by George Hagen
“I'm sorry, I misunderstood your feelings.” She gasped. “And I'm sorry if I'm to blame, but it's late, and perhaps I misspoke. Let's just let it be and forget that it ever happened. Please?”
Any dormant compassion in the man refused to appear in his eyes. “If you do as I say, Sister Charity, everything will be fine.”
She shook her head. “No. I confessed something inappropriate. Please, forgive me.”
It was too late. He leaned forward, pinning her down upon the floor while he seized the fastening at the side of her skirt. He tore it so violently that she was lifted, then thrown down upon the carpet.
Gasping, Charity freed one arm and hit his nose from below with the heel of her hand. Enraged by this, Pound seized her stray shoe and struck her head with the wooden heel; he wanted her to give up, or pass out.
Charity rolled on her hips to protect her face. Her movement caught Pound by surprise; he lost his balance on top of her and fell. Charity staggered to her feet, making for the door, but Pound grabbed her ankle.
Now she thought of nothing but escape. She clawed at the firm grip around her leg, but Pound wouldn't let go. She peered around and spotted the wine bottle. Seizing it, she swung wildly behind her. Pound ducked its first two arcs, but misjudged the third; it struck his jaw, shattering the bone. He uttered a cry and released her.
AS SHE STAGGERED DOWN the corridor, gasping, several Pendletons emerged from their rooms, startled by the noise. They stared at her.
“He tried to violate me,” she cried.
The doubt on their faces was obvious. “Who?”
“Brother Pound! Brother Pound tried to violate me.”
“What?”
“Sister Charity has been drinking!”
It was Pound, at the end of the hall, pointing at her with condemnation. He held up the bottle.
Charity broke into a run. She hurried down the staircase that circled the elevator and, still wearing only one shoe, tore across the hotel foyer into the dark street. The early morning air was thick, salty, and she gasped for breath, her lungs whistling. She touched her forehead and saw blood on her fingers. Her skirt was ripped at the waist. The bitter taste of wine lingered on her tongue. Who would help her in this state? Who would believe her? She saw a figure emerge from the hotel, and panic struck again. She ran down the street, past the dark awnings of souvenir shops, public houses, and ice-cream signs, following the incline in the darkness until her feet were slowed by sand and her remaining shoe became mired in a tangle of seaweed. Above her, the great glittering Palace Pier, illuminated by thousands of lightbulbs, loomed.
Charity staggered to the water and collapsed. She vomited, then lay in the dark surf, heaving, helpless, and sobbing.
The cheery pier lights melted into streams of tears. Charity lay in the water, her hair streaked with vomit, her faint weeping drowned out by the noisy crawl of waves upon the beach. Take me, she prayed. End it all now. There's no place for me in this world.
She must have passed out for a little while. Suddenly, she was startled by voices. Silhouettes were crossing the beach: soldiers, she thought, for they wore tin helmets, but there were wings on their backs. In the half-light, they looked fearsome and vengeful. They slowed when they saw her and approached. A woman clad in a war helmet and bandoliers, like some warrior angel, emerged from among the group. Charity shrank in terror. Was it the end of the world? She turned her face into the water, expecting the awful trumpet call of Armageddon. Suddenly, an old man in flowing robes, with white hair and a white beard, reached down and picked her up out of the water. She fainted in his arms.
“Charity?” Iris whispered to her sister. “It's only me, darling. Didn't mean to scare you.”
THE END OF THE WORLD
THE ARMISTICE WAS DECLARED EFFECTIVE ON THE ELEVENTH DAY of the eleventh month at precisely 11:00 A.M. Although the treaty had actually been signed at 5:00 that morning, hostilities continued until the final minute.
One might have expected those last hours before 11:00 to be quiet, placid, ghostly even, but this was not so. That morning the men of Arthur's battery company fired off as many shells as possible. It was a thunderous, terrifying barrage, echoed along the lines as soldiers tried to use up every last ounce of ammunition, perhaps as a way of ensuring that this was, indeed, fin de la guerre. Markham, the barrel-chested fool, shot a German who poked his head over a trench wall at 11:16 A.M. An anguished cry of protest burst from the enemy trenches, several white flags went up, and Markham would suffer many nightmares about taking the man's life sixteen minutes after the cease-fire.
In Paris it was said no soldier could avoid kisses that day. The champagne flowed freely, and soldiers of every nationality—Italians, Belgians, Americans, Greeks, Poles, Czechs, Brazilians, Jocks, Tommies, and Aussies—traded hats and helmets and walked down the Champs-Elysées arm in arm. It was a good day to be drunk, to be joyous, to cheer, to cry, and to hug each and every stranger.
That evening, the remaining members of Arthur's company were given a double issue of rum, but that was the extent of the celebration. They were ordered to keep their position on the farm near the River Schelde. A few men strayed across the river to search a château near which the Germans had positioned a machine gun. It was deserted now.
A farmer and his wife appeared the following day on a wagon loaded with their possessions. The soldiers had made a mess of their house. Several bombardiers carried cheeses and bottles of the farmer's ale in their kit bags. The couple protested, but it did no good.
“Tough bloody luck,” replied the CO., offering no apologies. The old Roman adage applied: To the victors go the spoils.
In London celebrants walked the streets arm in arm and piled into cars to parade down the Strand. The lights stayed on all night across the city. People's voices could be heard chattering and cheering at every street corner until dawn.
All across the Western Front, soldiers were told to remain with their companies until they were sent home. But they were still prey to the angel of death. She had a new name: La Grippe. She killed many of Arthur's former comrades, following them through the trenches, the towns, the embarkation camps and ships across the sea, wiping out those who had survived bullets, bombs, gas, and the loss of their wits. Compared with the 9 million who had died because of the war, influenza killed, by some counts, as many as 22 million across the world in half the time.
In the living rooms, the public houses, pulpits, and presses, there were, of course, endless debates about the war. Who had started it, who had ended it, who had really won, who had really lost. Credit was given to the ceaseless negotiations of the gallant leaders, the courage of the soldiers, the fortitude of the common people, the brilliance of the officers, the spirit of mankind, and of course, the will of God.
It came as no surprise to anyone that Isaiah Pound took full credit for Armistice Day. Some of the Pendletons who woke up on November 11 to find the world intact, its blasphemers still walking the filthy streets, took solace in the theory that their missionary zeal had ended the Great War; others, however, questioned the integrity of their leader.
Tom received a call from Iris informing him that she had found Charity, and she was recuperating in Brighton Hospital.
Pound announced a rally on the evening of November 13 to celebrate his achievement. Though his most ardent supporters cheered him at the podium, the vast majority of his brethren failed to attend. Without the Apocalypse to distract them, they had focused their concerns on his leadership, sharing rumors of his depravity and the stories of several attacks he had made on women in his inner circle. After years of being admired for his words, Isaiah Pound was finally being judged by his deeds, and they condemned him.
MARGARET SENT A TELEGRAM to her father. Its woeful tone, in the light of world events, would become a family joke.
PAPA,
WEDDING POSTPONED.
WAR OVER.
JOHN AND I DEEPLY DISAPPOINTED.
MARGARET
In celebration of the
cease-fire, the Holloway prison authorities released Audrey a week earlier than planned. Tom met her at the gate, as he had promised. She emerged from the building to see a bleak rim of naked horse chestnut trees and an overcast sky.
“I would have wanted a better day for your release,” Tom said.
“I can't think of a more beautiful day,” Audrey sighed. “The war is over, and you are here.”
“There's a big party for you this afternoon,” Tom explained. “I'm to take you to Oscar's house.”
“Could we just wander, Tom?” she asked. After almost three decades of strict order, what Audrey most desired was the experience of an unplanned moment. From the moment she woke in the morning to the last bell before lights were turned out, she had missed those indulgent pauses, the choices, the whimsical silences.
They took the Caledonian Road south to King's Cross. Audrey invited Tom to tell her about Arthur. With pride, he described the progress of his son's musical talent, his imaginary language, and his make-believe games with Iris. It was only when he got to the subject of the lead grenadiers that Tom stopped talking.
Audrey filled in the silence with news of Jonah's exploits. He was in the Australian Second Division, had survived Gallipoli and fought to victory in the battle of Mont St. Quentin. His letters to her were full of bravado and spirit, though he was frequently charged with and punished for infractions. Scrappy, cunning, his schemes invariably got him into more trouble than they were worth. Like Oscar, Jonah was full of himself and never looked back. Audrey couldn't wait to see him but worried that he might jeopardize his lucky military career with some foolish deed.
“Audrey Margaret has picked another wedding date,” said Tom, “and this time I must be there. I wondered or, rather, I should say that I hoped you might consider coming with me.”
She didn't answer at first. “The thought of being able to go where I please is still unfamiliar,” she confessed. “But I must see Jonah before anything else. I'm hoping he'll pass through London on his way home to Melbourne. I hope you understand.”
“Of course,” Tom replied.
They rested on a park bench and watched people pass by—a luxury Audrey missed from her days when, dressed as a man, she would study the crowds outside the Mercantile Exchange.
Audrey was silent for some time, though she held Tom's hand. He guessed that she was trying to reconcile a lifetime's worth of wishes with this first day of liberation.
“Come,” she said, finally. “Oscar will be furious if we are late.”
A cab drove them the remaining distance to Oscar's house. As Audrey pressed the doorbell, Tom wondered silently whether he should excuse himself now. He didn't want to share Audrey with others. It was a jealous impulse—he wanted her to himself and feared losing her as she found her footing in the world again.
She clutched his arm, however, and murmured, “Stay with me, Tom.”
Oscar, red-faced, appeared at the door. “Well, finally! We were becoming damned worried about you!”
“Oh, Oscar, what sort of a greeting is that? Kiss me! Where's Penny?” Audrey cried.
Oscar did as he was told, while Tom stood at Audrey's side feeling her tight grip on his arm. She was terrified.
It was a warm gathering, with many of Audrey's old friends from Newgate and a few suffragettes from the early days at Holloway Audrey kept Tom by her side, introducing him and explaining the stories of these many friends. It became clear to him that her imprisonment had sustained a vital and intense series of friendships.
“What a lot of friends, Audrey!” Oscar remarked. “When you sent me the list of people to contact, I began to wonder if you'd been attending tea parties for twenty-eight years instead of living behind bars.”
“Oh, Oscar, I wasn't the Count of Monte Cristo, for heaven's sake, I was in a London prison,” Audrey replied. “You aren't really going to write that book about Mansworth, are you?” she inquired.
“I must, Audrey, I owe it to my country!” Oscar replied. “And Tom is going to help me. It turns out that Mansworth murdered one of his classmates at school. It's a wretched story—highly inappropriate behavior for a man who wishes to be the next prime minister. The public mustknow!”
“But what about Penelope's inheritance?” said Audrey.
Oscar took his wife's hand. “We have filed a countersuit. Thanks to Tom here, we know the facts of Mansworth's adoption. His sole claim to the family fortune is invalid. Thus, Geoffrey Mansworth must live by the dictates of his father's will or give up his fortune to his adoptive sister.”
AFTER HE HAD RETURNED to the hotel, Tom received a call from Mansworth; he sounded very sick. “I'm in a hospital, Tom. I need your help, as a brother.”
To say that Tom was surprised would be an understatement. Of what tactical use could he be to Mansworth now? Oscar would write his book, Mansworth's sins would be exposed, and the results of the election would be anyone's guess. Tom had never expected to see the man again; certainly not for sentimental reasons. Nevertheless, he threw on his clothes, cognizant of Audrey's opinion on one's duty to family and aware that he still owed his father a debt of forgiveness. Perhaps Geoffrey too sought redemption of some sort.
I need your help, as a brother.
Tom took a cab to the hospital in the early morning darkness. The barren city streets were shiny, and the cab's windshield wiper moaned; it was a time when babies were born and old souls departed. Charity would be released from the hospital in Brighton today. Iris was accompanying her; it gratified Tom to think of his children caring for each other. He wondered if anyone had cared for Arthur, or if the boy had simply been felled, like a blade of grass, in that vast conflict.
TWO POLICE OFFICERS flanked the hospital entrance, and two more greeted Tom in the private ward reserved for the minister of war.
The walls of the room were suffused with the same blue light Tom recalled from his mother's last minutes all those years ago. Beyond the window he saw London before dawn, her dark buildings pressed together like tea biscuits, her ships berthed, her gardens empty, her church spires pointing upwards, her clock hands pointing down, while the millions slept in a peace they had not known for four long years.
“How are you, Geoffrey?” Tom whispered.
“I am ruined, thanks to you.” Mansworth took a difficult breath and added, “That I am dying is the least of my troubles.”
Tom frowned. “I'm sorry to be the cause of them.”
“And Oscar, with his book. And my wretched sister, for marrying him.”
“Perhaps, Geoffrey, if you settle the matter of the will, Oscar might reconsider.”
“Never.”
Tom sat down. “Are you in pain?”
“Of course I am” came the reply. “I asked for more morphine. They won't give it to me. You're a doctor. Help me.”
Tom examined the chart at the foot of Mansworth's bed. “Any more morphine would kill you.”
“Pity me,” Mansworth groaned. “Help me.”
“I do pity you,” said Tom, “but to give you more morphine would be murder.”
Dismayed by his reply, Mansworth glowered at Tom. “Answer me this. What sort of a brother are you to let me suffer like this? You're a sadist. You envy me my good fortune, and you wish to see me suffer as much as possible.”
“I don't envy you,” Tom replied. “I pity your greed and your callous regard for the people around you and the damage you've done, but there's nothing I can do to remedy that.”
Mansworth shook his head. “I am finished. My career is finished. I'm damned if I'll live out my life in a wheelchair while gadflies like Oscar blacken and deride my name.”
“You have a wife and child. Tomorrow you will feel differently.”
A spasm of pain silenced Mansworth for a moment, and when it was over, he looked at Tom wearily. “Give me the morphine. Give me the morphine!”
“I'm sorry, Geoffrey.”
Mansworth's eyes rolled bitterly, and the words that issued from his raw brea
th were a blast of hatred. “Then go to hell and be damned, Tom Bedlam. Damn your children and their children. Damn your goodwill, your high notions, and your brotherhood. You disgust me! I hope you die alone, wretched, and poor!”
IN THE CORRIDOR, Tom searched for an exit, but he was too shaken to find his way out; Mansworth's last words rang in his ears. Soon, however, another sound pierced the silence of the corridor—the rattle of a glass bottle on an enamel tray. A nurse walked by; beneath her cap her hair was streaked with gray, and her chin bobbed nervously. She held a kidney dish with the bottle and a hypodermic. Her eyes regarded Tom with a start, but her task drew her towards the policemen flanking Mansworth's doorway.
It wasn't until Tom set foot outside the hospital that he connected the bobbing chin, the unsteady hands, and the face of Polly Peckam with the nurse who had passed by. The bottle, he realized, contained morphine.
“I'm too late,” he murmured. “Too late again.” He buttoned his coat. “Too late to save Mansworth, just as I was too late to save Arthur Pigeon.”
Reconciled to his many failures, Tom walked back towards the hotel. The same eerie blue light suffused the city. It began to rain, and he felt the hems of his trousers stick to his ankles as the downpour intensified. He kept walking, however, past his hotel, through Mayfair, Hyde Park, and Knightsbridge until, finally, he became lost. He remembered Charity, Iris, and Audrey, and turned back.
GOODBYE
EVE ARRANGED THE FUNERAL WITH THE SAME PANACHE THAT HAD served Geoffrey Mansworth to such good effect in his career. She gave him a hero's farewell. The Allied nations sent representatives for the occasion. The prime minister and some of Mansworth's political supporters gave eulogies. Many grand statements were made about the minister's achievements—statements he would never have heard made about him in his lifetime: “He delivered our brave soldiers from servitude.” “He freed Britain from the enemy's iron yoke.” “Without him, the war would still be raging.”
