As the destroyer sailed into Dover harbour, Guy saw a small crowd of people, English people, gathered on the quayside watching their arrival, cheering and waving flags at the returning soldiers. The men waved back but few felt like cheering. This was England. A cold and damp November morning in England, but still and forever England. Most of the men hadn’t stepped on home soil for months, even years.
Some were naked beneath their blankets, their pyjamas ripped off by the strength of the sea. Ray and Guy allowed themselves to be shuttled off and onto the train that would take them to London.
Guy’s every waking moment was taken up with Mary. The uncertainty was tormenting him; had she survived, had she been one of the nurses that stayed to the end, that had given their lives to be with the last men? He shuddered at the thought of her being sucked into that vortex. He should have done more. Why hadn’t he saved her? He couldn’t dislodge the image from his mind – Mary on the deck, without a life jacket, calmly ushering the blind lieutenant as if leading him on an excursion. She knew she was approaching death but seemed almost to be welcoming it. And that hurt – the thought that he’d made no difference.
Once in London, Guy and his travelling companions were transferred by ambulance to different hospitals, depending on the severity of their injuries. He’d expected things to look different from what he remembered and was amazed at how little had changed in the city. Everything seemed so normal, so annoyingly normal. What right had London to remain unaltered while he had changed so immeasurably, both outside and in? But after a while, he noticed something that was different – there were so few young men around and he couldn’t help but view the ones he did see with a certain degree of suspicion.
Guy and Ray were transferred to the Prince of Wales Hospital in Marylebone, formerly the Old Central Hotel. Somewhere, hidden within his anguish, Guy felt tremendously pleased to be back in London; he hadn’t realised how much he missed the sights and sounds of the capital. The trams, the motor vehicles, the horse-drawn traffic, the shouting of the street-traders, the automated music of the barrel-organs, the nauseating smell of the coal-fired smog. Ray merely seemed bemused by it all. ‘A far cry from your village in India, I guess,’ said Guy.
‘Oh yes. It’s all so marvellous. Guy, are you OK, my friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘No.’
Guy and Ray were shown to separate wards. He stood at the doorway and cast his eyes around. Everything seemed so large and spacious and so quiet compared to what he’d been used to. On a small table near the door, a vase full of pansies. A nurse showed him to his bed, next to which stood a small bedside cabinet and a chair. A dressing gown draped over the end of the bed. He thanked her.
‘Are you all right there, mate,’ said a man from the neighbouring bed, his arm in a sling and one eye heavily bandaged. ‘Nice here, ain’t it? Lovely comfy beds here, everything nice and clean, even the food’s nice.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘Yep, sure is the best hotel I’ve ever stayed in.’
The man was right; everything seemed so sanitized after the chaos of the CCS in France. Guy lay on his bed, exhausted, and realised with a thump of dismay that everything ahead of him was blank. He didn’t know how to fill the next five minutes, let alone five months.
‘So where you come from?’
‘What?’ It was the man next to him. ‘Oh, erm, local.’ He could think only of Mary, doll-like, her arms folded neatly on her chest, being tossed around the whirlpool, smiling, as she disappeared, spinning, into the dark.
‘Yeah, me too. London born, London bred. It’s good to get back, hey? Nightmare out there. You know, there was this lad I met out in France, yeah, and he was saying...’ Even beyond his freshly-dug grave, Jack had the ability to render him impotent with jealousy. He would have saved her had he been fit, had God not rendered him a cripple; he could have saved her still.
‘So I said, right, not bloody likely, the sergeant would have our guts for garters for that...’ It was the calmness in her eyes that haunted him. How could she have been so calm; how could Jack have given her such strength? He felt suffocated, and looked around for a window, but realised it was the memory of the sea crushing his chest that pressed on him; the water, rising, tickling his nostrils, like a feather on the breath of God.
‘I warned him, you know, I told him it was stupid. But he wouldn’t listen. Once he got the idea in his head...’
He listened to the sound of his breathing and remembered the gagging sensation of the wet mud choking him, buried under the earth as the shells landed nearby with unerring frequency. He remembered his breathing then too, his lungs like bellows, gasping for air.
‘You should’ve seen the look on his face. Picture, it was. That’d got him, the silly sod. So how long was you out there for? Hey?’
But Guy had fallen asleep.
*
Guy dreamt of Mary sitting at his bedside, wearing a long, dark blue dress with puffed upper arms, buttoned tightly to the top. Her right arm was covered with a cast and on her lap a pile of seaweed. She smiled at him and said, ‘We’re safe now, everything’s OK. We can’t come to any more harm.’
‘But you’ve gone,’ he said in a voice that seemed detached and faraway. ‘You didn’t have to go; I could’ve saved you.’
‘Guy, it’s me, wake up.’
‘No, no, I can’t. They’re waiting for me. I have to get back; I’ve got to save them.’
*
When, finally, he awoke, he found not Mary but Ray sitting at his bed. ‘Ray. Hello. What time is it?’
‘I don’t know but I fancy it is soon time for dinner. Fancy. It’s my new word for today.’
‘What?’
‘How are you, my friend?’
‘I don’t know. Fine. Terrible. My leg aches.’
‘Which one?’
‘The other one. D’you know, I can’t tell. God, I feel odd. Anyway,’ he said with a yawn, ‘how are you?’
‘Very well. I’ve leant to roll a cigarette with one hand. Fancy that?’
‘Yes, fancy. I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I don’t. The doctors said they’d send me home if I had a home to go to here, so they’re transferring me to Oxford. Fancy that – Oxford? It’s so famous in India. I can go home and tell everyone I’ve been to Oxford and all the girls will want to sleep with me. Just fancy.’
‘Yes, indeed, fancy. So they’re letting you out already?’
‘It’s just an arm, isn’t it? A flesh wound, they told me.’
‘Then what?’ asked Guy.
‘Home, I suppose. India.’
‘Yes, I do know where you come from. You must be looking forward to that.’
‘I think so.’
‘Anyone waiting for you back home?’
‘Yes, oh yes, indeed.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, the fucking debt collector.’
‘Ha, you fool.’
‘It will seem like a different place, I think.’
‘Yes, I know the feeling. Thanks, Ray. You know... for everything.’
‘Is that it? I save your life and that’s the best I get?’
‘Yeah, but don’t forget you deserted me also.’
‘Hah, so that evens things out? You English. You think us Indians strange. Yet there’s no stranger race than the Englishman. I have learnt to find the true meaning of what an Englishman says by listening to what he doesn’t say. Now, my friend, I’m going downstairs to watch a film. Charlie Chaplin. He’s so funny. Do you want to come?’
‘No, I’ll stay here.’
‘Okey-dokey.’ He laughed at the expression. ‘Oh, before I go, I have news for you. Important news. Your friend, the nurse, Mary.’
‘Yes?’
‘I just saw her.’
‘Good God, where?’
‘Here. In this very chair. Oh yes, she has a little room all to herself, just down the corridor from me. She broke her arm, but she is well. Yes. She sends her love and says she will come back soon. Isn’t that good news? Fancy that. Guy, my friend, speak to me, what’s the matter with you; has the cat got your tongue...?’
Finding a pair of slippers under the bed, Guy donned his dressing gown and followed Ray down a long corridor and along another. ‘This way, this way,’ said his friend, as if leading him on a mysterious expedition. He stopped outside a door with a small plaque bearing the number eleven. ‘Here we are,’ he whispered. ‘You knock. I go. Good luck, my friend.’
‘Come in.’ Guy’s heart thumped at the sound of her voice.
She was standing next to her bed dressed exactly as he’d seen her in his dream. She was holding a shawl, dark green.
On seeing each other, they rushed to embrace. ‘Guy, oh, Guy, heavens, it’s so nice to see you.’
‘I thought I’d lost you.’
‘No, I’m still here. Remember, fourth year swimming champion of nineteen ten?’
‘I really thought... It doesn’t matter now. You’re here and that’s all that matters.’
‘Yes, it’s all that matters. Come, sit next to me on the bed. How are you?’
‘I’m fine now, just fine.’
‘We live to fight another day, eh?’
‘Well, you perhaps, not me. So, you’re out of uniform.’
‘Yes, it feels strange wearing normal clothes. And out of hospital. I’ve already been discharged. I’m leaving this afternoon. I’m moving back in with Josephine.’
‘Of course. How is the arm? Ray told me you’d broken it.’
‘Who on earth is Ray?’
‘Kiran.’
‘Oh, Kiran, why do you call him Ray?’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s fine but I broke both bones in the forearm. Funny thing, I have no recollection of doing it. Isn’t that strange? I was lucky, you know. I jumped in with this poor chap who couldn’t swim; he was petrified, even with the life jacket. One of the boats picked us up and took us all the way back to shore. It wasn’t far, of course. They say it was a mine that did it.’
‘Yes, so I’d heard. How long do you have to wear the cast?’
‘About six weeks, then, if I was returning to some little job in an office or a shop somewhere, I’d be OK to go back to work. But not France, the work there is too strenuous. They won’t let me go back for months. By then the war will be over.’
‘Not such a bad thing.’
‘No, of course not. But...’ She sighed. ‘It gave me a purpose in life. And I need a purpose even more now than ever. What am I going to do? Sit around all day and think of my life as it should’ve been – marrying Jack, being a wife. Perhaps a mother one day. I miss him so much, Guy.’
‘You and me both. Listen, Mary, I’m thinking of visiting my parents tomorrow afternoon. Come with me.’
‘Oh, Guy, I’m not sure.’
‘You have to face them sometime. We can go together, get it over and done with.’
‘I suppose I will be just round the corner from them again.’
‘So will you come?’
‘I don’t know. OK, yes, I’d love to.’
Making his way back to his ward, Guy stopped at the communal telephone booth and telephoned his mother.
‘Oh, Guy, Guy, oh Lord, is it you?’
Guy grinned. ‘Yes, Mother, it’s me.’
‘Guy, my boy... how lovely... Arthur, Arthur, it’s Guy...’ She trailed off, her voice caught between sobs. ‘Are you OK, Guy? Tell me you’re OK. Yes, Arthur, Guy, it’s Guy on the telephone.’
‘I’m fine, Mother, really I am. Can I come visit? Tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Ohh, yes, yes, please, please do...’ She said more but her words were lost to grateful tears.
And so it was arranged – three o’clock the following afternoon. Mary would join them a little later.
*
And so, after lunch the following day, dressed in a new uniform and a coat loaned from the hospital and with his left trouser leg pinned up, Guy caught a tube from Marylebone to Charing Cross and from there a train to the suburb of Charlton where his parents still lived. He noticed that people on the streets and on the tube, complete strangers, would say hello to him, tip their hats, ask him if he needed any help, offer their seats. Although only a short walk from the station at Charlton to Ladysmith Road, his journey so far had tired him out and he caught a horse-drawn taxi the rest of the way. Guy’s heartbeat quickened as the taxi turned into Ladysmith Road, and he wondered whether there’d soon be a Loos Road or Ypres Avenue. He remembered how anxious he felt returning here over a year ago on leave. But this now was worse, far worse. It began to unnerve him, he wasn’t ready for this; he desperately wanted to turn around and run back to the safety and anonymity of the hospital. It had been fifteen months since he last saw his parents, fifteen months and a whole lifetime. ‘This is it,’ he told the driver.
Guy stood outside the gate. Like London, he expected the house to look different somehow, but then, why should it? He had changed irrevocably but it didn’t necessarily mean the whole world had changed with him. Guy opened the gate and walked steadily up the front path, each step of his crutches echoing on the diamond-patterned tiles. He rang the bell and straightened his tie.
Lizzie, the family maid, opened the door. ‘Mr Searight!’ she exclaimed as if he hadn’t been expected.
‘How d’you do, Lizzie?’
‘Oh, fine thank you, sir. Come in, come in, I’ll tell Mr and Mrs Searight you’re here. They’ll be delighted.’
Guy waited in the hallway, re-familiarising himself with his family home: the parquet floor tiles, the sturdy banister, the dark floral-patterned wallpaper and the stained glass, squared-shaped lampshade on the hall table. Presently, Guy could hear the excited shrieks of delight as his mother came to greet him. She stopped in the hallway to look at her son, tears streaming down her face. She took in his uniform, his cap, his face and, of course, the crutches and the missing leg.
‘Hello, Mother,’ he said simply, removing his cap.
‘Oh, Guy.’ His mother wept as she flung her arms around him. From behind her, Guy saw the figure of his father emerging into the hallway. Guy prised his mother off and offered his hand to him. His father took his hand and shook it vigorously.
‘It’s good to have you back, son,’ said Arthur clearly suppressing his own emotion at seeing his son again after such a long, worrying time. ‘I see you bear the scars of war.’
Guy laughed. ‘If only it was a scar.’ The two men looked fondly at each other, still gripping hands. Guy smelt the pipe tobacco on his father’s breath and noticed that he was wearing his ‘Sunday Best’. The two men seemed unsure of what to do or say next, but then Arthur, hesitating for a moment, clasped Guy’s shoulder, leant forward and kissed his son on the cheek. Although taken aback and rather embarrassed by his father’s uncharacteristic show of paternal affection and slightly alarmed by the brief sensation of feeling his father’s beard against his cheek, Guy nonetheless felt touched. Subconsciously, he rubbed his cheek where the bristles had made contact.
Guy’s mother, still flapping with excitement, ushered him into the drawing-room. Lizzie came to take his coat and cap, and Edith asked her to bring them a round of tea and sandwiches. The drawing-room hadn’t altered a bit since Guy last saw it. His parents sat down together on the large dark sofa and watched Guy as he wandered around the room. He remembered being in the trench, waiting to go over, praying that he might be granted the chance to see his parents one more time. And now, he was here. His mother, his father sat watching him, knowing not to speak and to allow him a few moments to absorb being back home. Guy looked at himself in the large mirror that hung above the mantelpiece and smiled at the thought that his mother still persisted in keeping the paisley motif wallpaper that his father always loathed. The landscape watercolours and the commemorative plates still hung on the walls, the piano still stood in the corner but now with its lid closed. On the tapestry-covered table stood an aspidistra. ‘Is this new?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I bought it the morning I heard of Jack’s death. I don’t know why, I don’t even like it very much. But now I can’t seem to be able to get rid of it. Jack’s death has been difficult for us, Guy, I’m sure you can imagine. There’s no one we can talk to. Everyone has their own grief, no one has the strength to listen to someone else’s.’
‘We don’t even know if Mary’s been told the bad news,’ said Arthur.
‘She knows,’ replied Guy. ‘I’ve met her. I saw her in a hospital in France and now she’s back in London. I told her.’
‘Poor girl, it must’ve been hard on her.’
‘Yes. In fact, we’re expecting her any minute. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Edith, ‘but why? What is she doing here? Is she OK?’
‘Edith, so many questions, give Guy a moment to explain.’
And Guy did. He skimmed over the details of the sinking of the ship, merely saying that they had got into difficulties and had to be escorted back, and that in the process Mary had broken her arm.
‘Oh, the poor love,’ said Edith. ‘It’ll be delightful to see her again. Guy, we must say we were sorry to hear about what happened between you and Mary.’ She glanced at her husband.
‘Quite,’ said Arthur. ‘We didn’t approve of Jack stepping into your shoes like that –’
‘But with death we forgive all,’ said Guy.
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that but maybe you’re right. Fact is, we weren’t too approving of Mary either, skipping from one brother to the other. Edith wouldn’t have her in the house.’
‘Good for you, Mother.’
She laughed. ‘Yes, I thought so at the time but then one day, soon after Jack had left for France, we heard from Josephine that she’d gone off to be a volunteer nurse. She never came to say goodbye.’
‘You know they got engaged?’
‘No!’
‘You didn’t know? The day before he embarked for France, he asked and she said yes.’
‘Oh dear, he never said. It’s our fault, I suppose, ostracising her like that, but could he not have told me, his mother? And you, Guy, how did you feel about that?’
It was a question he’d asked himself a hundred times. Resentful, hurt, jealous. But now all those emotions seemed so petty and self-pitying. ‘I got used to it,’ was all he could say.
‘We know of so many families who have lost loved ones,’ said Edith, ‘but grief remains such a lonely experience. Your Aunt Winnie tells me to pray, but I can’t. Anyway, it’s easy for her, she just has Lawrence safely hiding in the background pretending to be all high and mighty.’
‘Wet rag of a man,’ added Arthur.
‘It’s easy for her to criticise me for losing my faith when I consider my poor boys: Jack killed and you crippled.’ She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
Arthur stood up and started pacing the room. ‘So, Guy, how it’s going out there? Sounds to me that we’re not actually getting anywhere. Are we making any headway?’
‘Don’t think so. We’ve used chlorine gas, phosgene gas, mustard gas, you name it, often with disastrous results when it blows back in the faces of our advancing troops and does no end of mischief. Vile stuff, I never thought we’d resort to such barbaric tactics.’
Edith sat listening with her hand over her mouth.
Lizzie appeared with a tray of tea, cucumber sandwiches and scones. Edith thanked her.
After she’d made her exit, Arthur asked, ‘People keep talking about the conditions out there. Is it really as bad as that?’
How could he explain, wondered Guy, how could they even start to understand? Perhaps he owed it to them not to even try. His mother interjected with a question.
‘Tell me, Guy,’ she said, pouring the tea, ‘you don’t fight on Sundays, surely? And what if it’s raining; they don’t make you go out in all weathers, do they?’
Fortunately, his father huffily intervened. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, woman, this is war, you don’t think they make allowances for a bit of rain, do you?’
‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry,’ she said, sweeping back her hair. ‘Even Lizzie’s been affected. She’s upset about Jack and her own brother. Jack was so excited at joining your regiment. Tell me, how was Jack the last time you saw him?’
Guy sighed at the memory. ‘It wasn’t long before he was killed. He seemed... well, I met many a brave man in France, but Jack had found a courage that surpassed anything I saw. It was a special kind of bravery, an unrecognised one. I was told he met his death quickly and painlessly, and...’ He paused wondering how to finish his sentence.
‘And...?’ his mother urged.
‘Apparently, he uttered your name with his last breath, Mother.’ He immediately wondered why he’d said that. Perhaps he had, but he would never know. And now, having said it, he could never unsay it.
She gasped and clasped her handkerchief to her mouth.
Arthur spoke, his words unusually soft. ‘What do you mean when you say Jack possessed a special kind of courage?’
Guy swallowed, perhaps he shouldn’t have said so much. But before he could speak, the doorbell rang.
‘Might that be Mary?’ asked Edith.
Guy and Arthur stood up as Lizzie showed Mary into the drawing-room, wearing a long, dark green dress with puffed upper arms, buttoned tightly to the top. After a muted exchange of hellos, everyone stood, hampered by awkwardness. Edith broke the atmosphere. ‘Come, give me a hug, Mary.’
Mary fell into her arms and the two women embraced silently. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’ Everyone sat down, sighs of relief everywhere. ‘Oh dear, no cup. Let me ring for Lizzie.’
Mary greeted Guy with a kiss. Arthur enquired whether Guy or Mary would be staying for dinner, to which both thanked him but refused. Mary sat down next to Guy’s mother on the sofa, perched on the edge of the cushion, her knees locked together. Guy had the impression that she wasn’t intending to stay for long. He noticed she was wearing her engagement ring. She appeared anxious and pale and, after a passing comment on the weather, remained silent.
‘So, Guy,’ said Edith, as she passed him a plate of neatly cut sandwiches, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had chance to think of your future plans.’ Guy shook his head. ‘You know,’ she continued, ‘you can always come back here once you’re fit enough to leave hospital.’ He thanked her.
Arthur, leaning against the mantelpiece, stuffed a whole sandwich into his mouth. ‘Well...’ he waited until he’d swallowed enough to talk. ‘There’s no need to worry about work.’ He emptied his mouth and continued. ‘You’ll be wanting to come back to the shop and take over from where you and Jack left off. I’m getting too old for it anyway; it needs a younger man. It’s all yours, Guy, give yourself a couple of years and when you’re ready, I’ll bow out.’
Guy sipped his tea. He knew it made sense and that he should be thankful, but he wasn’t sure if it was what he wanted any more. His father continued, extolling the potential of the business. Granted, the war had caused a downturn in their fortunes, but plans were afoot for expansion into ladies headwear. Guy smiled. Before the war, he tried to persuade his father that they needed to expand beyond the gentleman’s market, but his father, not knowing anything about women’s tastes in hats, had rejected his suggestions out of hand. But now that war had diminished the male demand, Guy’s father talked enthusiastically of shawls, bonnets and cowls, implying that the idea was his.
‘Is that your engagement ring, Mary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it pretty?’
Lizzie re-appeared with a cup and saucer, and a small pot of tea for Mary. ‘Another sandwich?’ asked Edith.
‘I wonder where Jack got the money to pay for it. The ring, I mean.’
‘Arthur, please,’ said Edith. ‘Don’t ask such things. You paid him a salary didn’t you?’
‘Mother,’ said Guy, changing the subject, ‘did you receive a letter – about Jack, I mean.’ His mother sighed and nodded. ‘May I see it?’
She went to the bureau, opened a drawer and produced an envelope which she passed to Guy. He looked at his parents’ typed name and address. One could tell immediately that this was an envelope that contained bad tidings. He wondered what sort of words the army had used to inform his parents that their son had been executed. His hands shook slightly as he opened the flap and unfolded the small slip of paper. The words were few, the tone cold and formal. It read:
“Dear Mr and Mrs Searight,
I am directed to inform you that your son, 8112 Pte. Jack Searight of the 4th Battalion, Essex Regiment, died on active service on the morning of 11th November 1917.
I am Sir / Madam,
Your obedient Servant
Capt. R.H. Handley, Essex Regiment.”
They didn’t know. They didn’t know that their son had been executed. ‘It’s brief,’ remarked Guy.
‘Brief?’ said Arthur. ‘Downright discourteous, if you ask me.’
Should he tell them? They had to know.
‘Yes,’ agreed Edith. ‘It doesn’t tell us anything. I remember about six months ago, Mrs Evans lost her son at Gallipoli and she received a lovely letter saying how keenly his friends and officers missed him, what a popular boy he was and how they mourned his death. And even Lizzie, she’s lost her own brother, out in Palestine, said her mother had received a charming letter from his officer. But this... it’s so... so impersonal. It’s as if this Captain Handley had no idea of who Jack was, or, if he did, perhaps he simply didn’t like him.’ She looked imploringly at Guy. ‘How could anyone not like Jack, he was such a kind person. I can’t bear to look at the letter; it’s so short, so brutal. I don’t understand and I daren’t show it to anyone.’
‘Guy, I think you should tell your parents.’ The quiet voice had said the words slowly, carefully. Guy, his mother and father all turned to stare at Mary, still sitting rigidly on the edge of the sofa, her knees squeezed tightly together, her eyes focussed on her hands resting neatly on her lap.
‘Not necessarily.’
Arthur broke the astonished silence. ‘What did you say? Do you know, Guy, do you know how Jack was killed?’
‘Isn’t it enough to know he was killed, that he won’t be coming back?’
‘No, frankly.’
His mother leant forward. ‘Guy,’ she said softly, ‘if you know, you have to tell us. As his mother, I need to know.’
All three of them were looking at him, full of nervous anticipation. He realised that he hadn’t yet told Mary what happened – that she only knew of his execution.
‘Apparently, one day Jack was reported missing. Everyone thought he’d been killed or lay wounded somewhere. But he hadn’t. He wasn’t dead or wounded.’
‘Go on, Guy,’ urged his mother.
‘They found him two or three days later, hiding in some French woman’s house near the coast.’
‘What was he doing there?’ asked Edith.
‘What are you trying to say?’ asked Arthur.
Mary said it for him: ‘He’d deserted.’
Guy’s parents stared at Mary in total disbelief, unsure what to say, unable to say it. The word hung between them, unexplained, unqualified, simply left to fester in their minds.
‘Deserted?’ said Arthur quietly, still grappling with the significance of the word. He shook his head. ‘No, surely not, not Jack, not my son.’ His voice was faltering. ‘They’d have shot him if he had.’
Mary looked down and whispered: ‘They did.’
Edith gasped and reached for her handkerchief. Arthur gripped the mantelpiece as if in need of support. Guy wanted to say something, to qualify Mary’s stark statement, to defend his brother. But the words wouldn’t come.
‘Guy, this can’t be true?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’
‘But... I don’t understand,’ said Edith, ‘who was this French woman?’
‘No one knows. We don’t know her name and we don’t know why he stayed with her or who she is, or whether they knew each other beforehand.’ He noticed Mary grimace as he spoke of this unknown woman.
Arthur rang the bell for Lizzie and paced up and down as he waited for her. Lizzie entered breezily and immediately sensed the strained atmosphere. Arthur asked her to bring him a whisky. Lizzie glanced at Edith as if seeking permission to provide drink at such an unusually early time. ‘Yes, you heard me correctly,’ snapped Arthur. Lizzie jumped, muttered an apology, and left to fetch Arthur Searight his drink.
Edith, still clutching her handkerchief, turned to Guy. ‘This is awful. Poor, poor Jack.’ Her words, softy spoken, could not contain the anguish welling up inside her. ‘You didn’t just tell us because of Mary, did you, Guy? You were going to tell us at some point?’
‘Of course he wasn’t,’ bellowed Arthur, now clearly agitated. ‘Because he’s ashamed, that’s why. Ashamed of having a deserter as a brother.’
Guy stood up but, forgetting his crutch, quickly had to sit down again. ‘No, that’s simply not true,’ he shouted back.
Edith spoke. ‘Guy, tell us, what happened after they found him – do you know?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Lizzie re-appeared briefly with Arthur’s drink. Guy waited until she had left the room and then continued, knowing he owed it to Jack’s memory and dignity to recount his tale fairly. ‘It was too much for Jack and if truth be known, it was too much for me too. But Jack was caught on a ridge, which was under a sustained attack. Many of his mates were killed. Unfortunately, his sergeant, though wounded, survived.’
‘Unfortunately?’ echoed his mother.
‘Yes. Well, you know what Jack was like – cheery and confident and I suppose to the sergeant, Jack came across as a bit arrogant and of course he didn’t like that. But what really got the sergeant was that he thought Jack to be weak, but he wasn’t. Jack saved me from certain death once and the sergeant, Wilkins was his name, had been forced to help him, and I suppose it was too much for his brutish pride. So when they found Jack, the sergeant was a witness against him and took his revenge in the cruellest way. They found him guilty and, yes, they...’ he hesitated before saying it, ‘they shot him. Firing squad,’ he added quietly. Edith winced at Guy’s use of words and clenched her eyes shut. Guy continued. ‘I saw him the afternoon before he was shot; they let me visit him. That’s what I meant, Father, when I said he had a special kind of courage, having to endure all that. He told me to tell you – all of you – he was sorry. And he said he was sorry for the shame his... his death would bring to you. Funnily enough, I saw the sergeant as I was about to leave the CCS. He offered me his condolences and said that Jack had been a good lad.’
‘A good lad, eh?’ Arthur remained standing next to the mantelpiece and began filling his pipe with tobacco. Edith absorbed her son’s tale silently for a few moments. Then suddenly, she could contain herself no longer. She let out a guttural cry that seemed to emanate from the pit of her stomach, the desperate sound of maternal anguish, a mother’s grief for her son. Mary slid an arm around Edith’s shaking shoulders but offered no words of comfort, the woman was beyond consolation.
Guy took his crutches, stood up and crossed the carpet to speak to his father, whose pungent tobacco smoke choked the room. ‘Father, please, there’s no need to feel ashamed –’
‘Oh, but I do, Guy, I do. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help it.’ He gulped his whisky. ‘You say he got you out of an awkward spot, well, how can a man who’s capable of such a feat then disgrace himself? I did my stint as you know and I never saw –’
‘But, Father, with respect, that was over thirty years ago. Things have changed since Egypt; things have changed even since South Africa. I fought beside men who’d seen service in the Boer War and they said it was a picnic in comparison. We live within spitting distance of the enemy day and night for weeks, months at a time and those heavy guns are huge now, they can blow a man to smithereens.’
‘Stop it, Guy.’
‘And I’ve seen men mowed down in their hundreds by unrelenting machine-gun fire. And gas. Imagine, Father, using poisonous gas to kill men. And flame throwers. Do you know what a flame thrower is, Father?’
‘No, but the fact remains, he still deserted.’ He grimaced as he said the word. ‘He let his fellow men down, those prepared to fight. No one else ran off, did they, you didn’t desert?’
‘No, but there were times when I almost did; we all did. I saw men shit their pants out there, sorry, Mother; it was terrifying. And it’s still going on – now, as we speak. This leg – it’s a small price to pay, believe me. And Jack, he was just a boy; remember, Father, he was only nineteen, a nineteen-year-old volunteer, he was never a soldier, you know that, not like you’d been.’
‘That’s all very well, but you try tell telling them that,’ he pointed towards the large bay window, ‘the white feather brigade; your sentiment won’t carry much clout out there.’ All at once, he marched towards the window, pulled down the venetian blind, and clumsily closed the heavy, red curtains.
Mary and Edith looked up, confused by the sudden darkness. The only remaining light was a small gas-lamp shining dimly on the side-table. ‘Arthur, what on earth are you doing?’
‘What do you think I’m doing? I’m closing the curtains.’
‘But why? It’s not even dark yet?’
‘I forbid them to be opened again, is that understood?’
‘No, Arthur, it is not.’
Arthur fought with his words. ‘I loved Jack and always will. But he has brought shame to this family and we have to face up to that.’
Guy tried to contain his repulsion at his father’s pathetic gesture. ‘And is this not drawing attention to yourself?’
Arthur pointed towards the window again and the world beyond, his hand shaking. ‘They’ll know soon enough. Jack has put us in an impossible situation. We cannot show our faces in front of those parents out there that have lost their sons in an honourable manner. I have only the one son now.’ He looked at Guy; his eyes still flushed by anger. ‘I only ever had the one son.’
Mary let out a shriek of pained distress, her hand over her mouth. His harsh words had pierced her to her heart. Edith tried to take her hand but she waved it away, staggered to her feet, and reeled towards the drawing-room door. She turned to Arthur and blurted, ‘You... you devil. I... I won’t forget him, I won’t disown him.’ She hurried out of the room, bursting into tears as she left. Moments later the front door was shut closed with a slam that reverberated throughout the house.
The three of them remained silent, avoiding each other’s gaze, each unsure as to what to say next. Arthur took a self-conscious slurp of his drink. Eventually Guy spoke. ‘I have to go too,’ he said quietly.
‘Oh, Guy, please stay,’ pleaded Edith.
‘I’m sorry, Mother, I can’t. Please, don’t disturb Lizzie, I’ll see myself out.’ Holding his crutches, he leant down and kissed his mother. ‘You have nothing, nothing to be ashamed of; you do know that, don’t you?’ She nodded. As he made to go, he turned to his father, who was puffing self-consciously on his pipe. ‘You are so wrong, Father. One day you’ll realise it.’ Studiously, his father stared at Baden-Powell’s image on the commemorative plate to the left of the large mirror. Irked by the man’s stubborn silence, Guy added, ‘Until you see the error of your ways, Father, consider yourself without any sons from now on.’
Edith gasped. ‘No, Guy...’
But Guy had closed the drawing-room door gently behind him. Taking his hat and coat from the mirrored hat-stand, Guy stepped outside and, without looking back, closed the front door to the house that had been his family home. His and Jack’s.
Once outside, Guy buttoned his coat against the chilled late afternoon air. He realised he wouldn’t be able to hail a taxi in the middle of Ladysmith Road, so he resolved to making his own way back to the station. Ahead of him, he could see the figure of Mary, walking very slowly with her head bowed. At first, Guy decided to hang back, as he had no desire to continue the ordeal. But he found himself walking faster and by the time she had reached the top of the road, he had caught her up.
She turned around at the sound of his crutches. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as Guy stopped in front of her. ‘I shouldn’t have made you tell them.’
‘I would have told them in my own time, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
‘It wasn’t right just to spring it on them like that. It needed building up to.’
‘I suppose I’m still in a state of shock, I never thought...’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Now look at them – Mother’s distraught and Father... well, you saw his reaction.’
‘Don’t be angry with me, Guy.’
‘What did you expect?’ He started walking and Mary had to jog to catch up.
‘For a man on crutches, you do walk fast.’
‘You get used to it.’ A middle-aged couple said hello as they passed but Guy ignored them. After a while he slowed down as he realised he was walking towards Mary’s house. ‘You called my father a devil. That was good – he deserved it. I doubt anyone’s ever called him that before. Although I could think of a few more choice words, I must say.’
‘Yes, but I shouldn’t have forced you into it, I should’ve let you do it in your own time, like you said. Do you forgive me?’
‘No.’ But he knew he didn’t mean it.
They walked slowly in silence. After a while, Mary said, ‘I know it didn’t work out between us, Guy, and I shall always feel bad about that –’
‘I’ve got over it by now.’
‘But I did love your brother very dearly.’
‘That’s fine. He could be an annoying tyke at times, always showing off, but that was Jack for you. We were very different, he and I. But yes, I loved him too.’
Mary smiled. ‘Just think, had we married, I’d be a nineteen-year-old widow now.’
‘Unfortunately, you wouldn’t have been the only one.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
They continued in silence until they reached Mary’s gate where they stopped and faced each other. ‘Do you want to come in?’ she asked.
‘No, I ought to get back. It’s a long way and I feel tired. I still get tired very easily.’
‘I suppose it’s goodbye then.’
He offered his hand but, ignoring it, she leant up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m sure it’s OK to kiss my brother-in-law.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘You know I can’t go back to your house again. Not now.’
‘You could come and visit me if you like.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, that’d be lovely.’