EPILOGUE

Aston, Birmingham, August 1996

The whole street knew that this was a special day. Shortly after the milk was delivered, the buzz developed from house to house along the terrace. Front doors were opened and, despite the chill of the morning, left open for minutes as aproned housewives, most of them with dark faces more redolent of Islamabad than Birmingham, stood and chatted. Occasionally, someone would nod towards number 66, where faded bunting was draped across the dark brick, hanging like forgotten detritus of the jubilee of 1977. Later, people hurrying to work paused to direct a quick look and a smile at the house’s curtained windows. Cars pulled out from the ranks that lined the pavements and sounded their horns as they passed. But here, at the epicentre of all the fuss, nothing seemed to be happening. The house stayed silent.

Until, that is, The Telegram arrived. As soon as the post office van pulled up and the postman, in his yellow traffic surcoat, sprang out and knocked on the door, a small semicircle of neighbours materialised and gathered around him. The middle-aged woman who opened the door and took the envelope from him grinned and waved it in the air.

‘I expect it’s from ’er,’ she said. ‘’E ought to open it, then I’ll come out and read it to you. That is, if ’e’ll let me. You know what ’e’s like. ’E don’t want no fuss.’

The gathering nodded in appreciation. That was as it should be. A hero should be modest.

Once back inside, the woman pulled back the curtains on the parlour window that fronted the street and shouted up the stairs, ‘Telegram for you, Grandpops. Time to get up anyway. Lots to do today. Come on. Get out on parade. The car will be ’ere in just over an hour. Show a leg, love.’

A querulous but loud reply came from up above. ‘Bugger it, gel. I’m up. Just going to the bathroom. That thing can wait.’

Shaking her head in mock exasperation, Linda Grantham put the telegram on the table and hurried to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Then she laid the table with cornflakes, orange juice, bowls, knives and spoons. No cooked breakfast this morning, for by the time ex-Sergeant Major Jim Hickman, DCM, MM, lowered himself down that narrow wooden staircase, the bloody car would be here waiting. Well, let it wait! This was his day. He shouldn’t be bullied. Mind you, it was just as well she’d packed his overnight bag last night. There was no way the poor old love could hurry these days.

The doorbell rang again and she opened it to admit her two younger sisters, Lilly and Amy, also plumply middle-aged. They all kissed quickly and Linda waved to the little knot of neighbours still gathered outside. ‘Sorry,’ she called. ‘’E’s still not seen it. So don’t ’ang about. I suppose it always says the same thing, anyway.’

‘Yes, but it’s a great thing to have a telegram from the Queen,’ said Mrs Patel from number 70, flashing her teeth in a wrap-around smile. ‘Perhaps we could see it when he’s gone?’

‘Okay,’ Linda nodded affably. ‘We’re off in about three-quarters of an hour. One of the girls will show it to you.’

Inside, Lilly and Amy had gathered at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Happy birthday, Grandpops,’ they called up in unison. Then Amy shouted, ‘What’s it like to be a hundred?’

‘Bloody awful. Mind out. I’m coming down. Don’t want to fall on the pair of you.’

Linda carefully laid out her grandfather’s pills on the kitchen table as she listened to each heavy but faltering step on the stairs. At last he appeared at the kitchen doorway with his other two granddaughters. The three gathered together and kissed him in turn.

‘What sort of night did you have, love?’ asked Amy.

‘Can’t grumble.’

‘No. You never do.’ Linda gave him a second hug, pulled back and with her handkerchief removed a tiny scrap of shaving soap from below his right ear. Then she looked him up and down. Her grandfather was still a tall man with broad shoulders but he stooped heavily now and his hair was reduced to a few grey strands, carefully combed back. His face was long and thin and, despite the jowls, retained the regularity of features that had drawn comparison with Gary Cooper years before. Linda looked approvingly into eyes that were as brown and gentle as her own.

‘You’ll do, Grandpa. Now, sit down and eat. It’s going to be a long day. Oh, and for goodness’ sake open your telegram. The neighbours want to know what it says.’

Hickman removed his glasses, gave the lenses a slow histrionic polish, replaced them and read aloud: ‘Hello, Jim boy. Are you up for a bit of bonking tonight? It’s convenient because Phil’s away. Let me know. All love, Liz.’

A howl went up from the girls. ‘Oh, Granddad, really!’ Linda snatched the telegram away, read it and passed it round. ‘It’s very nice of her to send you birthday greetings. She must ’ave quite a bit to do without thinking of you.’

‘She didn’t. You told her.’ From under lowered brows, Jim’s eyes twinkled up at her in thanks.

Linda gave the telegram to Lilly. ‘Be a good girl and show the bloody thing to his groupies outside, or they’ll be there all day. I’ll go and get our things. The car will be here soon.’

Jim swallowed his pills with the orange juice but didn’t linger long on his cornflakes, even though Linda had sliced banana on them, which he loved. He was not at all sure how he viewed this day, but it had been long in preparation and he wanted just to get on with it now. His hand trembled as he sipped his tea and shot a glance at the black and white picture of Polly on the mantelpiece. Taken when she was sixty, she still looked good. Those cheekbones always helped in photos. What, he wondered, would she make of all this fuss now? There was no merit in living so long. In fact, it was bloody inconvenient for all concerned. The girls should have been able to sell the house and split the money between them when they most needed it – when they were young and starting up in life with their own young families. But he had hung on long after Polly had gone – and, of course, Bertie.

Ah well. He slurped his tea and blew his nose. He had said goodbye to the great-grandchildren last night and there had been all that fuss at the service last Sunday at Aston parish church, just by the Villa ground. Although today, of course, was the real anniversary of the start of the First World War, or the Great War as they used to call it until the other one came along. Funny that his birthday had coincided with the beginning of that bloody great mess. Ah well again. He pushed back the chair and rose unsteadily to his feet.

‘Hey, Lyn,’ he called up the stairs, ‘don’t you be carrying those bags down the stairs. The girls can do that. They’re younger than you.’

‘I’m doing it. Shan’t be a minute. Can you get your coat?’

He tossed his head in annoyance. Of course he could get his bloody coat! He wasn’t that doddery. A car hooted outside. The thing had arrived and Lilly came bustling back. ‘Car’s here, love. I’ll get your overcoat.’

‘No, for goodness’ sake … oh, never mind, then.’

Amy adjusted his tie. ‘I hope Lyn packed your passport. I had enough trouble organising it.’

He sighed and inwardly smiled. Amy was just establishing the fact that she too had played her part in arranging the Great Day. She wanted a little credit. He gave her a kiss. It had been necessary to take out a passport for him, for this would be only the second time he had travelled abroad since 1918. ‘I’m sure she has, love,’ he said. ‘She’s packed everything else: fourteen pyjamas, twenty-seven shirts, seventeen pairs of shoes, three walking sticks and the fire irons.’

He was interrupted by Lynda clumping down the stairs, her own bag under her arm and his on an extended handle, thumping down stair by stair behind her. Lilly held out his overcoat so that he could lower his arms through the sleeves. Amy wrapped a scarf around his neck and knotted it under his chin.

‘Come on, Robert Redford,’ called Lynda. ‘You’ll ’ave to fight your way through your fans outside.’

The car had pulled up outside. It was a long, low, black, highly polished limousine and, Jim thought, had last been used for a funeral. Might as well park it round the corner and keep it handy for when his time came … but everyone was cheering. The driver held open the car door, sprang to attention and gave a smart salute.

‘Happy birthday and congratulations, Sarn’t Major,’ he said.

‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ muttered Jim. He thought about telling the smart young man that you didn’t salute a sergeant major, then thought better of it. The knot of people outside number 66 had now swelled into a small crowd and someone began singing ‘Happy Birthday to You’. For a brief moment the mind of the old man leaning on his two sticks went back to a very different birthday when the song was sung to him as he lay against the side of a shell crater in the Salient. Then he raised one of his sticks and the crowd fell silent.

‘Very kind of you,’ he said. ‘I shall be giving out money on my return but will you kindly now disperse and go back to your work? The economy is in a bad enough way without you buggering it up further. So please go and put your shoulder to the wheel and your arses to the whatsits for the common good. Thank you very much.’

‘Oh, he’s always been such a wag,’ Mrs Patel confided to her neighbour. ‘Enjoy yourself, Jim,’ she called and waved her miniature Union Jack.

Jim waved his stick again and stooped to get into the back of the limo. Then he straightened up suddenly, his face full of concern.

‘The letter,’ he cried. ‘My bloody letter. I can’t go without it.’

‘What letter, love?’ asked Linda.

‘The letter … you know … the one I had been waiting for. It’s important. The whole bloody point will be lost if I … You know, it’s that one that came for me from the Ministry of Defence.’

‘Well no, as a matter of bloody fact, I don’t. Where is it anyway and why is it so important?’

‘It’s … er … personal. I think it’s by the side of me bed. Get it, there’s a love.’

‘Oh, very well. Get in the car, then.’

The driver, smart in his grey suit and matching cap with gleaming black peak, helped him into the car and Jim half lay back, his sticks thrust before him as he watched anxiously for Lynda. Eventually, she came, waving a buff-coloured envelope and sat, panting, next to him. She handed him the letter.

‘Is this it?’

‘Aye, lass. That’s it.’

‘Looks like an income tax demand to me.’

‘No, it isn’t. Why are you puffing so?’

‘Look, Grandpops, just because you can nip up and down them stairs like a two-year-old, doesn’t mean to say I can do it. I’m a fifty-three-year-old widow now, you know, and fat with it.’

Jim smiled sourly. She had gained weight rapidly since the death of her husband three years before and moving in with Jim to look after him. She interpreted looking after him as ensuring that he ate the gargantuan meals she cooked for him and the result had had a markedly greater effect on her figure than his. Now, they waved their hands at the car window like royalty as the limo slowly drew away.

‘It’s Elmdon airport, isn’t it, miss?’ enquired the driver.

Lynda looked at him sharply to detect any impertinent irony but the driver’s gaze in the mirror seemed innocent enough. ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘And it’s missus. You should get your eyes tested, young man.’

He gave her a nod and a grin. She returned it and grasped her grandfather’s hand. ‘Mum and Nannie would have loved this, you know.’

Jim nodded but did not reply. His eyes had suddenly become moist.

Two hours later their aircraft touched down at Brussels. It had been his first flight – he and Polly had never needed an aeroplane to reach Bournemouth or Rhyl on their annual summer holiday – and he had spent the time with his eyes closed, trying not to think of the past. The next couple of days would be bad enough and he mustn’t get emotional. Neither Polly nor Bertie liked fuss.

At the airport there was a long, black Renault waiting for them, flying a British Legion flag. ‘Sorry we couldn’t get a Rover or a Jag,’ explained the grey-haired Legion official who met them, ‘and I’m afraid that Legion funds don’t run to a Rolls.’

Jim nodded but said nothing.

‘It’s good of you to take care of us so well,’ said Lynda hurriedly. ‘The Legion has been so good in arranging it all. We’re very grateful.’

‘Oh, the least we could do. It’s an honour to have Sergeant Major Hickman with us.’ He held open the door. ‘Very few veterans left now, I’m afraid, only—’

‘Don’t call me sergeant major,’ Jim interrupted. ‘I haven’t been a warrant officer for nigh on eighty years. Me name’s Jim. Any Warwicks here?’

‘Sorry, Jim. No, I’m afraid not. There are only four others. Of course they get smaller every …’ His voice tailed away as he realised the solecism. ‘No. No Warwicks. A bit of a mixed bag, really.’

They all climbed into the Renault. ‘What’s the plan, then, Mr … er …?’

‘Robinson, call me George. Well, it won’t take us long to drive to Ypres. Incidentally, the Belgians call it something else now, but it sounds roughly the same. The ceremony takes place every evening at five at the Menin Gate, of course, but on this anniversary it will be a bit longer. The mayor will be there, and Jim and the other four veterans, and there will be a few speeches in French and English. The British military attaché from Brussels will be on parade and lots of attention, of course, will be on the five of you – photographs, press interviews and such.’ He smiled. ‘You’re the senior chap there in terms of age and rank, Jim, so they will probably focus on you a fair bit.’

Jim gave him a sharp look from under a white eyebrow. ‘Lot of fuss. I didn’t realise there’d be that much fuss.’

Lynda turned on him. ‘Oh, come on, Grandpops. You knew what was involved. Don’t be grumpy about it. It’s a great honour.’

‘Humph!’ Jim immediately felt guilty. ‘Sorry … er … George. It’s just that …’ His voice tailed away, then grew stronger. ‘It’s okay about tomorrow, isn’t it?’

‘Ah yes. You want to go to, where was it again?’

‘Place called Oostbeke. Can’t remember where it was ’cos I went by train, but it was our old Divisional HQ.’

‘Ah, yes. You can keep the car, of course, and the driver will know where it is. Now, about tonight ….’

He droned on but Jim closed his eyes and pretended to snooze. He had never wanted to get involved in all this anniversary pomp, only to go back to Oostbeke and complete his mission. The two had coincided, however, and the local branch of the Legion – his old branch – had been so insistent. Ah well, never mind. It would soon be over.

They arrived at their modern hotel in Ypres in time for him to take a proper nap. The town, of course, was quite unrecognisable, although he was told that they had rebuilt the centre more or less exactly how it was, with a Grand Place and a new Cloth Hall. Trouble was, he couldn’t remember how it was before the Germans had shelled it to bits. Now, Pop – he could remember that! No time to go there, though. Maybe just as well …

He and Lynda were taken early to meet the other veterans and be filmed and photographed at a British War Graves cemetery just outside Ypres. There, Jim looked with awe at the rows of white stones – remarkably similar to that which he had had made for Bertie so long ago – and then with an even greater sense of wonder up to the east, up the gently sloping ground to the blue-fringed line that formed the distant horizon beyond which lay the village of Passchendaele. What was once the Salient, a place of death, destruction and horror, was now smiling farmland, intersected with green hedges and dotted with terracotta-roofed farmhouses. Apart from the cemeteries and the place names – Hellfire Corner, Geluveld, etc – there was no sign that this was once the most concentrated killing field that Europe had ever known, the place where he had watched Black Jack Flanagan drown … He jerked his head back and did his best to answer the banal questions of the television interviewers. What was it like to be back? It was fucking awful, that’s what it was like. But he didn’t say that.

Later, at 5 p.m., he and Lynda were among the veterans who were cordoned off under the huge white stone pillars of the Menin Gate to hear the Last Post sounded by the blue-uniformed buglers of, bizarrely, the Ypres Fire Brigade. Thank God they were allowed to sit during the interminable speeches by the mayor, other local dignitaries and a bemedalled British major general. Then they were given dinner at a restaurant – Lynda loved it because she sat next to the major general – and Jim had to confess that the food wasn’t bad, although too much for him at his age. There was, however, a splendid light Fleurie, of which he drank too much, making him feel very queasy during the night.

Nevertheless, he was up early the next day and, much to Lynda’s disgust, was standing waiting and shivering in the car park as the Renault drew up. He pretended to doze again on the journey, because he did not want to talk about why and where he was going. Why should he? It only mattered to him, Polly and Bertie, and now, only to him. He knew Lynda had some idea of where they were going, of course, but not about The Letter.

It took some time to find the little church because Jim could not remember its name and it had been nearly seventy years since his last visit. But eventually they found it for it had not changed, except that, instead of old cottages, it was now surrounded by new municipal housing.

‘We’re going to see the grave of your old comrade, Granddad, I suppose?’ asked Lynda, who had been discreetly silent throughout the journey.

‘That’s right, love. Bertie Murphy. He used to live two doors away in Turners Lane.’

‘Just a sentimental journey, then, is it?’

‘I suppose it is, but p’raps a bit more than that.’ He looked about him, remembering a dark night when Bertie had been unknowingly escorted by the military police on his last journey. ‘I think it’s down there in that far corner. The driver needn’t come.’

He and his granddaughter moved slowly through the churchyard to the far corner. When he walked he jettisoned one of his two sticks and hung onto Lynda’s arm. The lilac tree had gone but, heart-warmingly, Bertie’s headstone stood out well, although its colour had darkened. The grass had been cut on the grave itself and some wild flowers had been recently cut and put into the urn at the foot of the grave. Someone was still looking after it, although the French widow must surely now be dead.

At the grave, Jim turned to Lynda. ‘Don’t think me rude, love, but I would be grateful if you would leave me alone here for a bit. Do you mind?’

‘Of course not. I’ll go back to the gate. Don’t try and come back by yourself. Just give me a shout and I’ll come and get you.’

‘Thank you, lass.’

He waited until she had moved away and then, balancing on his sticks, looked at the headstone. The carved lettering did not stand out as clearly as he remembered, but he admitted that was to be expected.

‘Hello, old lad,’ he murmured. ‘Sorry it’s taken such a time to come back and I suppose this will be my last visit. But I’ve got a bit of news for you, that I just had to come here to tell you. Listen to this, son.’

Hooking one of his sticks over his arm, Jim fumbled for his glasses, adjusted them and then took out the buff-coloured envelope, opened it and took out the single sheet of paper within.

‘This is addressed to me, Bertie, and it’s from the bloody Minister of Defence no less. Listen, he says:

Jim removed his spectacles, put them in their case and replaced them in his pocket. ‘What do you think about that, then, you old bugger? Bertie, lad, you are no longer a coward and a deserter – not that you ever were – and I am only sorry that it has taken so long.’

He stood for a moment longer, with his head bowed. Then, very, very slowly he bent down so that he was kneeling at the side of the grave by the headstone. With his fingers, he made a small hole in the grass and then the soil underneath it. ‘Here, Bertie. You have this. You deserve it.’ And he carefully folded the letter and slipped it into the hole, covering it with the displaced soil. Then he hauled himself up by the headstone and regained his feet.

He called, ‘Lyn, can you come and get me?’

Jim Hickman died seventeen days later, in his bed at number 66 Turners Lane, the house he had lived in for most of his life. He had caught a cold in Belgium – the Salient had claimed him at last – and it had developed into pneumonia. Lynda was by his side, holding his hand, as he passed away and she immediately called her sisters from their tasks downstairs.

They rushed up and all three knelt by the side of their grandfather, tears trickling down their cheeks.

Amy eventually looked across at her elder sister. ‘Did he say anything before he went, Lyn?’ she asked.

Lynda sniffed into her handkerchief. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was only a whisper but I caught it. He said, “Ah, starshine.” Wasn’t that a funny thing to say?’