Birdsong

by Sebastian Faulks

  Above him he saw the white moon, early and low above the elms. Over and behind it were long jagged wisps of cloud that ran in ribbed lines back into the pale blue of the sky, then trailed away in gestures of vapourous white.

  Stephen felt himself overtaken by a climactic surge of feeling. It frightened him because he thought it would have some physical issue, in spasm or bleeding or death. Then he saw that what he felt was not an assault but a passionate affinity. It was for the rough field running down to the trees and for the path going back into the village, where he could see the tower of the church: these and the forgiving distance of the sky were not separate, but part of one creation, and he too, still by any sane judgement a young man, by the repeated tiny pulsing of his blood, was one with them. He looked up and saw the sky as it would be trailed with stars under darkness, the crawling nebulae and smudged lights of infinite distance: these were not different worlds, it seemed now clear to him, but bound through the mind of creation to the shredded white clouds, the unbreathed air of May, to the soil that lay beneath the damp grass at his feet. He held tightly on to the stile and laid his head on his arms, in some residual fear that the force of binding love he felt would sweep him from the earth. He wanted to stretch out his arms and enfold in them the fields, the sky, the elms with their sounding birds; he wanted to hold them with the unending forgiveness of a father to his prodigal, errant, but beloved son. Isabelle and the cruel dead of the war; his lost mother, his friend Weir: nothing was immoral or beyond redemption, all could be brought together, understood in the long perspective of forgiveness. As he clung to the wood, he wanted also to be forgiven for all he had done; he longed for the unity of the world’s creation to melt his sins and anger, because his soul was joined to it. His body shook with the passion of the love that had found him, from which he had been exiled in the blood and the flesh of long killing.

  He lifted his head, and found that he was smiling. He walked in peace along the road for perhaps an hour, though he had no track of time. The evening stayed light as far as he went, the fields in their different shades and the trees in lines or clumps or alone where a chance seed had dropped.

  As the road fell and turned a corner he found himself coming into a small village. There were two boys playing on a big green space beyond a ditch that separated it from the road. Stephen went into a pub opposite and found himself in what looked like a private parlour. An irritable old man asked him what he wanted. He fetched beer from an unseen barrel in a back room; with the pint mug he brought a smaller glass containing some cinnamon drink. Stephen took both glasses outside and sat on a bench by the green, watching the boys at play until the sun at last went down and the white moon glowed.

  Stephen went back a day early to France so that he could visit Jeanne in Amiens. His transfer to brigade staff had been delayed by a fortnight, and he was to rejoin his company at the Front in the meantime. He thought the return to the war might be made easier if he had spent a night in France before going on to whatever billet Gray had meanwhile allocated him.

  Amiens station had the look of an old landmark to him, though he found to his surprise when he counted that this was only the third time he had actually arrived at it. The first time had led to extraordinary and unseen consequences and so, in a way, had the second. On this occasion there would certainly be no Isabelle; perhaps there would be no drama or reverse at all. He hoped so.

  Jeanne had decided to trust him, and he felt grateful to her. There was no need for it, but it showed generosity and imagination on her part, he thought, unless it was only pity. He found it difficult to know what kind of feelings he awakened in people now, but even if Jeanne’s impulse was merely one of charity to an uncouth soldier, he would not turn it away. She was a kind woman. He wondered why she had not been married: she must be thirty-eight or -nine, almost too old to have children.

  He had sent a telegram from Boulogne, and had awaited her reply. She would be happy to see him that evening, she said, at any time.

  He walked up through the town, still with his awkward service valise. He was wearing one of the new shirts he had bought in London, with new underwear. As far as he could tell, the lice that had plagued him had perished in the bonfire he had made with his old clothes in Norfolk. As he passed through Liverpool Street on his return, he asked the barber to remove his moustache. He had begun to feel almost like the young man who had arrived at the boulevard du Cange.

  He crossed the square with the café in which he had met Jeanne and came to the small house in which she had been lodging with Isabelle. He rang the bell. As he waited he tried to remember what Jeanne looked like, but no picture came to his mind.

  “Come in, Monsieur.” Jeanne held out her hand.

  Stephen found himself once more in the modest hallway, though it seemed more brightly lit this time. Jeanne opened a door on the right into a sitting room. It had a shiny wooden floor and a circular table with freesias in a glass bowl. There were armchairs on either side of the marble mantelpiece.

  “Are you tired after your journey?”

  “No, not at all. I feel very well.”

  Stephen sat in the chair that Jeanne indicated for him, and looked up at her. He did remember the strong features of her face and her pale skin; when he looked at them they made him calm. In the set of her eyes and the turn of her head there were occasional flickers of Isabelle, something impetuous that was transformed and stilled in the gravity of Jeanne’s demeanour.

  Jeanne said, “She told me you stared a lot.”

  Stephen apologized. “These years in the mud—I’ve lost my manners.” He was glad that the subject of Isabelle had come up so soon. At least they could then dispose of it.

  “Have you heard from Isabelle?”

  “Yes,” said Jeanne. “She’s very happy. Max is badly hurt, but he’s going to survive. She asked me to thank you for coming to see her. I think it meant a good deal to her. She has been very unlucky—or very foolish, as my father would say. All her decisions have been difficult ones. To see you again and to know that you at least wished her well, I think that sustained her.”

  “I’m pleased,” said Stephen, though he did not feel pleasure. It confused him to think the role he now played in Isabelle’s life was to offer minor reassurance. “I’m pleased,” he repeated, and in that moment of small insincerity he thought he felt the last presence of Isabelle leave him, not by going into false oblivion, as she had the first time, but into simple absence.

  He turned to Jeanne. “How long will you stay in Amiens? Isn’t your home in Rouen?”

  Jeanne looked down at her hands. “My father’s old and would like me to stay and look after him. Although my mother’s still alive, she’s not well and is less attentive than he would like.”

  “So you will go back?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jeanne. “I’ve been a dutiful daughter. But I’m drawn to the idea of independence. I like it here in Amiens, in this little house.”

  “Of course.” Stephen thought of her age again. “What about your other sisters? Couldn’t they look after him?”

  “No. They’re all married. Now, Monsieur, we’re going to have dinner in about an hour. I’ll have to go and see how it’s coming along. I’m not sure if you’d like to rest, or have some aperitif … I’m not used to this sort of thing.” She waved her hand. “It’s somewhat unconventional.”

  “Nothing in the world is conventional at the moment.” Stephen smiled. “I’m grateful that you understand that. In the meantime, yes. I’ll have a drink.”

  Jeanne smiled back at him. It was the first time he had seen her smile, and he believed it was the most extraordinary expression he had seen on a human face. It began with a slow widening of the lips, then the pale skin of her face became radiant, not with blood as Isabelle’s might have done, but with an inner light that made it shine. At last it reached her eyes, which developed squares of brilliance as they narrowed into trusting humour. It was not just her expression, Stephen thought, bu
t her whole face that had changed into something forgiving and serene.

  She said, “There is something Isabelle sent me out to buy when you came before. It smells horrible. It’s called Old Orkney. It’s an English drink.”

  Stephen laughed. “Scottish, I think. I know it well.”

  Jeanne brought the bottle and jug of water. Stephen poured a little into a small crystal glass and looked around the room while Jeanne went to the kitchen. He could hear the sound of pans and cutlery; a smell of herbs and wine caused a sudden rush of hunger in his stomach. He lit a cigarette and searched the elegant little room for an ashtray. There were a number of small ceramic and china dishes, but he dared not risk them and flicked the ash into the fireplace where he rubbed it in with his foot. For all his new lice-free clothes, he felt lumpish and awkward in this tidy, feminine room. He wondered if he would ever refind his ease and naturalness in normal surroundings, or whether he had now evolved into a creature whose natural habitat included corrugated iron ceilings, wooden walls, and food hanging in rat-proof parcels from the rafters.

  Jeanne had made soup that she served from a bowl on a table at the end of the room. It was supposed to be a fish soup in the manner of Dieppe, near her home in Normandy, she explained, but she had not been able to find all the ingredients she needed in Amiens. Stephen remembered how irritated Isabelle had once been when he said that Amiens was not noted for its cuisine.

  “I expect the war has affected supplies,” he said.

  “I’m not sure,” said Jeanne. “It may be that the Amiénois are just not interested in food. Would you like to pour the wine? I don’t know if it’s good, but it’s one I’ve seen my father drink.”

  Stephen was still not sure whether Jeanne viewed him as a refugee whom someone public-spirited should foster, or if she had simpler motives of friendship. He questioned her as they ate.

  She was not generous with information. Her manner had a pleasant shyness about it, as though she felt that the evening was not really permitted by the rules of etiquette and at any moment someone might come in and forbid it to continue. Stephen gathered that she had been kept at home by a sense of duty to her father, who seemed able to impose his will on her as he had on Isabelle. She had resisted his choice of husband more successfully than her younger sister, but he had retaliated by forbidding hers. As he had scared away Isabelle’s soldier, so he had frozen from contention a widowed man who would have taken Jeanne away from him.

  Jeanne spoke in very measured sentences; there was something strict in her manner that was relieved by the humour that glimmered behind it in her eyes and in the sudden movements of her long, thin fingers.

  Stephen continued to feel a sense of tranquillity in her presence. He found himself happy to listen to her talking, and when she questioned him he was able to reply with a sense of proportion, even when talking about the war.

  Then, as it grew late, he began to feel the dread of his return. From the first time as a child when he had been taken from the fields and made to go back to the institution in which he was living, he had feared the moment of separation more than anything: it was abandonment. The return to the trenches was something he could not bring himself to contemplate. As the time grew nearer he lost the ability to talk any more.

  Jeanne said, “You’re thinking of your return, aren’t you? You’ve stopped answering my questions.”

  Stephen nodded.

  “It won’t last for ever. We are waiting for tanks and for the Americans, that’s what Marshal Pétain says. We must all be patient. Think of your next leave.”

  “Can I come here again?”

  “Yes, if you like. Count the days and the weeks. Keep yourself safe. It sounds as though with your new job you won’t be in action so much. Be careful.”

  Stephen said, “You may be right.” He sighed. “But it’s been so long, so very long. I think of the men I was with and—”

  “Then you must stop thinking about them, the ones who have died. You did your best for them and there’s nothing more you can do. When it’s over you can remember them. Now you must concentrate on getting yourself through it. Another casualty won’t help those who have died.”

  “I can’t do it, Jeanne, I can’t do it. I’m so tired.”

  Jeanne looked at his pleading face. He was close to tears.

  “I have given everything,” he said. “Don’t make me go on. Please let me stay here.”

  Jeanne’s smile came again. “This is not the talk of a man who led his soldiers on the Ancre. A few weeks behind the lines, where there’s no danger. You can manage that.”

  “It isn’t the danger. It’s the effort. I can no longer bring my mind to it.”

  “I know.” Jeanne put her hand on his. “I understand. But you must be strong. I’ve made up a bed for you because I thought you might want to stay. I’ll wake you in good time in the morning. Come on now.”

  Stephen followed her reluctantly to the door. He knew he would go back the next day.

  The assault on the Messines Ridge was planned hard and in detail. Veterans of the previous July were mean with the human life at their disposal.

  “I’ve good news for you,” said Gray when Stephen reported back to him. “There’s time before your new appointment for you to organize a large raid on the enemy trenches. It’s part of the new, cautious regime of knowing our enemy. Reconnaissance.” He tried unsuccessfully to still the twitchings of a smile.

  “I see,” said Stephen. “And will it make much difference to our grand strategy if we discover we are facing the forty-first regiment rather than the forty-second?”

  “I very much doubt it,” said Gray. “But my orders are to contribute to the intelligence gathered along the line. I think your company is coming out of reserve this week. It’s good timing for a frontline soldier like you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Gray laughed. “All right, Wraysford. Relax. What I actually want you to do is lead an attack on the canal to the left. We need to get a foothold there. It’s just a local attack. You go up at dawn with the rest of the battalion. We have support from our Black Country friends later in the day. Is that a bit more to your liking?”

  “It seems a more useful way of dying than while examining the cap badges of the men opposite.”

  “Good man, Wraysford. Keep going. I knew you would.”

  “And how do you keep going, sir?” said Stephen.

  Gray laughed. “It’s my Scottish blood. We’ve barely started, yet.”

  The men went up the line once more, through the long communication trench and into the mired slit of land beneath the sandbags. Apart from raids and patrols, they had not attacked for nine months, and there was nervousness and argument among the men who were detailed to place the scaling ladders against the trench wall. All morning was the sound of hammering and sawing as the wood was cut and positioned at intervals against the parapet. Stephen had the impression that for all their forebodings of the big offensive in Belgium that was reportedly so dear to General Haig, they had somehow thought they would not themselves be involved in another trudge into the hurricane of guns.

  ———

  Jack Firebrace watched the preparations when he came back from his shift underground, and they brought back memories he had until then successfully closed down. He remembered how he had prayed for the men who would go over on that summer morning and how he had trusted in their safekeeping. This time he had no prayers to offer.

  He went into the large dugout at the head of the deep mine where his company was temporarily sleeping. He made tea and drank it with Evans, then took out his sketchbook. Since Shaw’s death there were no more pictures of him. Jack had taken to drawing Stephen instead. From the moment he had pitched into his arms, back from the dead, Jack had been intrigued by him. Now he had made drawings of his large, dark head from many angles and in many poses—with his big eyes open in incredulity or narrowed in determination; of the smile with which he chafed his own officer, Captain Weir; of the
blank, remote expression, as if his memory had failed, with which he had dismissed Jack when he had gone to report for sleeping on duty. He could not remember John’s face well enough to draw it.

  ———

  The wait for the attack was short, but no less difficult for that. Stephen talked to the platoon commanders who would go first up the wide-spaced ladders into the uncertain world beyond.

  “You mustn’t waver,” he said. “What is waiting for you can’t be changed, but if you hesitate you will needlessly endanger the lives of others.”

  He saw Ellis licking his lips. There was sweat on his pale forehead. The bombardment was starting up and it was beginning to shake the earth from the roof of the dugout.

  Stephen spoke with the calm of experience, but it did not help him. The fact that he had done this before was no guarantee that he could do it again. When the moment came he would have to confront the depths of himself once more, and he feared that he had changed.

  The bombardment was only for a day. It was trained, so the artillery had assured them, with scientific precision based on accurate aerial reconnaissance. There would be no uncut wire, no unharmed concrete redoubts spraying lazy waves of death over the turned fields.

  Weir came to his dugout at midnight. His eyes were wild and his hair disarrayed. Stephen felt dismayed at the sight. He did not want to catch the other man’s fear. He did not want him to breathe over him.

  “This noise,” said Weir. “I can’t bear it any more.”

  “You’ve been saying that for two years,” said Stephen sharply. “The truth is you’re one of the most resilient men in the BEF.”

  Weir pulled out cigarettes and cast his eyes around hopefully. Stephen reluctantly pushed a bottle toward him.

  “When are you going over?” said Weir.

  “Usual time. It’ll be all right.”

  “Stephen, I’m worried for you. I have this foreboding.”