Dawn broke to a horrible din, its effects causing a slight tremor of the breakfast cups and saucers. From then on life became exceedingly more tense, papers being demanded at every turn of the way, the only other presence on the road now being army personnel. Long convoys of motorwagons carrying ammunition and rations from the railheads, stirring up clouds of dust. Behind them and restricted to a crawl, the car bumped its way over the worn pave, taking three hours to cover three miles. Long before this there had been signs of the violence, homes tumbledown and abandoned. Now, though, came gruesome indication of how close they actually were: dead farm animals, some horribly mutilated, others whole but inflated by gas, their rigid limbs directed at the sky.
‘We must be in shell range.’
Even without Robert Williams’s grave assertion, Etta guessed for herself that their vehicle would inevitably be stopped, and when they came upon a traffic post with its massing troops and a provost barred their way she was not altogether surprised.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you go any further,’ the redcap told the driver first, becoming doubly adamant upon seeing that one of the occupants was a woman.
Williams leaned forward from the back seat and introduced himself. ‘I’m trying to help this young lady who’s searching for her missing husband. We have permits.’
Until now Etta’s innate confidence had helped her to bluff a way through any hurdle. With this same air she produced her authority to be in Belgium, interjecting the loud whizzes and explosions and the crackle of rifle fire to say, ‘I’m a volunteer with Lady Fenton.’
But the provost was unimpressed, glowering coldly from beneath the slashed peak of his cap. ‘I don’t care who or what you are, that’s not the right permit and you’re not going any further without one.’
‘I must protest most vigorously!’
‘Protest all you like!’ With this ungallant retort the redcap ordered the driver of the car to steer into a farm gateway and turn it around.
‘Well,’ sighed Etta’s companion as they headed back at snail’s pace along the congested road for the village they had just left, ‘I don’t know what to suggest you do now, Mrs Lanegan.’
‘Thank you for all your help anyway, Mr Williams,’ replied Etta sincerely. ‘If you’d be so good as to ask the driver to stop once we’re out of sight of that military policeman I’ll get out and attempt to find my way via another route.’ When he looked at her questioningly, she added, ‘I’ve no intention of giving up after I’ve come so far.’
‘And I’ve no intention of deserting you so close to the war zone,’ he told her sternly.
‘I shall be perfectly all right,’ came her airy response. ‘I have a gun.’
He blurted an amazed laugh. ‘Then I’m most definitely not leaving you to your own devices!’
‘Please don’t address me as if I’m a simpleton!’
‘That’s exactly what you are! Don’t you know you could be shot as a spy? You’re staying with me till we decide what to do.’
And with that Etta had little option but to return with him to the place they had just left.
Unable to persuade her to hand over the firearm but accepting her promise that she would not try to use it, Williams spent the rest of that day talking matters over with her, and tried to find a mayor or someone in authority who could give them the correct paperwork. When this failed, he drew up various plans, none of which were to Etta’s approval, though she kept quiet for now. Her companion made great effort to cheer her spirits throughout that long day, concluding with as nice a supper and bottle of wine as could be bought in this small village, seemingly as keen as herself to bring the story to a happy conclusion. Yet something alerted her to the fact that this was not the case; some word, some look in those veteran eyes over the wine glass that made her realise his intentions towards her were not quite all they seemed. And though he never made a wrong move, and promised that he would continue to act as her escort and if need be accompany her on foot in the morning, her nod of gratitude veiled a deeper intention.
With the household still asleep, she crept away in the night.
Knowing she was at risk of being shot for breaking the curfew, camouflaged by her dark cape, Etta distanced herself from the road and took a furtive route across country, first groping her way through the field she had inspected last evening in order to ensure that it would pose few obstacles, aided by the occasional flare that burst in spidery fashion upon the night sky, and, once well away, resting in a small copse to await sunrise.
Then, on she went, shivering through the morning mist that was laced with the smell of heavy explosives, damp from the overnight dew; sweltering in the midday sun, through fields of poppies and gardens of hops, with singing larks and thunderous guns, occasionally stumbling upon areas of churned-up earth and barbed wire and splintered trees and dead farm animals, shocked even more by a small graveyard of wooden crosses. She provided an incongruous sight, with her little suitcase in hand as if on a trip to the seaside. Upon being fortunate enough to find an occupied dwelling where the farmer’s wife gave her bread and water, she paused only to consume this, before marching ever onwards in her single-minded pursuit. It was quite amazing to find civilians still living and working so close to the line – gratifying too, for a woman like herself, grubby and unkempt as she had become, might blend in as a peasant all the better. There was no doubt that she was heading in the right direction, for the constant boom of artillery was much louder now; moreover, the landscape was almost as flat as a bowling green, and on the distant horizon could be seen the skeleton of a large town where a cloud of smoke signified some violent disturbance, its acrid, billowing fumes thick enough to taste.
But her perspective of the landscape was illformed, her goal much further than the sound and smell of the guns would indicate. Exhausted and hungry, with places of shelter few and far between, she paused for a while at a bombed-out cottage to relieve herself behind a wall, then to gorge on the pears and soft fruit that grew in the garden, to relax for a time as best she could with the intermittent thrash of warfare pounding in her head. Finally she splashed herself with water from a pump to remove the dust kicked up from the parched fields, though there was little to be done about the grubbiness of her attire. She examined the rent hem of her dress and tried to rub the brickdust from it, before heaving a sigh and setting off again.
That day seemed never-ending. God knew how many hours must have passed before she was forced to stop again. Remaining vigilant for local policemen, she spread her cape, sat down, took off her shoes and rubbed at the pink skin of her feet through the honeycomb of holes in her black stockings. Trying to gain further relief for her throbbing toes by rubbing them through the cool grass, she ate one after another of the pears that she had tucked into her case, meanwhile casting her despairing eyes upwards to watch, between the fleecy clouds, two aeroplanes engage in combat, held fascinated till one of them suddenly exploded into flames and plummeted to earth, its pilot and gunner with it. Unable to stomach any more fruit, Etta put her shoes back on and rose, hefted her suitcase, draped her cape over her arm and staggered on.
With her garments drenched in perspiration, her fingers in agony from being curled around the handle of the case even after alternating it from one hand to the other, every ligament throbbing, she wanted to burst into tears but would not allow it, forcing herself to concentrate on the man she loved and the quest to find him.
And then her prayers were answered. There, just a hundred yards beyond, was a field amassed with soldiers at rest. Panting and perspiring, limbs racked with pain, from Etta’s parched lips a gasp of hopeful laughter emerged. She gazed for a second, taking in the scene: lines of picketed horses, men shaving, washing their clothes and spreading them out to dry along the hop scaffolds, others playing football, writing letters. Keeping her eyes alert for military policemen who might prevent her mission, she hurried towards the makeshift camp – and then another miracle! From a cluster of redroofed farm buildin
gs a group of young peasant women appeared with baskets of fruit, and they too proceeded towards the soldiers, thus providing Etta with a shield! At once, she took advantage and rushed to join them, just as the jubilant soldiers made a similar beeline.
Immediately encircled by young men desperate for female company, the local girls attempted to display their fruit. But Etta was not here to hawk wares. Grasping one man’s arm and drawing him aside, she said, ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but can you direct me?’
Remarking on the incongruity of her request and its delivery in a refined English accent, this soldier and others now flocked around her, wanting to know where the dustcoated maid had sprung from. ‘How did you get so close to the lines, Sister? Did nobody try to prevent you?’
She felt exhilarated. ‘Yes, but the only way they would have succeeded in that would have been to hold hands and form a chain across the entire continent – I came across the fields!’
They laughed and admitted that there were still great gaps where no troops were to be found. ‘Let’s hope Fritz doesn’t do the same!’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any soap in there, have you?’ One pointed to her luggage.
‘Oh, certainly!’ She stooped quickly and threw open the case. ‘At least for one of you – are these lavender bags any use?’ These were eagerly snatched, the soldiers badgering her for whatever else she might be able to spare and quickly cleaning her out of the small gifts she had brought.
‘What happened to your face, Sister?’
She touched her cheek, which had been inflicted with several grazes in her stumbling passage over the detritus of war, imagining that she must look a mess; but, unwilling to be diverted from her true ambition, said simply, ‘I fell.’ Then she told them she was not actually a nurse as they assumed, but had come here to seek her husband, at which they further marvelled.
‘Blimey,’ joked one, ‘I’m glad my missus isn’t like you, I see enough of her at home.’
Patiently listening to their quips, Etta finally explained which regiment she was seeking and was greatly surprised when another of them replied, ‘You’ve found it, blossom.’
But to her vast, heart-shattering disappointment she learned that this was only one of the many territorial battalions in the regiment. Her husband had been with the regular army. Despite this, she gave his name.
They shook their heads sadly. ‘Sorry, don’t know him.’
She sagged. ‘You must think my question ridiculous – that you could possibly know him out of thousands…’
‘It’s not daft at all, Mrs Lanegan,’ said one, others agreeing. ‘My cousin lives in London, I’ve only seen him a couple of times in my life but I saw him here last week! So, buck up, you’re sure to come across somebody who knows him.’
Then, one of them broke off peeling the orange he had just bought and said, ‘Hang on, the name sounds familiar. I think Cyril was with that mob till he got sent to us.’ And he cupped his mouth and called to a man some twenty yards away who was gathered with others at a water cart refilling his bottle. ‘Have you heard of a bloke called Lanegan?’
‘Ham and egg?’ Deafened by the months of perpetual bombing and the current background noise of guns, the other misheard and came hurrying over.
‘Eh, he’s always thinking of his belly.’ His friend laughed and called again, ‘Lanegan!’
Cyril finally arrived to be told the reason behind the enquiry. Frowning at Etta, he said in a Yorkshire accent, ‘I know a Marty Lanegan.’
She cried out in joy and seized his arm. ‘Yes! Do you know where he is?’
‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’
From his odd reaction, she sensed that he was holding back and begged him with earnest brown eyes, ‘But do you know where I might find him? Please, you must tell me, I’m his wife!’
He looked awkward then and she had to prise the information out of him. ‘Well, it’s only rumour…’
One of his pals gave a murmur of recognition then, ‘Oh it’s that bloke what –’
‘What, man, what?’ Greatly irritated, Etta pressed him.
‘I’m sorry, missus, I heard he’s been arrested.’
She sucked in her breath. ‘Arrested – for what?’
Again he seemed reticent.
‘For pity’s sake, man!’
‘Desertion,’ he said sheepishly, then, at her speechlessness, he looked around to include his comrades, more of whom had begun to gather around this shapely woman as he gave his opinion, ‘but it can’t be right, he’s a good bloke is Marty.’
Etta’s sunburned cheeks had turned white. ‘Tell me all you know,’ she directed unhesitatingly. ‘Where shall I find him?’
‘I don’t want to send you on a wild goose chase, but well, what I heard was the redcaps took him back down the line a few days ago.’
‘To be tried?’ At his sympathetic nod she almost collapsed, envisaging Marty in prison.
Before anything much else could be uttered a sergeant appeared on the scene and the soldiers were called away, issuing hasty farewells to Etta.
She remained there for a moment as the troops milled around her, too distraught to move, tears blurring her vision. Eyeing her on their return from their errand, the peasant girls noted her troubled mien, one of them pausing and, with no English but a sympathetic gesture, handing Etta the last orange in her basket before moving on.
What in God’s name to do now? She stared bleakly at the fruit in her hand, then made as if to trail after the girls – but in a bout of quick thinking instead she ran after the soldiers who had informed her, calling out to them, asking where she could find the nearest headquarters where she might learn more.
Fortune had it that Divisional HQ was not so far away, and so, tucking the orange into her skirt pocket, and retrieving her belongings, Etta went rambling yet again through hordes of military traffic, choked by clouds of dust thrown up by lorries, in search of the deserted estaminet that was HQ.
Assumed to be a local peasant, she was for a while allowed to roam at will. Yet before too long came the inevitable picket to bar her way.
‘Bong jour, mamselle!’ The greeting was stern; a rifle emphasised the point. ‘Vous marchez the wrong way.’ The soldier made a twirling motion with his hand, indicating for her to turn around.
For a few seconds, Etta continued to stare at him obstinately, wondering whether it would aid or hinder her to address him in English. No, it was probably best to have the army think she was local; it might at least allow her to remain in the vicinity. Reluctantly, despondent, she turned around and wandered back along the road, wondering over her next move.
After several steps, thoroughly wornout from her travels and also from despair, she flopped down on the dusty verge. Immediately, flies began to buzz about her. She gave a half-hearted swipe at them, then, taking the orange from her pocket, she began distractedly to remove its peel, her mind on other things, her eyes still searching the faces of passing troops in the forlorn hope that the information she had just been given might be wrong, that she might yet see Marty walking past; that, like before, there had been some mix-up with the surname.
But what would happen if it truly was he who had been apprehended? She bit into a skein of orange, grateful for the juice upon her parched tongue. When would he be tried? Would she be allowed to be there to lend support? Swallowing the portion of skein, she inserted the other half, chewing thoughtfully as she tried to think what to do, demolishing the orange bit by bit. Remembering the awful staff officers in Amiens she dreaded coming up against similar treatment, especially now that she had come so far, so ironically far, only to be told that Marty was no longer here.
Abstractedly, she inserted the remaining half-skein. Instantly she balked at the sharp pain at the back of her tongue and in a highly unladylike manner tried to rid her mouth of the half-chewed orange, spitting it out along with the wasp that had been sitting on it.
Within seconds she was feeling unwell. Within minutes she
was struggling to breathe. Aware that her tortured choking sounds had brought men running, she reached out to them, eyes bulging, overwhelmed by terror that she would never see Marty and her children again. She was going to die.
20
When her eyes opened again, wide in fear, her immediate impulse was to put a hand to her throat. No longer suffocating, she nevertheless had the sense of some foreign body in her windpipe and tried to remove it. But to her horror her hands were bound. Got to get to Marty, she wanted to say, but no words emerged.
‘You’re all right!’ The loud voice attempted to calm her. ‘You’re able to breathe now, it’ll just take a few minutes to get used to the tube. Just try and relax, don’t try to speak, that’s it, stay calm.’
Struggling to come round, assailed by the smell of ether, Etta saw that she was in a tent, the faces around her all male. Still trying to grope her way back to consciousness, she felt herself being hefted onto a stretcher, trundled away, and someone calling in a harassed voice, ‘Nelson, you speak the language, come and calm this trachie down. She keeps trying to pull out her tube.’
And, still being jolted on the stretcher, Etta’s blurred eyes saw a face loom into hers and heard words she could not grasp. Then it occurred to her that they too assumed her to be local, and she tried to speak but still could not. She must have passed out at that point.
When she regained her faculties it was to find herself in some sort of outbuilding along with other casualties, her bodice spattered with dried blood, and, from the mere fact that she still could not speak, she deduced that it must be her own. When in panic she tried to rise, someone pressed her shoulders down.
The Keepsake Page 45
