ALICE
They’d left Lille in the early hours of the morning and the first glimmers of dawn were already lighting the horizon as they approached Hoppestadt. Daniel had pulled up the car and rested his arm along the back of the seat, his hand caressing her shoulder. As they sat in comfortable silence watching the pink and orange sunrise dissolving the darkness, Alice felt flooded with a sense of pure, uncomplicated joy. It was like a fairy tale.
The evening had been more extraordinary, more magical, than she’d ever allowed herself to imagine. His flat, on the second floor of an old building just outside the city centre, was modest, just two spacious rooms with high ceilings, sparsely furnished but in the most elegant taste: wooden floorboards with Persian carpets, large pieces of dark-wood furniture set against simple white walls.
‘Another quick drink before we head home?’ he’d asked, closing the heavy shutters and returning from the tiny, old-fashioned kitchen brandishing a bottle of red wine. ‘This one’s a rather special Burgundy from my father’s cellar.’
She happily agreed. America and Lloyd seemed to be on some far distant planet, well out of the reach of her conscience. They drank, talked and laughed, then drank some more. He pulled her up from the chair and began to dance with her, humming a Belgian folk song: The night is young and the world is ours. Before long, he lowered his face and they were kissing, her lips bruising against his. She felt consumed with desire.
For a brief moment, as they moved towards the bedroom and the ornate brass bed with its plain white coverlet, she sensed a pang of guilt – for Lloyd, for Daniel’s girlfriend. She hesitated. ‘Daniel, I don’t think—’
‘Do not worry, my darling. We will do nothing that you do not want to do.’ He was so solicitous for her welfare, so patient and thoughtful, that she allowed herself to be carried away by the moment. He made her feel – and she utterly believed it – like the most desirable woman in the world.
Afterwards he smoked, and she lay in the crook of his arm, listening to his voice rumbling in his chest. ‘That was your first time?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘It was good?’
‘It was so much more than good.’ He lowered his face to kiss her, and her body melted for him all over again. A little later she slipped into sleep, and the next thing she knew was his whisper in her ear.
‘You are so beautiful when you are sleeping,’ he said, kissing her forehead. ‘I would like to stay here with you forever, darling Aleese, but I must be at work in Ypres by eight.’
She could not bear for it to end. ‘Just a few more minutes,’ she said, snuggling into his shoulder, but he pulled away from her and sat up.
‘It is time to go, ma chérie.’
*
She woke to hear the church clock chiming eleven and, with a sinking heart, she remembered. Her father had promised to telegraph her just as soon as he had further confirmation of Sam Pilgrim’s identity from the Canadian authorities. She dressed hurriedly and bought a reviving coffee at the cafe before making her way along the familiar streets to the post office.
Time was running short now. They must return to Ostend tomorrow evening; the group was booked on a cross-Channel steamer first thing on Saturday morning and the transatlantic liner would leave Southampton on Monday, just four days away. If there was news of where Sam was buried, she had one last day to visit his grave.
Once again, as she waited in the queue, she found herself eavesdropping on conversations. One exchange taking place behind her, in low voices that she had to strain to hear, was particularly intriguing.
‘Did you hear about Geert’s wife, threatening that Swiss woman?’
‘Bloody cheek, though, come here to visit a German grave. Deserved it, they did.’
‘Even so, Geert should return the money. That sort of thing gets our town a bad reputation.’
‘Germans already have a bad reputation.’
‘They’re Swiss, not German.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Even if she is, it’s not her fault.’
‘We want visitors to come and spend their money.’
‘Me, I’m not touching their filthy Deutschmarks.’
‘You’re stupid, then. Tourists are our future, you mark my words.’
*
The postmaster welcomed her with a friendly smile. ‘Good morning, Miss Palmer. Two for you today.’
She took a deep breath and opened the first.
YOUR PA TOLD ME ABOUT SAM STOP SO SORRY STOP MISSING YOU VERY MUCH STOP I LOVE YOU LLOYD STOP
She crumpled the paper into her pocket and ripped open the second.
PHOTO SAM PILGRIM DEFINITELY OUR SAM STOP DIED CORFU FARM HOPE YOU CAN FIND HIS GRAVE STOP SO PROUD OF YOU FATHER STOP
Ruby was not at the cafe; she ran across to the hotel. Freddie was in his usual place in the bar. ‘Have you seen Ruby?’ she panted.
‘With the Reverend, I think. They were going back to the hospital. What’s up?’
‘I’ve found my brother . . . or at least, where he’s buried.’
The smile slipped from his face. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’
‘It’s somewhere called Corfu Farm. Do you know it?’
‘Of course. That’s where I ended up. It’s a field hospital where they took you from the clearing station, if you survived long enough. It was close to the rail lines so once they’d patched us up we got shipped back to the coast.’
Oh Sam. You were so close to safety, ready to be brought home. You so nearly made it.
‘What date did you say he died?’ Freddie asked.
‘October 1917.’
‘Chances are he’ll have copped it at Passchendaele.’
‘Passchendaele? How do you know?’
‘That was when the Canadians came in, at the height of the fighting around there. By God we was pleased to see them. The good news is, though,’ he went on, ‘if he died in hospital, at least they knew who he was, and his grave will be marked.’
‘Then where would he have been buried?’
‘Lazyhook, the cemetery next door, most likely.’ Freddie took a sip of his beer.
‘Is it far, this place?’
‘Not far. You could get there in twenty minutes.’
So close. ‘Would you be able to take me, Freddie, can we borrow the baker’s van?’
He glanced away as though discomfited by something he did not want to admit. ‘Sorry, I’m tied up this afternoon.’
Frantic now, she pulled out a handful of notes. ‘Would this make any difference? Please? It’s really important to me.’
Freddie looked at her with an amused expression – or was it just those pale eyelashes? Either way, it left her feeling awkward. ‘Sorry, love, no can do, not today. Not even for all that cash. How’s about tomorrow?’
‘It has to be today. We go back to Ostend tomorrow.’
He scratched his stubbly chin. ‘What about your French friend, the one with the sports car? Surely he’d give you a lift?’
*
She’d been reluctant to ask Daniel – he’d told her last night about the amount of work he had on this week – but she was left with no choice. The receptionist at his hotel raised an eyebrow. ‘You wish me to pass this note to Monsieur Martens?’
‘Yes please. As soon as he returns.’
‘Would you wish to give it to him yourself, madame?’ He gestured towards the lounge.
She found Daniel at the long table, papers and charts strewn around him.
‘Bonjour, Aleese. This is a pleasant surprise.’ Behind the smile was a guarded look she had not seen before.
‘I am sorry to interrupt your work,’ she said, flustered now. ‘But I really need your help. I’ve discovered where my brother is buried, and it’s just down the road from here, at Lazyhook.’
He frowned. ‘I do not know this place.’
‘Near a military hospital they called Corfu Farm – that’s what Freddie said.’
The frown cleared. ‘You mean Lijssenthoek. Yes, it is just a few kilometres away.’
‘Would you be able to drive me, Daniel? It’s really important.’
He paused for a beat before his face softened. ‘Of course, ma chérie. In one hour or so?’
‘Thank you so much,’ she whispered gratefully, reaching for him.
‘See you at half past three.’ He caressed her cheek with the lightest of touches. ‘And now I must return to my work.’
*
Just as Freddie had promised, it took only twenty minutes to reach the place that turned out to be spelled, according to the signpost, Lijssenthoek. All those consonants! No wonder the Brits had such trouble getting their tongues around it. A small settlement of traditional single-storey Belgian cottages had been swamped on one side by a large railway depot and, on the other, dozens of wooden huts, stretching into the distance, row on row. In the sunshine they looked almost cheerful, like a holiday camp by the seaside.
Daniel turned off the engine. ‘This was the field hospital they called Corfu Farm,’ he said, into the silence. ‘The cemetery is over the other side.’
‘I never imagined it could be so enormous,’ Alice breathed. ‘It’s like a whole village.’
The place had evidently been evacuated in a great hurry. A badly damaged ambulance lay rusting on the roadside and the area in front of the huts was littered with the abandoned debris of war: coils of barbed wire, wheel rims and other vehicle parts, rubber tyres, wooden sleepers and planking, and crates stencilled with hieroglyphics of military code.
In contrast the huts, linked by gravel pathways, looked quaint, almost homey. Although now strangled with weeds, you could tell that once upon a time the spaces between the pathways had been dug and planted as flower beds.
They peered cautiously into the first empty hut: metal camp beds still remained in rows, their white paint peeling where rust had broken through. Stretchers were piled against one wall, torn canvases hanging from them in a pale cascade. Three pot-bellied stoves were ranged along the centre of the hut, metal flues leading upwards to chimneys in the ceiling. A Union Jack flag hung forlornly from the wall above the nursing station, which was arrayed with trays and bedpans; an enamel cup still contained tea leaves, as if the nurse drinking from it had just left the room. The floor was stained with what looked like mud but could just as easily have been dried blood, Alice thought with a shiver.
‘It’s like a ghost hospital,’ she whispered, as if afraid that the spirits would hear. It wouldn’t have surprised her to see a nurse appear through the door, or a patient being carried in on a stretcher.
Yet it was curiously reassuring, reminding her of the illustrations she’d seen in the illustrated magazines: long tents with rows of metal beds, nurses in spotless starched white headdresses. At least in his last hours or days Sam would have been looked after and made as comfortable as possible. There would have been people to comfort him, to give him water and talk to him. He would not have suffered alone in some muddy battlefield.
When they emerged from the hut the sun had gone in, obscured by heavy clouds that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.
‘Better get on with it. Looks like rain,’ Daniel said, as they followed the path to the cemetery past a dozen more huts and through a small copse at the edge of the encampment. The sight, as they emerged, seemed to punch the breath out of her: field after field of wooden crosses, separated by wide walkways, stretching away towards the horizon as far as the eye could see.
‘I had no idea,’ she gasped.
‘It is one of the largest cemeteries after Tyne Cot.’
But it was nothing like Tyne Cot. This place was well ordered, with graves in neat rows between paths of parched grass, set with hedges and mature trees. In places, people had even attempted to create flower beds in which a few rangy rose bushes still managed to bloom despite the choking bindweed. Poppies and ragged robin flowered in abundance along the hedgerows and, above them, larks were singing. Bravely singing, Alice remembered. She’d have thought the place beautiful had she not been so painfully aware of its terrible history.
Sam would have been evacuated here away from the front line on one of the trains which still lay rusting in the railway sidings. There would have been time to dig the graves in a more orderly way, to give them a proper burial, possibly even with some kind of a short service as they were interred.
After half an hour her eyes were aching from reading so many names and dates. Just as she was beginning to despair she came upon a group of graves, dozens of them, dated October 1917. Walking more slowly now, reading every name with the utmost care, she found herself concentrating so hard that she almost forgot to breathe. But the dates moved on: November, December, even into 1918, and her feet felt heavy with disappointment.
Then she heard Daniel’s call from a hundred yards away in a corner beside the hedge. ‘Over here, Alice.’ As she approached the letters swam into her vision: In Memory of Pvt S. Pilgrim, Canadian Corps, injured in action, died 29th October 1917. R.I.P.
She stared at it for a long moment before the ground started to shift beneath her; she began to feel dizzy and unsteady. Falling to her knees, she grasped with both hands the base of the tall white wooden cross. ‘You stupid, stupid boy,’ she heard herself shouting. ‘Why did you have to go and get yourself killed? Why?’
Resting her face against the rough soil, she barely noticed the stones pressing into her cheek, the harsh scratch of grass and thistles. Thunder rumbled in the distance and then she became aware of raindrops falling onto the parched ground, throwing up small puffs of dust as they landed. She began to sob quietly, the tears mingling with the rain as it fell onto her brother’s grave.
Too soon, she felt Daniel’s strong hands pulling her up, pressing a handkerchief into her hand. ‘Come on, we’re getting soaked. I must get back to the car. I left the hood open.’
She remembered the letter she had written, and now pulled it from her pocket and laid it at the foot of the cross, carefully choosing four smooth stones to hold it down, one at each corner. Then she hesitated; there was something she hadn’t done. She pulled away from him, running towards the hedgerow, pulling up handfuls of red campion, cornflower and poppy. Splitting the flowers into two bunches and binding their stalks with strands of grass, she laid one of them on the grave. The other she would press, and give to her parents.
Kneeling at the foot of the cross once more, she traced her finger over the carved letters. We will never forget you, Sam, my dearest, sweetest baby brother. How can I leave you here, in this sad, quiet place? You were only nineteen and all your dreams are over. Oh Sam, how could you do this to us?
When she finally looked up again, Daniel was far in the distance, striding back to the car, scarcely visible through the pall of rain.