by Pat Barker
Catherine’s gone very quiet. I rant and rave and stomp up and down, but I know it’s no use, really. I’m still quite shocked. It seems so … I don’t know, un-English.
Anyway, there it is. We’re coming back to London so we shall be able to see each other after all.
I’m sending this to your home address though I suppose you may have already have left by now. Oh dear, what a muddle it all is. I can’t wait to see you, now more than ever. Elinor.
Sixteen
The last thing Paul had expected to feel was nostalgia, but as he stood in the entrance to the Domino Room, taking in the crimson velvet, the gilt, the flickering candles, the caryatids, the cupids, the whole grandiose, but cosy, feel of the place, he did feel a ripple of affection. So many evenings spent here, most of them with Teresa. He waited for the pang of regret, but it didn’t come. If anything he felt relived.
Finding an empty table, he sat down, looking around, trying to work out what had changed. There was an edginess about the place now: excitement, and fear. Not fear of disfigurement or death – most of the people in this room were at no risk of either – no, fear of being irrelevant. He looked from table to table, recognizing famous and not-so-famous faces, and what he sensed was a toxic mixture of excitement and paralysis. Though he only recognized it here because to a certain extent he’d felt exactly that himself, before he’d made himself start working again.
Neville was the first person to speak to him. ‘Hello,’ he said, coming over and shaking hands warmly, laying his free hand on Paul’s shoulder in that domineering way of his. ‘Elinor says you’ve been ill. You all right now?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Oh you know, toddling on.’
He was looking round the room as he spoke. Paul suspected he was searching for more important people to talk to, but he showed no inclination to move on.
‘What’ll you have?’
‘Whisky please.’
Neville gave the order. ‘I suppose you’re up for the Red Cross interview?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘You’ll be all right.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘Two, three weeks.’ He seized his whisky from the waiter’s tray. ‘Did you try to enlist?’
‘They wouldn’t have me. What about you?’
‘Went to see my own medical man. He told me not to waste my time. Anyway, the sooner I get started the better.’
‘Driving an ambulance?’
‘Painting, you fool.’
‘Will you be close to the fighting?’
‘As close as I can get.’ He was not so much drinking as throwing it back. ‘My father’s been out there twice already. He went to one hospital where there were five hundred men lying on straw, covered in piss and shit – some of them hadn’t had their wounds dressed in a fortnight. No anaesthetics, no disinfectant, nothing. Whole place stank of gangrene. As far as I can make out the medical services have been completely overwhelmed.’
‘And that’s what you’re going to paint?’
‘I’ll paint whatever’s there.’
‘You really do see it as a painting opportunity, don’t you?’
‘Too bloody right I do.’
Paul caught a movement by the door. Elinor had come in, and, just behind her, Catherine. The girls hesitated, gazing nervously round the room. Elinor smiled when she saw Paul waving and came over at once, with none of the pauses to greet people that he remembered from the past. He leaned forward to embrace her. Her cheek was cool, even in this heat, and her scent reminded him of fresh linen sheets.
She kissed him then held him at arm’s length.
‘You’ve lost a lot of weight.’
‘A stone and a half.
‘You were thin to start with.’
‘I’m careful about cracks in the pavement.’
Catherine shook hands, first with him, then with Neville. She was pale and wearing a black dress that drained her complexion of the little colour it had. Neville hadn’t spoken to Elinor, but now, at the last moment, he bowed and smiled.
‘I called at your lodgings this afternoon,’ Paul said to Elinor. ‘But you were out.’
‘I thought you were still in the country,’ Neville said, almost simultaneously.
Catherine answered. ‘No, the Parish Council didn’t like the idea of having a Church cottage rented by a German.’
‘A German –?’ For a moment Neville looked puzzled. ‘Oh, yes, of course, I’m sorry, I forgot. And they threw you out because of that? But that’s outrageous.’
‘Well, they did,’ Elinor said. ‘And they didn’t even offer to refund the rent.’
‘Why don’t you complain to the Bishop?’
‘Because it wouldn’t do any good.’
‘You can’t let them get away with it.’
She shook her head. ‘Catherine’s got enough on her plate without that. I don’t think you want the battle, do you, Cath?’
‘Not that particular one.’ She turned to Neville whose anger on her behalf, however misdirected, had obviously touched her. ‘You see, we may have to move house and if we do I’ve got to be there to help my parents, so I’m afraid painting in country cottages is a thing of the past.’
‘Why do you have to move?’ Neville said. He was becoming more truculent by the minute.
‘We live on the coast. Right on the front, in fact – the sea’s about two hundred yards away – and people think we’re signalling to German ships. It’s ridiculous, but that’s what they think.’ She tried a smile, but it wouldn’t stay on her mouth. ‘If we close the living-room curtains that’s a signal. Open them, that’s a signal. Flowers in the window: signal. And as for switching on a lamp … Well!’
‘But that’s insane.’
‘Oh, we’re the lucky ones. A family we know – they’re not even German, they’re Polish – had bricks thrown through the windows.’
Neville was breathing noisily, a dragon working up a head of steam. ‘Should you move? I mean, shouldn’t you stay and face it out?’
‘My father’s lived there thirty years and last week …’ She was fighting back the tears. ‘Last week somebody spat at him in the street.’
‘So, you see,’ Elinor said, ‘not being allowed to rent the cottage doesn’t matter very much.’
Neville was leaning towards Catherine. ‘Do you have people you can stay with?’
‘My mother’s sister. I’m staying with her at he moment.’
Nobody came near them, though Neville and Elinor must have known everybody in the room. They were in quarantine, it seemed. Neville was aware of it, Paul could see that – he had that blue, dancing, truculent light in his eyes – he’d found a cause, and sooner or later everybody in this room would pay for ignoring Catherine tonight. Oh, he was a champion grudge-bearer was Neville, but he was also on this occasion – and how distressing it was to admit it – right.
One way and another it was a relief when Elinor suggested they should leave.
‘Good idea,’ said Neville, jumping up. ‘It’s boring in here tonight.’
It was raining, no more than a light drizzle but enough to make them decide to take a cab. Paul went to summon one, leaving Neville and the two girls standing in the shelter of the doorway. He’d just attracted a cabby’s attention and was turning to call the others when an incident took place. A young man, rather foppishly dressed, carrying a silver-topped cane, stumbled against Catherine as he was leaving and knocked her to one side. It might have been an accident, but his grin suggested otherwise. Neville spun round and head-butted him in the face. Blood spouted from the young man’s nostrils and splashed on his shirt-front.
Paul ran back to join Neville, whose fists were clenched in front of him. One of the young man’s companions grabbed his arm and pulled him back. The other bent and picked up his cane. By this time the doorman and several waiters had appeared, obviously determined not to have a fight in the entrance. Gradually, with muttered threats of future reprisals,
the young man allowed himself to be dragged away.
In silence, they walked to the cab. Catherine was white and seemed to be on the verge of tears. Elinor had an arm round her shoulder. Paul was stunned, less by Neville’s anger, which he thought was fully justified, than by the sheer backroom-brawl brutality of that head-butt. He wouldn’t have believed Neville had that in him.
They got into the cab. Gradually Neville’s breathing returned to normal. None of the others could think of anything to say. Paul looked across at him – he was still shaking with anger, but exhilarated too, you could see it in his eyes. He was like that all the time underneath.
The cabby was waiting for instructions.
‘Café Eiffel Tower?’ Elinor said.
Catherine shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I just want to go home. You go.’
‘Why don’t you and Tarrant go?’ Neville said. ‘I’ll see Catherine home.’
‘All right,’ said Paul, snatching the chance of time alone with Elinor, though amazed it had been offered. He shook hands with Neville. ‘Shall I see you again before you go?’
‘Give me a ring tomorrow. We’ll fix something up.’
Paul got out and handed Elinor down.
‘Well,’ said Elinor, as the cab drove away.
‘He’s found a cause.’
‘Hasn’t he just? You know, he’s always going on about his parents and their campaigning and how neglected he felt because of it, but my goodness the block chipped. Blocks.’
‘He likes Catherine.’
‘I hope he does.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I hope she’s not just a cause.’
‘You don’t mind him going off with her like that?’
‘Good heavens, no. Lets me off the hook.’
‘Is it over? Between you and him?’
It seemed obvious that it was, but he needed to have it spelled out.
‘It was never on.’ She walked a little further. ‘Did you see how he enjoyed hitting that man?’
‘He deserved it.’
‘But Nev head-butted him.’
‘No, it wasn’t exactly Queensberry Rules, was it?’
‘You see, you’re laughing. You’re as bad as he is.’
‘I think that fellow deserved everything he got.’
They were drifting aimlessly along. After a while she took his arm and that pleased him.
‘Are we going to the Eiffel Tower?’ he said.
‘No, I’ve had enough of people for one night. Let’s just walk.’
London at night was more obviously changed than London by day. The lamps had been painted blue and cast a ghastly glow on to the faces of passers-by. The darkened streets directed your attention to the sky, where searchlinghts stroked the underbelly of the clouds. All around was that burnt, used-up smell of late summer in the city.
‘I hate August,’ Paul said.
‘Well, this August isn’t much fun.’
‘No, I’ve never liked it. My mother died in August.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
He smiled. ‘It was a long time ago.’
Silence for a hundred yards or so. Then Elinor said, ‘What time’s your interview?’
‘Ten-thirty.’
‘Neville seems to think they’ll jump at you.’
‘It’s not fighting, but it’s the best I can do.’
‘The best you could do is stay here and paint.’
‘Not an option. We can all go back to painting when it’s over. Except Neville. Do you know, he told me he’s going out there to paint?’
‘I admire him, actually’ she said. ‘He’s the only person I know who kept going. Everybody else sat round and talked. Including me, I’m sorry to say.’ She glanced sidelong at him. ‘I suppose you’ve been too ill to do anything?’
‘No, I did a bit.’
‘And are you pleased with it?’
Oh, that artist’s question, both wanting and dreading to hear that another artist’s work is going well.
‘I am, quite.’
‘Oh, good.’
This was the longest walk he’d done for quite a while, and he was pleased at the way his chest was holding up. It helped that the air was warm and slightly moist. They strolled on, leaning against each other now. The conversation flowed, but it was the conversation of friends and he wanted to change that. He needed to tell Elinor how he felt about her, even if it caused her to withdraw, and it probably would. Teresa had vanished almost without trace. Little remained of her now except a voice saying, ‘You don’t love me. If you love anybody, you love Elinor, and you only love her because you know she won’t have you.’ In his memory, even that remark had been pruned. ‘You don’t love me. You love Elinor.’ That was what he remembered her saying because that was what he wished she’d said.
‘Shall we have a walk round?’ he said, as they were passing Russell Square.
‘I thought we were walking? Miles.’
‘Let’s sit down, then.’
Further in under the darkness of the trees he slipped his arm around her waist. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath. Their footsteps rang out on the path with that hollow sound of night-time in the city. Veering to one side, he steered her on to the grass. Now there was only the rustling of leaves under their feet, the sharp smell of soil and decay. The searchlights were clearer now, sweeping from side to side above their heads.
‘Neville’s painted them, you know. The searchlights.’
Bugger Neville. ‘I bet he has.’
Before she could speak again he covered her mouth with his own. He could see hands, frozen in the air. At last, with a sigh, she let them settle on his shoulders. He stood with his back to a tree, holding her close, wanting to laugh and shout with triumph, simply because she hadn’t pushed him away. Everything was possible now. He whispered in her ear, ‘I love you.’
She was looking up at him. He saw the searchlights in her eyes, and pulled her deeper into the shade. He started to kiss her neck, then her throat, his hand closed around her breast and then she was pushing him away. Breathing deeply, eyes closed, he heard a creaking sound. He looked up thinking it must be a bough, but although the tree was in constant motion in the upper branches, the sound seemed to be coming from further away.
‘What is that?’
‘I don’t know.’
Taking her hand, he led her towards it. Far from them being alone, as he’d thought at first, he realized the square was full of couples, entwined together in the shadows of the trees or stretched out full length on the ground. One couple were making love. As he walked past he glimpsed an elastic garter, a stocking top and a bulging white thigh.
The sound came from near the centre of the square. He could see what was causing it: a line of cylindrical black shapes suspended from a metal frame, swaying in the wind and causing the ropes they were suspended from to creak. Elinor walked up to them and he followed.
‘What are they?’ he asked.
He caught the glint of her teeth as she smiled.
‘It’s the Kaiser.’
She turned one of the bags round to face him and he saw that a ferociously glaring mask had been pinned to the cloth. They were just straw-filled sacks, used for bayonet practice, weighted so they wouldn’t move too easily. Pale gold straw bled from rents in the material.
‘I watched them practising the other day. They’re supposed to yell when they stick it in.’ She pulled a face. ‘Apparently nobody dies unless you yell.’
She went along the line, setting them all in motion, one by one. The snarling faces jiggled and turned.
He felt the evening start to slip away from him. As she turned, he tried to kiss her again, but his kiss landed on her ear. ‘Can we go to your lodgings?’
Her hands had come up to form a barrier. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Can I see you tomorrow, then?’
‘Yes, that would be nice.’
He relaxed. She wasn’t rejecting him. She just needed time
. He guessed that glimpse of the girl with her skirt around her waist had frightened her as much as it had aroused him.
‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Anywhere,’ she said. ‘As long as it’s not the Café Royal.’
They laughed, and their laughter restored a kind of normality. Turning their backs on the straw men dangling from their gibbet, they began to walk towards Gower Street.
His hand settled on her waist. Till now he’d intended to stay in London only till the day after tomorrow, but now he thought he’d stay longer, make it a full week.
A lot could happen in a week.
Part Two
Seventeen
Everything stinks: creosote, bleach, disinfectant, soil, blood, gangrene.
The military authorities say uniforms must be preserved at all costs, but that means manhandling patients who are in agony. Cut them off, says Sister Byrd, and she’s the voice of authority here, in the Salle d’Attente, not some gold-braid-encrusted crustacean miles away from blood and pain, so cut they do, snip, snip, snip, snip, as close to the skin as they dare.
On either side of Paul as he cuts are two long rows of feet: yellow, strong, calloused, scarred where blisters have formed and burst repeatedly. Since August they’ve done a lot of marching, these feet, and all their marching has brought them to this one place.
Sister Byrd’s tough, tougher even than she looks. Auburn hair tarnished with silver; fine, pale skin mottled red on the cheeks; harebell-blue eyes – she must have been pretty once – but now she’s barrel-shaped and dour, and amazingly good at her job.
Every few minutes the door’s pushed open and the stretcher-bearers shuffle in with their load, standing like carthorses between the shafts, waiting to be told where to set it down. They’re there now, waiting. Sister Byrd pulls the blanket over the face of a man who’s just died and his yellow ankles seem to get longer. Strong calves appear, fuzzed with black hairs, the muscles prominent from all the marching he’s done in the last few weeks. She bows her head, but only for a second. All right,’ she says, in French. ‘You can put him here.’
