At the Break of Day

by Margaret Graham

  She stood at the gate, the latch was rusty, there was a slight fog, the dampness made her cough. Why was Jack writing to her here?

  Ollie went into the house, came out. The letter was white in his hand. He thrust it at her, then pushed the gate shut. It was dark, too dark to read. She walked to the end of the alley, to the lamppost where Jack and she had swung. She ripped it open.

  Rosie,

  Norah told me someone called Joe wrote to you. Who the hell is Joe? Is that why you went? Is that why you left Maisie? You promised. You said if I wasn’t there, you would be, but one letter from a man I’ve never heard of and you’re rushing back to the Wallens. Was Frank really so ill?

  I trusted you and all the time you knew about Ed. She’s taken Lee. He was Ed’s. You Yanks think you own the bloody world. Go to hell. Go back, you seem to like it so much. Don’t let me see you again.

  Jack

  CHAPTER 13

  Rosie spent the night at Norah’s. Not speaking to her, or to Harold. She couldn’t. She couldn’t sleep, eat, think. All she could do was feel.

  She travelled to Yorkshire the next morning, her mouth dry. She must see him, talk to him. She must make him understand. The leaves were down from the trees, the wind buffeted the train. There was a view of Harrogate screwed to the wall. What had happened to the one that Jack had taken and sold in Somerset? What had happened to her world?

  She turned from the glass-framed picture, from the man who sat reading his paper, blowing his nose. She stood, left her paper in her place and walked up and down the corridor to dull the pain. Everything was dark. There was no colour. He couldn’t leave her. He was her life. He was her childhood, her future.

  She leaned her head against the window, letting it bang against the glass as the train rushed through long sweeps of countryside, watching the rain jerk down the pane. Yes, she’d known. But she couldn’t tell. It would have made it worse. Or would it? She didn’t know, for Chrissake. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she had promised Jack, and Maisie too, and there was anger added to the pain. Why couldn’t people live their own lives? Why reach out and destroy hers? Why, Maisie? For God’s sake why?

  She changed trains, buying a roll which she couldn’t eat from a kiosk, buying stewed tea, feeling it coat her teeth; feeling despair. She had to wait two hours for a connection. This part of the journey was slower, and she wanted it to roar and rush. She had to talk to him.

  The camp was large. Squat buildings lined the roads. Nissen huts stood behind barbed wire. White notice boards held stencilled letters. The taxi took her to the duty room. It was six p.m. He was out.

  ‘Where?’

  They wouldn’t tell her.

  She held the taxi, gripping the door as though it would drive off, asking each soldier who passed, ignoring the winks, the whistles. No one knew. But still she waited. Still she asked.

  ‘In the pub, in the village,’ a boy with a shaved neck told her. He looked a child.

  ‘Which pub?’ She still held the taxi door. The meter was ticking over.

  He didn’t know. But it was one in Little Somerton.

  They drove there along unlit roads. Sheep were huddled on the moors and the trees were stunted and crouched before the wind. Faster for Chrissake, she thought, but she said nothing.

  She paid the taxi, standing in the centre of a village which was more like a town and watching it leave. It was dark and cold. The grey stone of the buildings funnelled the winds in off the dales. There were soldiers in the streets and girls who smiled, their lipstick bright in the light from the street lamps and the windows of the houses. There were railings, sharp pointed, newly painted. She could smell it.

  Rosie walked up the street, looking at the men, and they looked back, walking towards her, but they were not Jack. She moved on, shaking her head. There were catcalls.

  ‘Give us a knee trembler then.’

  She pushed open the door to The Red Lion. It was crowded, full of smoke. Soldiers were playing darts, the juke box was loud. There were girls at the tables, their laughter high, too loud. A man in front turned, he was drinking beer with a cigarette in the hand which held the glass. There was froth on his upper lip. He grinned at her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m looking for Jack Parker.’

  He shook his head. ‘Never ’eard of him. What about me?’

  She looked past him, at the man behind, the men to the left and right, all of them, but none was Jack.

  She turned and left. The man followed, holding open the door, calling after her.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, I’ll buy you a drink.’

  She didn’t turn, she just walked on. She had to find him, had to talk. She couldn’t live without him. She couldn’t live with this despair. It made her breath shallow, her skin clammy.

  In the second pub there was the same smoke, the same juke box music. Lights pulsed from it, on the men, the women, the ceiling, but not on Jack. He wasn’t there.

  In the third pub there was no music. There was a pool table down one end and dominoes too. There were girls at the tables, soldiers right up to the door.

  She pushed through them, looking, asking. Their khaki was rough and damp. It smelt. Was that the smell Jack had meant when he told her about pressing his clothes?

  A man caught her arm. She pulled away. He spilt his beer.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I’m only trying to tell you, Jack’s over there.’ He jerked his head behind him and she gripped his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’

  Then she was past him, sliding through another group, smelling their beer, their sweat, and he was there, sitting at a table flicking a beer mat over and over, his arm round a girl with blonde hair and black roots, and it was as though she was split apart, jagged and bleeding, as she heard a moan. It was her. It was like the noise that Ollie had made.

  But no one else heard. No one saw her. No one was looking. Not the men round the table, not the girl who was leaning into his neck, not Jack whose lashes were still too long, whose face was still too pale, too drawn, so sad.

  She didn’t hear the others, see the others. Those that pushed her, jostled her, those that sat around his table. They were laughing. Their mouths were open, their shoulders were heaving but she couldn’t hear them.

  ‘Jack.’ It was her voice. It sounded the same, not as though it came from the pain which was slicing through her body.

  She watched as he looked up, his face changing. He moved, then stopped. His face became set, his arm gripped the girl. He turned from her. But for a moment he had loved. She had seen it.

  She moved closer. ‘Come and talk to me, Jack.’

  He was turning to the others, his shoulder towards her, then his back. The girl looked over him, to Rosie, and laughed. There was lipstick on her teeth.

  ‘Talk to me, Jack.’ Rosie leaned forward, picked up a glass of beer that the Lance-Corporal who sat opposite him had just put back on the table. It was three quarters full.

  ‘Talk to me,’ she shouted and the laughter stopped around the table. But Rosie couldn’t hear anything other than her own voice. Now he turned. ‘Come outside and talk to me or I throw this goddamn beer over him.’

  She nodded to the Lance-Corporal who sat still, doing nothing, saying nothing. There was quiet all around them. She could hear that now. The glass was heavy, and wet. The beer was sticky. The hops had made her hands sticky too.

  She said, ‘Remember the bines, Jack? Remember how sticky the hops are? How the dust gets beneath your nails? Come and talk …’ She did not need to go on because he rose.

  The girl caught at his hand. He shook her off.

  Rosie kept the beer in her hand until he had passed and then she handed it to the Lance-Corporal, but wanted to throw it over the girl. Into her eyes, her hair, her mouth, because Jack had held her and she had leaned into his neck where the smell of him was strong.

  She pushed through the crowds, those who were still
talking, those who hadn’t noticed. The rest opened a path for her, not looking, their eyes busy, and everywhere there was the smell of damp khaki.

  She opened the door. It was cold, dark. Jack was down the street, leaning on the wall, his foot up against it, a cigarette in his hand then his mouth. He had done this when she had come home the first time. But then it had been different, he had wanted her.

  He watched her come. Her walk, her hair, curling around her face, her neck. Her eyes which were heavy with pain, her lips which were trembling and he wanted to reach out and hold her, love her, but she had gone away. Joe had written and she had gone. Maisie had gone. Rosie had known about Ed, all that time. And now the love washed away and the anger came again, as it had done every day since Maisie had left, frightening him by its savageness.

  He turned and walked on, hearing her footsteps behind him, just behind, never at his side because he walked too fast. She would never walk beside him again.

  He would never let her. He had trusted her, loved her above all else. But she had rushed to Joe, to Frank, to America, and because of that Maisie had gone to Ed. His heart was full of pain, his eyes too, but she mustn’t see that. No one must see his pain again. He pushed it away until only the anger was left.

  Rosie followed him, out of the town, to a crossroads where the only sound was the wind, but when it dropped she heard the sheep too. He stopped now, sitting on the rocks off to the left, lighting another cigarette.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry I left.’ She wanted him to reach out and hold her but he didn’t and so she put her hand out. He knocked it to one side and threw his match away. It fizzed in the damp grass.

  ‘I had to go. Joe wrote. To say Frank was ill. He works for him, you see.’

  Jack sat slumped on the rock, his head down, his cigarette glowing. ‘Is that so? Norah gave me the letter. You left it in your room. You knew him well. You had a summer together. You never told me. Maisie knew Ed well. She never told me either. You knew though. But you didn’t tell me.’

  Rosie put her hands in her pockets, bunching them. This was all wrong. Joe meant nothing. How could he come into this? How could he touch her life with Jack? This was about Maisie and Ed, not her and Joe. The panic was rising, she wanted to hold him, kiss him, tell him she loved him, only him, but there was such anger in him. It changed his face, now, as she looked at him.

  She spoke slowly, carefully. ‘It wasn’t like Maisie and Ed. Joe works for Frank. I knew him, that’s all. Long ago. We dated. He wasn’t important.’

  Jack didn’t look up and his voice was dead. ‘I told you about the girl in Somerset. She wasn’t important. I wanted you to know. So that you could trust me. So that I could trust you.’

  Rosie wanted to reach out, make him look at her, make him see her love. She said, ‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell you, Jack.’ But she did know why. It was because Joe had touched her breasts and his tongue had found her mouth and she was ashamed, but how could she tell him that?

  He flicked his hair with his hand. It was longer now. She wanted to reach out and stroke it, stroke his face, see him smile.

  ‘Anyway, what about that girl? What about the trust I have in you?’ she asked, her hands clenched tighter now, with anger as well as pain. The red lipstick, the mouth, the hair, all in her mind.

  Jack shrugged. ‘What about her? She’s here. You aren’t. You went to America. Maisie left. You knew about Ed. You didn’t tell me. You deserve nothing better. I thought I could trust you.’

  He was standing now, shouting at her, screaming at her. ‘Don’t you understand? It was Ed. I loved Ed. Ed was like my father. But he wasn’t mine, he was Lee’s. After all that he’s Lee’s father and Lee has gone.’ He was gripping her shoulders, shaking her until her head jerked backwards and forwards. Then he stopped and turned.

  ‘Tell me you didn’t know, Rosie. Please. Tell me it was a mistake.’ His voice was tired. The anger was gone in her. She knew his face would be drawn but he wouldn’t turn for her to see.

  She couldn’t tell him. She stood there as the cold wind caught at the trees behind her and at her hair and wanted to be back in Middle Street, back with Grandpa and Jack, back with the roses, with the life they had had. Back where she could understand why this was happening.

  ‘I did know. I saw them. I didn’t know it was Ed then, or I didn’t think I knew. But when Maisie told me in her letter it wasn’t a surprise. She had said she would give the man up. She made me promise not to tell you. I said I would help. I stayed as long as I could. But then I had to go. Frank was ill. I love him.’ Her hands were out of her pockets now, reaching for him. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought it would be all right. She promised when I left.’

  He hit her then, turning, slapping her across the face, then pushed her backwards, and again, gripping her coat as she almost fell.

  ‘But you promised me, Rosie. You promised me that you would stay. Then you get a letter from this bugger and you go. What have you done? What has Mum done?’

  He was holding her now, hugging her, crying because he had wanted to cry like this when Ollie had rung, when he had caught the train home, gone into the empty house. But Maisie had already gone and Rosie wasn’t there and she was his friend and his love and he needed her.

  She held him close, though her mouth was bleeding and her face throbbed. She held him because for this moment he was hers again and there was so much sorrow, so much love. ‘I did nothing with Joe. I’ve let you down though. Lee’s gone. I can’t bear that either but I had to go.’

  She felt his breath in her hair, the wetness of his tears. ‘I love you. I thought I’d helped. I thought it was safe to go. I had to go.’

  But now she felt him stiffen again and tried to hold him as he pulled away.

  ‘I know. You went. Maisie went. Lee went. Over there where Ed is. I trusted you all. I loved you all and now it’s just Dad and me.’

  He walked back to the road. He could hear the wind in the trees. He could hear his voice, Ed’s voice. He had lent him his bike. Ed had given him sweets. They had laughed and talked and Jack had told him that his dad was changing, becoming mean and strange, and Ed had put his hand on his arm. Don’t worry, he had said. It’s the war.

  ‘And all the time he was laying my mum,’ he shouted, laughing, turning to Rosie who was dabbing at her mouth. ‘Is that what you were doing with Joe?’

  He didn’t know where the words were coming from. He didn’t know what to do with the anger which filled him, spilled over, made him crazy, made him hurt her. Made his head go round until he felt ill.

  Her mouth was bleeding. His Rosie’s mouth was bleeding and he went to her again, holding her, telling her he was crazy. He didn’t know what he was doing. He loved her, he hated her. He hated them all. He loved them all. She wasn’t here when he needed her. She was with Joe, and Maisie was with Ed. He loved her. He loved his mother, and Ed. But he hated them. Christ, how he hated them. They had taken Lee. They’ve … taken … Lee.

  He was howling now and he could taste the blood on her mouth as she kissed him. She drew him to her, stumbling, falling, taking him with her on to the soft grass, and he kissed her, his tongue in her mouth. He pulled at her coat but she stopped him and, he undid her buttons. Then he ripped at her blouse, he wanted her to tear, to feel his lips hard on the softness of her skin. Had Joe done this too, while Ed took Maisie and Lee from him?

  ‘I love you, Jack,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  He looked up at her then. ‘Has Joe done this to you?’

  The wind was clawing at the branches, the clouds were whirling across the sky. Rosie looked at him, deep into his eyes, into the pain that all the lies had brought.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But long ago and it was not what I wanted. I was confused.’ She held his face between her hands, making him listen, making him look into her eyes. ‘It was long ago. I love you. I’ve always loved you. All my life I’ve loved you.’ She
was kissing his lips, his eyes, his skin. There was blood on his face and the warmth of it in her mouth and she didn’t know that it was hers. Slowly he began to kiss her back.

  But the anger hadn’t gone. It took hold deeper, stronger. Other hands, American hands, had touched her. Touched his Rosie, the girl who had played flicksies, the girl he had pushed on the swing. The girl he had taken to fetch the cheeses. American hands had touched his mother, taken his brother. Christ, it was all too much. It was all too strong. The rage was too strong.

  He pushed up and away, but she pulled him back.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ Rosie said against his mouth.

  He pushed away again, because he wanted her, but he hated her, loved her, wanted to hurt her, wanted to hold her and the rage was still there; his head felt as though it would burst.

  She pulled back at him again.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she said again and now her kisses were on his lips and her hands were on his back, and the wind was all around and he couldn’t think, he couldn’t see her, and he held her, moved on her, dragged at her skirt, her pants, hauling them down, pushing her legs apart, heaving at his own clothes. He sank down on to her, and she cried out as he tore and entered her. And he cried out as he came because all the love and the hate were still there, and the rage too. And then it was over.

  Suddenly it was cold, and they moved, pulled at their own clothes, neither helping the other. Then they sat with their backs to the wind, separate, alone, and he wanted to wipe the last minutes from their lives, but it was too late and he was glad that he was leaving England, taking this rage away from her.

  They moved without speaking into the trees where the wind was not as strong. The damp had soaked into their coats. Jack lit another cigarette.

  ‘I’m going to Korea. I’ve volunteered.’

  The branches were cracking, shaking, twisting, and the sheep across on the other slope were moving, baa-ing, Rosie saw them, heard them. He couldn’t go. No, he couldn’t go.

  ‘You can’t. I love you. You can’t leave me.’ She felt the ache between her legs, the feel of him inside her. He couldn’t go. Those were the only words left in the world – he couldn’t go.