Matthew told of a day by the river when the sun was hot and his daddy picked him up and hugged him and hugged him.
David sat up and said that he had once been to the sea and the waves had knocked him over and when he had laughed the water had run into his mouth and it was sharp and salty and his mummy had told him he would be sick. But he hadn’t been, he told them proudly.
Naomi told of the little doll who got lost in the woods and couldn’t find her mummy or her daddy and so a nice lady had come down from her house on the hill and taken her hand and said that she could come and live in her house, because she liked dolls.
While the children’s voices ran on Hannah looked at Naomi and knew that if she did not keep this girl she would go to an orphanage because both her parents were dead. She looked out again at the trees, at the sky and missed Joe. She picked at the raffia seat of the chair she leant against. It was always warm, she thought, running her fingers down its smooth strands and as the children ceased to talk she turned to them, seeing their faces not looking at her but away, over to the door and there was a draught which was not there before and so she too turned and looked.
He was standing there, in khaki. Solid and strong with his red-gold hair and she did not feel herself rise or run to him but only saw his face, his eyes and then his arms around her and she was safe at last. His uniform was rough against her cheek and his hands hard as he lifted her face.
‘I’ve only just received your letter,’ he whispered. ‘I love you more than any man loved any woman.’
His lips were soft as they kissed hers, soft as they covered her face and her hands. His skin was rough as hers touched him, again and again and then he held her away and nodded to the children.
‘I’ll just sit until you have finished. This is their time.’
He turned her round and walked over to the chair which leant against the wall by the door, putting his cap on the floor, undoing his buttons as he sat. God almighty, he was tired, so bloody tired.
He watched as she walked back, turning to look at him as she did so, smiling, and he felt again her mouth on his and wanted to pull her back and hold her, love her as he had longed to do since the first moment he had met her. And she was the only one who could wipe the war from him, for a moment at least.
She joined the children on the floor. They were giggling now and he liked the sound. It seemed a long time since he had heard it and seen small faces, clean and round. He listened as one by one they continued with their stories but could hear beyond them the noise of the war and still found it hard to believe how quickly death and chaos could become the same as breathing; that the clear Cornish air could be the same that swept over the choked battlefield, the dangerous sky.
He looked at Hannah, her face which was lined now and tired, but still so beautiful. The wide mouth, the brown eyes and at last they had looked at him with love. He watched as she leant on the chair, her body curving. How he loved her, dreamt of her, thought of her each minute of every day. How he had longed to feel her in his arms as he had just done, her lips on his, her eyes full of love. He wanted to sweep her away, hold her again, breathe in her scent but part of him was still with the war and he wanted to come to her free of its contamination. He shook his head but still it hung upon him and so he listened as the small dark boy spoke of teddy bears and picnics and wondered at the quietness of it all. It should be so normal but it was not any more.
He pushed his shoulders back against the wall, fighting to stay with this woman and these children. He made himself remember how good it had been to be back in England where he had been given Hannah’s letter. How he had travelled from the aerodrome in Oxford through rich countryside full of shades of green and had felt that he was coming home after the unhedged empty chalk landscape of France. How he had looked out on winding roads which now took the place of the straight poplar-edged thoroughfares of France along which solid-tyred lorries had bumped and rattled round pot-holes.
He looked at Hannah again, drinking in the sight of her, of the children. There were children in France and Belgium too but not amongst the grinding of gears, the rattle of equipment and the shouted orders and snatches of songs as transport was moved under cover of darkness away from the prying eyes of the German observation balloons 6000 feet high.
He looked from the children to the window and did not see the lime tree, it was not strong enough to hold him, but saw instead the baskets which hung beneath the balloons and held observers using telescopes and wirelesses to convey information direct to the gunpits while low-flying two-seater aircraft equipped also with radio and protected by fighters flew in lazy figures of eight filling in gaps left by the balloons.
He had never been able to get close enough to take them out and he knew that the men on the ground could not forgive the airmen for that, and who could blame them?
He looked back from the window to the children who were singing Oranges and Lemons and ducking beneath the arms of two who waited to chop off their heads. He looked at Hannah as she clapped and laughed. He leant his head back against the wall watching the children again, watching her, seeing the young men he had enlisted and trained with at Oxford. They were dead now, though he, the old man, was still alive. Harry was right. It was senseless. He was tired but he did not want to shut his eyes because he saw too much then and so he looked at the children again, fighting to stay with them. He listened to Hannah laughing and wondered how long he would enjoy her love, how long he would live.
When would it be his turn to see the enemy too late, to feel the thud of bullets fired between the turning propellers, hear the silence as his engine died and the struts became unpinned in the spin and the wings collapsed? When would it be his turn to feel the air as it rushed past him as he dived helpless, like his kite without a tail?
Would he feel the pain? Would he hear the sound of wood breaking into a thousand fragments; the spruce ash and linen becoming one mass of flame or was the sound just reserved for those who were onlookers as he had been, too often?
He felt a hand on his knee and looked down from the window. The girl had short fine hair and a solemn smile.
‘Naomi wondered if you would like to come and join us?’ Hannah called.
Joe took the small hand in his and stood looking first at her small face, then at Hannah and behind her to the other children. The war had no place in this room and he finally managed to push it aside and was glad of the respite as he walked towards his love and held her hand and sang Old MacDonald had a Farm.
They ate with Frances that night and then took an underground train into the centre of a darkened London. They walked to the Haymarket and he made her laugh when he told her that the War Office preferred to recruit gentlemen to fly their planes for ‘the powers that be’ felt that flying was much like riding a horse, only more comfortable because you had a proper seat. Joe added that they were having to take other ranks now and they were excellent airmen but he did not say that this recruitment was because the life expectancy was only five weeks. He told her instead how he had to pick out strands of different coloured wools before he was pronounced medically fit to fly.
They went to a show at the Haymarket and there was too much khaki walking along the streets, too many women laughing up into strained faces but there was no light coming from windows, no lamps from the cars or carriages to guide in the zeppelins. They passed a hot-chestnut man, his brazier hidden beneath a canopy and they bought some, and they were hot in their hands and the smell was nutty and sweet.
As they walked they saw a Royal Flying Corps NCO being pushed out of a theatre entrance by four officer cadets who insisted, as Joe intervened, that all NCOs should use the side door because they were not gentlemen. It did not matter that this was a fellow pilot. They had young faces, clipped voices, and Hannah watched along with others as Joe grabbed one by the collar.
‘You will call me Major,’ he drawled. ‘And leave this theatre at once. I will be seeing your Commanding Officer tomorrow.’
/> She felt proud as he apologised to the NCO and accompanied him into the theatre. They sat with Sergeant Thomas and sang along with Gilbert and Sullivan though the words were too fast for Joe’s drawl and Hannah laughed until she cried and then she could not stop the tears.
Later, over cocoa in front of the fire when Frances had left for bed, he explained to Hannah how NCOs could not claim their kills for themselves as the gentlemen did, but must attribute them to the squadrons. How they were despised but were frequently the best because they were there on merit, not class.
‘Strange, ain’t it, Hannah,’ he drawled. ‘Mighty bloody strange way to fight a war.’ His voice was bitter.
She watched as he sipped his cocoa, his large body slumped in the chair, one leg lifted over the other and she knew that she wanted him because he was good and kind and beautiful and so she banked the fire with ash and went to him and took the mug and placed her hand in his, feeling the cocoa warmth still there.
‘I love you, Joe. Come with me, we have waited too long already.’ He did not move but his face was tense as he turned to her.
‘Marry me,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Yes, but I can’t wait for that any more. We have so little time.’
She pulled his hand and he came with her, pausing at the door, pulling her to him.
‘But you still haven’t got the vote,’ he teased. ‘Weren’t we supposed to wait for that, my Cornish girl?’ He was smiling but his voice was shaking and his hands were moving over her body. The room was dark behind them, the mugs were on the table where they had left them.
Hannah took his face between her hands. ‘Don’t you worry. That’s on its way. The women will have earned it by the end of this stupid mess.’ She kissed him then, hard, before leading him from the room and up the stairs.
Her room was dark and she did not light the lamp because to do so would mean drawing the blackout blind and she wanted to watch the moonlit sky and the stars which were vivid and seemed so close tonight. She stood at the window and felt his arm around her, his breath on her hair and it was quiet and calm as she turned and lifted her face to his. This time their kisses were not soft but urgent.
His fingers were quick as he undid her buttons and carried her to the bed, where she lay and stroked his hair as he took her clothes from her body and kissed her breasts and shoulders and lips. As he stood and unbuttoned his uniform his body was white in the moonlight and big and strong as he moved towards her, sitting on the bed and running his finger along the line of neck and cheek, and chin, drawing her loose hair gently into his hand, bending his head to kiss it, breathe in its scent.
‘Are you sure, my darling?’ he asked and his voice was unsteady though hers was level and sure as she took his hand and kissed it.
‘Yes, I’m sure, my love, my darling love.’
He held her then, close to his body and he was warm, his hands were sure as he stroked her and she felt the wind on the moor and the sound of the gulls and then he brought his mouth down to hers but for a moment it was not his face she saw but the dark one of her father with his nicotine-laden breath. She made her eyes close and her body stay loose as Joe’s mouth touched hers gently, then harder now and with the taste of him came enough power and strength to take the other face, and push it from her.
I will not allow you to destroy this moment or any part of my life ever again, she told the echoes of his darkness, and now she let her body rise to Joe and banished her father from her life for ever. It was only Joe who would fill her body, her mind and her life and she cried out and clung to him, calling, ‘Stay with me, Joe.’
He replied, ‘I always will, my love.’
21
Harry sat in the garden at Penbrin. It was 1915 and the September sun was warm and the sumach glowed rich red in the gap in the elder hedge. Its bark was as smooth as the fur of the guinea-pigs which he had bought for the children who stayed here. He looked again at the letter he was writing to Hannah. He wrote of the gardener’s boy who had been killed at Ypres, of the guinea-pigs who had borne more young and, at last, of the fact that he could not stay out of the war any longer but would still not bear arms. I’ve written to Uncle Thomas, he continued, and he’s arranged that I should enlist as a medical orderly. So you see, Hannah, my days with you have helped to prepare me for my war. Don’t worry about Penbrin and the convalescents here because Eliza and Sam are stepping in. Keep sending those who need to come because they can spill over into Penhallon. Mrs Arness will keep things going over there.
If anything should happen to me I have lodged my will with my solicitor and you are the sole beneficiary. If I come back I thought we could start your school together, perhaps enlarge Penbrin. Joe would like that too. If something happens, go on with the idea anyway. I shall be here, all around you.
He sat back and the wicker chair creaked and then settled. He would not write of Esther, she was not allowed outside his head now. The larks were soaring in the distance, carving clean clear lines against the blue of the sky. Would she be wearing his ring as she slept with Arthur?
He heaved himself out of the chair, walking across the dried grass, pulling at the overblown roses and the bursting seeds of the marigolds, scooping up straw which had blown across from the hutches. The children were shrieking there, playing touch-tag around the hutches, their hair flicking as they ran. One boy sat on the back step and played jacks. Harry heard the click-click of the stones and for a moment felt the stronger heat of the South African sun, saw the flat veld and Baralong. He had never heard from his friend and he missed him.
He turned and looked back at the house, at the open windows and the sweet peas, lemon balm and lilac which filled the vases in each room. He could hear the coughing of the gassed fusilier and then his squeaky voice as he talked to his wife. Don’s lungs were damaged, they all knew that, but they did not know whether he would live. Harry doubted it. He looked out again across the moor. Would there be such beauty where he was going? He doubted that too.
A late October sun was shining when he disembarked at Le Havre from the troopship as a non-combatant. He was directed to a long low shed where he threw down his kitbag along with the others before lining up at the cooker with his mess tin and spoon. The guns were pounding dimly in the distance and before they slept they unloaded stores from the ships and brushed aside the small boys who pimped for their sisters.
The next day he was glad to move up the line, travelling in the troop train whose forty-five carriages carried nothing but khaki-clad men; singing, sleeping, grunting, cursing. At Bethune he was attached to a platoon as stretcher-bearer because he had asked to be sent to the front, not assigned to hospital duty. He listened as the men and boys talked and laughed marching from the village to the Cambrin trenches through the unlit streets, nudging at the flashes of gunfire which lit the sky and shook the earth, wincing at the noise which rolled like thunder over and through them. The cobbles of the village roads turned their ankles and now the mud of the dirt tracks dragged at their legs and talk died as they saw the real nature of war.
Flares rose from the front and curved over trenches, yellow and green and the noise grew too loud to talk. They passed the batteries and ducked as their own shells whizzed over their heads. He and Bob, the other stretcher-bearer, did not carry guns but a rolled-up stretcher, morphine and water bottles.
He looked at the lurching batteries as they pounded the enemy and heard the hissing shells overhead as they marched forward and west to the trenches, away from the belching guns. He saw the red flash, heard the hollow bangs and tried not to think of the German husbands, sons, brothers they had crushed and destroyed. One private turned to him.
‘How about that then, Harry?’ His face was filled with fear, his voice with the bravado of his eighteen years. Harry felt old.
‘Makes a lot of noise,’ he said. ‘It’ll frighten away the burglars.’ Tim laughed and turned back to his mate.
They marched until they reached a village with its broken tree
s standing like rotted teeth.
‘There are no birds any more,’ an old woman said to Harry, clutching his arm.
It was not dawn yet and so the only chorus was the guns. Was she right? Would no bird sing as the sun lifted in the east? He looked around. The buildings were half-ruined, the church spire was jagged and incomplete and, of course, there were the dismembered trees.
They were given respirators and field dressings as they queued outside an old doctor’s surgery, and Harry’s legs felt tired, his calves ached from the marching, his shoulders from the knapsack, his ears and head from the noise. The sergeant handed him a gauze pad filled with chemically treated cotton waste.
‘Should sort that gas out, eh?’ said Bob and Harry nodded but he heard Don’s cough again, his squeaky voice and knew that he had been wearing the mask when gas filled the trench and lay heavy within its sides. So it would not sort the gas out, would it? But he said nothing.
They moved on again now, clinking and stamping from the village along the straight, crowded road, bypassing lorries and horses before entering the trenches which ran for what seemed like miles. As he walked in the darkness his feet slipped on mice and frogs which had fallen down the sides and could now find no way out. With the dawn came the light and he saw that the earth was dull red and that duckboards lay along the bottom of the trench, nudged by the water which lapped at its sides.
Still they marched and in front of him Tim changed his rifle to his other shoulder, and ahead Harry could hear their guide calling out the warnings. ‘Hole here!’
They flattened themselves into the sides and eased round the sump pit which was supposed to drain the trench but did not.
‘Wire low!’
‘Wire high!’
They eased themselves over or under the field telephone wires whose pinioning staples had dropped from the damp crumbling mud of the trench walls. The gunfire was closer but they hardly noticed any more. Can one become attuned so swiftly, Harry thought.
A Time for Courage Page 41
