Shoulder the Sky wwi-2

by Anne Perry

  Few of them turned to look at her, supposing it to be just another soldier, then someone noticed it was a woman, and one by one they fell silent.

  She saw the lamplight on Cullingford’s fair hair and knew the shape of his head even before she saw the insignia of rank on his uniform. Opposite him sat a young man with a round, bland face. His skin was pale and his hands on the tablecloth looked soft and clean.

  The boiling resentment welling up inside her was unreasonable and totally unfair. She knew that, and it made no difference at all.

  The talk resumed again, but at a lower level. It was impossible now for her to retreat. However hard it was, she must go in, walk between the tables and speak to Cullingford, and give him his sister’s letter.

  He looked up as her shadow fell across the table. His eyes widened very slightly and his expression barely changed, but he could not keep a faint color from rising in his cheeks.

  “Miss Reavley?” he said quietly. For an instant she thought he was going to rise to his feet, as if they were both civilians, just a man and a woman met by chance at a dinner table. But he remembered the reality before he moved.

  “Good evening, General Cullingford,” she said more stiffly than she had intended to, as if she were guarding herself from hurt. But she realized with amazement that the hurt had already happened, perhaps months ago. Even this afternoon in the ambulance she had pretended to herself that she was only angry at losing a job she liked, though it was even harder to bear when she could see the whole picture and knew how serious the losses were, and the possibility of defeat. But there were also ways in which driving the general was easier than seeing individual men, real wounds not figures, blood and pain and fear you couldn’t help, except to try to get the men back to the hospitals before it was too late.

  Now, looking at him, seeing his eyes, his face, his hands on the table in front of him, she knew it was because she wanted to be wherever Cullingford was. She wanted to watch him as he talked with the men, see the hope rekindle in them as they listened to him, feel the shiver of pride because they believed in him. She had seen his unguarded moments; she had a close, painful idea of how much it sometimes cost him to maintain that façade when he knew numbers they did not, facts and figures that added up to something close to despair.

  His odd, dry half-jokes made it bearable, the things he spoke of very seldom—walking, his dogs, horses he had loved, quotations that pleased him—made sense of the battle that cost so unbearably much.

  Now he was waiting for her to explain herself, to tell him something about his family, the people he belonged to. She forced herself to meet his eyes and smile very slightly, as if she were simply a messenger and neither knew nor understood anything more than the facts of the errand. She was acutely aware of the new young driver sitting opposite.

  “When I was in London I managed to call on Mrs. Prentice,” she told him. “She wrote a letter and asked me if I would give it to you personally, sir. She was afraid it might take too long to get to you otherwise.” She took the envelope from her pocket and held it out.

  He reached up and took it. He did not mention the young man, or even glance at him. From the intensity of his gaze upon her it was as if he had forgotten the new driver’s existence.

  “Thank you, Miss Reavley. That is very good of you. Have you just returned?”

  “Yes, sir. I went to Poperinge first, then to my ambulance unit.” Would he understand from that that she had requested to resume her job? She heard the echo of accusation in her voice, and was embarrassed by it. She did not want him to know she minded. “Then I got ordered to drive a load of wounded men to Poperinge again,” she added.

  “Of course.” There was every shade of expression in his voice, and she could not read any of it.

  “Thank you for visiting Mrs. Prentice, and for bringing the letter,” he repeated. He seemed to be about to add something, then changed his mind. It was pointless to ask how a bereaved woman was; she could only be racked with grief. The issue was only how openly she showed it, and that meant nothing. “You must be tired after your journey, and you have the care of your vehicle to attend to. Good night.”

  Was that as remote as it sounded? Or simply the necessity of the circumstances?

  “Yes, sir.” She stood to attention, then turned away immediately so he should not read in her anything more than a kindness accomplished, such as anyone might have performed.

  Outside she found Wil waiting for her. She walked on, into the square toward the ambulance, furious with herself for the emotion boiling up inside her until she was choked with tears, and a rejection so agonizing it almost took her breath away.

  Wil caught up with her, taking her arm.

  “They’re right,” she said with an effort, keeping her face turned away from him, even in the dark. “He looks like a schoolboy.”

  “Then he shouldn’t be too hard to get rid of,” he retorted.

  “General Cullingford may prefer to have a male driver,” she said stiffly, opening the ambulance door and climbing in.

  Wil went around to the front, cranked the engine to life, then got in on the driver’s side and they moved off slowly. “My ma always reckoned my pa didn’t know what was good for him, until she’d fixed it,” he said casually, deliberately not looking at her, giving her the privacy of pretending she wasn’t weeping. “Great woman, my ma.” She could hear the warmth in his voice, the pride and gentleness, even though his face was hard to see in the sporadic light as they bumped over the cobbles and out of the square.

  “Thank you, Wil,” she said softly.

  They were two miles down the road before he spoke again.

  “I think I should make friends with him. In fact we both should.”

  She had been lost in her own thoughts. “With whom?”

  “I love the way you folks speak! With the general’s new driver, of course.”

  “I don’t particularly want to make friends with him.”

  “Oh c’mon! Let’s be nice to him. Take him out for a drink—or several. Give him some good advice. After all, he’s new to this. He needs to know a few of the tricks. Help him on his way.”

  “Wil?” Had she really understood him correctly?

  He was grinning. She could only see the gleam of his teeth in the fitful light.

  “C’mon, sugar, you got to fight for what you want! If you don’t, that means you don’t want it enough to rate getting it! I didn’t have you pegged for a giver-upper!”

  “How could we do that?” she said reasonably, but wild ideas surged up inside her. “He’d be with the general all the time. I know I was. If I wasn’t driving him somewhere, I was waiting for him.”

  “That’ll make him the easier to find,” Wil responded. “Wherever the car is, he’ll be close.” He had already pulled into the side of the road, and was now busy maneuvering the ambulance back and forth to turn it to face the way they had come.

  “Now?” she said, aghast. She was not ready yet, she had not thought it through, or considered all the possible consequences.

  “Of course, now!” He reached for the accelerator and the ambulance lurched forward. “Tomorrow could be too late. We could be busy with army things. You gotta do things when you can!”

  She drew in breath to argue, then had nothing to say. A couple of days at home in England and she had lost the urgency of the Front, the knowledge that there may be no tomorrow. The only question was, did she want to get back her job as Cullingford’s driver or not! Yes, she did.

  “How much money have you got?” he asked.

  “About thirty francs. Why?”

  “Thirty!” His voice lifted in amazement. “What d’you think I’m going to feed him, Napoleon brandy?”

  The edge of his excitement began to infect her. The ambulance was speeding along the road now, jolting over the potholes, lurching a little from left to right.

  Twenty minutes later they were back in the square in Wulvergem, and they parked on the cobbles in the dar
k. Now the enormity of the plan struck her. She was a fool to go ahead with it! And a coward to back out. She wanted to drive Cullingford again. She would be more loyal to him than this new man could possibly be. She would see him more accurately, and believe in him more. She could feel the loneliness in him, the need to have one person to whom he could explain if he wanted, and yet to whom he did not need to.

  She walked across the square after Wil. There were a few lights on in windows, a gleam here and there spilling out into the darkness. Someone else walked across the square, footsteps loud on the stones.

  They were getting there much too quickly. And she was lying to herself. She wanted to be with Cullingford because she loved him. That was the first time she had admitted it. He was twice her age, and married. She was behaving like a complete fool. But what was sane in the world anymore? Was it wrong to love, if you didn’t ask for anything in return?

  They were at the door of the Seven Piglets.

  “Wait here,” Wil ordered abruptly. “Don’t want you seen yet.” Then he pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

  Ten minutes later half a dozen soldiers came out, joking with each other, one of them laughing and staggering a little. She moved back into the shadows. They walked away and she was left alone. An old man crossed the far side of the square, pushing a handcart with something bulky in it. He moved as if he were infinitely tired. She felt a wave of pity for him, and tried to imagine how it would be if armies were camped in St. Giles, if foreign soldiers marched in the streets she had grown up in, and the peace of her own fields were shattered by shell fire, her own trees smashed. How it would hurt her if the familiar earth were gouged up and poisoned, soaked in blood, if generations ahead farmers would still plow the ground and find human bones.

  Another half hour passed slowly, then the door opened again and finally Cullingford came out. He was alone. She recognized him instantly, even though she saw only his silhouette against the light. The way he stood, the angle of his shoulders was unlike anyone else.

  She thought of speaking to him: She could now, alone. But it would be absurdly undignified, as if she were running after him. The thought made her cringe.

  He walked away, unaware that anyone saw him, and the moment was past. When he was around the corner, presumably to his lodging for the night, she went into the Seven Piglets again. It was far less crowded now and immediately she saw Wil sitting next to the new driver, both of them with glasses in their hands.

  She hesitated, not knowing whether to interrupt them or not. Then Wil looked up and saw her. His face lit with pleasure and he waved enthusiastically. The driver turned to see who had drawn his attention.

  Judith walked over.

  “Of course she’ll help you,” Wil said encouragingly. “Judith, this is Corporal Stallabrass. He’s an excellent driver. He knows everything there is to know about engines, but he doesn’t know a damn thing about Flanders, at least not so far. Sit down.” He pulled a chair out for her.

  “I really don’t expect . . .” Stallabrass began.

  “We all help each other out here, Corporal,” Judith told him, seeing from the corner of her eye, out of Stallabrass’s sight, that Wil was topping up his glass with Pernod and very little water. It was lethal stuff. She had no idea what Wil was leading to, but she did her best to follow. “Share and share alike,” she added.

  “I could tell you stories. . . .” Wil embarked on a long and rambling account of a journey to Armentières. It was entirely fictitious, and incorporated just about everything that could go wrong with a vehicle, and several that couldn’t.

  “But . . .” Stallabrass started to argue several times, trying to assert his deeply studied knowledge. His face was earnest, and it apparently did not occur to him that Wil was deliberately embroidering the tale.

  Judith got up quietly and went to the bar counter. She bought the rest of the bottle of Pernod and, with a jug of water, went back to the table. She would make her own mostly water, and surreptitiously refill Stallabrass’s glass every time he was not looking.

  Wil’s account was growing wilder, and funnier every moment, and they were joined by a couple of other soldiers who were definitely a trifle happy for having imbibed generously most of the evening.

  “I don’t believe that!” Stallabrass said haltingly when Wil finished a particularly lurid tale of greasing an ambulance hubcap with ripe Brie cheese and ending up stuck in a field surrounded by a herd of cows.

  One of the other soldiers, named Dick, tried to keep a straight face, but the tears were running down his cheeks.

  “I like cows,” his friend said sentimentally. “Beautiful eyes, cows have. Don’t you think so, Corporal Stallabrass? Ever noticed the eyelashes they ’ave?”

  But Stallabrass was staring into the distance, his mind locked in some dream of his own. “Beautiful,” he repeated.

  Wil glanced at Judith, then back at Stallabrass. “Is she?” he said with interest.

  “Not everybody sees it,” Stallabrass shook his head very slowly, as if he were nervous it might wobble and slide off. “They only see her as an ordinary woman, stamps and letters and money, and things.” He sniffed and gave a genteel hiccup.

  “Stamps and letters,” Wil said, obviously no idea what he was talking about. “But she’s not?”

  “No,” Stallabrass said with deep emotion. “She has ideas, dreams . . . she has passion!” He sighed. “She has the most beautiful . . .” He stopped, his hands clasping his Pernod glass, expression wistful.

  Everyone waited with breath held for what he was going to say.

  Judith was faintly embarrassed, in case it turned out to be too intimate.

  Wil grinned. “Eyes?” he suggested to Stallabrass. “What about the letters? Does she write to you often?”

  Stallabrass looked startled. “Oh no! Letters are part of her profession!”

  “What?” Wil was totally lost.

  “Letters,” Stallabrass said patiently. “Stamps. She’s the postmistress. That’s what she does. It’s very important. Where would we be without the Royal Mail? It holds the world together. King’s head on every stamp. Do you know how serious it is to steal or damage the Royal Mail?”

  “Oh yes,” Wil agreed hastily. “Very important job for a young woman. She must be very special. What’s her name?”

  “Jeanette. She’s forty-one. . . .”

  Wil gulped and started to cough. The other soldier, partly to hide his own expression, patted him vigorously on the back.

  “But she’s beautiful?” Dick prompted gravely.

  “Gorgeous.” Stallabrass nodded, taking Dick’s Pernod absently and drinking it. “Gilbert Darrow thinks he’s going to marry her, just because he’s got a uniform and he’s in the navy. Well, I’ve got a uniform, too!” He tried to square his shoulders, then changed his mind. “And I’m out here in France!”

  “Flanders, actually,” Wil corrected him. “But what’s the difference, eh?”

  “I’m here!” Stallabrass said carefully. “I shall see action! Front line—with the general. I shall win medals, and then we’ll see what Gilbert”—he hiccupped—“Darrow has to show for himself.” He blinked. “Say for himself,” he corrected. “Nothing, that’s what!”

  “You’re right!” Dick agreed with a broad smile. “You win a chestful of medals and go home and win Jeanette’s hand. Sweep her off her feet! Or try anyway. Is she a big lady, with beautiful . . . eyes?”

  “Yes, I’ll do that!” Stallabrass said with another loud sniff. “I’ll show them. I’ll show them all!”

  “To love!” Dick held up his glass.

  Wil refilled Stallabrass’s glass again and topped it up with a few drops of water. “To true love!” he said, lifting his own to his lips. “Always win in the end. Drink up, ol’ boy!”

  “To . . . true love!” Stallabrass emptied his glass all the way to the bottom, and slid off his chair onto the floor.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Dick agreed. “But not tonight, I reckon
. Yer want a hand to get ’im up to ’is bed?”

  “Thank you,” Wil accepted, climbing slowly to his feet. “We’d better put him away nicely.”

  “Can’t leave ’im ’ere, like nobody’s child,” Dick agreed, bending down to pick up Stallabrass in a fireman’s lift. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” he said to Judith. “But I think you’d better leave this to us. ’E’s totally rat-arsed. Welcome to the army, Corporal!”

  Judith stepped back. There was nothing more for her to do. It was three in the morning, and she had nowhere to sleep except in the ambulance. It would be chilly, but at least it would be dry, and she could lie down.

  She woke in the morning to Wil shaking her urgently. She sat up, trying to remember where she was.

  “You’d better get straightened up,” he said in a hoarse whisper, as if they could be overheard, although actually there was no one else within fifty yards. The ambulance was parked in a side alley and it was not long after dawn. The cobbles still glistened with dew and the light had the hard, pale clarity of early morning.

  She rubbed her hands over her face and pushed her hair back. Her head pounded and there was a vile taste in her mouth. Then she remembered the estaminet, Corporal Stallabrass, and the Pernod! No wonder she felt awful. She had not drank so much, but he had, and she was filled with guilt. How must he feel?

  “Get yourself up, sugar!” Wil said firmly. “I don’t think Corporal Stallabrass is going to win any medals today. In fact he just might not be safe to drive at all, and we wouldn’t want the general to end up in the ditch, would we?”

  She blushed and cleared her vision with an effort. She must find enough water to wash her face, a comb for her hair, and straighten her uniform so it wasn’t so obvious she had slept in it. Then a hot cup of tea would help her to feel considerably more human. Actually, anything except Pernod would do.

  Half an hour later she was standing in the square when General Cullingford came across the cobbles toward his car, beside which stood a bedraggled and deeply unhappy Corporal Stallabrass. He was only too obviously the worse for wear. His uniform looked as if he had put it on in his sleep, which he may well have done, and misjudged most of the buttons.