The Novels of Beryl Bainbridge Volume 1

by Beryl Bainbridge

  It had been believed when we disembarked that the army would advance directly on Sebastopol. Bickering having broken out between Lord Raglan and the French – his Lordship favouring an attack from the north, where the fleet could give protection, the French preferring a thrust from the south – this design was not carried through. Result – we stayed put for several days and the Russians mustered reinforcements.

  Finally, orders came through that Sebastopol was to be encircled. I have always liked the word circle, reminding one, as it does, of childish games, Pig-in-the-middle, Ring-a-ring-a-roses, etc. Dr Johnson gives it much space in his dictionary; a line continued till it ends where it began; an assembly surrounding a principal person; an inconclusion found in argument, in which the foregoing proposition is proved by the following, and the following is inferred from the foregoing. This latter definition appears to me to furnish an accurate description of the muddle of this war, though perhaps tishoo, tishoo, we all fall down is sweeter on the ear.

  Yesterday, Myrtle’s pony suffered an injury. We had ridden out to find fruit for George. Supplies having failed to arrive, our diet is severely restricted to salt beef and biscuits, and Myrtle was determined to venture into one of the villages. I could not help thinking that poor Naughton might have made himself a fortune if he had stayed on and applied himself to the grocery business.

  Earlier, during the laboured encirclement of Sebastopol and our trudge to the Chersonese plateau, I had purchased an ill-tempered little mare for five pounds, there being, for obvious reasons, an abundance of animals without owners. I also managed to procure a greatcoat and a forage cap. I had no wish to accompany Myrtle, in spite of my warmer clothing, but felt it my duty.

  The plateau on which we are camped is roughly the shape of the Isle of Wight, Balaclava lying to the east, Sebastopol to the south. A steep escarpment, the Sapouné Ridge, overlooks land between the Tchernaya River and Balaclava. We rode in an easterly direction and I cautioned Myrtle to go slowly as the path was littered with small stones slippery under the rain. She was singing, though how she could be so merry in such dismal circumstances passed my understanding.

  We had been riding but half an hour when, mounting a ridge, we were afforded a glimpse of Balaclava, the masts of ships spread in a cat’s cradle across the bleak sky. At that moment the mare stumbled, and, giving vent to temper, promptly sank her teeth into the flank of the pony, who, bucking with pain, shook Myrtle to the ground.

  She cried out at once that she was unhurt, and got to her feet. I thought it strange that she didn’t immediately see to the pony; instead, trembling violently, she pointed at the ground. There, not a few inches from where she had fallen, lay a human limb – a leg torn off a little above the knee, toes poking through the shreds of a cavalry boot.

  ‘I was sold a melon in Balaclava,’ I said. ‘By an elderly woman on a mule.’ It was the truth. I couldn’t remember clearly what season it had been when first I visited the Greek fishing village on my tour of the coast, though I doubted it was winter, on account of the melon.

  ‘The Tartar name for the place was Kadikoi,’ I continued, ‘meaning the judge’s village.’

  Myrtle showed no sign of interest, which was a pity because I had a host of relevant facts in my head.

  The town of Balaclava is situated on an inlet running deep into the land. Behind lies a basin of dark waters, surrounded, with the exception of a narrow gorge, by precipitous rocks which rise to an elevation of a hundred feet. In my time the Greeks possessed their own court of judication, and an independent magistracy whose president was responsible to the Russian authorities.

  While strolling beside the water I had noticed the presence of medusae, a sure indication that this was no lake but a gulf connected with the sea by some narrow outlet. The ascending slopes were not, as I had thought, formed of nummulite limestone but of Jura rock, pale red in colour and of a striking aspect at sunset. Numerous ruins stood on the summit, including the remains of a castle from which the entrance to the straits was commanded. I would have climbed up for a closer inspection had it not been for a weakness of breath, and instead returned to the village where I encountered the woman with the melon. Strolling about, the juice running down my beardless chin, I came to the opinion that a harbour more protected against storms and sudden attack would be difficult to find.

  I had at that time about my person a copy of that passage in Homer’s tenth book of the Odyssey in which he describes the approach to the country of the Laestrigones, lines which Pope admirably translated thus:

  Within a long recess a bay there lies,

  Edged round with cliffs, high pointing to the skies;

  The jutting shores that swell on either side,

  Contract its mouth, and break the rushing tide.

  Our eager sailors seize the fair retreat,

  And bound within the port their crowded fleet …

  In mentioning this passage, I should not like to be accused of attempting to prove too much by means of too little: indeed, I am in full agreement with Professor Streicher of Kertch in thinking there is not a scrap of evidence to support the dubious theory that Ulysses entered the Black Sea. All the same, it is remarkable to find a spot which so entirely blends with the poet’s description of localities.

  I speak, of course, of Balaclava’s past. Alas, from what George has told me, its melon days are over. Now the headquarters of the British military forces, he has visited it twice in as many weeks in an effort to procure medical supplies and blankets. His description of the filth in the streets, of the harbour choked with the bloated carcasses of horses, camels and the occasional human, is disturbing. Our ships are loaded with provisions which, owing to bureaucracy, inefficiency and the difficulties of transportation, stay rotting in the holds. On the quayside, at the mercy of the rain and circled by starving dogs, lie hundreds of wounded waiting to be dispatched to the rat-infested wards of the hospital at Scutari.

  In such circumstances, I presume death to be preferable to life. Strange to think that the dying, ignorant of history or art, feast dull eyes on a landscape, its dwarf cypresses scattered across the slopes, reminiscent of a painting by the sublime Titian.

  ‘I wish to go back,’ Myrtle said, turning her white gaze from the thing at her feet.

  ‘Homer,’ I told her, ‘describes the Laestrigones as cannibals.’ She appeared too distressed to respond and rode on ahead.

  This morning George looked for me. I see little of him these days, his duties being heavy and his leather apron much stained. He very kindly asked if I was well. I replied quite well, and thanked him.

  ‘Myrtle says you’ve not been quite yourself. I understand there was an incident yesterday—’

  ‘It was the pony that got bit,’ I said. ‘Not I. Besides, Beatrice is always on hand to give comfort.’

  He stared at me strangely. I smiled and assured him I wasn’t suffering from delusions, just that thinking of Beatrice kept me sane. I knew what troubled him – my failure to mention that portion of a limb stumbled upon by Myrtle. I could have told him that I’d heard the rain drumming on the stony path and that it sounded a death rattle in my ears. I could have described the peculiar angle of the toes … but then, if it were within my powers to coolly and dispassionately deliberate on such things, as he undoubtedly must, seeing he spends his days gazing on similar horrors, my life might be easier and my speech less guarded.

  As it is, severe self-control is necessary if I am to avoid being mastered by the impressions of the moment. This is what Horace meant when he advised we should study carefully that which will best promote a tranquil state of mind. I must bear and forbear and not wish things to be other than they are. Which is why I am engaged in contemplating my earlier existence, with a view to tracing whether chance or fate has brought me to this dreadful place at this particular moment in history.

  Thus – on hearing the rough dialect of some Scottish infantryman about the camp, I dwell on childhood connections to his homeland. Thoug
h Manchester born, my father acted occasionally as an agent for the Leith Glassworks, in which capacity he was required to sail from one Hebridean station to another in search of kelp. On returning home from one such tour he brought with him a toy four-wheeled cart made of tin and drawn by wooden horses. Before I was put to bed I had dismantled the cart into its various pieces. It was an act propelled by curiosity, rather than a destructive urge; I was anxious to learn how the pieces fitted together. I cannot remember whether I was whipped for it, though I suspect not as my father was a kind man.

  It was in Scotland that I first showed an aptitude for geology, the shores of Cromarty being strewn with water-rolled fragments of primary rock derived from the west during the ages of boulder clay. On successive visits during my boyhood I took a diligent delight in sauntering over the pebble beds shaken up by the frequent storms. I took Beatrice to the spot some two years after we were married and attempted to interest her in the generic character of the porphyries, granites, gneisses, quartz rocks, mica-schists, etc., which littered the beach. Alas, there was an unfortunate encounter with a crustacean, which she swore had nipped her ankle, although I saw no sign of a mark. Result – we returned to our lodgings in silence.

  No sooner had George gone back to his odious work than Myrtle came to ask if I would help tend her pony. I have no doubt it was at George’s suggestion. The animal’s wound was not serious; there are horses in far worse straits, and men too, for that matter.

  Myrtle is an interesting subject – in regard to the question as to whether fate or chance holds the upper hand. The ifs are numerous. If Beatrice had not shown an affection for her, would she not have vanished into the orphanage? What if Pompey Jones’s unfortunate arrangement of the tiger’s head had not ended Annie’s hopes of motherhood? If old Mrs Hardy had woken that morning in a cheerful mood, would Myrtle have been required to follow George down to the town? Then there is the matter of his returning to Blackberry Lane by a different route than was usual. If the woman’s screams had echoed unheard in another street, what then? And if Mr Hardy had been confined to the blue room with a cold—

  Perhaps chance and destiny are interdependent, in that the latter cannot be fulfilled without the casual intervention of the former. A craggy rock placed at a distance from water will never be worn smooth.

  ‘Myrtle,’ I began, ‘you were attached to George right from a child, were you not?’

  ‘I was,’ she said.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why did you become attached to Beatrice?’ she countered, and flashing me a glance of good-humoured malice, added, ‘She was often cruel to you. I’ve seen her hit you.’

  ‘I had reached an age when a man should be married. And besides, possibly it is in my nature to gain satisfaction from being treated roughly.’

  ‘It’s not in mine,’ she said, and instructed me to hold the pony’s head firmly while she dabbed at its flank with a dampened rag.

  ‘He’s a good-looking man,’ I mused. ‘But that is not the sort of thing a child particularly notices.’

  ‘Is it not?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why, a child is always more aware of beauty than an adult. They’re not hindered by preconceptions.’

  ‘Aware, certainly,’ I agreed. ‘But not susceptible.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said, and her mouth became sulky.

  ‘Nor,’ I went on, ‘do I remember George taking an especial interest in you. At least, no more than the rest of us … once your prattling days had passed.’

  ‘Nor did he,’ she said. ‘But for one time, and that was enough.’

  I urged her to explain, at which she stared at me defiantly. She has a strong face, the eyes deep set and grave. Some weeks back she’d cropped her hair to be rid of the lice and but for her dress might now be taken for a boy.

  ‘It’s you we should be talking about,’ she said. ‘Not me.’

  It was then I lost my temper and called her impertinent. Which was unfair of me. It was George I should have been angry with, not her. She stood, rag in hand, the defiance quite gone out of her, her eyes more mournful than ever. Dear God, I thought, how we have misused this poor child. But for chance she might have become a parlourmaid or the respectable wife of an honest working man.

  That evening I was delighted to accompany George to the quarters of a Captain Jerome. His aunt had sent him a hamper of food, and, having reason to be grateful to George for curing in irritation of the bowel, he was generous enough to wish to share his good fortune. Myrtle wasn’t included. She remained in the company of a motherly woman who has both a husband and son in the Light division. It was thought impolite to ask one woman without the other – also it would have meant less to eat all round.

  As it was, two other gentlemen joined us, Captain Frampton of the 57th and a young lieutenant named Gormsby who had been involved in the skirmish at the Alma. I found the latter a highly nervous individual, wholly lacking in confidence; he could hardly hold his fork for the tremor in his hand and twice he split his wine.

  The captain was fortunate to live within the four walls of a dilapidated one-storey house some quarter-mile from the camp. True, its windows were gone and there were several buckets placed about the floor to catch the rain dripping through the holes in the roof, but we dined at a proper table, albeit rickety, and the chair I sat on had a fair amount of upholstery.

  The talk was mostly about war, in particular of the initial lack of support given to the Light division by the 1st division under the command of the Duke of Cambridge. Apparently the Duke was inexperienced. It was only after dangerous dithering that the Grenadiers and the Coldstream Guards reassembled and successfully routed the Russians.

  I took no part in this discussion. How could I? All this talk of brigades and divisions and regiments considerably fuddles my mind. Nor did I care to add to the comments on the recent flogging of a rifleman for being drunk on guard duty. He should have received seventy lashes but collapsed after no more than fifty, it later being found that he had a fragment of ball-shot lodged in his back from the previous night’s encounter with the enemy. George had attended him and said he would likely survive, though much diminished in both mind and body. I endeavoured to fill my head with other things and fancied I saw Beatrice in the candlelight, pursing her lips censoriously at the manner in which I shovelled down my food. If she had been seated next to me I don’t doubt she would have snatched up bits for herself, particularly when Auntie’s plum pudding was served.

  I was on happier ground, if not for long, when Captain Jerome pondered on the likelihood of our being home by Christmas. He had a house in Ireland with very extensive stables and much missed his string of horses. Damn fool that he was – his estimation – he had brought out one of his favourite mounts, Diabolo, as far as Kalamita Bay, where it had sickened and died. No obvious cause; but then, how could a creature so refined, so bred for perfection, survive such conditions? He felt its loss keenly, and had stood for an hour or more on the beach watching it float out to sea. He had every expectation of meeting this miraculous animal in the next world, though he earnestly hoped their reunion would be delayed for some years yet. I tried to look suitably affected at this nonsense, and failed. Such mawkishness offends me.

  ‘It was Plato,’ I ventured, ‘who held quadrupeds to be a form of deteriorated humanity and essentially brutal.’ Even as the words leapt from my mouth I regretted them: Jerome’s brow was thunderous. I was saved by young Gormsby, mute until now, stammering out, ‘There is no more brutal a species than man.’

  Jerome toyed with his glass and looked immensely gloomy. Captain Frampton, who long since had fallen under the table, emitted a long, weary sigh. Outside, the low growl of the heavy guns on the heights above the ravine rolled through the night. Inside, the raindrops plop-plopped into the buckets.

  At last, I said, ‘You are acquainted, I am sure, with the myth of Athens waging war against a city founded by Neptune on the island of Atlantis—’

  ‘We are not,’ said George, ‘but
I’m sure you will tell us—’

  ‘The gods allowed a great victory, after which both victors and vanquished were swallowed up by an earthquake and the island sank beneath the sea.’

  ‘And what are we supposed to deduce from that?’ asked Captain Jerome, watching the spin of an insect about the candle flame.

  ‘Why,’ I replied, ‘that Mr Gormsby is in the right of it. We are a despicable species and deserve the punishment meted out by the gods.’

  George and I took our leave at midnight, on foot. There was no moon and we jostled against each other in the darkness, our boots squelching mud.

  ‘Potter,’ George said, ‘is it simply thoughtlessness, or is it your intention to give offence?’

  ‘Offence—’

  ‘Have you not the sensitivity to understand that these men are on nodding terms with death?’

  ‘It is my sensitivity,’ I replied agitatedly, ‘that will not allow me to contemplate what is happening. I am not like you. You have spent years up to your elbows in blood—’

  ‘There’s no need to shout. I am not deaf—’

  ‘To you the body is a mere composition of flesh and sinew. You care nothing for the brain—’

  ‘The brain,’ he said, ‘equally disintegrates when met by force. It is no more durable than the rest of us.’

  ‘I am a man accustomed to pass the hours in the reading of books,’ I cried. Stumbling, I would have fallen but for the support of his arm. ‘I am a man accustomed to sleeping against the curve of his wife’s back—’

  ‘Women,’ George muttered. ‘Always women.’

  There lies the barrier between us. I have never understood his aversion to the female sex, beyond the burden of love his mother placed upon him. One should never forget the degeneracy that preceded the fall of Rome. As a product of a modern society I am persuaded that the union of the opposite sexes is desirable, not only in regard to the continuation of the race, but for its beneficial effect on the soul. My argument is admittedly weak, since I am far from convinced of the existence of such a spiritual organ. I had deluded myself into thinking that Myrtle’s seduction of George – it can be couched no other way, for it was she who invaded his room that moon-dappled night – had swung him round. The chance arrival at Varna of Pompey Jones, breathing out fire, and my unannounced entry into the hospital tent in search of a stomach powder, put paid to the notion.