Rain

by Barney Campbell

‘Hello, sorry to disturb. It’s just that Tom always liked this spot, and I thought I should come here.’

  The soldier replied gruffly, as though unaccustomed to talking about his feelings: ‘Yeah. He mentioned this place a lot when we were away. I thought I might be able to remember him better down here. His mum pointed the way.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Ten minutes or so, I think. Could have been an hour, I suppose. I simply don’t know. Are you Miss Foskett?’

  She was surprised. ‘Yes. Yes, I am. How did you know? How did you know my name?’

  ‘Tom – I mean Mr Chamberlain – used to talk about you a lot when we were away. Said you were beautiful, so it wasn’t hard to spot you when you came into the church.’

  She blushed and didn’t know how to answer. They stood there, looking at the rose bush, neither of them knowing what to say next. He broke the deadlock. ‘Sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name’s—’

  ‘Sergeant Trueman?’

  Now he was surprised. ‘Yeah. How d’you know that?’

  She smiled. ‘Tom used to talk about you a lot too. Said you were the rock that his troop was built on. So it wasn’t that hard to guess when I saw you leading that group away after the burial.’

  Now he blushed. ‘What kind of stuff did he tell you about me? All the bad stuff, I suppose.’

  ‘No. He didn’t.’

  ‘What did he say then?’

  She didn’t answer immediately. She looked again at the rose bush. The buds were thick now, just days away from bursting into flower. She saw their thick resin reflect the sun in tiny pinpricks. At the foot of the bush a few daffodils sagged down to the earth with drooping necks as if grazed by a plough. Almost silently she spoke. She still felt sick, and she felt her eyes welling up. ‘He said that he couldn’t have got through it without you. He said …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said you were like his older brother.’

  They stood together as the stream behind the bush darted flashes of gold through its leaves.

  The sun was out, and the last traces of spring had made way for summer. The leaves had settled into their greenness, less violent now than a few weeks ago and less fragile, and the Old Mill had eased into long days and warm, still Kent nights. Constance was downstairs in the kitchen. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, catching dust floating in its shafts. A vase of flowers was on the oak table, roses and lilies, and next to them was a bunch of wild flowers picked from the garden.

  A photo of Tom stood on a side table as though it had always been there, in a tarnished silver frame. It was not a new frame; behind Tom’s photo was a picture of Leonard as a young man. The photo was from just before Tom had come home on leave, taken of him as he sat on the front of his Scimitar eating a boil-in-the-bag. His hair was thick with dust; he was looking cheerfully at the camera, and his eyes sparkled. It had been taken by Dusty at the end of a long day’s patrolling. The picture was in black and white, but somehow the brown and yellow tan on his skin from the sand still shone through.

  Constance was humming to herself and brushing her hair when the phone rang. She hesitated for a moment and let it ring four or five times as though scared to pick it up and receive more bad news, even though she knew that no news now could ever really be terrible. She felt sometimes that there was nothing left to live for. Her hair, all her life a golden blonde, had lately started its descent into grey around her temples and at the top of her scalp. She was very thin, and her clothes seemed to hang off her. She picked the phone up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Constance, hi. It’s Frenchie,’ came the reply, friendly and lively.

  ‘Frenchie!’ She perked up immediately. Ever since the funeral he had been a rock. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Well, very well indeed. In the big smoke, actually. I’m with Alex, off to watch the Test match. First day of the Lord’s Test in an Ashes series. Can’t get better than that. I just wanted to ring to say that I am, as ever, thinking of you, and Tom.’

  Already her eyes were filmed with tears, and he could tell by her silence that she wanted him to continue. ‘It’s just that, back in December, Tom and I chatted about daydreams and how we passed the time. About what we used to think of to get through the day. I told him that for me all I could ever think about was this day, taking Alex to the cricket. I remember laughing with Tom that I thought it would probably be rained off.’

  ‘And? It’s a lovely day here.’

  Frenchie chuckled. ‘Here too. It’s glorious.’

  ‘How’s Alex?’

  ‘Hyperactive. I’ve shunted him off into a queue to get a book signed. I just wanted to ring you to let you know I’m thinking of you, and to say how lucky I feel to be with Alex.’ He paused. ‘And this makes me realize more than ever how lucky I am. How I don’t want anything to happen to him.’ He paused again. ‘I’m sorry, Constance; you don’t want to be hearing this.’

  ‘No, no, Frenchie. No. It’s great to hear. It’s what I need to hear. Are you going to spoil him today? Please say yes.’

  ‘Ha! I think so. We’ve got these great tickets, and we’re going to this burger joint for lunch that’s basically his favourite place in the world. But he doesn’t know it yet. The thing is, Constance, when I talked to Tom about all this, I remember saying to him that this would signal the end of tour proper for me – when I would be able to draw a line under the whole thing. But the problem is, at that point we hadn’t had anyone killed or really seriously injured yet. And when Tom was gone I realized that actually, try as I might, the tour will never go away. I’ll always be stuck there, part of me.’

  Frenchie now had tears in his own eyes and was willing Alex’s queue to move slowly. He didn’t want to be seen crying. Alex, inevitably, then chose that moment to turn round to look at him, excited about getting his book signed. Frenchie waved at him, somehow managing to blink away his tears and summon up an encouraging smile.

  Constance’s voice came back, calm and firm. ‘No, Frenchie. You cannot think like this. What’s done is done. You cannot chain yourself to the past. Of course you will remember Tom, but I promise you the pain will one day numb into a dull ache, and then might even go away entirely. Just look back and see a tiny bit of him in Alex, and he’ll live on somehow.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me. I always knew when we only had one child that I was going to be vulnerable to something like this. And now it’s happened. I look to the future and, you know, I don’t know what I see. Most of the time I think about how lonely I’m going to be.’

  ‘But people will always be there.’

  ‘I know, I know. But they’re not there in the nights. They’re not there in the early morning when even if he was still asleep I knew that the house was alive, waiting to hear him stumble down the stairs into the kitchen. No one’s ever there when you’re doing nothing; that’s when you need them. But as I said, don’t worry about me. Just look to your own.’

  ‘You know I’ll never forget you, Constance. Oh my God. Action stations. Alex has got his book signed. He’s about to come back. I’d better go.’

  ‘Go, go! Frenchie, go and have a great day, OK?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Just look to the sun, remember him and just carry on.’

  ‘I will. I will.’

  ‘Oh, one thing.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much. More than you could ever know.’

  ‘No problem. My pleasure. No problem at all.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Constance put the phone down and finished brushing her hair. She picked up the bunch of flowers from the table and left the house. In the garden she found Lee, a local man who helped her with the garden once a week. He was almost hidden in a flower bed as he knelt down to mulch some roses.

  ‘Lee, that’s me off. Shouldn’t be long.’

  ‘Where you goin’, Mrs
Chamberlain?’

  ‘Just to the churchyard.’ She nodded down at the flowers. ‘To give these to Tom.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah, no probs. I’m here for another two hours at least so no hurry. Say hi to him for me, will ya?’

  Constance smiled sadly. ‘Of course, Lee. I shall do that. Thank you. See you in a bit.’ She turned to walk down the drive and on to the road towards the village, small and alone, moving with girlish sparrow-like steps.

  The taxi pulled in at the top of the drive, and Cassie got out and paid the driver.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll ring you when I know when I want to go. I don’t know when that’ll be though.’

  ‘No probs. Just buzz the office. Might be me that comes to get ya, might be one of the others.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He drove off. Through the leaves and shrubs she could just see the house. She took some deep breaths and walked towards it. She came closer and remembered all the people crowding around outside after the funeral. There had been so much chatter then, so much forced cheerfulness, which had shrouded the house in a false veil of good feelings. Now it looked alone and vulnerable. She went up to the front door and again hesitated. She didn’t know what on earth she was going to say.

  A voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Morning. Can I help?’ It was polite but had an undercurrent to it. She looked round and saw a young man standing in the middle of a flower bed. He was big and burly, and had a crew cut. He was quite intimidating, and Cassie didn’t know how to reply at first. ‘Um … er … I’m here to see Mrs Chamberlain.’

  ‘Not in.’ He knelt down, getting back to his work. He wasn’t giving anything away.

  ‘Do you think you might be able to tell me when she’ll be back?’

  He looked at her suspiciously, stood up and walked over to her slowly and deliberately. ‘I might do. Depends who’s asking.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ She was offended.

  ‘Well, I mean just that. Depends who you are. If you’re from the press, then you can jog on.’

  She snapped back in a flash of anger, ‘I’m not from the press. I’m not a journalist. I’m not here to terrorize Mrs Chamberlain. I have a very important message for her and I need to see her. I was a great friend of her son and I resent being spoken to like a bloody liar.’

  He softened and looked embarrassed. ‘Don’t I recognize you? Weren’t you at the funeral?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I was. I was Tom’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ He looked genuinely contrite. ‘It’s just that, you know, we all want to protect Mrs Chamberlain now she’s on her own. Been a few reporters around lately, that kind of thing. Want to talk to her about some kind of documentary about Afghanistan. Vultures. She doesn’t want any part of it, but still they keep pestering her. It’s just, well, you look a bit like they do. City girl and all.’

  He said it with a twinkle in his eye and she laughed. ‘No. No, I can promise you I’m not a journalist. I can’t write for toffee, I’m afraid. Do you think Mrs Chamberlain will mind me waiting here? Is she going to be back soon?’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon. Maybe only an hour probably. You can go and find her if you like. She’s just gone to the graveyard to take some flowers to Tom.’

  ‘No. I couldn’t possibly. She’ll want to be on her own.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I go along with her now and again. She likes the company. Go on, go. It’ll do her good. It’ll give her someone else to remember with.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sure. You know how to get to the church?’

  ‘Yes. I remember from the funeral. Just left at the gate and about half a mile down the road.’

  ‘That’s the one. Should take you about ten minutes. She only left ten minutes ago herself. Go now and you’ll catch her.’

  ‘Thanks. Oh.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Cassie.’

  He shook it. ‘Nice to meet you, Cassie. I’m Lee, Mrs Chamberlain’s gardener.’

  ‘And bodyguard too, by the sound of things.’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah. You could say that. We’re all looking out for her, that’s all.’

  ‘I understand. I think that’s great. Tom would be grateful.’

  ‘I hope so. He was a good man. Never knew him that well meself. But he was in the top year at school when I was small and was always nice to me.’

  ‘Yes. He was nice to everybody. I’d best be off.’

  ‘See you in a bit then.’ But she was already walking back down the drive to the road.

  As she walked she caught glimpses of the steeple through the hedgerows. Lazy, fluffy clouds hung in the sky, and some cows in a field watched her idly. With every step she lost her nervousness, and a glow came through her, spreading from the bottom of her back and reaching into her fingers. Everything is going to be all right.

  Cassie lifted the latch of the mossy gate and walked into the churchyard. A rabbit started at her appearance and bolted down its hole beneath an old gravestone. Cassie paused, tugged up her jeans and ran a hand through her hair. She peered around the side of the church and saw Constance, who was standing at the foot of Tom’s grave, staring down at the headstone. Cassie walked towards her as if in a dream. Everything now seemed to make sense. She came closer and noticed that, even just two months on, Tom’s grave had started to blend in with the others. The turf was greener than that around it, and slightly raised, but the edges of the plot were blurred, and soon the grave would look as if it had always been there. At the foot of the headstone was a bunch of blue wild flowers, and around it were some jam jars of other flowers: roses, tulips and a couple of poppies, their fragile, crêpe-paper petals waving slightly in the breeze.

  Constance turned towards her and smiled, politely at first and then with delight. ‘Cassie! What are you doing here? What a surprise!’

  Cassie gulped. They hugged, and she kissed Constance on both cheeks. She felt tiny and frail in her arms. Not just yet. She lied: ‘I was just passing through and thought I’d drop in. Lee said I would find you here.’

  ‘Well, what a lovely surprise.’ Constance looked down at the grave. ‘Tom would be so thrilled that you came. I’ve just been chatting a bit to him and making sure he’s looking smart. He always loved wild flowers.’

  ‘They’re lovely. I wish I’d brought some myself.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just wonderful you’re here.’ She looked away and spoke as if Cassie wasn’t there. ‘Sometimes I wonder how he’s doing, and I worry about him. But then I just come over here, where I know I’ll always find him. And even in the rain, or in the wind, or even when it’s night or a lovely day like today, it always feels as if he’s next to me when I come here, and every time I look at the gravestone I feel him there, grinning cheekily and telling me not to worry.’

  Cassie found herself crying. She couldn’t find the strength to speak, and they stood there in silence. A cloud hid the sun for a moment, and when it reappeared she felt its rays on the back of her neck and saw their shadows flung over the grave. Now is the time.

  In the evening the sun shot red over them, and in the turret Dusty traversed left to right, desperate to pick up any target. He had never felt so angry. The Scimitars were on the high ground giving overwatch. They had barma’d their way up in the afternoon. Cocked Pistol had been taken, and already the engineers’ diggers were filling the Hesco walls, turning it into a new PB. It had fallen without much of a fight in the end, and now the battle group held the entire area. There was no jubilation; immediately it came over the net that the final objective had been cleared everyone realized how tired they were, and a heavy, leaden exhaustion came over them all.

  The boys were sitting in the lee of the wagon. No one spoke. Jessie cried a single tear which cleared a line down his dusty cheek and hung on his jaw, refusing to fall off. Trueman stood over him. He didn’t say anything.

  In the turret were Dusty and O’Shea. Just as the sun dipped out of sight and evening started to sink into night, thro
ugh the sight Dusty saw a pickup truck come to a halt outside a compound to the south. ‘Fuck, we got something,’ he shouted, and the others all stood up and looked back down the valley. Dusty watched the unfolding drama. From the compound two men came, supporting a third. Dusty started a running commentary. ‘Three enemy conducting casevac. Looks like a wounded fighter. He’s properly fucked. Black trousers. Looks like a white dish-dash wrapped around his stomach like a bandage. Lots of blood on it. Proper fucked.’

  Trueman was on top of the turret now, scanning south with his binoculars. ‘Got ’em, Stardust. Good spot. Clear as day. Keep watching, keep watching.’

  O’Shea babbled excitedly in the turret. ‘Can we engage? Can we engage? We’ve PID’d, clear as you like. We can just say we saw some weapons on them. Quickly, before they go.’ He turned to Dusty. ‘Come on, mate! Before they go!’

  The fighters placed the wounded man in the back of the truck and went to get in the front. Dusty lined up the sights on them. ‘Lasing. One two fifty. I’ve got them.’ He flicked the gun to automatic and his finger stroked the trigger as he made some final, perfectionist tweaks to the elevation. He looked up to Trueman, who nodded, his face pitiless.

  Again O’Shea jabbered: ‘Come on, Dusty. Fuck ’em up. We’ve got ’em, we’ve got ’em. Waste them, waste them. For the boss. Do it for the boss!’

  Dusty flicked the selector switch back to safe. The gun stayed silent. The pickup drove off. Tired and with a weary calm, he said quietly, ‘No. No. The boss wouldn’t have wanted it. He wouldn’t have engaged. We don’t do that stuff.’

  Author’s Note

  All events in this book are fictional, and its characters bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead. Loy Kabir and Shah Kalay are fictional too, though if they were to be put on a map of Helmand Province they would be somewhere between the towns of Musa Qala and Kajaki.

  Real experience was, however, father to the fiction.

  My sincere thanks to the many people without whose advice and encouragement this book could never have appeared. In particular I am grateful to Johnnie Standing for championing it when it was at its most fragile. My wonderful agent Annabel Merullo, Laura Williams and the team at Peters Fraser & Dunlop have been brilliant to work with. Tim Binding intervened decisively to steer the book when it was a bit rudderless; a crucial help for which I am indebted. Hugh Davis copy-edited the book with great delicacy and surgical precision. Jedge Lewin gave his hard-won and lightly borne Afghan medical expertise. At Penguin Random House Beatrix Mclntyre and Jess Jackson have been fantastic, and my great thanks to my editor Rowland White for his belief in the book, his inspiring enthusiasm and his sensitivity with the text.