Tomorrow, Jerusalem

by Tomorrow, Jerusalem (retail) (epub)

  ‘Sorry – haven’t seen him.’ The girl made to move on, then stopped. ‘Oh – there were an extra couple of carriages added – other end of the train – p’raps he’s there?’

  She scrambled from the train, cursing the greatcoat that might keep her warm but which, together with her uniform, made any kind of swift movement all but impossible. She ran along the crowded platform, glancing in windows, acknowledging greetings. In doing so she all but fell over a little, cheerful orderly who stood with a list waving the diminishing queue of hobbling wounded into the benched carriages. ‘Ah, Corporal Denton,’ her voice was relieved; at last a familiar face, ‘Captain Redfern. He’s on the train?’

  ‘Sure is.’ The little man grinned broadly, waved his pencil. ‘Last carriage. You’ve got about four minutes.’

  She picked up her skirts and ran. The door of the last carriage stood open. She hesitated. In the gloom several pairs of eyes looked at her.

  ‘Hannah!’

  She almost fell into the carriage. Then stopped, absurdly abashed. He lay strapped into a bunk, the inevitable leather case clutched to his breast. Trying to control her thumping heart and disordered breathing, she moved to him. The man in the upper bunk grinned at her, ostentatiously started a conversation with the man opposite.

  He reached a hand. ‘I – thought you weren’t going to make it.’

  ‘I very nearly didn’t. I couldn’t find you.’

  The engine shrieked, the train jerked, clattered metallically, stilled.

  Their linked hands were cold. ‘Take care,’ she said. ‘Do everything they tell you. Get well.’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘Perhaps—’

  ‘May I write?’ They spoke together.

  She nodded. ‘Please. I’d like that.’

  ‘And you – you’ll write to me?’

  Again she nodded.

  On the platform voices were raised. Doors slammed. A whistle shrilled. She dropped to one knee beside him, her face on a level with his. Very gently he lifted her hand to his lips. For a long, still moment they stayed so, silent, eyes locked.

  Another whistle. An orderly came to the carriage door, swung it, stopped. ‘You with the train, Sister?’

  She stood up. ‘No.’

  He grinned. ‘Well, you will be if you aren’t careful.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  Still their hands clung.

  Then she let go, gently withdrawing her hand from his clasp. She turned. At the door his voice stopped her. ‘Hannah?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be careful. Be very careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  She stepped from the carriage, swung the heavy door closed. All along the train people were stepping back, turning, walking away. She lifted a hand in farewell, saw him smile, his own hand lifted in answer.

  Then she turned and hurried through the rain, back along the platform. The train chuffed asthmatically then, puffing small, determined explosions of steam it began to move, slowly at first, but picking up speed, wheels humming smoothly on the rails. Men leaned from the windows waving. She felt the wind of its passing.

  As the carriage in which Giles lay sped past her she was at the gate and hurrying, back to Ralph.

  * * *

  To her surprise he was calm, reasonable; even apologetic. All the arguments she had marshalled so frantically as she hurried back from the station remained unuttered. As she stepped through the door he stood up, facing her, and said, ‘You’re right, of course. I’ll go back.’

  The wind taken from her sails entirely she stared at him, the wet greatcoat dripping on to the worn carpet. Outside the sky was darkening and the evening barrage had started, its fire flickering like lightning.

  She slipped the heavy coat from her shoulders, hung it dripping on the back of the door. Her hair, she suddenly realized, was drenched. It clung to her head in sodden rats’ tails. He smiled a little at sight of her, walked to the wash stand, tossed her a small towel. She rubbed her hair vigorously. Stopped. Looked at him. Rubbed it again. The room was darkening by the moment, the flash of the gunfire threw dancing shadows on the walls. The sound was like distant thunder, disregarded.

  She ran her fingers through still damp hair. ‘You’re going back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked at him in helpless puzzlement.

  He shrugged. ‘You’re right. I don’t suppose I ever actually intended to go through with it. Everything—’ he hesitated, ‘—everything just got on top of me, that’s all. But of course you’re right. I can’t get myself shot as a deserter.’ He smiled very faintly, ‘Apart from anything else Charlotte would definitely never speak to me again.’

  Her attempt at a smile was as weak as his attempt at humour, but it brought an answering glimmer to his face. ‘Will you get away with it, do you think? I mean – will you have been missed?’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t know. Depends how fast I can get back.’

  ‘You’ll be in trouble?’

  ‘No more than usual.’

  The words fell flatly into the dusk. She flinched a little from them and from the inference of his expressionless voice.

  ‘You saw your – friend – off?’

  She turned to the fire, rubbing her cold hands. ‘Yes.’

  He waited, inviting her to say more. When she did not he moved to her side. She saw the flash of white in the gloom as he held up the picture. ‘He did this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s very good.’ His voice was quiet.

  Giles was gone. She was glad – so very glad – that he was out of danger, at least for a while, that he would be with his loved ones, mending, regaining his strength – and she was unhappy, with a depth of unhappiness that chilled her soul as the rain and wind had chilled her body. How long before she saw him again? She said nothing. She could not speak of him. Not, she realized in sudden surprise, without tears.

  ‘Well—’ Very carefully Ralph laid the picture upon the table, came back to her side, put an arm lightly about her shoulder. ‘If I’m to have half a chance of getting back unnoticed I’d better be off.’

  ‘You should have something to eat – a cup of tea—’ She glanced vaguely about her, as if such things could be conjured from thin air.

  ‘No. Don’t worry. I’ll find something on the way. There’ll be ambulances going up the line. I’ll hitch a lift. It’ll be all right.’

  She lifted her face to his. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Ralph.’

  He smiled. Said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry – I haven’t been much help.’

  ‘I’m going back. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course. But—’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s I who should apologize. I shouldn’t have come.’ He leant to her, dropped the lightest of kisses on her damp hair. ‘But – I’m glad I did.’

  She took his hand. ‘Let me know what happens. If you need any help—’

  ‘I will.’ Gently he disengaged himself, quietly walked to the door, raised his hand, and with no goodbye left her, pulling the door softly to behind him.

  She stood for a very long time, silent and cold, watching the flames of the small fire, listening to the rumbling concussion of the guns.

  When the tired and miserable tears began to drip from her chin on to her crumpled apron she made no move to stop them or to wipe them away.

  It was a long, long time before she dashed her hand across her face, moved to the window, drew the heavy blinds and with a hand that shook a little lit the small lamp. That done she stood for a moment, aimlessly, sniffing a little. God damn this vile war. And damn too the accident that had placed her in a different billet from Fiona MacAdam and her whisky bottle.

  II

  Major Peter Patten’s first leave in eighteen months fell in May 1916. His battalion had been in and out of the line around Ypres for four months, though for the moment that part of the Front, with the pressure still being mercilessly exerted on the F
rench forces at Verdun further south, was relatively quiet. For a while there had been rumours that they would all be shipped down in support but, somewhat to his disappointment, nothing had come of it. Then, stronger and more reliable, word filtered through the grapevine; an offensive, and soon, by the British to draw the enemy’s attention away from the savagely mauled French armies and give them time to recover from the terrible hammering they had received in the last months. There would be no leave once that started, he knew; so when an unexpected opportunity arose, he took it. On his way to the coast he stopped near Amiens to see his brother Ben. He found him in a comfortable billet in the servants’ quarters of the château that had been converted into a base hospital, sitting in the sunlight that streamed through the open window, his feet on the windowsill, his nose in a book. The room was like a library – stacks of books overflowed the shelves on to tables, chairs and the floor. Reams of written notes were scattered about the room. Peter pushed his peaked hat to the back of his head and surveyed the disarray with mocking astonishment. ‘Good Lord! When did the bomb drop?’

  Ben glanced up, his first expression irritation, his second, as he recognized his unexpected visitor, pure pleasure. He unfolded his vast frame from the solid wooden chair in which he had been lounging and knocked over a pile of books in his good-natured lunge towards his brother. ‘Peter! Good to see you! When did you get in?’ They gripped hands, grinning broadly.

  Peter, releasing his hand gingerly from the iron grip, slapped his brother on the back and then with the air of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat held up an unopened bottle of whisky. ‘Voila, as they tend to say in this area. Oú est the glasses?’

  Laughing, Ben rummaged amongst books and papers, produced a couple of wine glasses. ‘All I’ve got, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’ll do. Beats drinking out of the bottle.’

  Ben watched as he splashed out two generous measures. ‘I’ve been meaning to look you up. We were not far from you the other day – at the CCS at Poperinghe – unfortunately Fritz had other ideas. Cheers.’ He took the glass, sipped it. They grinned at each other again over the rims of the inappropriate glasses. ‘Oh, and I forgot to say – congratulations, Major Patten.’

  ‘Thanks. And to you, Major – hear you’ve been put on Bix-Arnold’s team?’

  Ben nodded.

  Peter laughed. ‘Even I’ve heard of him.’ He threw himself down in a chair, not bothering to move the papers that were scattered on its seat. Ben opened his mouth, shut it again, sat down himself. They looked at each other for a second of smiling silence, caught in a warm moment of pleasure.

  Ben sipped from his glass. ‘How come you’re here? How long do you have?’

  ‘Me – I’m off to Blighty. Ten days. Thought I’d drop by on the way.’ He grinned again. ‘You can take me out to dinner tonight if you’d like?’

  ‘A pleasure.’

  They sipped their drinks again, in the silence of those who had so much to tell that a starting point was hard to find. Peter leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘Seen anything of Hannah?’

  ‘Once or twice, yes. She’s not far from here – near Albert – and we get out there once or twice a month. Sir Brian’s an old mate of her Matron’s.’

  Peter laughed. ‘What a character that is! Have you been invited to one of her At Homes?’

  Ben nodded, smiling.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it! Sunday afternoon tea with all the trimmings – cucumber sandwiches, cakes from Harrods, a choice of Indian or China – The Mikado churning out on the gramophone – no wonder the poor bloody Boches can’t win the war! She’d probably hold her tea parties in No Man’s Land if she had to!’

  ‘She very nearly did. She used to run a dressing station up hear you – and come hell, high water or high explosive, Matron’s At Homes were held regular as clockwork. She thinks it’s good for the “dear boys” to get out of the trenches and into some sort of civilized company every now and again – by which, of course, she means the company of the gentler, and in her opinion the superior sex. She’s probably right. Dinner jacket in the jungle and all that –you can’t scoff at it entirely.’

  ‘Am I scoffing? I should say not. I had a ripping time. That friend of Hannah’s – Fiona something – now there’s someone really special.’ Peter leaned forward and replenished the glasses. ‘She had a Jock captain almost down on his kilted knees and proposing within five minutes of meeting her!’

  Ben leaned back, turning the glass in his hand. ‘They’re doing a wonderful job, all of them. But both Hannah and her Matron – she’s Lady Bennet, by the way, did you know? – are agitating to get the Station moved up closer to the line.’

  ‘Well if Matron Lady Bennet is as good at agitating as our Hannah you might as well tell whoever needs to be told to give in now and save themselves a lot of trouble.’ Peter grinned, and then, more seriously, ‘How much closer?’

  ‘Close.’ Ben was not smiling.

  ‘Dangerously close?’

  ‘Yes. And for a very good reason. They aren’t being foolish, in fact it’s hard to fault their arguments. We’re losing a lot of men we shouldn’t be losing simply because it takes so long to get them to the Clearing Stations. Chest and abdominal wounds – heads – they all need quick if not instant surgery. They lie out for hours, sometimes days, before they’re picked up – and then the journey kills them. Or gas gangrene gets them. There’d be nowhere near the incidence if we could get to them quicker than we do – and, Hannah and Lady Bennet are absolutely right – the closer the CCS is to the line the more chance the casualties have of recovery. But—’

  ‘But you can’t put women in the front line. It’s utterly unacceptable.’ Peter drained his glass.

  Ben surveyed his a little quizzically, tilting it, watching the sunlight reflected in the amber liquid. ‘Tell Hannah that,’ he said. ‘Or Lady Bennet. Or Fiona MacAdam. But duck when you say it—’

  They dined in a small restaurant in the town, the room full of English uniforms, the food good, the wine better. They exchanged news and rumour, compared notes, tried to make some sense of the progress of the war.

  ‘Stalemate,’ Peter said, pensively gathering crumbs with his thumb. ‘Something’s got to break – or someone. Though God knows what – or who. The French are taking a hell of a hammering in the south – Fritz must have expected to break through by now – but still they hang on, and still they throw him back. Word is it’s our turn next.’

  Ben nodded.

  Peter leaned back, nursing his brandy glass. ‘Roll on, I say. Sooner the better. By the way – did you know our Sally’s out here?’

  Ben’s head lifted sharply. ‘Sally? Out here? What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s driving for some colonel or other according to Hannah. They’ve seen quite a bit of each other over the past few weeks. Hannah and Sally, that is. Apparently Sal’s based at HQ here at Amiens – or her colonel is – I’m surprised you haven’t run across each other?’

  ‘What about the child?’

  ‘Philippa?’ Peter shrugged. ‘Sal’s left her back at the Bear with the faithful Marie-Clare. Seems Sally couldn’t bring herself to sit twiddling her thumbs and playing with the children for the duration. Come on, Ben,’ he added, eyeing Ben’s forbidding face a little curiously, ‘knowing our Sal – and knowing the circumstances – you can hardly blame her?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘It’s none of my business what the girl does. You’re going home tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s right. Got passage from Le Havre. Ought to be back at the dear old Bear by Wednesday. Any messages?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled, a little selfconsciously. ‘Lots of love and kisses to Rachel. Tell her I’ve got her the present she wanted – she’ll know what I mean. Pass on, if you will, to Pa the things I’ve been telling you – I don’t get enough time to write as often as I should, and I know he’s interested in what we’re doing out here – and Charlotte—’ he paused, ‘well, just give her my love. The
se Zeppelin raids – she doesn’t say too much in her letters, but what little she does – they frighten her a lot. She’s not—’ he stopped.

  Peter drained his glass. ‘Sodding things,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Who’s to blame her for being a bit funky? I’m not sure I’d be too keen myself. There doesn’t seem to be a way of bringing the buggers down. But we’ll find it. No doubt about that. Filthy thing to do, this bombing civilians. Women and kids. I mean – it’s one thing to get Fritz in your sights and pull the trigger – or for him to do it to you, if he’s quicker – or to lob the odd grenade into a bunker – but bombing civilians? Bloody bad show I call it.’ His fair, handsome face was shadowed for a moment by indignation, then the quick grin returned. ‘I say – I don’t suppose you’d have any idea of the whereabouts of the tiniest game of chance this evening, do you? I feel the beginnings of a lucky streak coming on.’

  Ben, smiling, surveyed his younger brother. There could be no doubt about it – Peter was one of those who were having a good war. A regular soldier for more than eight years now, the army was his life, his natural environment – and war, logically, the activity for which he was trained and best fitted. He was neither insensitive nor stupid; he knew the horrors, perhaps better than anyone, recognized the risks and the brutal dangers of a modern warfare that had somehow overtaken man’s puny attempts to control it. But he was at his best in the trenches with his men; first over the top, last back, there with them in the sodden, mud-filled shell holes and amongst the clawing wire, brewing tea in a mined farmhouse, swilling rum in a foetid, rat-infested blockhouse. And they loved him for it. If you were going to get gassed, shot at, blasted or burned then the major was more than likely going to be right there with you, yelling his lungs out and swearing like a trooper. All but worshipped by his men, popular with his peers, highly regarded by his commanding officer, he was the very model of a professional soldier. And how often, Ben wondered with a small, strange stirring of tenderness, watching the fair, restless face, the bright, unshadowed eyes, was he ever afraid? How often – if ever? – did he want to scream in terror, throw himself down, run from the death, the disfigurement, the threat of crippling that howled in the air about him as he breasted the sandbags, crawled through the wire, led his exhausted men into retaking another square yard of useless, skeleton-strewn land? He could not ask. ‘Behind the barn,’ he said. ‘Pontoon. But watch your back teeth. They’re Aussies – they gamble the way they fight – no holds barred.’