The Gunner

by Paul Almond

We walked over to where the beautiful black and brown Daimler was parked, and Jack managed to deflect Leo’s rather too obvious annoyance at having been kept waiting. The trains pretty well run on time over here, Jack explained, but German planes had been sighted. I guess that slowed us down some.

  On the way to the restaurant, Rene and I couldn’t take our eyes off each other. Hard to explain how much it meant, being in the presence of a beautiful lady after eighteen months. Of course, on weekends, I’d occasionally gone to a nearby pub in Godalming, a nice old market town: plenty of girls hanging around. But I’d paid little attention. I had made sure to reply to Rene’s letter, once I’d gotten here. We’d both written again, in fact. Amazing she’d have eyes for me when she could have had the pick of any Colonel around. Of course, those fellows would be a lot older. Rene and I were about the same age.

  Leo pulled up at the restaurant and as we were getting out, Rene said, “Listen Eric, we have to drive Father John around all afternoon. He saves up his appointments for the days he gets us. But tomorrow, we don’t have to, so I asked my mother for the car. Since you wrote that you have two days leave, if you’re interested, I could pick you up in the morning and take you around?”

  “Oh perfect! I don’t know how I’m gonna sleep tonight, just waiting.”

  Well sir, that seemed to make her happy.

  I went with Jack into this Regent Palace Hotel, with its white tablecloths and smart-looking waiters, some of whom had already been in battle, one limping, one serving us with his shirt pinned over the stump of an arm.

  It certainly was good to sit and talk to my brother. I hadn’t seen him enough to say he’d aged — well, he always was much older than me. But what I noticed was that so much responsibility these last three years had bestowed on him an uncommon authority — which didn’t diminish his brotherly friendship.

  We spent the first part of the dinner talking about home. Nothing much changing there, except that Old Poppa had commented on prices going up. Earle was working hard, learning even more about farming; Lil helping, and both sisters away: Winifred nursing and Margaret Jane married to Bert Finnie and enjoying her new home in Montreal.

  We ordered dessert. Jack loved Spotted Dick, which he recommended. I agreed, wondering what on earth these Brits would think up next. He ordered two fine glasses of port, a drink I’d never tried. Finally, the talk did turn towards the war, which we’d happily been avoiding.

  “And not only do I have to minister to our soldiers at the Front,” Jack said as he sat back and our plates were cleared. “I had one poor fellow whose mother was killed by flying glass in that dreadful Halifax explosion at the beginning of December. Two thousand dead, nine thousand injured.” He shook his head.

  “Oh yes, we were all talking about that in Camp,” I said. “Are they really sure it was not a U-boat?”

  Jack shook his head. “You can see the enormous power of our explosives. When that ammunition ship blew up in the harbour, it was the worst man-made explosion in history. The poor Haligonians. And you know,” Jack went on, “the news from the Eastern Front isn’t so good.”

  Now in officer training, I had been learning something of the Russians who were also battling our common enemy. “We had an interesting fellow come to lecture,” I told Jack. “He warned us that his views on the Russians might not be that of the military. Apparently he teaches at some college in London; our regular teaching officer went back to the Front. Anyway, he said this revolution is a good thing.”

  “I don’t know how good it is,” Jack replied. “The Bolsheviks will probably pull out — I understand that fellow Lenin, who is now officially running Russia, has sent Trotsky to negotiate a peace with the Germans.”

  “Lucky them,” I found myself saying.

  Jack looked up, startled. “Well, I know what you mean, Eric: I suppose, in one sense, they’re lucky not to be fighting any more battles. But you know what that means to us?”

  “I haven’t got to that part in the course, yet,” I confessed. “But Jack, those recently liberated serfs have been so badly treated, they had no alternative but to revolt.” My eyes widened as the waiter brought us each a plate with an unappetizing lump of pudding and custard. I frowned, and Jack chuckled. “It’s good, Eric. Steamed suet pudding with dried fruit, let me look, yes, these are black currents — .”

  “Not dead flies? Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

  “The Russian upper classes treat their serfs abominably, but you know the Tsar is the king’s first cousin.”

  “So why wouldn’t George V talk him into carrying on? I mean, I’ve heard he’s a prisoner and all that, but — .”

  ”Look, now that Lenin has taken over, the Bolsheviks are in charge and the one thing they want is to end the war. You know Karl Marx thought the proletariat would revolt sooner in Germany or here, both of us being more industrialized. But what helped was the Russians had the biggest army anywhere.”

  “And the biggest air force, I heard. But didn’t a couple of million men desert? Imagine! That’s what our instructor said. Not enough uniforms or rifles, and not much food. Must be such a badly run country.”

  Jack nodded. “But you can see what’ll happen if they pull out?”

  Again, I had to beg ignorance. “I think we get to that part next week.”

  “Well, Eric,” Jack said kindly, “to put you ahead of your fellows: if Russia does reach a settlement, the Hun has a terrific railway system. In no time at all, thousands of troops, fighting the Russians, will race across Germany to the Western Front. I shudder to think what would happen then.”

  “Oh my heavens. You think it could happen?”

  “It is happening, Eric. Trotsky is doing his best to get peace. I have it on good authority from the High Command; they are seriously worried.”

  “I guess I’d better get back as quick as I can,” I said, not without regret.

  “We’ll need every man, certainly.” Jack finished his last spoonful. “How did you like this?”

  “Better than it looks, for sure. They do things well at this here hotel — I mean, this hotel,” I said. “Thank you very much, Jack.”

  “We’ll take our port in the lounge,” Jack said, “where we can light up.”

  I followed him and we sat in big comfortable chairs, and talked of other things, including Rene. Again he warned me not to be optimistic but I only listened to his warnings with half an ear. All I could think about was my day together with her tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  London, February 1918

  The next morning promptly at ten, Rene drove up in her gorgeous big car. Just the two of us, all day long. Well sir, was I ever the happiest man in creation — until I saw who was driving: Leo. So they were both coming. Oh well, better than nothing.

  Rene had gotten out and caught my look of dismay. She whispered, “The Mater insisted we have a chaperone. After all, it’s the first time we’d be alone.”

  “The Mater?” I got into the back seat of the Daimler.

  “That’s what we call our mother.” Rene hesitated, about to follow me, and then got into the front seat beside Leo. So I had to sit in the back alone.

  “And what do you call your father?”

  “We used to call him the Pater,” said Leo. “But he died when I was eleven.” She was not as finely featured as Rene: her round face had a pudding look, accentuated by heavy eyebrows. Not a lot of warmth in those big brown eyes, either.

  As we started off, I sank back in the leather seat. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I couldn’t imagine what it would be like growing up without a father.

  “I confess,” Rene added, “that the Mater is a bit of a martinet. Probably worse than even the Pater might have been.”

  I hadn’t heard about martinets, but I imagine she meant somebody pretty fierce. We crossed Trafalgar Square and then drove on down by the Thames. I was pleased to see a good few horses, mostly pulling carts. Lots of cars, too, though not many as grand as ours. I guess Rene’s
father must have left some money.

  “You musn’t think I wanted to come,” said Leo, having seen my earlier look. “The Mater insisted.”

  “Leo doesn’t mean it,” Rene added sharply. “She’s delighted to help any fighting man tour our city.”

  “Well,” I tried to be nice, “I’m very glad you came, Leo. You must have seen all these sights quite often with others.”

  “Too often.” Take that! I thought. But then she made it worse: “Always with officers; this will be the first time with someone of lower rank, whatever yours is. Should be interesting!” Mean too, I thought.

  “Leo!” Rene turned to me. “Leo often speaks without thinking.” Leo turned and gave her a look, but kept quiet.

  In no time at all, we were at Westminster Abbey. As we parked, I stepped out and gasped. Never seen anything like it! Closest were the ruins of Cloth Hall in Ypres — oh, and the spire of Salisbury Cathedral during training. And while travelling I’d passed some big churches; but certainly, this was the biggest. “And they just let anyone in?”

  “Well, it belongs to us all,” Leo said, “everyone in the Sovereign’s realm to enjoy.” Inside we went. Leo threw out: “I suppose you’ll take him straight to Poets’ Corner, as usual.” She slipped into a pew at the back to wait.

  “Please don’t mind her, Eric,” Rene said as she led me down the magnificent centre aisle and turned right into the Poets’ Corner. “You just have to get used to it. Someone I like — well, she is bound to be even more mean.”

  I almost blushed. Someone she liked. That was a start, for sure.

  Well, first thing we saw was William Shakespeare’s tomb. And there he was, in white marble, life size, one elbow leaning on a stack of books, another hand pointing to a scroll with lines from one of his plays — the most famous poet and playwright in the English language. Amazing what they wore in those days! I had never seen a Shakespeare play, of course, but Rene knew several.

  Then by golly, Alfred Lord Tennyson. What a sight to see his bust. “But where’s his beard?” The smooth face seemed so young.

  “He must have grown it later in life. It’s him in his forties, I believe,” Rene said, pointing out his slab between two other fellas, poets I guess, John Dryden and Robert Browning.

  At school, we’d had to learn The Charge of the Light Brigade, and I repeated some now for Rene:

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  Cannon to right of them,

  Cannon to left of them,

  Cannon in front of them

  Volley’d and thunder’d

  I stopped, a bit overcome. Had I not been there myself? I looked down. Rene reached out and touched my hand. Such a warm person.

  I watched her as she went to read Chaucer’s inscription on his tomb. Perfect features, Rene, so innocent, young looking, actually, capped by a charming hat, so stylish and just right. In her light flowered frock, she seemed so graceful as if Heaven itself had fashioned her especially for this tour of London.

  She paused and looked around. “I always come expecting to see William Blake’s tomb here, but I can never find it.”

  “Maybe he was buried somewhere else? Is he a poet too?”

  “Oh yes. My favourite.” She sang a line from that hymn, And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green? I’d heard that during camp services. “Blake wrote those words.”

  An awful lot of British kings and queens were buried here, and as we passed them by, Rene told me about them. We’d had to study history in New Carlisle, but I remembered very little; never had interested me. But who could not be overwhelmed by these huge arches, the great pillars bearing this splendid roof?

  It was all pretty dazzling: being with Rene in the presence of so much greatness, seeing the actual statues of men I had studied at school and read at home. Jack used to send us books and already the Old Homestead had a pretty good library. Right now, I was the one in the family seen as a scholar. But over here, meeting so many educated officers at training school — damnation, they sure teach them well in British schools. Right then and there, I made a firm resolve: if I ever get through this war, I’ll go to Bishop’s University.

  Getting into the car, Rene announced, “Now for the big surprise.”

  “Lead on! I’m a great one for surprises.”

  “We just have time before lunch,” Leo agreed as she drove us along the Victoria Embankment and all of a sudden, there we were on what I remembered as Horse Guards Parade. We pulled up, parked, and walked a short way. Of course, my curiosity was mounting.

  Rene turned to look at me. “Should be any time now.” I could see she was excited. “You see, Eric, the day before their Majesties go on a shopping trip, their route is posted in The Times. They travel in an open carriage, and often their subjects line up to see them. Here, there shouldn’t be too many.”

  “You mean, I actually get to see our great King George V? You know he visits the Front with his generals?”

  We hadn’t long to wait. Around the corner came the royal entourage, followed by a beautiful yellow and black landau, drawn by four horses called the Windsor Grays, Rene told me, trotting merrily away, two footmen up on back looking splendid, and there, King George V with his trim brown beard and moustache, and Queen Mary, so upright and graceful.

  As they drove close, I snapped into a salute.

  And you know, the King saw me and saluted back — just me. On they went, waving occasionally.

  Rene actually jumped up and down and clapped her hands. And Leo burst into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.

  “B’ys, Leo, you should do that more often,” I said. “You sure look pretty when you smile.” I thought she deserved a compliment, being so obviously happy that the King of England, Emperor of India, Sovereign over all our British Empire, had actually saluted this lowly Sergeant from a Gaspe farm. Pretty high point in anyone’s life, I would have to say.

  “And now, off to lunch!” Leo drove us eastward and stopped at the entrance of a narrow thoroughfare, Fleet Street, where we got out. We walked down to the Cheshire Cheese, which from the talk about it being the oldest restaurant in London, I expected something a bit more grand. “Look, sawdust on the floor! That’s what we use in the stable when we run out of straw.”

  I saw Leo give Rene a look. I wondered what was wrong with that. We went into the small, low-ceilinged rooms with their dark wood panelling, long benches and equally dark tables, close-packed. Lots of smoke, for already several army types had arrived, and quite a few journalists, so Rene said.

  “So you work on a farm, do you?” Leo led us to a table by a leaded window.

  “Our family owns a farm,” I replied, trying to be as nice as I could. “My brother Jack was born there, too.”

  “Really!” Leo sounded surprised. “I’d never dream he came from a farm.”

  “Leo,” Rene said hotly, “there is nothing wrong with that. It’s not the way it is here, you know. In the New World, they say that everybody is equal. And the farms, they are big and lavish, aren’t they, Eric?”

  “Well, not exactly lavish.” Frankly, I didn’t want to spend the day defending my life in Canada. I think Rene saw that too. But when we looked at the menus, she suggested some really strange dishes: Bubble and Squeak, which she ordered for me, and Toad-in-the-Hole for her. I asked for a nice glass of bitter and Rene and Leo had red wine. I wonder what Old Momma would say to women drinking in public. But everyone else here did: sure a ton of different traditions in the Old Country. And who am I to question that?

  A sudden commotion made me turn. A lowly Corporal walked in, but he wore the distinctive crimson ribbon of a Victoria Cross. At once, every officer in the restaurant leapt to his feet, Captains, even a Colonel, and snapped into a smart salute, as did I. The Corporal, who returned it, had gotten used to this, I guess. The others waited until he limped over to a table and sat, whereupon they did, too. Quite something.

  I wasn’t used
to having strangers at my elbow. But then looking into Rene’s eyes who sat opposite — it kind of blotted out the rest of the world. I wondered how I’d get her alone, so I could tell her how I felt about her. Instead, I asked about their family, and Leo launched into a description of their house in Brentwood, “The Lions”, named after two stone lions crouched on each side of their front steps. I think Rene cringed a little as Leo went on about their butler and chambermaids, and their elderly cook and rather dumb undercook.

  “Sometimes I wish we didn’t have such a big staff,” Rene said. “Don’t worry, it’s not something... well, although I was born into it, I don’t find it necessary. I can get along quite well enough washing and ironing my own under things.” She blushed as prettily as I’ve ever seen.

  When the waiter brought our plates, I looked down at my Bubble and Squeak. It turned out to be fried vegetables, mainly cabbage and potatoes, but they had added sausages, too. “Well, one thing I’m going to write my father about is this here Bubble and Squeak.” As soon as the words went out of my mouth, I knew I should have kept quiet. Leo suppressed a smile, and went on eating her Toad-in-the-Hole, which I discovered was also sausages, but in Yorkshire pudding and some vegetables, all covered in gravy.

  “Your father must be a very fine man, Eric,” Rene said. “You told me last time we were together he’d had ten children.”

  “Well, I guess Momma was the one who had them. She is wonderful. She’s proud that her children turned out for the best.”

  “Father John certainly bears that out,” Leo remarked.

  “And Eric,” snapped Rene. She was beginning to lose her temper.

  “How many in your family?” I asked. I already knew, I think, but I wanted to change the conversation.

  “We have one older sister, Hilda,” Rene explained again, “whom I mentioned before. She’s gone off now to Macedonia, and serves with the Scottish Women’s Regiment.”

  “Just as well she went off, “ Leo commented. “Her views as a suffragist were getting on all our nerves.”

  “Not on mine,” Rene retorted.