This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  For Guy, Armistice Day was painful. He could hear the celebrations outside, people in the street singing and cheering. At twelve, one hour into peace, he tried to go out. Immediately, he was embraced by a portly man clutching a bottle of wine. Guy resisted the man’s calls to join the spontaneous street party. He surveyed the scene – despite the cold and threatening clouds, a line of people were doing the congo up the street, kicking their legs, singing. It was too much for him. He darted back indoors, poured himself a sherry and sat in his armchair, trying to come to terms with the word peace. Four years of war and now, like someone turning on a switch, there was peace. It didn’t seem possible. His mother, in her phone call, hadn’t mentioned Jack; somehow, in the joy of receiving a nephew, she’d forgotten that it was the first anniversary of her younger son’s death. He was annoyed she hadn’t acknowledged it. Lifting his glass, he said, ‘To you, Jack, wherever you may be, and to you, Clarence. May your life never be blighted by war.’

  He helped himself to a second glass and drank it while his mind whirled with colliding thoughts – Jack, Clarence, peace. With a sudden realisation, he decided he needed to write it all down. Rummaging round in his bureau, he found a notebook. Sitting at his dining table, he lit a cigarette and began to write. 4th September 1914, he wrote, today I joined the army. The nation was at war and it seemed an easy and natural thing to do. Two hours later, he’d written twenty pages and had covered his first twelve months in uniform. He felt exhilarated but quite exhausted by the process. He vowed that however hard and however long it took, he would continue writing to the end. To whom would he show it, he wondered? No one, absolutely no one.

  That evening, his living room seemed bathed in light. He wondered what it was. Looking outside, he saw that all the street lamps had been lit, the whole street illuminated. How strange it was to see the lights again – it’d been four years.

  Two weeks later, on a cold Sunday afternoon, Mary and Lawrence paid Guy a visit to show off the latest Searight. Guy had put on his Aunt Winnie’s jumper for the occasion.

  ‘He’s got the Searight nose,’ said Lawrence proudly.

  ‘Yes, poor blighter,’ added Mary.

  ‘You seem well, Mary,’ said Guy.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I feel well.’

  Guy smiled. ‘Good, I’m pleased for you; for both of you.’ And, much to his own surprise, he genuinely meant it.

  ‘It’s all thanks to you, Guy,’ said Lawrence removing his glasses. ‘I’d never have had the guts to ask Mary to marry me if it hadn’t been for your encouragement.’

  ‘Nonsense, you would have got there in your own time.’

  ‘No, I mean it. I wanted to call him Clarence Guy, but Mary says we’ll call the next one Guy.’

  ‘The next one?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Lawrence smugly, ‘plenty more where that came from!’

  ‘Guy...?’ said Mary. ‘Lawrence and I were wondering if you’d do us the honour of becoming Clarence’s godfather.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Please,’ urged Lawrence, ‘it would mean so much to us.’

  ‘Well...’ Well, why not, thought Guy, why not indeed? ‘Yes, OK, I’d be honoured.’

  ‘But, Guy, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Where did you get that hideous jersey?’

  And so, during the spring of 1919, Clarence Jack Searight was christened with his Uncle Guy as godfather and his Aunt Josephine as godmother. The ceremony was as extravagant as the wedding had been, attended by scores of family and friends, followed by another sumptuous spread. Among the many guests was Guy's father whom Guy realised he hadn’t seen since his homecoming in November 1917, eighteen months previously.

  ‘Look at them,’ said Josephine, sidling up to Guy, a glass of champagne in her hand, ‘don’t they look a picture?’

  ‘Basking in the glow.’

  ‘Cheers.’ The two of them clinked glasses and watched in silence as the happy couple took to the dance floor, gliding around slightly awkwardly.

  ‘It has to be said, it’s a funny pairing.’

  ‘Lawrence and Mary?’

  ‘Who else? She’s gone from almost marrying a boy to marrying a father-figure. You were a bit slow, Guy, couldn’t you have saved us all and popped the question?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have wanted me. After what your sister’s been through she needed security.’

  ‘Unusually perceptive for a man, if I may say so. We haven’t seen you for a while, Guy.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the new job, takes it out of me.’

  ‘How is the leg?’

  ‘Wooden.’

  She laughed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to...’

  ‘No, it’s fine, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s fine, I’m used to it now, amazing how the body adjusts.’

  ‘You know, if you ever feel like a bit of company...’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Just give me a call one day.’

  ‘Guy, Guy...’ It was his mother, waving at him, parting the sea of guests in her approach; beside her a stooped an old man Guy recognized as his father.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Josephine, ‘but remember what I said, I mean it, anytime.’

  ‘Thank you, Josephine, I’ll –’

  ‘Honestly,’ said Guy’s mother, ‘you two are like a pair of obstinate old fools. At least Arthur has an excuse – he is one. But you, Guy, you’re young enough to know better.’

  The two men, father and son, shook hands. They talked about the baby, Aunt Winnie’s knitting, and commented wryly on how Lawrence was able to afford such lavish dos. They agreed that during such difficult economic times, such extravagance seemed wrong somehow, almost disrespectful. Guy remembered his father saying much the same at his wedding anniversary party three years previously. Guy was surprised by how much older his father looked. He’d lost weight, his hair now totally devoid of colour; his eyes seemed shallow beneath the new, thicker glasses.

  ‘I’m having to sell the business, you know, Guy. But nothing’s been signed; it can still be yours. All you have to do is to give the nod.’ Even his voice had lost that authoritative edge.

  ‘Mother tells me you’ve finally allowed the sun to penetrate into the house again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And er, how about Jack? Have you allowed him to penetrate your heart yet?’

  ‘I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried –’

  ‘That means you haven’t?’

  ‘People look at me in the street, Guy. People who have lost their sons, their brothers and husbands. Men who died for this country, men who stood by their comrades –’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Father, spare me.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I’ve had people walk to the other side of the street rather than say good morning to me. I even had a woman at the factory resign because of what Jack did. Her husband had been gassed at Ypres. I told you it’d bring shame to our family and I was right.’

  Guy wanted to feel angry, to lash out at his father; he was an obstinate old fool, as his mother had said. Instead he merely felt overcome with pity and an urge to escape the jollity of the occasion. He had no need for his father’s business and, he realised, he’d never wanted it. Everyone had assumed, including himself, but no one had ever asked what he wanted. From the moment of his birth, his future had been predetermined. Looking back with sudden clarity, he realised it was the reason why, all those years ago, he’d volunteered to fight – to escape the inevitability of his future. Hats had been his father’s work, but he had no desire for it to be his.

  ‘Sell the business, Father,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I would’ve cared for making hats anyway. Just don’t hold it against me. Sell it and enjoy the proceeds.’

  His father tried to smile. Perhaps, thought Guy, they both knew.

  On a cold mid-December evening, Guy returned from work to find Mary waiting inside his room with Clarence. The baby, now thirteen months old, was fast a
sleep in his pram. She apologised for arriving unannounced and explained his landlady took pity on her and had opened Guy’s room so that she could wait for him in the warmth. Guy sensed that not all was well. He asked after Clarence and the joys of motherhood and she regaled him with tales of the little boy’s mishaps, his characteristics and his latest developments. She became animated and Guy thought he’d been mistaken in thinking something was troubling her. Lawrence, apparently, had hired a nanny but apart from night-time, her services were rarely required for Mary was determined to do everything for the little chap. Eventually, once the topic of Clarence had been exhausted, the look of concern returned to Mary’s face. He made her a cup of tea and offered her a biscuit, which she refused. She began talking about Lawrence’s work and their house in Islington.

  He interrupted her. ‘Mary, tell me, why have you come?’ She remained silent, her mouth tightening as if unwilling to speak. She tried to look at him but was unable to hold his gaze. Guy tried again. ‘What’s wrong, Mary?’

  She spoke so softly, Guy had difficulty making out her words. ‘You were right.’

  He knew what she meant. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t love him.’

  Guy felt no sense of righteousness or glee, he merely felt sorry for the crumpled figure in front of him. ‘Lawrence?’

  ‘I tried to love him, I really tried, but I can’t and I don’t think I ever could.’ She was speaking quickly now. ‘I thought it would come after Clarence was born but it hasn’t. In some ways I feel resentful because I never see him, he’s always at work. But as soon as he comes home, I find myself wishing he’d go away again. I don’t see anyone, I don’t have any friends, I talk to no one. I hardly ever see Josephine now. What few friends I had have all been scared away, for he’s the most bullish man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t mean to be and of course that just makes it worse, the fact he doesn’t realise it. He’s rude, he’s arrogant and he’s... well, he’s no fun to be with and I can’t face having...’

  Guy thought of a delicate word to finish her sentence with. ‘Relations?’

  She nodded. ‘I used to tolerate it before Clarence was born because I so wanted to have a baby.’ She peered into the pram and smiled at her son. ‘When Clarence came along, things did get a little better. Lawrence was thrilled; he was like a child with a new toy but the toy soon lost its shine. Since then, we haven’t... not once. I’ve used every excuse in motherhood but after seven months, the excuses are wearing thin. We’ve been married less than two years and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I suppose leaving him is out of the question?’

  ‘And where would I go, how would I bring up Clarence? I’d be an outcast.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so tactless.’

  ‘Besides, I know this may sound strange, I still care enough for him not to want to throw him into a scandal. He has his position to think of, I couldn’t jeopardise that for him. I keep thinking of what should have been – married to Jack, married for love. You know, I keep thinking perhaps it’s all been a big mistake and that Jack will just turn up one day, smiling that smile of his. I even thought about seeing a spiritualist to see if I could get in contact with him, just to know that he’s there somewhere, looking over me. I would like that.’

  From within his pram, Clarence had woken-up and was gurgling and squealing contentedly. Mary peered in at him and made appropriate noises. She lifted him out and rubbed her nose against his. This little boy dressed in ill-matching knitwear instantly transformed her whole demeanour.

  ‘I see my Aunt Winnie’s been busy,’ said Guy.

  Mary laughed. ‘She’s lovely, but I wish I could stop her knitting!’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Devoted.’ She sighed. ‘How can I do it, Guy? How can I even think of denying her this precious grandson? I just can’t bring myself to do it...’

  Over the following weeks, Mary came to see Guy on a regular basis. Occasionally, they would meet in town and have lunch in a café or go for a gentle walk in a park. Just as Guy had come to rely on Mary’s visits during his convalescence at the hospital, the time he now spent with her became the focal point and the highlight of his week. He had to fight the urge to buy little presents for Clarence. It would only have aroused suspicion and he dared not risk losing her again. But this time, he resigned himself to the fact it was different. Before, he’d harboured a smouldering desire for her, a desire which, so soon after the death of Jack, he kept to himself. But at the time, he was always conscious of its presence, a presence which, he felt, with sufficient time, would finally reveal itself. It hadn’t of course and this time he knew their friendship was, and had to be, platonic. He felt bound by the unspoken rules on which their rekindled friendship was based. Mary may have been caught in a loveless marriage but it was still a marriage Guy knew had to be honoured for Mary’s sake as well as Clarence’s.

  One bitterly cold afternoon in the February of 1920, she came to see him. She stood at the door breathing heavily as if she’d been running. Guy knew. ‘Come,’ he said reaching out his hand. She took it, he pulled her in and instinctively kissed her, urgently. He kissed her with a passion founded on years of want and desire. She reciprocated eagerly, pulling down his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Between breaths, they said each other’s name, their lips touching. Still kissing, he managed to yank off his shoes, his socks. He ran his fingers through her hair and breathed in her scent. She slipped off his braces but then the enormity of the moment hit him. It’d been such a long time, and never before had he felt so acutely conscious of his leg, his damn leg.

  ‘Shh,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s fine, my darling, it’s OK.’

  ‘No. You won’t want me.’

  She kissed him gently. ‘You listen here, Guy Searight,’ she said slowly, ‘I want to, I’ve never been so sure. I want you. You understand, I – want – you.’ She took his hand and held it over her breast, ‘Kiss me, kiss me.’

  Afterwards, after she’d gone, he lay on the bed alone, tears on his cheeks. He reflected that, at long last, he had found what he wanted. So why did he feel so miserable?

  *

  They met at his lodgings as often as possible, usually with Clarence in tow. While they waited for sleep to overtake the baby, they talked excitedly, in full anticipation of what was to follow. Once Clarence was asleep, they’d make love. Then, in the warm afterglow of sex, they talked freely and with enthusiasm, often fantasising about a life together, just Clarence and the two of them. Occasionally, Guy would push Mary on the subject, taking it out of the realms of fantasy and ask her why she couldn’t just leave her husband. Granted, it would be difficult, but they had each other now, he urged. But each time Mary became defensive and placed innumerable barriers to such a possibility. Guy never begrudged her reluctance because he understood only too well. He was unable to provide Mary the security she quite rightly demanded and, for the sake of Clarence, needed. The question of her future stability took on an even greater relevance when, one day, in May 1920, she announced she was carrying Guy’s child.

  Chapter 31: Goodbye / Hello

  ‘Hello, Father, how are you?’

  ‘I’m dying, Guy, otherwise I’m fine.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  His father was lying in the middle of the double bed, propped up on several huge pillows, his wife having moved to the spare room months back. The curtains, Guy noticed, were open. On his father’s lap, the day’s Times, and on his bedside table a small pile of books, uppermost Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities.

  Arthur saw his son look at it. ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should, it’s very good.’

  ‘Yes, so I’m told.’ His father’s cheeks were sunken; his skin the colour of death.

  ‘I see you’re weari
ng your medals.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A DCM, eh? Good boy, I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ Guy looked up at the familiar framed sampler above his father’s bed.

  ‘I hear you’re doing well for yourself – a good job, somewhere to live.’

  ‘Yes, things are beginning to work out.’

  ‘And what about a lady friend?’

  ‘No, I have to say that’s not going so well.’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of women about and a shortage of men so it shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Perhaps. It’s the leg. Puts them off.’

  ‘Hah, there’s a lot worse off than you, my boy.’

  This was the point, thought Guy, where he should tell his parents that he was to be a father, that Mary was expecting his child. This was the point to tell them that their greatest desire, to be grandparents, was about to be fulfilled. But how does one inform one’s parents that he had got their nephew’s wife pregnant, a woman once engaged to his brother. It was better if they never knew.

  A knock on the door and Edith came in with a tray of tea and biscuits. ‘Couldn’t you have got Lizzie to do that?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘No, I wanted to do it myself, and see my men. Shall I pour?’

  ‘For goodness sake, woman, we can do it ourselves. Leave it here,’ he said, tapping the bedside table.

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’

  ‘Mind my books.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right, Guy.’ She watched as Arthur stretched over and reached for the teapot. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I may be an invalid but I’m not a total cripple – yet.’

  ‘I must apologise, Guy, for your father’s tactlessness.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m not saying...’

  Guy laughed. ‘It’s fine, Father.’