But I explained we have rules in these trenches among the foolish and the mad. For instance, I told them, this leg and the arm they’d picked out are mine: my pegs to hang up my coat, my hat, my water bottle, whatever I like. The leg, I pointed out, is especially useful, you can even sling a rifle on it. It was a good sturdy limb, that one. Dependable. It would not break like some legs do after a few months.
Shit, he’s off his bleeding trolley, a third recruit muttered, starting to look really scared as he gazed at me.
Just explaining the rules, I told him and said not to worry, there were plenty of bones to go around. The walls were full of them. I suggested they take a good close look; they would see all these trenches are almost entirely made of clay and pieces of old soldiers.
I left them gazing fearfully at the walls, the awful realisation in their faces that what I’d said was true. Miles of trenches made of femurs, fibulas and bits of vertebrae. Long ago I had undergone the same gruesome induction, but back in those days I would’ve spared them this cruelty. Trouble is, I could not forgive their intrusion on my grief, and I’ve spent far too much time living with these grisly remains of the dead to be either sparing or rational.
I found a corner of another dugout knowing they would not follow me to encounter more of my insanity. Isolated and in peace, I read Jane’s letter again and this time wept until my tears were exhausted. It was something to treasure, too precious to risk losing. The only safeguard was to transcribe it into my diary. And now that’s done. My fingers are cramped, but I’ve written it down, every word until the concluding words of her postscript. By the time you receive this I will actually be living with your family; in your old room.
In my room, in my bed, I thought, and felt the warmth of love engulf me, and with it a desperate yearning to be there with her.
TWELVE
It was after nine when Patrick finished reading. He felt tired, but it was far too early for sleep and there was a great deal on his mind. He sat and watched the glow of light that softened the London streets. To him, the words in his grandfather’s diary did not sound like the feelings of a man who would run away. Or was he prejudiced? In the mad and ugly world Stephen Conway and Siegfried Sassoon had lived in and written about, who could tell?
He felt deeply drawn to this man whose life and death he was trying to trace. Striking parallels to Patrick himself had emerged from this new and more extensive reading. Stephen had shed law school halfway through the first year because of war, perhaps because the times dictated a young man must enlist for his country; more probably in the end, because of his yearning for ‘adventure’. Patrick had lasted two years at university, then his desire to be a writer had been strong enough to make him abandon law for a new and precarious career. One had made the choice in war, one in peace, but each time he read his grandfather’s words he felt a deep affinity, a correlation he had never known before with anyone. Certainly not with his own father, who was the link that bound them, and who had bitterly opposed Patrick’s change of profession. A family rift between them had only been averted by his mother, who had been his sole supporter.
He felt at a loss wondering what to do with the remainder of his first day in London. There were old friends in his address book, but after the hours spent with the diary that had touched him anew with its pain and disillusion, he was in no mood for casual company. Besides, it was getting late to contact people, almost nine-thirty. He had missed dinner but had no appetite.
The room felt hot and claustrophobic. The Clayborough did not live up to its glossy promise on the Internet. Patrick kept reminding himself that the tariff was reasonable for London, and at worst it was only a brief stay. Even briefer if things did not go well at the BBC meeting now delayed until Tuesday week.
He put the diary and Sassoon’s book away, and contemplated a walk towards Queensway where there would be a pub, but instead decided to call his sister and give her an update on his search for the Lodge. Her voicemail told him Sally was unavailable, but to please leave a message.
‘Some interesting news of Miss Rickson, but no real progress yet. I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he said, and after hanging up found himself wondering if it would be too late to phone Claire — or if it would be sensible. A visit plus a call on the very day of his arrival? Well… perhaps he could just ring to apologise for missing her, and tell her how impressed he was with the poem about the Menin Gate. On the other hand, he thought, looking at the time, perhaps not. It would be too patently transparent for words.
The Clayborough provided what they called ‘guest amenities’: an electric kettle, a cellophane-wrapped biscuit and the choice of a supermarket teabag or a sachet of instant coffee. He boiled the jug while trying to choose between tea and coffee, switched on the television in time for the late news, and turned them both off again as his mobile phone played a few discordant bars of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. ‘Mozart speaking,’ he said.
There was a startled ‘Oh!’ and a gurgle of laughter.
‘Sally?’
‘Not Sally,’ a voice said, and he knew it instantly.
‘Claire?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
‘I was just thinking about you!’
‘Really?’
‘Are you at home?’ Patrick asked.
‘No, I’m downstairs.’
‘Downstairs where?’
‘Downstairs at your hotel,’ Claire said.
It was long after midnight. They lay naked with blankets discarded, even the lone sheet that was draped across them damp with sweat. The air in the room was oppressive. The window unit rattled with noisy futility, unable to cope with the rare September heat. Outside on Bayswater Road the traffic was sparse, with only the occasional sound of a diesel engine as a taxi prowled by.
The high temperature still suffused the city, whose brick and concrete buildings held it like an oven. On nights like this Patrick missed the breeze; there was no relief here like an Australian southerly buster to cool the air. Londoners loved their occasional hot spells; Patrick had always disliked them. When he had worked here his English friends had told him not to be ridiculous. How could he hate the heat, when he came from a sunburnt country? He’d tried to explain how such extremes at home quite often ended in a thunderstorm, followed by milder days and soft breezes. He sighed at the nostalgic thought. Even a trace of the softest breeze would be welcome now.
‘You awake?’ Claire reached out an exploratory hand to establish this, and murmured pleasurably as his arms drew her close. He kissed her, then ran his tongue down her forehead to the ridge of her nose, where he told her that the nicest of her freckles were to be found.
A deep feeling of affection enveloped her. In the dark their bodies moved in renewed desire. This time it was not the urgent coupling of her arrival; this was gentler, longer-lasting and infinitely more erotic. They reached orgasm together in a surge of joy, and she lay awake for a long time afterwards, feeling a happiness that she knew could not possibly last.
Claire had been working late. On arriving home she’d found his note and was elated he had called to see her like this, but dismayed at missing him. She’d tried to decide what to do and thought of phoning. But if he was out and she had to leave a message, then what? Then, she’d have to hope he’d call back, but if he didn’t… if he didn’t that would seem to be the end of it.
She’d showered and taken a taxi, hardly stopping to think he might be visiting friends, or more intimately engaged. By the time she reached the hotel, this and other disturbing thoughts had occurred to her with such force that she’d felt the onset of panic. It was something Claire had never done before. Not come on to someone as strongly as this. Impulsive, she thought. Crazy, she told herself, even if she had been attracted to him in Belgium, perhaps more than just attracted, she admitted, especially that moment in the crowded restaurant, when he’d grinned and softly quoted Sassoon’s lines to her from his grandfather’s diary. The whole evening had been so easy and companionable after th
e lonely few days she’d spent in Ypres that she’d even wondered if they might end up in his hotel, thinking it would only be a one-night stand and they’d never meet again — until the moment when he said he’d be coming to London. All the way home in the train she’d thought about this, aware how much she wanted to see him again, while at the same time trying to talk herself out of it because it would be unwise: he was married, and the worst time of her life had been a tumultuous and eventually ill-fated love affair with a married man. So what was she doing now, like a silly schoolgirl outside his hotel?
‘S’cuse me, darling.’ The taxi driver had turned on the cab lights and switched off his meter. ‘This is it. The Clayborough. Bayswater Road.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘thank you,’ but remained frozen, feeling she’d embarked on a foolish adventure. She realised the cabbie had turned around to study her.
‘Are we getting out, luv? Or do you want to move into the cab as a permanent tenant?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘S’alright,’ he answered. ‘If we’re unsure of things and revising our plans for the evening, I could as easy run you home, if that’s where you’d rather go.’
He was a kindly man, Claire thought, who knew she was on the edge of a personal precipice. He’d wished her all the best, hoped things would work out when she’d paid the fare and gone into the hotel. And now… in the dark while Patrick slept with his head against her breasts, she felt very glad she had not responded to his offer and fled straight back to Fulham.
In the morning Patrick told her of the letter Sally had found, and his frustrating trip to Leatherhead. He was unsure what he’d do today but he supposed Claire had to work. If not, perhaps they could spend the day together. See a movie, maybe have lunch at a pub somewhere on the river? Claire replied that she wished they could, but there was a conference set up at the accountancy firm that she worked for in Knightsbridge.
While he was in the bathroom she rang the head of her department saying she had a problem. Her mother had been taken ill. She must find someone to look after her mum’s house and pets, plus get her into hospital. After that she called her mother to tell her she was sick, just in case someone checked. She’d cancelled a rather important meeting; her boss was not well pleased.
‘What have I got, darling?’ her mother asked.
‘Pneumonia. It was spur of the moment, Mum, but I really need today. If you know what I mean.’
‘Oh, I do. Frank, I imagine, has surfaced again. How is he?’
‘Still in New York. Still wants us to try again, but I’m not sure.’
‘I see. Different chap, new chapter.’ Her mother seemed pleased with her bon mot. ‘Would I like him?’
‘I’d say so,’ Claire said, ‘in fact I can guarantee it.’
‘Which means you’re serious.’
‘Which means I like him. I don’t know what happens from here on, but I feel desperate to spend today with him.’
‘You’re serious,’ her mother said.
In the shower Patrick was having a conversation with himself while experiencing contradictory emotions. Guilt was at variance with happiness. He’d had just one affair since marriage, a transitory and unsatisfactory encounter at a Writers’ Guild weekend. Joanna had had a fleeting relationship with a producer in the third year of their marriage. Each had confessed their lapse and put it behind them. Belonging to an industry where many people had liaisons because of long periods spent apart on film locations, they had decided sex with each other was better than with anyone else.
But last night… while he tried to reproach himself for weakening… last night had been a revelation. Tender and deliciously different. Just thinking of the joy they shared started to stir him. It was probably as well they could not spend the day together — although he had to admit in the privacy of the shower that he wished to God they could.
When Claire broke the news that she was free after all, it seemed the only way to begin the day was by making love again. After which they slept for another hour, and woke to the sound of Mozart on the mobile. Patrick sleepily fumbled for it, assuming it would be Sally.
‘Mozart. Is that you Beethoven?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ a woman’s voice replied. ‘I must have the wrong number.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ Patrick said, ‘I thought it was my sister.’
‘This is Mrs Meredith. You gave me this number when we met yesterday. I hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘No,’ Patrick assured her. ‘I’ve been up for ages. Even had a jog around Hyde Park.’
Claire smiled at him from her pillow.
‘Karen’s also been out for her jog,’ Mrs Meredith told him, ‘which is why I’m telephoning. She met old Mr Gardiner. He has asked if I could ring — he wants to see you. I think he’s remembered something.’
Andrew Gardiner arrived looking bright and alert. He’d had a hair trim and wore a blazer, as if this was an occasion. He seemed to be disappointed Karen was missing. Mrs Meredith explained she’d taken the children to Chessington Zoo.
‘Good zoo that,’ Mr Gardiner said, telling them it was near Ashtead Woods, where he used to ride horses as a boy. Mrs Meredith passed around a tray of cold drinks for everyone, as he changed the subject.
‘Two things,’ he said suddenly. ‘Woke up and remembered last night. George and Henry… one of those girls was in the war.’
‘Which war?’ Patrick felt a quickening of interest.
‘The first war, of course. One of ‘em was a nurse; she went to France as a sort of volunteer, a what’d-you-call-it.’
‘VAD?’ Claire suggested.
‘That’s it, young lady. People used to call ‘em the Roses of No-Man’s-Land. There was a song about them in the music halls,’ Mr Gardiner said. ‘My dad had the sheet music when I was a nipper. ‘Course the war was over, so nobody sang it any more, but sometimes he’d play it on the piano. He was out there, you see. Lost a leg. Said he would’ve died if it weren’t for them. Great girls, he always told me. Brave angels. My dear old mother got sick of hearing about ‘em.’
‘And which sister,’ Patrick asked carefully, afraid they would lose him amid this nostalgic recollection, ‘went to the war?’
‘George, I’d say. Could’ve been Henry, but I’m fairly sure it was George. I’d put me money on her.’
‘That’s what I hoped,’ Patrick said.
‘Now what else did I want to tell you?’ He frowned. ‘Don’t say I’ve forgotten.’ They waited in varying degrees of suspense and some embarrassment. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, with an air of triumph. ‘Of course! The protests about the Lodge’s demolition. Remember that hullabaloo I spoke about? There were reporters. It was in the newspapers. Not London papers… but it was in the local rag, so you might check their files.’ He stood up and shook hands with Patrick. ‘Anyway, best of luck. I hope it helps, but not sure if it can. I’d say she’s long gone.’
‘It’s a start, sir. Thank you for taking this trouble.’
‘Not at all. Good to flex the old memory. Nice to know it’s still in working order!’ He gave Claire a warm smile. ‘Jolly pleased to meet you, my dear.’
‘And you,’ she replied.
He turned to Mrs Meredith, as if something else had just occurred to him. ‘What if I nip down to Chessington Zoo in the car later on, Mrs M. Be hot for that gal with the kiddies. I could bring them home for you. Buy ‘em all an ice, if it’s not against the rules.’
‘You are kind, Mr Gardiner,’ Mrs Meredith said.
Afterwards Andrew Gardiner walked briskly along the Green to his own house. Patrick offered him a lift, but he insisted the walk was good for him. Claire waved as they drove past. He flicked her a smart salute.
‘Must have been a right dasher in his day,’ she said.
‘He doesn’t believe his day’s over yet. Mid-eighties and still on the prowl. There’s hope for all of us in later years.’
‘Rather a sweetie. I’m surprised widows aren’t queu
ing up!’
‘I think,’ Patrick said, ‘his preference is for lusty young blondes in very tight shorts.’
‘Well, the best of luck to him.’ Claire laughed. ‘I’m sure he won’t die wondering.’
The Leatherhead Advertiser in Church Street was unhelpful. Their office manager said it would be rather complicated. Yes, they had back copies stored, but nothing on microfilm or computer from that long ago. Patrick could make an application in writing, but there would be a substantial charge for the search, which could take several weeks.
They walked to the library. No luck, the librarian explained.
‘I did phone Epsom on your behalf, but they have nothing that relates. Not without a computer search, and our whole system is down still. It’s apparently a virus. Causing absolute havoc for all the linked libraries in Surrey.’ As she saw them out she had a suggestion. ‘There’s the local history society in the next street, though. It could be worth a try.’
The district historical society occupied rather picturesque premises called Hampton Cottage, STRICTLY MEMBERS ONLY said a notice outside. Patrick looked at it ruefully.
‘She might’ve told us.’
‘She was in a flap over her computer virus. I wish I’d had a chance to help her solve it.’
‘Could you have done that?’ Patrick asked.
‘Well, it’s my job.’
Patrick looked surprised. ‘I thought you worked for a firm of accountants?’
‘I do. A multinational with offices all over Britain and Europe.
I run their computer network.’
‘Seriously? You’re a nerd?’
‘You see what you’ve got yourself into — if you’ll forgive the expression!’
He laughed. ‘I certainly didn’t know nerds could look like you.’ He turned to the members only sign again. ‘And I was silly enough to think history was for everyone. Why don’t I go in and ask if I can join?’
Barbed Wire and Roses Page 14
