His brother would have turned eighteen just a couple of weeks ago. He wondered whether he went off and joined up, as he’d been so keen to do.
Having left the countryside behind, the train was approaching Charing Cross Station, cutting through the sprawling city, past the backs of houses, work yards, parks, and alongside streets, shops and people. So many people. Welcome back to London. Alas, there’d be no one there to meet him for he had had no time to let them know. Nor had he been allowed time to properly wash or shave. Not that it mattered on the train, amongst these men, united in their constant filth; it was a layer as natural as the top layer of their skin.
There was much excitement at Charing Cross, as hundreds of men, especially the wounded, were met by their loved ones; scenes of such raw emotion, thought Guy, screams, yelps, sobbing, as women, young and old, fell into the arms of their husbands and sons. But not for him; after all, no one was expecting him. Other women, their eyes full of desperation, roamed the platform shoving photographs in front of the soldiers, asking whether they’d seen their men, anxious to hear news of their missing boys. Escaping the pandemonium of the station, Guy caught a tube across south London to Charlton – home.
How strange it felt to be back on the tube, to be back in society, people around him dressed in ordinary clothes. London – it felt like an alien city, a city in which he did not belong. But people smiled at him on the tube train. An old man in a bowler hat winked at him. For a couple of stops, two uniformed men, like him, sat opposite, privates from a Kent regiment. But their uniforms were clean, not covered in a layer of grime and emitting a stench, for Guy realised he smelt rank and although aware of it, he was immune to the assault on his sense of smell. One of the soldiers, carrying a bouquet of flowers, said hello. ‘Just come back?’ he asked.
‘Yes. it’s fairly obvious, I suppose.’
‘Could say that. Well, welcome home, mate.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
Stepping off the tube and emerging into daylight at Charlton, Guy could feel his heartbeat quicken. It was a only a short walk from the station to his parents’ house, and his heart began to pound as he turned into Ladysmith Road, so named in honour of British success during the Boer War. How familiar the street was – the pavement lined with trees, the bend in the road, the houses of old school friends, the carefully maintained front gardens. How luscious everything seemed bathed in sunlight. His father had done well from the millinery trade and had always wanted to move to a larger house in a more fashionable part of London. But his mother had refused; this had been their family home, she knew people here, they had family close at hand, and she couldn’t see the point in moving. And so they stayed put in their modest two-storey, redbrick semi-detached house in Charlton.
He didn’t see the woman coming towards him, carrying a basket, her dress rustling as she sped along. ‘Afternoon,’ she said stiffly, as she passed him.
That voice! He spun round. ‘Mother!’ he called.
She stopped in her tracks. She turned slowly, as if she was unable to believe her ears. On seeing him standing there in the street, her hand went to her mouth, and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Guy? Is that really you?’ she said dropping her basket.
He approached her and threw his arms round her.
‘Guy, Guy, I can’t believe it’s you,’ she said between tears and gulps. ‘You didn’t say... If only I’d known... Oh, how lovely.’
‘Hello, Mother, you haven’t changed a bit. How are you, how are you?’
‘Oh, well, very well, all the better for seeing you. What a surprise. Guy, what are you doing here? Is everything OK? There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘No, everything’s fine. I’m just on leave for a few days. I didn’t have enough time to warn you, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that now. You’re here; that’s the main thing. How joyful. Come, let’s go home,’ she said, taking him by the hand.
‘Weren’t you on your way somewhere?’
‘A few provisions; nothing that can’t wait. Oh Guy, what a lovely surprise.’
‘So has Jack joined up now that he’s eighteen?’
She sighed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid he has. Essex Regiment – like you.’
‘I wouldn’t worry; he’s got months of training ahead of him. With any luck it’ll be all over by the time he’s finished.’
‘I do hope so. Oh, Guy, I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been about you. It’s been so long. How long have you got? Please tell me you’ll be here the day after tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I’ve got three nights. Why?’
‘Oh, perfect! Perfect. Thank heavens. We’re having a party.’
‘Really?’
And so his mother led him home explaining about the party. She sat him down in the living room while she made him a cup of tea and talked of the catering, the guests, the venue. Guy half listened, while enjoying the comfort of the settee, re-familiarising himself with a room once so familiar. The carriage clock still ticked noisily on the mantelpiece, flanked by the sepia family portraits, ornate vases of dried flowers and a small gas-lamp. He looked at the large mirror that hung above the mantelpiece, the paisley motif wallpaper, much despised by his father, and the various landscape paintings and commemorative plates that hung on the walls, pride of place given to the king, Lord Roberts and Baden-Powell – more references to the Boer War. His mind flashed briefly to the time when he stood here freshly dressed in his new uniform, haversack at hand, eagerly anticipating the adventures that lay ahead of him. Jack had stood by his side, envious and so keen to follow in his footsteps.
In the corner was the upright piano, its lid open. Guy ambled over to have a look at the sheet music. ‘You’re playing Chopin now, Mother? Don’t say it’s Jack.’
‘Oh no.’ She laughed. ‘Far too difficult for me and not Jack’s style, but Mary plays for us.’
‘Does she?’
‘Yes. Since you left, she comes to see us regularly and she entertains us with the piano. Usual sort of things – Chopin, Liszt, bits of Beethoven. She’s really rather good.’
‘And where are father and Jack? At the shop?’
‘Yes. Poor Guy, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a bath perhaps?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, I know I need one.’
‘Well, I didn’t like to say but now you mention it...’
*
A couple of hours later, Guy was still trying to get used to the idea of being clean, freshly shaven and wearing civilian clothes. He’d grown so used to the natural itchiness of the uniform it felt strange not having it. He wore a neatly pressed pair of dark trousers, a shirt and collar, and a blue jacket, and how lovely it felt. He sipped another cup of tea, idly flitting through The Times trying to find articles not about the war. His mother pottered about, doing her ‘chores’ and preparing the evening meal, talking constantly.
‘Mother, what happened to my bedstead?’
‘We removed it and donated it – a contribution for the war, they need the brass apparently.’
‘Right. Great.’
He heard the key in the front door and the sound of familiar voices, and seconds later, standing before him, his father and brother.
‘Guy, you’re back!’ screeched his father. He went to shake Guy’s hand but then, uncharacteristically, decided to hug his son, slapping him on the back. ‘Good to see you, boy.’
‘Isn’t it marvellous,’ crowed Edith, her hands clasped as if in prayer.
‘Guy, great to see you,’ said Jack, following Arthur’s example, and embracing his brother. ‘Have you heard my news?’
‘I have. Mother told me. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You looking forward to it?’
‘You bet.’
‘Yes, I feared you would.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘Oh nothing.’
‘You’re back in time for the party of the year,’
said Arthur.
‘Yes, Mother’s been telling me all about it.’
‘So we won’t need to hear it again from me. Well, where to start? So much to catch up on. You’re drinking tea? Edith, couldn’t you have offered the boy something a bit stronger? Have you been to see Mary yet? No? Bad news there, I’m afraid: her mother died. When was it, Edith? About two months ago, maybe three.’
‘Well, she was very ill, wasn’t she? Why don’t you pop round quickly, just to say hello.’
‘Yes, I might do that.’
‘I think she might be out for the day,’ said Jack quickly. ‘So what’s it like out there?’
Arthur intercepted. ‘Jack, give your brother time to catch his breath. How long have you got, Guy?’
‘Three days.’
‘Excellent. Plenty of time.’
Maybe, thought Guy, but a small part of him almost felt as if it was too long. ‘I’ll go see Mary after dinner.’
‘Good idea,’ said Edith, ‘she’ll be delighted to see you.’
‘Look,’ said Jack, ‘I’ve just got to pop out for a bit.’
‘It’s almost dinnertime, where would you want to be going at this time?’ asked Edith.
‘Shop. Cigarettes.’
‘I’ve got a couple spare,’ said Guy.
‘No, it’s fine, thanks. Won’t be long.’ And with that, he was gone.
Guy and his father watched him leave. ‘He forgot his wallet, silly boy,’ said Arthur, his eyes still on the living room door. ‘You know, these last few weeks that boy’s been acting ever so strangely. Have you noticed that, Edith?’
‘I think he’s worried about joining up. Despite the bravado.’
‘Maybe, maybe.’
‘Here,’ said Guy, ‘I’ll take his wallet for him; I’ll catch him up.’
*
Guy was surprised how much ground Jack had already covered. He could see him walking briskly at the far end of the street. He called his name, but with the passing traffic and people, Jack didn’t hear. He walked after him, jogging a little to try and catch up. He saw him turn tight into Hatherley Road, a residential street without a shop in sight. Where in the heck was he going? He reached the turning just in time to see Jack take the second left along Hatherley Road into Barclay Street. Jack was going to Mary’s; that much was now obvious. But why? And why the hurry? People passed him in the street, a couple said hello, but Guy didn’t hear them, so intent was he on following Jack, wondering why he’d lied about going to see her. Why say he was going out for cigarettes? He was about to call out his brother’s name again but stopped himself. He wanted to see the reason behind the sudden need to visit Mary.
He’d turned into Grove Road, a street lined with trees, in time to see Jack walk into Mary’s house, after quickly glancing round to check he hadn’t been followed. Guy darted behind a tree, its shadow falling long in the late afternoon sunshine. The door closed. Guy ambled up the street, worried now about what lay ahead of him.
He paused at Mary’s gate and looked up at the house. Now, having come so far, he wanted nothing more than to turn tail and head home. Forcing himself on, he approached the front door, his whole being shaking with trepidation. Without advancing too close he tried to peer through the window, his heart thudding in his chest. Through the thick glass and net curtain he could see the outline of two people in an embrace. And so, conscious of the anger rising within him, he knocked on the door.
Josephine answered, her shock at seeing him immediately apparent. ‘Guy? Oh hello, erm... Mary,’ she shouted behind her, ‘Mary.’
‘I’ll just come in, shall I?’ said Guy, pushing past her.
The tension in the front room was palpable – Mary and Jack were on their feet, facing each other, just a few feet between them.
‘Guy...?’ Her voice sounded weak.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Guy, calm down,’ said Jack, ‘I just wanted to tell Mary that you’d come back.’
‘By kissing her?’
‘It’s not what it seems.’
‘No? So tell me, how should it seem?’
‘Mary’s been upset, Guy,’ said Jack quickly, ‘you know her mother died recently.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry to hear that. So you, Jack, you thought you’d offer your shoulder to cry on? Was that it?’
‘You’ve not been here, Guy.’
‘No, indeed I haven’t. Bloody right I haven’t.’ He stepped towards him, his fist clenched. ‘But that doesn’t give –’
‘Don’t you dare,’ shouted Josephine from behind him, ‘not in my house.’
‘Stop, Guy,’ cried Mary, ‘just stop, please.’
‘Go on then, what happened?’
She went to take Jack’s hand but thought better of it. ‘It just happened. Jack’s right, Ma died and yes, I did look to him for support.’ Guy noticed that Josephine had slipped away. ‘And, like he says, you weren’t here – I know that couldn’t be helped especially as no man could have better reason but I was so sad, ask Jo, and Jack was so kind.’
‘I bet he was.’
‘No, Guy, you make it sound seedy.’
‘Well, I’m sorry but it sounds fairly seedy from where I’m standing.’
‘I know, but it wasn’t like that; it wasn’t Jack’s fault, believe me.’
Guy paced to the mantelpiece. ‘That’s why you’ve been popping round to our house and entertaining my parents with your piano playing. So where does that leave me then?’
‘I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant to happen.’
‘But it did.’
‘And I’m sorry you had to find out in this way.’ She approached him and ran her hand down his sleeve.
‘Don’t!’ he yelled, yanking his arm away, then, violently, he swept the silver cup and the Queen Victoria bust off the mantelpiece onto the floor where they landed noisily without breaking. He stormed out of the room, out of the house, passing Josephine, and back into the street. He marched down the road, his mind spinning with the image of them embracing, tears pricking the back of his eyes. He didn’t slow down until he reached Hatherley Road. He looked up to the sky and had to fight the urge to be sick. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves. He spat and wiped his eyes. An elderly woman crossed over to the other side of the street. He realised with a jolt that all he wanted to do was to get back into uniform and get back to France, and leave these bloody people behind, to forget them. All of them.
Chapter 5: The Party
‘Well, George, Belgium and France are now nothing more than estates taken over by the Kaiser. The man’s an antichrist and any man who condones him is no friend of mine.’ Guy’s father, Arthur, was speaking in his usual booming voice, Guy on one side; Arthur’s old friend, George, on the other.
George turned to Guy. ‘You’ve done the right thing in joining up, this is the time for the young men of our country to stand up and be counted.’
The party was in full flow – thirty years of marriage was something to celebrate. Guy’s parents worked the room, his mother’s hands continually clasped at her bosom, wearing her newest gown, lilac and pleated, his father, as with all the men, in black tie but standing apart with his white waistcoat, holding forth, his voice audible at all times.
The town hall, hired for the occasion, was furnished with long tables adorned with white tablecloths laden with too much food. At the far end, upon the wall, was a coat of arms belonging to the borough, and beneath it a large portrait of George V. Draped across the walls were long sashes of red, white and blue, placed there by the borough the day war broke out.
Arthur was looking pleased with himself having just delivered a lengthy speech. He had thanked everyone in the room, which, in itself, had taken long enough. ‘It’s been thirty happy years,’ he’d said warming to the task, ‘and so now I feel qualified to talk of marriage as an expert on the subject; after all, I’ve had enough practice. I truly believe a happy marriage is a matter of giving and taking... yes, the husband gives and the wife takes. N
o, really, I never knew what happiness was until I got married... and then it was too late.’
‘Stop it, Arthur,’ said Edith, sitting next to him.
‘Edith and I have planned this occasion for a long time; after all, a man always knows when his wedding anniversary is,’ he’d said to more male guffawing. ‘But now that we’re here; and Edith, don’t misunderstand me, but it almost feels inappropriate, for, as we all know, we are at war. Is it right for such a celebration at a time when our young men are going off to fight?’
‘Absolutely,’ somebody shouted.
‘Yes, absolutely, thank you, George. If the Germans think we’re all going to hide under the table, they have another think coming. And furthermore, my dear friends, they’ll be quaking in their boots for they’ll soon be facing another Searight – yes, my friends! As well as Guy, Jack has put his name on the dotted line and is now a proud member of His Majesty’s forces.’
Everyone cheered and turned to look at Jack, who acknowledged the applause with a bow and a self-conscious wave of the hand.
More ‘thank yous’ followed, then, with Arthur’s speech over, a quintet burst into life, playing easy tunes to dance to, and indeed people were dancing but Guy, conscious of his two left feet, as his brother called them, preferred to remain on the sidelines.
‘Good speech, Arthur.’
‘Thank you, George.’
George slapped Guy on the back, wished him luck, and went off to refill his glass.
‘Everyone’s very proud of you, son, both of you, this will be the making of you both.’
‘Not sure if mother sees it that way.’
On saying her name, Edith approached, her arms outstretched towards him. ‘Guy, Guy, my brave soldier boy.’
‘Steady, Edith,’ muttered Arthur.
‘Don’t steady me, I just worry for him.’ She went to stroke his face but checked herself. ‘My sons, both soldiers. It’s not what I expected.’
This Time Tomorrow Page 3
