by Tim Atkinson
‘How much does she know?’ Katia looks at the girl’s face, seeing the obvious resemblance. ‘Surely she—’
Jack looks down at the floor and shakes his head.
‘Jacques? But, Jacques, you must tell her. You have to tell her. She has a right to know.’
‘If I tell ’er,’ Jack’s hands begin to tremble, ‘it’s the end, y’know.’ He looks at Katia. ‘It’ll be the end of everything.’
New coals catch and crack. Sparks flare like fish as they flicker and flash before they vanish in the draught of the flue.
‘So what do you intend to do, Jacques? You can’t let her go home to England thinking—’
‘What? That she’s the daughter of the Lady of t’Manor?’
‘But she is!’
‘By adoption, aye.’
‘And she knows that?’
‘Aye, she does. I told her. I had to. It was a shock, o’ course. But, you know, I reckon she already knew, deep down. Well, suspected, anyway. I reckon that’s partly why her mother sent her.’
‘But not—’
‘No!’ Jack shakes his head. ‘That’s not the only reason.’
‘She sent her here to find you, Jacques.’
‘Aye, lass. I know.’
They sit in silence. Words form on their lips but remain unspoken. Both are afraid of triggering the inevitable detonation.
‘So, what happens now?’ asks Katia at last.
‘You’ll put her on t’train,’ Jack says. ‘In t’morning. She’s got what she came for. Now send her home. Please?’
Katia nods, knowing that nothing will ever be the same again.
31
‘Come on, fellas, final night – let’s make sure it’s a good ’un.’
‘Aye, come on, Jack, stop moping. At least let’s go and say our farewells to the locals. Does Katia even know you’re leaving tomorrow?’
‘Don’t even know if she’s speaking to me any more.’ Jack shakes his head. ‘After what happened t’other day.’
‘What? Turn you down at last did she, Jacko?’
‘I cannae believe that,’ says Mac. ‘The lassie’s all over him like fleas on a dog.’
‘Maybe that’s the trouble,’ Ocker smiles. ‘Haven’t given her a dose, have you, Jacko?’
Ocker ducks and Jack’s boot misses him and thuds into the door of the hut, scattering flakes of dried mud over the floor. ‘Reckon we’ve hit a raw nerve there, Mac old son!’
Mac is sitting on his bunk, polishing his rifle for the last time. ‘Who was yon mystery woman, then, Jack?’
‘I’d … it’s … it’s a long story,’ Jack says.
‘Didn’t look like you two was exactly strangers,’ Ocker says. ‘What with you arranging for her to bunk up in Françoise’s old bed for the night.’
‘Pretty wee lassie, from the little I could see.’
‘Fancy a bit o’ jelly roll with ’em both together, Jacko?’
‘Poor taste lad.’ Jack stands up and takes a step towards Ocker’s bunk. ‘Poor bloody taste, lad – even for thee.’
Jack nods a greeting to the small crowd of evening regulars, shakes the odd hand, exchanges pleasantries in the vernacular and, reaching the bar, orders the men’s beer. Katia has recovered slightly – familiar dimples forming as she smiles at Jack – but still can’t quite believe what she’s been told. Upstairs, the bed that Anna slept in has been stripped.
‘You are quiet tonight, Jacques,’ she says eventually, after slowly filling the jug, then half-filling each of the glasses, then going back along the line, topping up each drink in turn.
Jack turns, looking round the small estaminet as if seeing it again for the first time. Clean glasses sparkle on neat, wooden shelves behind the counter. On the walls, etched mirrors reflect the flickering light of candles on each table or throw the dim glow of gas lamps back into the room. Small bowls of flowers sit in the middle of each of the tables. Her touch, he thinks.
Katia concentrates on measuring out the beer. Her father’s daughter. Not a drop spilt. The slow, deliberate action – well practised – is hypnotic. Jack closes his eyes and shakes his head.
‘No Pa tonight?’ he asks the girl. She shakes her head, but Jack already knows why Monsieur Steenvan now spends almost all his time in Ieper. This tiny temporary estaminet in Poperinghe has become Katia’s sole responsibility. As has her sick mother in the bed upstairs.
A few miles down the road in Station Straat, the British Tavern sheds its skin like a snake. Each successive wave of building and rebuilding sees the place grow larger, stronger, grander. And there is now a renewed urgency in this small act of reconstruction. Because with each new phase the British Tavern is transforming itself back into the pre-war hotel where Katia and her sister Françoise once played in the small rear yard under the protective shadow of the cathedral. Monsieur Steenvan is turning back the clock. Or trying to.
‘Don’t see him much these days.’ Jack is thinking of another conversation with Katia’s father that he has, until the last few days, been planning.
‘He is happy for me to be here,’ the girl says at last. ‘Keeping things going for a little longer.’
‘You do a grand job, love.’
‘I do my best,’ she says, looking up at him. ‘It won’t be for much longer. As soon as the hotel in Ypres is ready …’
Jack nods. ‘Aye, o’ course. No more British Tavern, eh?’
She smiles. ‘You know, Jacques, that my father would—’
‘I know,’ Jack nods, holding up a hand. She must not say any more.
Katia continues carefully measuring out the beer. Looking at her in the half-light, the concentration on her face, the tired look in her eyes, the strands of auburn hair escaping from their pins, Jack is seized almost physically by the realisation that this – here, now – is the moment. Or would have been the moment. Until just three short days ago, with release papers from the Army in his pocket and a future opening up before him, this would have been the moment when he popped the question. His fingers twist and spin the cheap gold ring that has been buttoned securely in the pocket of his breeches for a week.
‘You know I’m going …’ he starts, then looks down at the floor. How can he possibly tell her? How could she possibly understand? He looks at the gentle contours of her face, the bottom lip already trembling slightly in anticipation.
‘Home?’
‘Aye, lass – home.’ He shakes his head. ‘If you can call it that.’
‘You don’t want to go?’ She looks down at her hands and grips the handle of the jug she’s holding even tighter.
‘I … I don’t rightly know,’ Jack shakes his head. ‘Not now. Oh, I thought I did. I thought I knew. It was all so clear. But since the other day …’
Katia suddenly starts pouring furiously, carelessly. The beer mushrooms over the rims of the glasses in a spurt of froth. All along the line of glasses, foam erupts.
‘Steady on, lass.’
The heavy weight of the piled hair strains at the loose pins holding it in place, and the harder she mops up the spills, the more loose strands escape to fall across her flushed face. When she looks up again, Jack sees that there are tears in her eyes.
‘Do you want to leave me?’
Jack shakes his head, slowly, looking at the girl all the time, looking into her dark brown eyes, looking into her face so intently that it starts to make his own eyes hurt with the memory.
‘Then why?’ she says. ‘Why must you go there, to her? Is it work, Jacques? Is it the money? There is still so much to do here …’ She breaks off and puts her hands over her face.
‘Aye,’ he says quietly ‘There’s plenty o’ work. But not for t’British Army. Not for me. Not any more. We’re finished here. Buried all the horror.’ He looks at her. ‘Tidied it all up and swept it all away, hidden it, smartened it all up and made it right again. At least, that’s what I thought.’
‘I know, Jacques. I know that.’
‘And now,’ he
says, ‘it needs skilled men – men who can plant flowers and trees and rake lawns and make the places pretty. And men who can make better sense of things than I can.’
‘You could do that.’ She looks up desperately. ‘You could do that, Jack. You could do anything. I could help. Anna, she could—’
‘She wouldn’t want to,’ Jack says.
‘Please, Jack. Please!’
‘Aye, well … happen I could apply for a Commission job,’ he says. ‘But then, they’re bringing men over from England all the time. There’s over a thousand of them already here.’
‘But the graveyards are still, how do you say? … a tip.’
Jack laughs. ‘Aye, lass, they are. Truth is, they haven’t enough men to take care of ’em all. One of the caretakers has to take on eight cemeteries on his tod.’
‘His … tod?’
‘On his own,’ Jack says. ‘That’s too much for anyone.’
‘Then they should employ more—’
‘They are, lass, they are – there’s twenty more coming out on t’boat from Folkestone every week.’
‘They should employ you!’
‘Ah’ve told thee, lass …’ His voice trails off. ‘I would, but …’
‘Then forget the graves, Jacques. You know there is work for you – for us – here.’ Tears are running silently down Katia’s dimpled cheeks, even as she tries to smile.
‘I know,’ Jack sighs. ‘Happen three days ago, things’d have been different. But now …’
‘It is all because of her!’
‘I have to go back, don’t I? What choice have I got?’ He looks down at the floor, suddenly noticing how thick with mud are his breeches, how the puttees he still wears are moth-eaten, frayed, torn, and how his bootlaces have as many knots as there are eyeholes in the worn brown leather of his boots. The Army, for him, is over. The war is over. His uniform is over.
‘Shall I see you later?’
The girl smiles.
‘For old time’s sake? To say goodbye?’
‘You never give up, Jacques, do you?’
‘You know,’ Ocker is saying as Jack hands round the beers, ‘I reckon we must’ve buried nigh on five hundred coves since we started doing this job three years ago.’
‘Aye, and every one of them somebody’s son or sweetheart, someone’s brother, someone’s father.’
‘What’s that?’ Jack says.
‘I was just saying,’ Mac replies, ‘each one of them is someone’s brother, son … father.’
‘Not me,’ Ocker smacks his lips. ‘Not that anyone’s ever told me, anyway.’
‘I thought you said you were only transferred because your mother was English?’
‘Ocker has a mother?’
‘God rest her soul,’ says Ocker. ‘Must’ve done. But that wasn’t what I meant.’ He looks at Jack. ‘Jeez, will you take a look at your face, Jacko? We’re going home tomorrow, mate.’ He claps a hand down on Jack’s back. ‘Home!’
‘Well, some leaving do this is,’ Mac grumbles. ‘More like a wake. Drink up, will ye, chaps? I need another.’
‘I’ll go,’ says Jack.
‘What? And take half the evening like you did the last time? No thank you, you sit right there. We don’t want to die of thirst.’
‘Come on, Jacko, why the long face?’ Ocker rests a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘Is it the missus?’
Jack sighs.
‘Plenty more fish in the sea, mate. Plenty more English fish, an’ all. It’s not like you’ll go short, Jacko. Not like you don’t get your fair share of attention from the ladies, is it?’
‘More than his fair share, I’d say.’ Mac puts down another tray of drinks. ‘Wish I knew the secret.’
‘I reckon you’ve been given short measures there, Mac old son.’
‘Away with you, laddie, they’re whiskies. The beer’s on its way. Katia …’ He stops and looks at Jack. ‘Katia says she’ll bring it over in a moment.’
I ain’t got nobody
Nobody cares for me, nobody
Nobody cares for me.
I’m so sad and lonely
Sad and lonely, sad and lonely
Won’t some sweet mama come
And take a chance with me.
‘Shut up, Ocker!’
By the time the men leave three hours later, the bar is deserted. The door is locked. Most of the candles have been extinguished. Mac is asleep in his chair.
‘Well, fellas,’ Ocker says. ‘Early start tomorrow. Come on.’ He puts a hand on Mac’s shoulder. ‘Shake a leg, grandad. We’ve got a train to catch.’
Mac stands, a little unsteadily, then takes Katia’s hand and kisses it softly. ‘It’s been a pleasure, lassie. A real pleasure.’
‘… though a little more for some of us than others,’ Ocker murmurs.
Jack has struggled to his feet and she gives him a hug. Skerritt cries; only Blake, who is stone-cold sober, shakes hands stiffly and stays completely in control. As they step outside the cool summer night air stuns them all into sobriety, and they trudge down the road back to camp with heavy steps.
‘Hang on a minute, will you,’ Jack says suddenly. Turning on his heels he starts sprinting back along the Rekhof. ‘Actually,’ he calls out, waving. ‘Don’t wait – go back to camp. I’ll see you later.’ When he gets back to the bar, the door is bolted.
He lifts his hand and pauses, before knocking, softly at first then harder, faster, louder – loud enough to wake the dead. ‘I’m sorry, lass,’ he says when Katia appears at the door at last. ‘Just came to say …’
‘Goodbye?’ she says.
‘Aye, lass. Properly.’
As soon as he steps inside she opens her arms and holds onto him tight, afraid that the earth might open up beneath her feet, afraid that the world is ending, afraid ever to let go of him. Eventually, prising himself from her arms, Jack fetches a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
‘You don’t have to go, Jacques,’ the girl says suddenly. ‘Not tonight, anyway.’
Jack kisses the top of her head, softly, closes his eyes and breathes in the delicate, lavender fragrance of her hair.
‘What about your pa?’ he says, already knowing the answer.
‘Papa is in Ieper. He will stay there this evening.’ She shrugs. ‘Nobody will ever know.’
‘You’ll have me shot.’ Jack leans forward, looking at the amber reflection in his whisky glass. ‘And what about your ma?’
‘She sleeps all the time these days.’ The girl looks down. ‘When I am not having to apply the poultice. She does not ever leave her bed. She is not well, Jacques.’
‘Aye, lass,’ Jack says. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
By the time they reach the bedroom, the only sound is the heavy hall clock tick-tock, tick-tocking away the time to midnight. Somewhere nearby, shortly afterwards, a church bell chimes. Katia sits on the bed, heavy hair still piled high above her hot, tired eyes. The chaste, buttoned blouse is soft to his touch. Moonlight, like a torch beam, shines through the gaps in the shuttered window. Jack watches as she reaches up and finally unpins the mass of long, dark hair, its colour as rich and brown as plump horse chestnuts.
She turns her back to him and slowly, clumsily, Jack unpicks the laces of her stays. At the same time, she shakes her head and Jack’s hands are suddenly covered in cascades of soft, sweet-smelling curls. He cups great handfuls of her hair in his palms, bringing the strands up to his lips and breathing deeply, drinking the fragrance as if he were drinking the sweetest, purest spring water. He presses it against his mouth and nose and is lost in a world where nothing but this moment matters. The girl sits motionless, eyes closed, feeling his breath on the nape of her neck. The clock ticks.
An hour later, when the moment finally arrives it is both quick and utterly overwhelming. Great heaving sobs convulse Jack’s body, rising in strength with each desperate gulp for air and growing louder and louder.
‘Shhh …’ the girl whispers. ‘Somebody will hear.’
Jack does not hear. He chokes back each wave of tears, but they return stronger, louder than before, until the storm of his emotions, of release, is a torrent no man could possibly resist.
Katia isn’t sure what to do. She lies on the bed, underneath him, then at his side. She holds him tight, then lets his taut, convulsing body go. She strokes him softly and then finds that she is gently stroking the side of her own face in the darkness, quietly biting her bottom lip as she does.
The storm passes. The energy of the tidal surge of tears slowly ebbs away and all she can eventually hear is Jack’s breathing – slowly, quietly, rhythmically – and the clock ticking, loudly. Sometime later she falls into a fitful sleep. And in the morning, when she wakes, her bed is empty.
Oh mademoiselle from Armentières, parlez-vous?
Mademoiselle from Armentières, parlez-vous?
Just blow your nose, and dry your tears,
We’ll all be back in a few short years,
Hinky, dinky, parlez-vous.
32
A sergeant opens the door and swings a hurricane lamp inside the hut. ‘Five o’clock,’ he shouts into the thinning darkness. ‘Transport leaves in one hour.’
Only when the men get up, when the electric light is turned on, do they realise that Jack’s bunk is empty. They look at each other but no one says a word.
Mac’s kit is packed and ready; Ocker is whistling ‘Waltzing Matilda’ while picking up anything and everything he can lay hands on – whether it belongs to him or not. Skerritt hums his own strange, high-pitched whine of a tune as he carefully packs up the last of his kit.
‘Weapons? Any more weapons? Ammunition?’ comes a cry from the parade ground. The men double-check pockets for spare rounds, search bags for ammunition belts and anything else that might delay their long-awaited departure. Only Blake, Labour Corps and never armed, has nothing to declare.
‘Transport parade, ten minutes!’ comes another order as the sergeant major bangs on the hut with his swagger stick. The men haul bags onto their shoulders, stop, then look at one another.