The Solider's Home: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  There must be more than one fish in the sea. Pebbles in the ocean.

  Tears in my heart.

  At breakfast Zoe showed Enid what had been chosen to look at today and, yes why not, she would come with.

  Jack begged a word away from the table. ‘What was in that box? In the loft?’

  Heavens, thought Enid; has he slept at all? His eyes were full of something.

  ‘I didn’t really look; it felt private.’ He nodded just too quickly.

  ‘As if it was yours, in fact.’

  ‘Would you—?’

  Enid looked up as he broke the sentence.

  ‘Would you care to come with me today. To see. It. Again?’

  For the first time Enid looked directly into this attractive man.

  Asking her an oblique question. She lowered her voice. ‘Do you mean – hold your hand?’

  He smiled, delightedly embarrassed. ‘I do. Yes – I bloody do!’

  With his laughter and deliberate pronunciation of the English swear-word, heads turned and ears cocked.

  ‘Then I’d be flattered. And will I hear the story?’

  ‘What little I know, sure.’

  She saw him harbour a minute doubt.

  ‘You sure you wouldn’t prefer...?’ he nodded towards house-hunters gathering their things.

  ‘I’m quite sure,’ she said primly.

  ‘Do you want me to explain to Zoe?’

  Enid gave him an old-fashioned look, walked to the table to gently touch Zoe’s arm and said, ‘I won’t come today if you don’t mind, Zoe.’

  Zoe looked from her to Jack. ‘Bonne journée, tous les deux.’

  Zoe went to her car wondering if such delicate discretion on her part didn’t warrant some positive reward from dollar-land.

  When the house was quiet Enid asked, ‘Do you know the way?’

  ‘No, I don’t – but I believe I know someone who does. Excuse me.’ Sara, alone in a rocker close to the cuisiniere, looked up. ‘Madame...’

  ‘Monsieur...’ They spoke in French.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Madame, please ?’

  Sara stopped her rocking, folded her arms and said, ‘It’s Sara. To you. How to get to Janatou?’

  He smiled.

  Sara said, ‘I can see both your parents in that smile.’

  He said, ‘They both adored you.’

  ‘Pff,’ she snorted compliment and truth away.

  ‘It’s only true, Sara.’ A thick hand brushed at a tear that hadn’t yet formed. ‘My mother spoke of you like no-one else. You’d blush. The word ‘respect’ was made for you, she said.’

  Sara rocked. ‘She’s dead then?’

  ‘A month ago, yes.’

  Sara nodded, and crossed herself. ‘Take the Maurs road, to the red house at the top of the hill, turn right, keep to the left till the three post-boxes. The path is there.’

  ‘Merci.’

  ‘Rien.’

  There was a quiet.

  An idea occurred to Jack.

  ‘Would you care to come with us, Sara?’

  ‘No. I’ve been there.’

  ‘O.K.’ He stood.

  ‘Would you take me one day to where the house was? Please?’

  He watched the woman consider that notion. She looked up and nodded.

  ‘If you wish. Maurs Road, right at the red house, keep left, the three boxes.’

  ‘Thank you. And help me spread her ashes ?’

  Sara had to gather herself to say, ‘That’s not my place. To do that.’

  ‘I know. I’d agree, but…’ He waited for her eyes to meet his and then said, ‘…but I believe she’d be flattered.’

  Sara rocked, nodded and was left with his kiss and her gathering tears.

  Their day at Janatou passed in almost complete silence.

  Enid did not hold his hand; but instead took the two upright chairs out to the bottom of the steps and there they sat whilst he went through the contents of the box. Simone’s collage was a ruin of Time, mice and dust. The paintings were salvageable, the plates a curiosity only; unless you considered your parents eating off them. And the sun walked east to west across the panorama as he read his mother’s correspondence with his father.

  When he passed the first one to Enid she said, ‘Are you quite sure?’

  He nodded.

  Perhaps two hours passed before she heard him say, ‘Oh, oui Mamman...’

  At another point he rose and went to look at the chimney. A strangled, ‘Oh, Pappa,’ were his only other words.

  And a first tear from the son fell on the stones of the father.

  If she had returned an hour earlier that evening Zoe would have found the novelist spinster school-teacher preparing their evening meal, and the attractive American and her mother sitting side by side weeping. Happily.

  When Zoe tapped on the bedroom door, Enid was finishing her packing.

  ‘Oh. Pardon.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I...’ Zoe stopped herself saying ‘hoped you were staying’ and substituted a not entirely truthful, ‘...made enquiries about Janatou.’

  ‘And it’s not possible.’ Enid smiled, letting Zoe off the hook. ‘I know.’

  Zoe’s mind raced over whether it would be rude to ask ‘how’.

  ‘How?’

  Enid decided assuredly not to reveal Jack’s business, and instead wondered how to extricate herself.

  ‘I don’t. Know. I’m being negative about your use of the word ‘complications’. What have you found out?’

  When Zoe offered at first a silence, two bright women standing in a room, were both now quite sure the other was lying.

  ‘Well...’ Zoe began and Enid thought, this will be flannel. ‘… only that, for the moment, they are insurmountable.’

  Voila. Relieved to have no more of this wee French farce, Enid did her best to nod sadly.

  ‘Tant pis pour moi.’

  ‘And you are leaving us?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  Jack and Enid sat inside the Café Tabac with two glasses of white wine.

  As gracefully as she had declined Zoe’s offer of a lift she had accepted his. Of the short drive to Latronquiere and the room she’d booked at the Hotel Du Tourisme.

  Now, like the rest of their day, they were quiet. She could see his head was full. Teeming.

  There was a tap at the door and Zoe poured in and sat hard on her mother’s bed.

  ‘Mamman. Talk to me please.’

  Sara said, ‘Tell me about Jacques. Secret-place Jacques.’ There was a beat of quiet.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘What you remember about him, physically.’ Sara waited.

  ‘O My God. That’s – is that…?’

  ‘His son. Yes.’

  ‘Simone’s son?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Another beat. Of two hearts. ‘Why? Why is he here?’

  ‘She’s dead. She asked him to spread her ashes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And she told him to listen to me. Talk to me.’

  ‘And you have?’

  ‘Through the blubbing.’

  A beat of one heart, ‘So he’s not going to buy a chateau?’

  ‘Why would he? He owns Janatou.’

  Jack looked up. She had been looking at him. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just thinking of not asking you that same question...’

  ‘Ah.’

  A sip at his wine.

  An ancien, a toothless old man, was their only company. His was a bottle of red wine. Arbel had nodded when they came in.

  ‘What do you do – in America?’

  ‘I run a company doesn’t need running.’

  ‘Does that pay well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is the expression, ‘Nice work if you can get it…’?’

  He smiled, surprising her by looking carefully and warmly into her eyes.

  She surprised herself by holding his gaze, and then saying,
‘Are you bored?’

  His smile warmed. ‘Enid, I live just off Frenchman Street. A soul bored with that would be a tragedy.’

  She said, ‘And yet you are?’

  He said, slowly, and directly to her, ‘There is something so clean in the air here. Cleaner than even Manchester..?’

  She nodded. ‘The history is in the earth, here. It’s different, yes.’

  She took a sip, he a drink.

  ‘I could come house-hunting with you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If you didn’t mind.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said simply. He nodded.

  She swirled the liquid and took another sip. I like these silences, she thought. Why?

  His eyes focused somewhere so far away she was free to watch him, look at him, with neither nerves nor embarrassment.

  Well, she accepted, I like this man. He pushed his unfinished glass aside. She watched, waited. What is he thinking?

  ‘Enid, what do the words time-share mean to you?’ She blinked.

  ‘Um – something to do with Spanish beach properties.’

  ‘No.’ His face was serious. ‘It’s an arrangement between parties to share a property. Share Time.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Her tone indicated continued puzzlement. She felt his eyes fixed on hers.

  She watched the size of the breath he inhaled and released. Before.

  ‘I will give you Janatou. If you will allow me to come and share Time there. With you.’

  Something happened to the colours in the bar. Something smoky.

  Something ephemeral solidified. Or perhaps something solid melted. Or perhaps a soul was born.

  He watched her shallow breathing. Her mouth fallen open.

  ‘I’m speechless,’ he heard.

  ‘O.K.’ He stood. ‘I’ll cancel your hotel and re-book your room for tonight. Hopefully your voice will return by the time I do...’

  He walked to the door, opened it, and nodding towards the bar said, ‘You think he stocks champagne?’

  Zoe was making arrangements for Roy and Sue to make an offer on Le Sireyol.

  Enid had not moved one centimetre.

  Jack sat back into her eyeline, into her panorama.

  ‘I accept. I can’t express my feelings. Now. Yet. But I believe you know.’

  ‘Good. I’m very happy.’

  ‘So am I.’

  For the first time in years, it felt, his back rested, truly nestled, into a chair.

  And immediately he leaned forward.

  ‘What do you do when you’re happy, Enid? I don’t take you for a big drinker.’

  ‘No. I’m not. I do take a glass...’

  They were moving along the precipice of Mutual Delight. It was mutually delightful.

  ‘You don’t smoke or do drugs?’

  ‘Oh dear, no. Do you?’

  ‘I did. I don’t. Did you?’

  ‘No. I’m rather strait-laced, you see.’

  ‘That sounds too English. What’s the point in it?’

  ‘Self-protection. I imagine.’

  ‘So how do you unwind? Let your hair down?’ Enid thought. ‘I take a bath.’

  ‘O.K.!’

  He smiled deeper than she’d yet seen. ‘So, will you put a bath in Janatou?’

  Enid smiled. ‘There is an empty room there.’

  ‘Mm. And no electricity, no sink, no toilette. How will your strait-lacedness manage?’

  ‘None of your business, sir.’

  ‘Well – it could be; when I come to spend Time there.’

  Enid blinked.

  ‘I’ll take my holidays then...’

  There was a beat.

  ‘Enid...’ As she hoped and dreaded he would, he locked their eyes together. ‘My deal said – if you spend Time there with me.’

  She didn’t believe she was exactly panting...

  ‘Why – would you want to spend time – with me?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ve hardly known you forty-eight hours.’ Their eyes smiled.

  ‘I’m trusting my instincts,’ he said and she could feel how pleased he was to believe it.

  She waited for her own instincts… Then she laughed and he said, ‘What?’

  ‘I was waiting for my instincts!’

  She thought his grin the kindest thing she had ever seen. ‘And?’

  Finally, she said, ‘I’m considerably older than you.’ And then added, ‘Sometimes I feel I’m older than everyone.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not relevant.’

  Enid Makin and Jack Vermande/Bentley entered a passage of light that fell only on them.

  86

  Five months later, with late late autumn rouging the trees and the low evening sun painting pastel harmonics everywhere, Jack parked the hire-car, hitched his bag over one shoulder and walked the cart-track, wolfing the late blackberries. He skirted the trees behind the house, to surprise her. He made it to the back of the house and feeling like a naughty child tiptoed up the stairs to the door.

  The latch stuck – you had to jiggle it just so. Enid looked up from her vegetable garden.

  ‘Hello stranger,’ she called, making him jump. His grin cut all distance between them.

  ‘Hi, Enid.’

  ‘You’ve come.’

  ‘I have.’

  She straightened the wide straw hat and rolled her shirt-sleeves down. Stood the hoe beside the sprouts and wiping her hands on her skirt, came slowly up the stairs. Thinking, he has come back. To be my lover.

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  They stood outside the front door. He was wearing fond old jeans, a tee-shirt and jacket.

  ‘You get a bath fitted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Electricity?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gas?’

  ‘No.’

  He smiled. ‘You happy?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You writing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  He leaned forward and placed a first kiss on her blooming cheek.

  ‘Did you get another bed?’

  Enid Makin looked at her first lover. ‘I did not.’

  He kissed the other cheek. Their eyes locked again.

  This, she thought, is the first time in my whole life I don’t feel plain.

  In the morning he said, ‘I’m going to buy me a rocking chair.’

  ‘O.K.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘As you please. But I have imported a leather arm-chair.’ Her fingers rolled in a thick strand of her grey fallen hair.

  On the evening of their first full day together Jack sat and rocked, his feet up on the stone of the staircase wall his father had re-built.

  ‘May I read something you wrote, please?’

  ‘You may.’ She smiled and went inside, and emerged with a sizeable pile of neatly stacked paper.

  ‘This is new.’

  He nodded. ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘I’ve been happy.’

  ‘Great.’

  He turned a first page.

  ‘The cat scratched at the window. I must fix that volet...’ he read.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  Acknowledgements are most sincerely due to Carol Dyhouse and Janet Howarth for their fantastic serendipitous aid in researching University Entrance after WW2; to David Robinson and David Hartley for their memories of Head-mastering and of the ‘real’ Ms Makin; to Min Roosevelt for her forensic proof-reading and to Stephen Bill for all his structural and other suggestions, all of which I have shamelessly nimmed and only he and I know how serious they were. And how eagerly pounced upon.

  And to Judy Holt, Helen Parry, Linda Sheridan, Anita Vitesse, Mark Charnock, Hugh Fraser, Michael Monaghan, Sally Bretton, Sofia Cann, Kenny Glenaan, Joanna Daniels, Yvette Huddlestone, Claire Parker,Helen Snook, Jenny Secombe, Kate Hardie, Robin and Nicky Benger, David Fielder, Roy Richards, John Abulafia, Susie Wooldridge, Rob Porter and Cal Macann
inch, amongst others I’ve shamefully forgotten, who gave freely of that Most Precious of gifts – encouragement – my bottomless thanks.

  A note from the publisher

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  About the Author

  George Costigan has been a motor-parts storeman, a trainee accountant, another trainee accountant (both failed) a steel-worker, an insurance clerk, a wood-cutter, a bookseller, a record salesman, a book-keeper for a wedding-dress business – and then someone asked him to be in a play.

  College followed and a career that started in children’s theatre, then took in Butlins Repetory Theatre in Filey and eventually landed him at the Liverpool Everyman theatre. It was here he met some hugely influential people – Chris Bond, Alan Bleasedale, Alan Dossor and above all, Julia North.

  His acting career has included working with Sally Wainwright, Willy Russell, Alan Clarke and Clint Eastwood. He has directed Daniel Day-Lewis and Pete Postlethwaite, and his writing for the stage includes several Liverpool Everyman pub shows and ‘Trust Byron’, for which he was nominated for Best Actor at the 1990 Edinburgh Festival. He and Julia North have three sons and two grandsons.