Slipstream

by Alan Judd

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Always. Haven’t you noticed?’

  They counted them in during the next quarter-hour or so. It was obvious even from a distance that several had been damaged, one with a fire-blackened fuselage. Patrick was last in. They were one short, another new boy called Ian something.

  ‘Usually the new ones,’ said the Dodger. ‘Old ones like us know the dodges. We’re all dodgers if we last six months.’

  ‘He may have ditched or landed somewhere.’

  ‘Keep saying it.’

  The mess was lively again that night. The raid was judged a success because fuel and ammunition dumps had been hit, though photo-reconnaissance had yet to confirm how many planes had been destroyed. Everyone seemed in a mood to forget the war for an hour or two and no one mentioned Ian, who was posted missing. His aircraft was reported during the debrief to have been hit by flak but not too badly, trailing a thin stream of oil smoke as he pulled up and away. They all lost each other in the cloud but when they loosely regrouped over the Channel Ian did not reappear. German fighters were by then airborne and it was thought he might have fallen prey to them. It was still possible he might have bailed out and been captured.

  ‘Better than bailing out over Germany,’ someone said. There were tales of bomber crews being beaten or murdered by angry civilians.

  During a shouted conversation at the bar, which both only half-heard, Frank told Patrick about the colonel and Vanessa and about the invitation to bring some of the boys round. ‘I was thinking maybe if just you and I go, make sure it’s OK. Then we can take some others another time.’ He wasn’t sure why he was doing it. Partly, he suspected, because he wanted to show off to Patrick and partly because he thought Vanessa would be impressed. Not that he wanted to share her in any way, even if she had been his to share. Partly also because he felt they wanted him to bring a few of the boys round, to help them feel they were doing their bit for the war.

  Patrick, who normally drank sparingly, was a few pints away that night. He listened with one hand cupped behind his ear, nodding. ‘Good idea,’ he shouted. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘No, not tonight,’ shouted Frank.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘He was killed outside Lens in early September, 1918,’ said the colonel. ‘I was with him.’

  The blackout curtains were drawn and the dining room was mostly in shadow. Feeble yellow light from the two table lamps just encompassed the four empty plates but only Frank and the colonel remained at the table, sharing an ashtray, their glasses refilled. Vanessa and Patrick were in the drawing room across the hall, playing jazz on the gramophone and dancing. Vanessa had suggested it when they finished dinner.

  ‘Shall we dance?’ she asked, smiling across the table at Patrick. ‘Now, before coffee? What passes for coffee. Leave these two to their war talk.’

  The light caught her eyes, making them sparkle. Frank felt it like a knife twisted in his breast. Patrick put down his glass and stood, smiling back at her. ‘My pleasure, madam.’

  Now, the music had stopped. Perhaps they were changing records. Frank hoped so. To think they might be doing anything else – embracing – was unbearable. The colonel was relighting his pipe with Frank Foucham’s lighter, which Frank had pushed across the table to him. He wanted to hear what the colonel had to say, although it was hard to pay attention.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, belatedly. The music started again as he spoke. That was something.

  ‘You may think it odd he should have been with us, The Royal West Kents, not a Canadian regiment. We were a Kitchener battalion, you see, and he’d been in the Territorial battalion with me before the war, before his father sent him to Canada. When he came back with his Canadian lot he somehow got dispensation to be attached to us on temporary transfer. He’d been promoted by the Canadians and was senior to me but I was jolly pleased when he took over the company to which I was sent as a platoon commander. Rather elderly platoon commander, I’m afraid – I was older than him. He was pleased too, I hope. It was good to be together again. Good for me, anyway.’

  Frank hated to picture them dancing but couldn’t stop himself. He held out his hand for the lighter. ‘So how was he killed?’

  ‘Well, that’s rather a long story, I’m afraid. Not what happened on the day, of course – it was quick enough, mercifully – but how it came about.’

  The music was faster now. He imagined them jitterbugging or something. He was still staring at the cigarette between his fingers, ignored after the first drag, when he realised that the colonel was waiting for him to say something. He met his rheumy eyes. ‘Sure, I’d like to hear it, the whole thing, if you’ve time. How it came about. What happened.’

  ‘She happened. Maud. It began with her.’ The colonel nodded at the portrait over the fireplace of the woman in the garden. Her face was in shadow but her white dress stood out. ‘She was a village girl, here, from the cottages up the track by the pub, just off the green. Her parents were not local. They were both in service and they wanted to carry on and so her mother gave her as a baby to her two sisters who had married two brothers, woodmen. They all lived in those cottages and one of the sisters brought her up with her own daughter. She went to school here and then into service with the Dudley Gordons over at Penshurst, the other side of Tonbridge. They’re part of the De L’Isle family at Penshurst Place and lived nearby at Swaylands. She did very well, worked for both families, got on. She was beautiful, as you can see, but clever, too. People liked her. Despite her rebellious streak.’ He smiled. ‘Got up the nose of Hilary Wooding, Johnny Wooding’s snob of a wife, for refusing to curtsey to her. Hilary fancied herself the squire’s wife, you see, though Johnny had no real claim to be squire, and, to be fair, didn’t make one. If any family here did, it would be mine, I suppose. Me, now.’ He shook his head, still smiling. ‘Anyway, Maud did well in service, got promoted to the nursery and went with the Dudley Gordons to Phoenix Park in Dublin when the Earl was viceroy. Before the war, of course.’

  The music stopped again. Frank waited. Again, he realised the colonel was waiting for him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘In Dublin she lived in the vice-regal lodge, had charge of the offspring, including the heir whom I believe is a guardsman now, doing very well apparently. Used to take him in his pram in Phoenix Park, always in a hat and long gloves and with a policeman escorting her. Got a photo somewhere. Different world now.’ He sipped his wine. ‘After that, back here, what happened was that she met Frank, your father. He began courting her, as we used to say then. That’s what caused all the trouble. You see, his people – your people, your ancestors – were yeomen stock, not a county family but prosperous independent farmers, as I was saying before. Well-respected, known in hunting and shooting circles. In other words, a few rungs up the ladder from a penniless village girl.’

  Frank nodded. Again, he didn’t correct the colonel on his parentage, letting the old man run on. It did no harm. The music had resumed. It was tedious listening to this rigmarole about this other Frank Foucham’s girlfriend from pre-history while his mind was with Vanessa and Patrick across the hall. He tried to look attentive.

  It seemed to work. The colonel nodded as if Frank had spoken. ‘Well, once it got out that they were seeing each other, both families were unhappy, his because she was not at all the match his people wanted for him, hers because she was getting above herself, as they saw it. So they began to meet in secret, by the Medway, sometimes in a hired boat. Whenever she had time off she’d walk the seven or so miles into Tonbridge, which they did for shopping anyway, and he’d take a pony and trap from here. With me as cover. We were friends, you see.

  ‘That was a bit awkward, too, as far as my people were concerned. We lived here in the manor, I’d been sent away to school and so on, whereas they were just local farmers and Frank spoke with a Kentish accent. But we’d grown up together, shot, fished and hunted together, even the odd spot of poaching for the fun of it. Only from unpopular land
owners – well, one actually, Johnny Wooding. We liked each other, respected each other – at least, I respected him. He was better at everything than me – better shot, better rider, better poacher even. But that didn’t matter. We were friends.

  ‘So he and I would take old Bluebell in the trap to the Medway, ostensibly to go fishing. I actually did fish, while he went off in the boat for his trysts with Maud.’ The colonel again held out his hand for the lighter and relit his pipe. ‘I think I can honestly say I wasn’t jealous. Envious, yes, enormously, but not jealous. It seemed appropriate that he rather than me should have her. He was the better man. I didn’t begrudge him; I admired him. Anyway, with war coming – we all felt it was, you see, felt it in our bones – we joined the Territorials, me with a commission because I’d been in the cadets at school, Frank as an OR. Again, it didn’t make any difference to us.

  ‘What did, though, was his father finding out he was still seeing Maud. We never knew how – presumably someone saw them – but the result was that Frank was sent to Canada to help his brother, who was there already, farm some land the old man had bought. I think I told you. Land in Canada was cheap then and old George Foucham had amassed a pretty penny through his farming and butchery business. So they were broken up, Frank and Maud. Before he left he gave her a ring as a keepsake, a plain silver band he made from a teaspoon – he was pretty handy like that, another difference between us – and promised he’d be in touch. It was probably all he could manage without his parents knowing.

  ‘Anyway, he went and she waited and waited and didn’t hear. War came and I was mobilised with the Territorials and after a while posted to the Eighth Battalion, one of many new Kitchener battalions, to help train them. Not that I had any idea what we were in for, no more than anyone else. Meanwhile, I had started seeing Maud myself. Not courting at that stage, but seeing her. It came about when I ran into her by chance one day in Tonbridge, near the station, and she asked if I’d heard from Frank. I hadn’t but hoped to sometime and said I’d let her know if I did. She usually had to go shopping on Saturdays and we arranged to meet in the station buffet at 1130 whenever I could get in. I could often get away at weekends, you see. We were pretty sure we wouldn’t meet anyone either of us knew there on a Saturday.

  ‘Of course, I was in love with her. Had been since the day I met her. But I don’t think I acknowledged it then, even to myself, let alone her. She was Frank’s girl and he would come back for her, I was sure of that. But I loved seeing her, talking to her, being with her. Our teas became walks by the river and in the intervals I would think of things to tell her, questions to ask about her own life. I knew the family she worked for, you see, and although she was loyal, fiercely loyal, it was interesting to hear about life below stairs. But we also talked about books. She had only a village education but she was a keen reader. I’d talk about a book – Dickens or whatever, she venerated Dickens – and by next time she’d have read it if she could find it, borrowing from her employers or the library. I started giving her books and she built up her own library. Our talks were the beginnings of her education, she told me later. That wasn’t how I saw them. I think I assumed they were a distraction from her unhappiness about not hearing from Frank and she, I thought, saw contact with me as a remote way of keeping in touch with him. It suited both of us. It never occurred to me then that she and I could have any sort of future. At least, I didn’t dare think of it.

  ‘Then I was sent away and saw less of her, but since most of our training was on the Downs near Shoreham and around Surrey or Aldershot, I could get back now and again. Neither of us heard from Frank. I would call on his people and they’d say all was going well with both brothers, that the farm was coming on and so on, but never anything personal.

  ‘Then we entrained for France and the debacle of Loos, our introduction to war. Lost almost all my friends. We had leave afterwards while the battalion re-formed. Seven days’ home leave. I’d get only another ten in the next three years, though fortunately I didn’t know it at the time. It was odd, I couldn’t settle; grateful to be home but restless. I saw Maud only once during that week. Don’t mind me telling you all this personal stuff, do you? Don’t usually talk about it.’ His bushy white eyebrows were raised.

  ‘Not at all, sir, I’m very interested.’ It was different music now, slower, waltzy stuff. They were probably dancing toe to toe, holding each other close.

  ‘I proposed to her. We were walking by the Medway. I hadn’t intended to – maybe there’s something about walking by water. I think I was also more shaken by Loos than I realised. I was going back three days afterwards and probably thought I’d never see her again. It didn’t make sense from any rational or practical point of view but the heart has its own seasons, they say.’ He slowly turned the lighter over and over in his hand. ‘Maybe it was also, sub-consciously, a way of staking a claim on the future, acting as if there was one, even though I didn’t believe it. Maybe that’s why she said yes, too. It just came out, you see. We’d been talking about the gardens at Swaylands, of which Lady Dudley Gordon was doing some rather fine water colours, and there was a pause, and I heard myself say, “I love you, Maud, and what I’ve been wanting to say all this time is, will you marry me?” It just came out. My voice broke as I said “I love you”. I didn’t say anything else. I just stopped walking and looked at her. I was so surprised I’d said it. I think she was too.’

  The colonel paused. The music went on. The pause was long enough for Frank to feel it was time he asked what happened next, when the colonel resumed.

  ‘She looked at me and said, “Yes.” That was all, for a while. We just stared at each other. Then she said, “I must tell Frank.” I said, “Would you like me to?” She said, “No, it must come from me.” Then we linked arms and continued our walk.’ He smiled. ‘Very tame by modern standards.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Anyway, I got Frank’s address from his family and Maud wrote and told him. For a while she didn’t hear – actually, we were married by the time she did, which meant another seven days’ leave for me. My people weren’t happy about it, of course, but the war produced a rash of hasty marriages and they were so worried they might never see me again that they went along with anything I wanted. When your father did reply it was heart-breaking, even for me. It made me feel worse, though I never regretted marrying Maud. I was deliriously happy. That never changed. I just hope she felt the same.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Frank, your father, had ridden forty miles on horseback to pick up the letter at the nearest post. He hadn’t written before, he said, because he didn’t want to until he could say, come and join me, the farm is ready, I’ve built the house, let’s start a new life. That plain silver band he made was meant as an engagement ring, only he never told her. God knows what she really felt. She didn’t say at the time – I was in France – and she showed me the letter only after he was killed.

  ‘Anyway, Frank joined the Canadian Army shortly after getting her letter and was soon commissioned, rightly. I don’t know whether he met and married your mother before he joined or after but it must have been about the same time. I don’t know whether she even knows about Maud. Has she ever . . . ?’

  This time he couldn’t let it go. ‘Like I said before, sir, it wasn’t him my mother married but another Foucham, Francis W. Foucham.’

  It made no difference. The old man went on as if Frank hadn’t spoken. ‘Some time later – after you were conceived, obviously – he was sent to England for further training before France. It was then that he applied for secondment to his old regiment. That was accepted and he was posted to us in the line to take over D company, there being yet another vacancy. I had no idea of this until one night when we were in support I was sent from A company to take over as second-in-command D company, which was in the line. Another vacancy. Neither of us expected to see the other there, me because I’d no idea he’d come over from Canada, him because he assumed I was
still with our old Territorial battalion.

  ‘This was in the midst of Operation Michael, the German Spring Offensive of March 1918, their last throw before they collapsed in the autumn. Things were pretty desperate, we were falling back, falling back night and day and pretty soon we were back in trenches we’d taken in 1916. Exhausting, confusing and dispiriting, especially when we’d make a stand, hold our position and then had to abandon it because the units on either side gave way or were wiped out. We did better than most, partly because we were one of the first to adopt defence in depth – just one company forward with the rest deployed farther back so that we weren’t all obliterated by the initial assault. That was what happened when you held the line in strength, with all companies forward and just one in support. The first intense barrage combined with the initial shock troops cut swathes through the forward positions and then you had nothing behind to stop them when they broke through.

  ‘It was a wet night when I reported to D company dugout, rain like stair rods and mud you just can’t imagine until you’ve been in it. It took me nearly two hours to cover about three quarters of a mile, in full kit, of course, slipping, sliding, soaking, getting stuck, getting un-stuck, wrong turns, collapsed trenches, all in pitch dark. There wasn’t much going on, fortunately – the odd shell or nervous machine-gunner – but it wouldn’t have made much difference if there had been. It was the elements, the elements and conditions that were the worst thing for most of us. You arrive cold, wet, tired and hungry. You don’t start your battles fresh, you’re on your knees. People don’t realise.

  ‘When eventually I reached A company and was directed to company headquarters someone mentioned Captain Foucham but I was too exhausted and dulled to take it in, just thought I’d misheard. I knew his predecessor had been killed and that there was a replacement but didn’t know who. The dugout – really just a hollowed-out bit of trench with a canvas flap – was lit by a single candle on a table made of ammunition boxes. Seated on another ammunition box, hatless, tunic unbuttoned, smoking and looking at an old trench map, was your father.