The Heart's War

by Lucy Lambert

  Chapter 17

  If I wasn't exactly happy about my forced stay in England, I no longer felt such despair over it.

  Time is always the best bandage for any wound, especially ones of the physical or emotional sorts. Each day replaced the previous one's dressing, and each day the wound continued knitting together, forming a scab so that, after a while, all you really had was an itch you knew you couldn't scratch without reopening it.

  I found myself at that same corner cafe every day at tea time. If I arrived by quarter to four, I discovered that I had a much better chance of getting a seat. Their Earl Grey was really marvelous, and I seriously questioned why biscuits weren't nearly so popular back in Canada. The Brits did it right, I thought. A nice break with a warm, soothing beverage to calm your tummy and get you through to the end of the day and the supper waiting for you on the kitchen table.

  I hardly even heard the trolleys and cars anymore. Not because they weren't there, but because I had grown used to them. It seemed to happen around the same time that my legs stopped swaying as though I were still aboard Olympic. I regained my land legs, it seemed. And I managed to not be the rock in the middle of the river of people here that I had been at first.

  I sipped at my tea slowly, savoring the smell of it. A boy stood on the corner, a paper held high in one hand with a bundle of rolled ones at his hip. He had a red patch on the right shoulder of his jacket, and the threading holding it in place came loose as he waved the news at passersby.

  I hardly listened, choosing instead to watch the affairs of a couple pigeons cooing at each other between the lampposts.

  "...Battle!" his strident voice broke through my thoughts, "Heavy losses for British forces as prolonged artillery bombardment fails to dislodge German soldiers."

  I set my cup down on the saucer, the sharp noise of glass on glass unable to pull my attention from the boy now.

  "Battle of Passchendaele results in staggering loss of life! Read it here!" the boy said, handing a rolled paper to a man in a top hat who had pulled a penny from his pocket. The man had a neat mustache, and a very white smile that he flashed at the boy before wandering off.

  It was awful, I thought, truly awful. The war would be in its fourth year soon, and each one seemed to bring some new, terrible clash resulting in a record number of dead and wounded.

  Something tugged at my memory, then. I thought of that smile on the man who bought the paper.

  Lawrence had a smile like that. Captain Lawrence Marsh. Had he been in that battle? I wondered. Had Jeff?

  A shiver ran down my back.

  Lawrence's words surfaced in my mind again. He had spoken of Canadians as storm troopers; front line shock troops sent in to wreak havoc with enemy lines in front of the main assault.

  A brush began painting a terrible image in my mind, the strokes too broad to find any detail in as yet.

  "British forces and their allies suffer great loss of life!" the boy cried again.

  Their allies. The Canadians would have been at Passchendaele, I knew. If they were the first soldiers sent in, that meant they would most likely have suffered some of the worst losses.

  I left my steaming cup of tea unfinished, along with most of my biscuits. I had to get back to the boarding house. Something compelled me to it.

  I went perhaps a bit faster than was proper, allowing the hem of my dress to flutter in the wind as I held my hat down. That little boy's high voice pierced all the low noises of the city, chasing after me as I fled towards my only place of solace.

  Shoving the door open, I made for the stairs. A bead of sweat ran down the curve of my spine, making my flesh prickle. But I ignored it. A few other patrons sat at the long tables, sipping at their own teas and picking at biscuits laid out on communal platters.

  "Eleanor! Dearie!" Jill Milton called out to me from behind the bar.

  I didn't stop for her calling. Lately, she'd been taking me aside to speak about a cousin of hers serving as a medic in the trenches. She seemed fascinated by the horrific injuries those poor men over their sustained.

  I'd also shared with her my real reason for coming. She'd found it so terribly romantic that she got her husband, Charles, to come in from the back parlor (where I thought he hid out to smoke and escape the attentions of his wife) so that I could tell him, too.

  Though, for all her prying, she did tell me that I could stay at the boarding house "until your Jeffrey comes back," and at only half the regular rent.

  The steps creaked under my quick steps, groaning at me until I reached the third floor. I rushed down the hall, fishing for my key in my clutch.

  Breathless, I threw the key into the lock and then open the door hard enough to ruffle the drapes.

  There, at my feet, was only the bare floor. I heaved a sigh and leaned against the doorframe. The whole time I ran, I thought of that note telling me that Jeff had already left for France. I had thought there might be another note lying there.

  But no news is good news, as they say. Though, I did check with the post office each day to see if Marie wrote me back yet. The old man there kept telling me that the ships hadn't yet returned, and to wait until they did so.

  Then I felt guilty for leaving my tea and biscuits at the cafe. I spent Marie's money on those, and I shouldn't let them go to waste. Straightening out my dress, I breathed another sigh and pushed away from the doorframe.

  "Silly, silly," I muttered.

  There had just been something about that boy's voice. Or, rather, the words he put to it. Then, seeing that man reminding me of Lawrence. Just an overexcited imagination was all, I told myself.

  Lawrence may have been at the battle. The same with Jeff. However, there were thousands of miles of trenches that needed manning. One or both of them might have been left on guard duty as both sides concentrated their forces at Passchendaele.

  Pushing those thoughts from my mind, I considered what to do with the rest of my day. Worrying about Jeff exhausted me so much that I forgot that I was finally in England! Jill told me yesterday about the library. I thought maybe I would stay there for an afternoon, perhaps catching up on my Lucy Maud Montgomery. There was a new Anne of Green Gables book, Anne’s House of Dreams, out this year... There were also a few public squares and parks I had yet to visit.

  Yes, that sounded like a lovely way to spend the day.

  Then Jill Milton came puffing up the stairs. She hadn't put her white bar rag down, still clutching it in one fist. She was red in the face from her exertions. She caught herself at the top of the stairs, holding the rail so tightly it shook as she caught her breath.

  I smiled at her and went to meet her there.

  "What's wrong, Jill? Why come running so quickly?"

  "I...tried catching you... dearie... those young legs of yours..." she said, a bead of sweat rolling down the bridge of her nose.

  "Well, you've caught me. But why?"

  She thrust her hand into the pocket of her apron and pulled it out clutching a somewhat rumpled note.

  "What does it say?" I asked. I didn't know why, but I wanted to take a step away from it, like a person might do if they suddenly came upon an unexploded mine.

  Jill coughed into the crook of her arm, then wiped at her face with one large wrist.

  "I don't know, dear. The man delivered the telegram and I only saw your name and 'urgent' written on it. Here," she said.

  She thrust the note into my hand, apologizing for its condition. Memories of the last note filled my mind, and I felt the urge to retreat back to my bed.

  "If you need anything, just come downstairs. Stew again tonight."

  "Yes, thank you," I said, staring down at the note.

  One of the corners had curved back, and I saw the top halves of a few letters.

  It couldn't be a letter from Marie. It would have come in an envelope. And I doubt she'd have any reason to mark it as urgent.

  Second Leftenant Cross was the only other person who knew where I was. But what could he possibl
y want to contact me about? He seemed like a nice enough, if overworked, man. He had gone out of his way to let me know the whereabouts of my fiancé. In the week since I received that note, he didn't send me anything else.

  I assumed that he just went about his duties as normal, possibly remarking about the girl he'd helped in passing to his coworkers.

  The note stayed closed in my hand until I got back to my room. I opened the window a crack, letting the outside air and noise in.

  For a moment, I thought I heard the shrieking call of the newspaper boy.

  A peculiar apprehension filled me as I sat on the edge of my bed. I looked at the note, turning it over in my hands, examining all the little creases, seeing the ghosts of the letters through the back of it.

  "Stop being so silly," I said.

  I reminded myself of the awful dread I'd felt at the first note, and how it had made me feel directly after reading it. But then I remembered the past week, regaining my composure and sense of self in this imposed vacation.

  I opened the paper.

  "Dear Miss Winters,

  I wanted to do you the courtesy of sending you this notice. Private Beech's listed next of kin is his mother, so you would not be informed until you received word from her. Given the state of trans-Atlantic mail, God only knows when that would be.

  I regret to inform you that Private Jeffrey Beech, of Kitchener, Ontario, was killed in action at Passchendaele, which is in Belgium near the city of Ypres.

  I also regret that I can offer you no further details on this matter.

  You are in my thoughts and prayers.

  2 Lt. Cross"

  I sat there, staring at the blank wall as the sounds of life going on as usual outside buffeted me.

  My first reaction was laughter. Not the laugh as if someone told a funny joke, but the cackle of someone crazed. I crumpled the note into a ball in both my fists, and pushed those against my forehead.

  Again, instead of crying, I found myself in that empty dark void somewhere in the back of my mind.

  I should have expected this. I should have known he would die.

  But, I realized, I had known. Or rather, felt it. Ever since Jeff came into Marie's kitchen clutching that draft letter I had known. Ever since I saw Shelley Clarkson and her mother grieving quietly at the back of the church while old men patted Jeff on the shoulder and offered him cigars, I had known.

  It had been fate. My destiny had been to follow the man I loved halfway around the world and lose him time and time again.

  And now he was lost to me forever and ever. Was he in some unmarked grave in Belgium? Or was his body lying on the battlefield still, unrecognizable from the horrors of the war?

  I would never hear his voice again, I thought. I still couldn't recall the sound of it, my mind always providing any memory of him a generic, masculine-sounding thing that made my memories seem false.

  We would never marry. But then again, I thought, we had never been formally engaged. I called him my fiancé, but my ring finger was bare of any engagement ring. We would never have Paris.

  God damn you, Jeffrey Beech! I thought.

  I grabbed up handfuls of the sheet and then slammed them back onto the mattress. I kicked at the footboard until a sharp pain ran up my ankle.

  Then I pulled my pillow down over my face and pressed it against my mouth and nose as hard as I could. My lungs burned for air after some seconds, but I denied them.

  I found myself liking the heat and the pain. They filled up that void within me, that hole that threatened to swallow me up and leave me an invalid the rest of my life.

  The urge to breathe became unbearable. I bit into the pillow, fighting that instinct.

  But it would be no good, I knew. Even if I held my breath until I passed out, I would simply wake again in some minutes or hours to this terrible excuse for a thing called my life.

  So I threw the heavy feather pillow at the chest of drawers. The cheap old piece of furniture tottered on its legs, dancing out a tapping tune on the floor. I wanted it to fall. I stared at it, willing it to fall.

  It didn't fall, instead settling down, facing a few degrees clockwise of where it had been pointed before.

  "Just let me be asleep," I said, my voice hoarse, my lungs still aching as my chest heaved to satisfy them.

  Please, just let this all be a dream. Can it be just a dream? I thought.

  My vision started blurring and I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand.

  I looked at the wetness on my skin. It was the first sign of tears I'd had in days. But no more came. My body busied itself with other things.

  I knew it wasn't a dream. It hurt too much to be a dream. If you hurt yourself in a dream, you wake up. Everyone knows that.

  A gasp escaped my lips then.

  "Oh, Marie!" I said.

  Here I was, lying there feeling sorry for myself. But Marie was thousands of miles away, on another continent. She'd be lucky to hear of her son's death in a month. She'd spend the next several weeks in ignorance.

  Maybe she even thought that I had found Jeff, and that we'd had a wonderful time together before he went off to be a gallant hero.

  At first, I felt jealous of her. Here, I was telling myself just that day, after receiving the second note, that it was better to know than to not. Better to be cleansed by the truth than to wallow in the lie, or the ignorance.

  How I wished I didn't know. Several more weeks of not knowing about Jeff's fate sounded like absolute bliss.

  But then pity mixed in with that jealousy, diluting it. She had lost both of her sons, and at this very moment, back in Kitchener, she thought she still had one. And a future daughter-in-law to boot!

  And I wouldn't even be there to comfort her unless I could somehow find passage on a ship bound for North America.

  So she was alone in her grief, just like me.

  Somewhere, I found the strength to sit up against the headboard. I had to read the note again, just to be certain. Perhaps I had misread something, missed some key piece of punctuation that would change the meaning entirely.

  The moisture from my palms dampened the paper, giving it a delicate, tissue-like texture. My eyes devoured the words, searching for anything that might offer an alternate explanation.

  But Second Leftenant Cross was quite pithy. I couldn't find any fault in his discourse, so I crumpled the note again and squeezed my fingers as tightly around it as I could. My whole arm shook with the effort.

  Then I opened my hand and attempted to reopen the note. My sweat and pressure had destroyed the words, smearing the ink and tearing the paper.

  So I got up, went over to my suitcases, and put it in the bottom of one. I stood there, looking down at the bag, fighting the urge to tear it open and find that note again. That anger at Jeff returned. How could I ever have let myself love such a selfish imbecile? Why did he have to be so stubborn on one hand (insisting on going to war) and then so impressionable on the other (allowing himself to be swayed by those evil, feather-toting witches)?

  Someone scratched lightly at the door. I wanted to scream at them to go away and leave me alone, but that more civilized part of me reminded the wild part that the person on the other side had no part in Jeff's death, and didn't deserve my anger.

  I made a few futile passes at my hair and dress in an effort to tidy up before opening the door.

  Jill Morton stood on the other side, a cup of tea sending up little curls of steam gripped in one hand. Those worry lines creased her forehead again when she saw me. I felt singlehandedly responsible for those wrinkles. When I first met her, she'd only been like her brother with the smile lines on her cheeks.

  Yet another thing to punish myself for.

  "Oh dear, oh dearie. May I come in? Let's have a talk, shall we? I've brought tea!"

  Tea was the English answer to everything it seemed. I gave her a stiff nod, fully intending to not let that cup touch my lips.

  But I found myself sitting on the bed beside Jill a
few moments later, sipping at the scalding liquid and feeling the ball of warmth it left in my stomach and chest swell.

  The old mattress couldn't hold our combined weight without sagging, and I kept my feet tense against the floor to keep from sliding off. That, in combination with handling the tea, gave me a few precious moments of mundanity with which to occupy my mind.

  My eyes kept straying to my suitcases. That awful note sat at the bottom of one. I had destroyed the words it contained, but not its message.

  How, I asked myself, could I just be sitting there, drinking a lovely cup of black tea? Jeff was across the Channel dead, and his mother across the Atlantic unwitting of the whole thing.

  Jill Milton put one of her brawny hands on my back, between my shoulders. My head descended to rest on her shoulder.

  "Tell me what's the matter, love," she said, running her fingertips through the loose strands of hair above my ears. She pulled accidentally on a few tangles, but I didn't even grimace. I could hear the heavy thump of Jill's heart, and her warmth felt so nice.

  When I told her the contents of the note, she took my tea away, placing it on top of the chest of drawers, and then hugged me close. She kept muttering things like, "There, there," at me, stroking the back of my head.

  I think she expected me to cry. I expected the same, and couldn't explain why I didn't. It must have been that emptiness. I could feel myself withdrawing into it again.

  When she finally had to leave to attend to the rest of her patrons, she first made a fuss of tidying my little room up. Her eyes reddened as she gave my cheek one final stroke before going.

  "You just rest here, dearie. I'll send Charles up with your supper."

  She closed the door behind her and I listened to the floorboards creak as she walked away. The noises of the city intruded upon me again at that moment.

  I marched over and slammed the window shut hard enough to rattle the glass.

  How dare they go about living, doing their daily chores, worrying and laughing and loving? How could life go on as usual out there? It felt to me that the entire world should darken and stop. I felt offended that it didn't.