The Steady Running of the Hour: A Novel

by Justin Go

  It is frighteningly cold. In the darkness Imogen stumbles down the twisting path to the pier, trying to follow a faint set of footprints covered with fresh snow. Eleanor shuffles a few paces behind, buttoning her own coat, a candle in her hand.

  —Come inside, we’ll freeze out here. Think of the baby, you might be damaging—

  —All you care for is the bloody baby.

  —You’re hysterical. We must go back—

  —I’ll never go back in there. Never.

  Imogen staggers through the powdery shadows. She veers from the path by accident, stepping in heaps of soft snow that come to her knees. Eleanor grasps at her sister’s shoulders but Imogen pulls away and goes on downhill, zigzagging through the trees, the Gladstone swinging in her hand. She falls down twice and her back is covered in snow as she nears the lakeshore, hobbling among the stones.

  Imogen finally reaches the pier. She runs down its length until she stands on the final rickety plank, the vast frozen lake spread before her. It looks as empty as anything she has ever seen, obscene in its bare white solitude. Eleanor catches up and tries to pull her own fur hat over Imogen’s head, but Imogen struggles away. Eleanor’s candle goes out. Their faces are in darkness.

  —Just let me go. I can’t do it. I know I said I could, but I can’t. We’re allowed some mistakes, aren’t we? Our lives can’t end because of one mistake—

  —I’m not keeping you here.

  —There’s no one else.

  —Then go on. Run away from here, see if it solves everything. I shan’t stop you.

  Imogen is shivering. Her coat is still unbuttoned at the neck but she holds the collar together with her bare hands. She has forgotten her gloves and her hands are shaking.

  —I don’t want to live without him.

  Eleanor watches her sister shivering before the lake. Finally she pulls her hat on Imogen and puts her arm around her. Slowly they begin to climb the path back to the house.

  —I can’t live without him, Ellie. I thought I could, but I can’t—

  —I know. Hush, darling. I know.

  THE BEARING

  —Can you hear it? Mireille whispers. It’s the train.

  Her voice is so low that I barely catch it. We stand ten feet apart on the station platform under an iron-gray sky, both of us looking down the tracks. No one else is here. The wind whips our hair and lifts the refuse of departed travelers, empty paper cups and plastic wrappers writhing and coasting along the platform. Down the road at the railway crossing, the ruby lights blink in turn as the striped barrier lurches down.

  I swing on my backpack. Mireille reaches into her bag and hands me a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  —Un petit cadeau, she says. Ça ne coûte rien.

  —I didn’t get you anything.

  Mireille smiles. —I know. How many times do you change trains?

  —Three. It was the cheapest way. Lille, Brussels and Düsseldorf.

  —We don’t make it easy for you to get there.

  The train appears now, a distant point on the tracks ahead. The loudspeaker chimes twice and a recorded voice announces the arrival.

  —Mireille, listen. I’m sorry I’m leaving like this. I’ll call you from Berlin—

  —Au revoir.

  She touches my hand and starts off down the platform. I run after her, but before I reach her she stops and turns to me.

  —Everyone said you were using me for a place to stay. They told me not to get too close to you, because sooner or later you’d just go. But I didn’t listen to them. Was I wrong? Were you just using me?

  —Of course not—

  —How do I know that?

  —Because I’ll come back.

  Mireille shakes her head.

  —Tristan, I want to believe that. But I don’t even know if you do.

  For a moment we only look at each other. I run my hand over my face, wondering if I should get on the train. Mireille comes closer and touches my shoulder, forcing a smile.

  —I hope you find what you’re looking for.

  She turns and walks off down the platform. The conductor is waving at me and calling for boarding, so I get on the train and take a seat beside the window. I unfold my tray table and set the parcel down.

  As the train pulls away from the station, I tear away the brown paper to find a square metal case, dented and rusted, small but with a solid heft. It opens on hinges, revealing a brass disk in its fitted leather setting. I snap open the disk’s cover. An antiqued white face indicating the four cardinal directions, with every degree of variation demarcated on the ivory dial. A compass. There is an engraving on the reverse: Cruchon & Emons London 1917.

  There is handwriting on the scraps of brown paper. I piece together the fragments on my tray table to read the message. It is in French and it takes me a moment to understand it.

  Dear Tristan,

  I found this in an antique shop in Abbeville. The dealer swore it was English, from the war, pulled out of a field by some farmer. I don’t believe it, and I don’t think it works. But if anyone could find out, it would be you.

  Mireille

  I put the scraps in a plastic bag, hiding them deep in the lining of my backpack against the packframe. It’s over now and there’s nothing I can do. Unless I forget about Berlin and get off at the next stop.

  —You can’t do it, I whisper. Not now.

  The train is gathering speed. Through the window I see the other cars curving ahead as the tracks gradually change direction. I look down at the compass. The instrument has been disturbed from too much movement, the needle swinging wildly in every direction. I hold the compass level and watch the dial. Slowly the needle swings to fifty degrees, north by northeast. The compass still works.

  2 January 1917

  La Calotterie

  Pas-de-Calais, France

  Private Mayhew knocks twice on the door and enters the bedroom. Ashley lies in bed, the feather duvet drawn tight against his chin. His eyes are open. He is looking at the ceiling.

  —Morning, sir, Mayhew says. Six o’clock.

  Mayhew lights the fireplace and stokes the flames until he is confident the fire is sufficient. He puts a pitcher of steaming water on the dresser and prepares a bowl of shaving cream, foaming the lather in a porcelain bowl with a horsehair brush. He brings in Ashley’s uniform on a pair of hangers, the tunic’s brass buttons freshly polished. Since Ashley’s injury Mayhew has been a better servant, and Ashley does not know if this is because Mayhew respects him more now, or simply because the battalion has been at rest these two weeks.

  —Anything else, sir?

  —No, that’s fine.

  Ashley takes Le Journal d’Amiens from the nightstand and pages through it for a few minutes, intermittently glancing at the gray morning outside. He wishes he could finish the newspaper, but he wants to shave while the water is still hot.

  He rises from bed and props the newspaper against the mirror on the dresser. He swings the blade of the razor from its black celluloid handle, swirling it in the pitcher until the metal is warm to the touch. Ashley wets his face and brushes on the lather, then draws the blade carefully across his cheek, pausing at times to consider the newspaper’s headlines.

  He rinses off and looks into the mirror, studying the scar on his neck, a raised lump of pink and white tissue. Somehow it surprises him that scars are not carved in relief on one’s skin, but stand out above the surface. Ashley rubs the blemish as if he could buff it smooth. He dries his face and hangs the towel around his neck, tossing the newspaper in the fire and calling to Mayhew.

  —Has the lorry arrived?

  —Any moment, sir.

  Ashley points to the valisse by the door.

  —That can go down.

  Mayhew hauls the valisse downstairs. Ashley takes the brass poker beside the fireplace and prods at the logs, the newspaper already obliterated. He is thinking of the small trunk behind him at the foot of the bed, but he does not look at it.

 
; Suddenly he turns and opens the trunk, removing a large cigar box inside. He looks at the box for a moment. Then he throws it into the fire. As the box burns away its contents are gradually revealed and now he sees the neatly bundled letters, the flowing blue-black script.

  Ashley thrusts his hand in the fire and pulls out the bundle, smothering the flames with the towel. Smoke and ash hang wispy in the air. His singed hand throbs with pain. Ashley drops the half-burned letters into the trunk and examines the back of his hand. Most of the fine hairs have burned away.

  Kneeling at the fire again, Ashley prods the logs with the poker, watching the remaining scraps of paper and cardboard incinerate. Then he sees the glittering silver cross, the purple-and-white ribbon flaring up. He lets the fabric burn away until only the cross remains. Ashley plucks the medal from the fire with iron tongs and drops it in the basin of water. The cross sizzles and sinks down. When it has cooled he puts it in his breast pocket.

  Ashley dresses carefully. After he has put on his boots he feels sturdier, more soldierly. Mayhew clatters in again.

  —Anything else, sir? Shall I take that small one?

  —It’s empty, leave it here. I’ll meet you down at the lorry.

  —Sir.

  Ashley looks at the small trunk, the charred letters inside. He latches it shut and walks downstairs.

  In the dining room breakfast has been set upon the table: a plate of boiled eggs, a long piece of buttered bread, a bowl of café au lait with the saucer placed on top to keep it warm. Ashley walks through the kitchen and the front parlor. All the rooms are empty. He goes back upstairs to the young girl’s room. Beside her bed there is a small walnut commode covered with a crocheted doily. He takes the metal cross from his pocket and sets it on the white lace. He walks out downstairs and shuts the front door behind him.

  A truck waits on the dirt path, the engine sputtering puffs of smoke into the crystal air. Mayhew and the driver sit on the bumper, sharing a cigarette as they talk in low voices. There is a lawn before the house, but in this winter it is only scraps of frozen grass and dirt. Ashley gets into the lorry, taking his place on the bench seat beside Mayhew and the driver. The driver shifts the lorry into gear and they pass the water tower, turning onto the main road. Ashley scratches his chin. He may have nicked himself shaving. He turns to Mayhew, offering a cigarette.

  —Mayhew, you remember the Empress, don’t you? That ghastly show in November—

  —Of course, sir.

  —You know they gave me the MC for that. God knows why. Made the show look less of a balls-up, I suppose. But I wanted to say. You saved my skin, Mayhew. I put you in for every medal in the mint, but nothing came through.

  —That’s all right, sir. Didn’t expect nothing.

  Ashley nods, passing Mayhew his lighter. —Another thing. You remember that Hun dugout, there was a sick officer in one of the bunks. I spoke to him for a bit. What I wanted to ask—do you remember what he looked like? Oddest thing. The other day I realized I may have met that fellow before, years ago—

  —There weren’t no officer down there, sir. They were all dead, except the crazy ones. But there weren’t no officer.

  Ashley looks at Mayhew, unsure if he is joking. But Mayhew’s expression is solemn.

  —There was an officer, Ashley insists. He was from the Second Marine-Infanterie, I distinctly remember.

  —I beg your pardon, sir, we didn’t talk to no one. We went down there, and they were all dead, so we come back up.

  —Mayhew, I distinctly remember—

  Ashley does not finish his sentence. He looks out the window at the snowy fields, a few houses with chimneys sending up faint wisps of smoke. If Mayhew does not wish to talk about it, so be it.

  8 January 1916

  Lake Ejen

  Dalarna, Sweden

  The light slants across the pine board ceiling. It must be afternoon by now. Minutes or hours pass, the same as ever, Imogen glancing at the envelope on the desk, then studying the woodgrain above her. She opens the novels and thin poetry volumes stacked beside the bed, gazing passively beyond tidy arrays of paragraphs and stanzas, then closes the books in turn.

  At last she tosses the quilt from her body. She dresses warmly: a silk and wool combination, cashmere hose under her heaviest skirt, a Shetland vest and a knitted jersey. Imogen picks up the letter from the desk, already written and addressed, the envelope still unsealed with only the single sheet inside. She holds it for a moment, then carries it downstairs. When Eleanor sees Imogen’s clothing, her surprise is obvious.

  —You’re going out?

  —I thought I’d take a short walk. You don’t approve?

  —Not at all, Eleanor replies. It’s a splendid idea, I’m only surprised, it’s been days since—

  Imogen sets the envelope on the table and Eleanor’s eyes widen. Imogen’s voice is flat.

  —Mrs. Hasslo needn’t make a special trip. Whenever she goes to town. It isn’t sealed, you can read it and seal it yourself.

  Eleanor shakes her head vigorously.

  —I wouldn’t dream—

  —Read it, Imogen interrupts, then seal it. I’m going out now.

  —Shall I come along?

  —If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to go alone.

  —Certainly. Only don’t wander too far—

  —Just into the trees.

  Eleanor forces a smile. She fetches Imogen’s cloak and wraps her sister’s neck in a muffler, tugging a fur hat low over her brow.

  —It’s too much, Imogen protests, pushing the hat up. I’m dreadfully hot already.

  —It’s arctic out there. And remember, if you go so far that I can’t see you from the house, I shall come after you.

  Imogen creaks open the door. She steps from the stifling heat through the doorway, a tentative foot onto the ice-clumped doormat. At once her senses are overcome by the wonder of the outside world. The movement of the bracing air, its scent of pine and wood smoke from the chimney; the luminosity of the snowy surface, the light glinting from every crystal of every snowflake. What sublime richness to everything.

  Imogen walks slowly toward the forest, the band of trees surrounding the clearing on all sides. How long ago had they razed this field to erect these houses—three hundred years? She tries to picture the appearance of such people, but the results are comic, peasants in mock-Renaissance garb, brawny woodsmen with handcarved pipes. Imogen’s boots sink down. The snow dusts the hem of her skirt.

  Frederick if a boy, Imogen thinks. Charlotte if a girl.

  Since the quarrel it had been quieter in the house. The sisters had not exactly reconciled. They had simply stopped talking about anything of consequence. They might discuss the weather or the food, Eleanor’s painting or Imogen’s afghan, any subject except the one that truly mattered. For eight days Eleanor had said nothing about the child, and though Imogen seemed tranquil enough, Eleanor had no way of knowing whether her sister had resigned herself to the plan or was simply plotting an escape. Only yesterday had it finally come into the open. They had been in the kitchen preparing vegetables for dinner while Mrs. Hasslo cleaned the bedrooms upstairs.

  —Did you see the post? Eleanor had said. Mother sent you something. Can you believe I got three letters from Charles all at once, after a week with nothing? He’s been out and back to Sinai again with the major, but of course he can’t say much about it. He did have some ideas about the names—

  Imogen was peeling turnips with a paring knife, intending to mash them with butter and cream in the Swedish fashion. At once Eleanor realized her mistake, but it was already too late. Imogen looked at her sister.

  —Names?

  —For the baby. They were just ideas—

  —Which names?

  Eleanor hesitated. —If you really want to know, I wonder what you think of Frederick for a boy, or Charlotte for a girl. They’re ordinary names, of course, but Charles says ordinary—

  It was then that Imogen cut her index finger on the blade, d
rawing a thin stream of crimson blood that dripped over the turnips and the cutting board. Afterward there had been a quarrel. But Imogen’s real passion seemed to have evaporated, for as they argued she felt herself rehearsing a role she no longer believed in. In the end Eleanor simply came to the point.

  —Imogen, she pleaded, just tell me what you’re going to do.

  Imogen said nothing. But as Eleanor looked at her sister across the dining table she knew the truth at once, for resignation was so unlike Imogen that she wore it very peculiarly. The sisters ate dinner in silence. Eleanor had not mentioned the child since.

  Imogen pauses halfway down the field. She takes off her gloves, bending at her knees to pick up a handful of snow. It is fresh snow, light and dry against her mittens. She packs it into a tight snowball, adding more powder until it is dense and solid, no larger than a cricket ball. She throws the snowball toward the trees and watches it sail through the air until she loses sight of it among a field of white. Imogen walks on.

  Naturally Eleanor was right to choose the names, to have them chosen already. Imogen recognized this. For what would the child know of its true parents, of their tangle of embrace and loss? Nothing at all. The child would grow up in the carefully ordered bohemia of Charles and Eleanor’s home, the study with its fashionable books on the shelves, the sitting room furnished with the right chairs or textiles from the Omega Workshops, and all reckless imagination relegated to the tidy painting studio upstairs.

  It would be nothing like the home that Ashley and Imogen might have shared, the chaos of Imogen’s clutter—parasols and baskets covering half the surfaces; bouquets of wilting flowers gathered from city parks; tables drowning in leaflets on women’s suffrage or vegetarianism or Fabianism, inscribed in ink with some chance thought Imogen had wished to record. The furnishings themselves would all be Ashley’s things, for she had none of her own. Framed photographs of Alpine peaks, Imogen supposed, or odd pairings of books, the Negretti & Zambra catalog on the shelf beside ten disintegrating volumes of The Thousand and One Nights held together with twine. She had pictured it often, and perhaps Ashley had too, but they had never had the pleasure of picturing of it together.