy. He had upset her now. And he wouldn’t have wanted to upset her for the world. Daringly, he put an arm around her shoulder and left it there. She made no attempt to push it away.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have brought the subject up. I’ve been an unfeeling clod.’
She rummaged in her bag, took out a small handkerchief and blew her nose. She shook her head.
‘It’s not that. It’s not you.’
She wiped the tears with the back of her wrist and looked at him.
‘It’s not you. It’s him – Robert, my husband. I hate him.’
And then with a venom he would not have expected of her.
‘I hope he never comes back.’
Her green eyes were pools of tears.
‘And even if he does – well, I’ve left him. He doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know where I am. You must think I’m terrible.’
Lewis wasn’t quite sure what to say. It struck him how sheltered a life he had been living at home. This was life in the real world.
‘I don’t think you’re terrible. If you left him you must have had a good reason for doing so.’
He had half intended it as a question but she didn’t answer. Instead she had gone back to looking at the boat with the sail which was now making its way towards the shore. The figure on board lowered the sail. He moved in that casual way that people who know boats have. Then he sat down, swung out first one oar, then another and began to row the boat the last few yards in. When it had beached he jumped out and, in rolled up trousers and bare feet, dragged the boat up the shingle until it was clear of the water.
‘He didn’t used to beat me,’ she stated.
‘You don’t have to tell me any of this, Helen. Not if you find it too upsetting.’
‘I have to tell somebody,’ she said.
‘I’ve never been lucky with the men in my life. I don’t think my father really liked me. He certainly didn’t like my mother and I think he saw me as being on her side. So everything I did – I was good in school, I had a real talent for the piano, I started my own little business giving piano lessons – everything I did, I got no praise for it. Not that I wanted much. But it would have been nice if, once in a while, just once in a while, he had said, “You’ve done well” or “I knew you could do it” or “That’s my girl.” But no, there was nothing.’
Her voice had become very tear-sodden.
‘He never once told me he loved me.’
She turned to face Lewis. Her face was red from crying.
‘Can you believe that? Not once?’
Lewis couldn’t believe it. After his mother died, all of his relations had showered him in love. It would never have even occurred to him that all these people didn’t love him. He found it hard to imagine the sterile world she was describing. She turned away again.
‘So when I wasn’t married by the time I was twenty, I think it gave him a certain satisfaction. Do you know, I think it actually pleased him? And as I went through my twenties unmarried, it was like he was sitting there with this mixture of smugness and contempt. I had a really enjoyable time in my twenties. I had money from my piano teaching, I had lots of friends, I had boyfriends. But none of that was enough for him and occasionally he would slip in snide remarks about my not being married.
I suppose by the time I was into my thirties I was starting to believe these remarks myself. Or maybe it was just that he had opened up a tiny crack of doubt in my own mind. Whatever it was, it didn’t take much to push me down the marriage road when I met Robert.
It was only five years ago. It seems a lot longer. I met him at a cocktail party. He seemed so handsome in his uniform. He was a few years older than me. I felt young around him and not at all the aged spinster that my father kept telling me I was. We were married within a year. And that’s when it all changed.
As I said, he didn’t used to beat me. But there are others ways to break a person. You can stop them from being themselves; from living the life they want to live. You can take away their hopes, their dreams. You can criticise them until they stop believing in themselves. Until they start believing that the good things about them aren’t actually good at all or even that they don’t exist. You take away everything that was good about them. Why do people feel that when they get married it gives them the right to say whatever they like to the other person? There’s no politeness, no respect. They say things that they would never say, for example, to a neighbour or some
body in a shop. And once that starts happening it’s a short hop to all kinds of hurtful and abusive things.
He got me to give up my piano teaching, my pupils. Told me I didn’t need to earn money – he had plenty of it, which he did. But then it meant that I lost all that human contact as well, never mind the creativity that went along with it.’
‘So why didn’t you leave him then?’ asked Lewis.
She paused. Then she spoke slowly.
‘I hope, Lewis, that when the time comes and you meet somebody and you marry them, that you’ll be completely and utterly happy. I really, really hope that. Because if you don’t I think you’ll find that there are many reasons not to leave somebody.
First of all, there’s the money. Robert is very well off. What was I going to do if I left him? Where would I go? How would I start? I had saved a little of what he gave me but it didn’t seem a lot, not in comparison to what I was used to. And there’s routine. You know – you just get used to things. And the notion of starting again in a new place, where everything is new, where you don’t even know where your toothbrush goes. Well – it’s daunting. And, the fact is, it’s not all bad all the time. Robert could be charming when he wanted to be. We had some nice times together. And then there was my father. I suppose I just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me back on the shelf again. And finally, there’s the fact that everybody just wants to be loved. And I suppose that some love is better than no love at all. And if I Ieft I would have to start looking all over again. I’ll be thirty-seven in December, Lewis. I’m a spinster with all the sad things that that word implies. Where would I find love now? As I say, there are all sorts of reasons why it’s easier to stay.’
‘If I was married, I would never criticise the other person,’ said Lewis. ‘At least I’d like to think I wouldn’t. I’d like to think it would just be live and let live. And anyway that I would love so much about them that these other things, whatever they were, wouldn’t matter.’
Starlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 1) Page 12