‘I thought we were finished.’
All the men swivelled towards Archie Methven, perched on his parlour chair. Methven frowned at the notebook with its reckonings, its blue horizontals and red verticals, then nodded, turned to the new recruit.
‘But you have to bet to play.’
Alec laid down his offering, as though it was nothing but a minor prize. For a moment the men stared as though it was something they had never seen before. Then a murmuring began, whispers around what remained of Godfrey’s section. Here was a real gamble. Not pennies. Or buttons. Or rough tobacco in a little paper screw. But the chance of something much more special. A best Sunday suit. A pair of fine leather shoes. Or even better than that:
A gold ring.
A fur stole.
A diamond, perhaps.
Alec’s bet was a pawn ticket, no.125. That small square of blue.
They all felt it then, the sudden thrill of the unknown. A bet on life rather than death, the possibility of survival. The boy played his card as though that was nothing special, too, laid it down amongst the chiff chaff for all to see. A knave. The knave. The knave of trumps. The new recruit had caught the ten. Game over. Winner takes all.
Two
It began with a fight as it always did, one man against another, everyone else standing around to watch, Godfrey’s section threatening to collapse from the inside out now that the first round had been played. 8 November, nine men lined up in the yard waiting for Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson to parade them for the day, no idea that this was the morning they were supposed to have been ordered over, crawling through a drainage ditch towards a certain death before breakfast had even been served.
The whistling was low at first, Percy Flint at the end of the section, cuffs buttoned, hair tamped down. It was an old song from the music hall back home, melody snaking along the line.
Who were you with last night
Under the pale moonlight . . .
Bertie Fortune jabbing at Flint with his elbow to make him stop. But Flint did not give up. The whistling soon gave way to song, a thin voice, unpleasant, stretching for the high notes:
‘Who were you with last night
Under the pale moonlight?
It wasn’t your sister
It wasn’t your ma . . .
I saw yer, I saw yer . . .’
Flint could not sing well, but they all knew the words.
Ralph appeared on the step of the farmhouse, a grin growing on his face as the song grew, too. He leaned against the doorframe in his unbuttoned tunic to listen to Flint’s clumsy crooning in the rain:
‘I saw yer
I saw yer . . .’
Then he started to sing, too, a strong voice and pure:
‘Like a rosy apple red
Out with Uncle Fred
I saw yer, I saw yer . . .’
The words rippling down the line all the way to Promise where he stood with his hair uncombed.
The fair A4 boy flushed bright as a coxcomb when he realized what they were saying, shifted to his right as though to disassociate himself from the singing, leaving a gap between him and the rest. Promise did not like to fight, would avoid it unless he was ordered. So it was left to Jackdaw to take Promise’s place. He made a gesture, cupping his hand at the crotch of his trousers.
‘You can have some if you want some, Flint. But you’ll have to bloody pay.’
Flint stopped singing. ‘You dirty little bastard. Could have you both on a charge.’
But Jackdaw just laughed. ‘What, not the right kind of hole for you?’
‘That’s enough.’
Bertie Fortune grabbed the A4 boy’s arm, tried to warn him. Not everyone was prepared to protect two boys who liked to tumble in the hayloft, whatever else went on. But Jackdaw shook the lucky man off, made a thrusting gesture in Percy Flint’s direction.
‘Some of that fancy soap should do it, Flint. Ease the way in.’
The gob of phlegm that splattered across Jackdaw’s cheek then was warm, like the blood that had spurted from a chicken’s neck. Jackdaw didn’t even wait to wipe it from his face, launched himself at Flint instead, jabbing and pecking with his fingernails, scratching at Flint’s eyes. Jackdaw might only have been eighteen, but he knew how to scrap, how to stick the bayonet in and give it a twist. Flint flung up his arms to cover his face.
‘For fuck’s sake, get off, man.’
Kicked out blind at Jackdaw’s dodging, weaving body. The other men broke ranks, gathered round.
Fight, fight, fight.
All but Promise, who shrank from the brawl, hiding behind Alec and his little dog, as Jackdaw skipped in for one final rake of his fingernails down Flint’s face before he danced away. The wound was superficial but impressive, raw in the pale light of morning. Flint was furious. He dib dabbed two fingers to his cheek, saw the blood.
‘You fucking bastard, I’ll do you for that.’
Lurched towards Jackdaw where he stood grinning in the rain. Bertie Fortune grabbed for Flint’s arm, tried to stop him. Promise cowered. The dog barked, once, twice. Ralph just laughed.
‘Flint!’ Captain Godfrey Farthing stepped from the door of the farmhouse where he had been shaving in the back room, came over to the men. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Flint pulled away from Bertie Fortune’s grip, jabbing a finger towards the darker A4 boy.
‘He bloody started it.’
Godfrey turned to where Jackdaw stood on the far side of the pump, eyes alight with the damage he had caused.
‘Private Jackson?’
Jackdaw didn’t reply, stuck his hands into his pockets, dropped his head to stare at the mud on his boots.
Godfrey frowned. ‘So who will tell me what’s going on?’
Though he didn’t really need to ask. There was an awkward shifting, each one of Godfrey’s section glancing towards Second Lieutenant Svenson, before looking away. Godfrey came to stand in front of his second.
‘Lieutenant Svenson?’
Ralph blinked once, his eyes almost translucent in the morning light. Then he shrugged, put his hands in his pockets, too. There was silence, one officer staring at the other. Then Godfrey stepped away.
‘Back in line, everybody. You, there –’ to Flint. ‘You there –’ to Jackdaw. ‘Opposite ends this time. Hawes in charge.’
The men began to shuffle into some sort of order as Godfrey turned back to the farmhouse, Flint still cursing beneath his breath as he dabbed again at his cheek. But Jackdaw couldn’t resist, hissing the insult as Flint slunk past.
‘Stinking Phyllis.’
It was Bertie Fortune who laughed now, Archie Methven who grinned. All the men knew that Flint had been treated for syphilis twice that year alone. Flint turned on Jackdaw, body right up against the younger man’s.
‘Shut yer face or I’ll give you something you won’t forget.’
‘You wish,’ Jackdaw sniped.
‘Which way do you want it? Up the arse or in the cakehole,’ Flint jibed, before jerking his head towards Promise. ‘Or shall I give it to your boyfriend instead?’
Alfred Walker cheered then, Promise shrinking even further behind Alec, Ralph with his arms across his chest grinning before he decided to take charge.
‘Do as the captain says, boys. Back in line.’
As though he was not a boy himself.
Jackdaw stood for a moment, pushing the black cowl of hair from his face. Then, as he moved to retake his place, he bumped the young officer, grabbing for him as they fell. The men stood in silence this time as there in the mud they wrestled – Jackdaw slippery and wild, grappling at Ralph’s clothes and his hair, Ralph rolling and scrabbling in an attempt to get on top. Two boys scrapping as though they were in a school playground again. Until Godfrey Farthing came running once more.
That morning the rain fell like it had on Noah during the flood. In the yard, Hawes was calling the orders, Ralph forced to watch as the officer in charge.
‘Now men, as you’re told.’
About turn. March. Halt. Then repeat. Men tracking through the mud, their heads bare, their hair and shoulders soaked. No more time for chasing chickens. No more room for larking in the hayloft. No more time for cards. Through the parlour window Godfrey noticed that Jackdaw and Promise stood at opposite ends of the line this time, didn’t look at each other as they trekked through the mud along with the rest. He felt sorry for the A4 boys. He liked them. But he knew that together they were weak.
In the parlour, Godfrey took the orders from the top pocket of his tunic, read them over once again. He had woken early that morning with his heart in his throat, anticipating the enemy at the door. But when he rose to look, he’d found everything still. Low mist in the fields and the whole world covered in a glorious morning dew, sparkling across the roof tiles and the pump, the naked rosebush by the gate. The only sound had been the stream running through the pond and out again, a single blackbird singing in a hedge. There had been no sign of the enemy. Another day survived.
Now, as the men paraded in the rain, Godfrey took the battered tobacco tin from the wooden lockbox and eased off the lid. He tucked the orders behind a row of ten neat Capstans, replaced the lid again, fingers fluttering as though they’d never stop. Ignoring a direct order would be reason for a court martial, if he could not explain himself. Godfrey pressed two fingers to a spot just above his heart, felt the ghost of shrapnel shifting in his chest. The euphoria he’d experienced on rising to find dawn had already been and gone, had dissipated now after the fight in the yard, replaced by a small seam of anxiety worming its way in. He put the tobacco tin in the wooden box, was about to lock it when he heard a sudden cough, a shuffle of boots on the stone flags of the entrance hall. He looked up to find Hawes loitering at the door.
‘Brought this back for you, sir,’ said Godfrey’s temporary sergeant. ‘Don’t think I’ll be needing it again.’
He laid a small leather pouch on the parlour table – all that remained of the men’s tobacco ration. The two men gazed at the pouch, before Godfrey slid it towards him, lifted the lid of the wooden box and dropped it in. He and his temporary sergeant both knew there would not be another game. The brass key rattled in the hole as he locked the box again. There was silence for a moment before Godfrey spoke, a cold edge to his voice.
‘Anything else I can help you with, Hawes?’
‘Is there a script, sir?’ Hawes said. ‘For Jackdaw.’
The A4 boy’s punishment. Striking a Superior Officer. Death in the worst-case scenario. Godfrey glanced through the parlour window at Ralph attempting to wash his face beneath the pump. He shook his head.
‘Not this time.’
‘The lieutenant won’t like it,’ said the temporary sergeant.
‘The lieutenant can go hang.’
Hawes’s neck pinked up then, his arms, too. Godfrey sighed.
‘Do you think we’re ready, Hawes?’ he asked.
‘A soldier’s always got to be ready, sir.’
‘Yes, but you know what I mean.’
‘Is anyone ever ready, sir.’
It wasn’t a question. Godfrey nodded, put his fingers on the top of the lockbox containing instructions to cross the river, engage the enemy, hold their ground whatever happened.
‘Would you disobey a direct order, Hawes?’ he asked.
Hawes coughed again then, a clearing of his chest.
‘Not sure I’m the man to ask.’
It was Ralph who came to take Hawes’s place once the temporary sergeant had left to hand out chores for the day. Godfrey’s second lieutenant appeared covered in mud and chicken shit, a cut on his brow from his fight with Jackdaw, fury like a midnight fire lit in his eyes.
‘Is that it, then,’ he said, stamping into the parlour in his dirty boots, ‘no further action?’
Ralph the youngster demanding fair play.
‘I’m assuming we’re talking about Jackson here,’ said Godfrey.
‘You have to punish him.’
‘What for?’
‘For fighting me,’ Ralph said. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
A dirty blond curl had fallen loose from Ralph’s usual parting, no hint of lemon oil now. Godfrey hadn’t realized just how wavy it was, the boy’s hair, like that of some sort of demented cherub. He ran a hand around the back of his own neck, felt the soft prickle of an old man’s stubble even though he was not yet twenty-six.
‘He was only defending himself, wasn’t he. I heard the singing.’
Ralph coloured. ‘It was insubordination.’
‘Really?’
‘Striking an officer.’
Godfrey leaned back in his chair. ‘Since when did you become all concerned with protocol?’
The two officers stared at each other for a moment. It was Ralph who looked away first. Godfrey tapped on the edge of the table with his fingers. The cut on Ralph’s forehead looked deep, as though it might benefit from a stitch or two. A war wound, Godfrey thought, something for the boy to display. He touched his own forehead as though in sympathy.
‘Does it hurt?’
Ralph was sullen. ‘A little.’
‘Alec could sew it for you. He says he’s good with the needle.’
‘No!’
Ralph’s voice was cut through with something Godfrey had never heard before. Hurt. As though he was a child again. Godfrey frowned at his second then. It was hard to remember what Ralph had been like when he first arrived. A boy who grinned when they shook hands, who smelt of cut grass and candle wax, that high note of lemon. Now Godfrey couldn’t help but notice how strong his second had become compared to the other young men, Ralph’s body all muscle where theirs were all bone. Only a few weeks before Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson had been soft, his shoulders and his arms rounded with a layer of fat that came from sweet living. But now he was lithe beneath his uniform. Godfrey wouldn’t bet against him in a fight.
‘Clean yourself up now,’ he said, turning away as though the business between them had been concluded. ‘Then I want you to get a work party together, dig a new latrine.’
‘What about the game?’
Ralph still sounded hopeful, but Godfrey’s reply held a warning, as though daring his young second to contest.
‘No more games for now, Ralph. Not after this morning’s little escapade.’
‘But . . .’
‘And tell Fortune I need him.’
‘What for?’
Godfrey stood all of a sudden, exasperated. What was it about this boy that he couldn’t take instruction? ‘Just do as you’re told. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t been so gingered up about those damn chickens.’
Ralph scowled, a young lad still, retreated to the parlour door. Then he stood there in his muddy, crumpled tunic.
‘I know what you’re trying,’ he said, strange eyes flicking from Godfrey to the lockbox and back again. ‘It won’t do any good.’
Bertie Fortune was up to his arms in the great earthenware sink, alone in the kitchen washing the mess tins, when Godfrey came to search him out. Godfrey had decided not to wait for Ralph to carry out his orders, realized that he couldn’t rely on his young second to do what he asked now.
Fortune was whistling while he worked, a tune learned from the Americans they had encountered before the big spring push. Brand new men, all with swagger, marching up the line at just the moment Godfrey and the rest were bent so far backwards it seemed they must fall. Alfred Walker had taken to them straight away, spent all his time pestering with questions about dollars and candy, had been talking about the promised land ever since. Whereas Bertie Fortune had been much more practical, used the opportunity to enrich himself. Razor blades and eau de cologne. Fancy soap in waxed paper. English treasure for American gold, swapped again for French.
Now Godfrey watched Bertie Fortune for a moment as he clattered the mess tins, the remains of the lye creating a scummy sort of lather, grease all about the lucky man’s wrists. He
wondered for a moment if he might be making a mistake. Godfrey was fond of his fixer, a man who grasped life and turned it to his advantage, would do anything for anyone if you made it worth his while. But he also knew that Bertie Fortune only ever delivered in strict order. Whoever paid first, came first. Unless someone paid more, in which case that trumped everything else. Godfrey Farthing turned his young lieutenant’s dice in his pocket, knew the game wasn’t finished yet.
In the attic room above the kitchen, Percy Flint stood with a bowl of water poured from Stone’s black kettle, waiting as Second Lieutenant Svenson washed. Ralph’s body glowed in the low November light. Flint was amazed at how much healthier the young lieutenant appeared compared to all the other men. He would have touched Ralph if he dared, just to see that it was real, the flex of muscle beneath the boy’s skin. But an officer was an officer, no matter how young, not someone an ordinary footslogger like Flint ever wanted to cross.
Ralph splashed warm water on his face, ran his hands through his hair, then scrubbed at his head with an old scrap of towel. When he emerged he was in the pink again, the losses of the previous night all rubbed clean.
‘Here you go, sir. I got this for you.’
Flint handed Ralph a fresh shirt, the lieutenant’s second best, chicken blood scrubbed from its collar, washed and aired in the grain store. Ralph pulled it over his head and tucked it into his breeches, smoothed the front.
‘You like to keep things nice, Flint,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
Ralph took a pack of Woodbines from his trouser pocket, offered them up.
‘You can have one if you want, Flint. As a thanks for helping me.’
‘Sir.’
Flint didn’t wait to be told twice, slid a tab from the pack. Ralph slipped the rest of the Woodbines back into his pocket.
‘Sorry about your reel of thread, Flint,’ he said. ‘Didn’t quite go the way we intended.’
The Inheritance of Solomon Farthing Page 18