Moonlight

by Fergus O'Connell

  ‘Not at all,’ she replies.

  She’d better not go now. He’ll be insulted.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he says.

  The man is wearing a dark, well-cut suit. Still standing, he slips the jacket off and folds it in two, vertically. Then, holding the result to his chest, he indicates the gap between them.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ he asks again, with a smile.

  ‘Not at all,’ she says a second time.

  She wonders if he wonders whether these are the only words she knows. Just like Virginia, Clara thinks.

  The man has a very pale face. Beneath the jacket, he wears a bright white shirt and a dark tie. The jacket is placed on the seat and folded in half a second time. On top of that the man places his hat. Then he sits down. On the front part of the seat, he places a brown paper package that he has been carrying and unwraps it. It contains cut sandwiches made with thick slices of white bread. Then he shakes out a copy of the Times and opens it on a particular page, folding it back on itself. He folds it again and then, crossing his knees in what looks to Clara like a precisely synchronised movement, he rests the resulting half page-sized newspaper on his knee. He begins to read and, still with his eyes on the newspaper, gropes for a sandwich, finds one, lifts it up and begins to munch. What is it about men and their newspapers, Clara wonders?

  She suddenly becomes aware that she is staring at him. Just as she does, he does too. He turns and sees that she is looking at him. He glances down at his package of sandwiches, then at the newspaper, then at her again. He smiles, slightly sheepishly.

  ‘You can take the man out of his routine,’ he says. ‘But you can’t take his routine out of the man.’

  Clara blushes deeply.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. I really didn’t mean to be so rude.’

  ‘Nothing to apologise for,’ he says. ‘I have to admit it, I’m a man of routine. I come here every day – unless I have to go to one of those silly lunches. I bring my own sandwiches and I save a little at the end for the ducks.’

  ‘No, really,’ Clara insists. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  He carries on as if he hasn’t heard her.

  ‘Even the filling stays the same – at least for long periods. Currently I’m going through my fine ham and strong mustard phase – compliments of my local grocer, Mr Adams.’

  She wonders if he’s trying to embarrass her even more than she is.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, and looks away hurriedly.

  She wishes she had a paper or something she could bury herself in, hide behind. She is terribly embarrassed. She had better leave and sits forward as a prelude to getting up.

  ‘Think nothing further of it,’ he replies.

  Then he adds, ‘It’s a beautiful place here, isn’t it – especially on days like today.’

  She looks at him again. She reckons him to be about her age or possibly a little older. He has brown hair, grey-green eyes and a fine nose. He has turned ever so slightly towards her. His eyes are bright but she thinks his complexion is so pale as to be almost grey and unhealthy.

  ‘It is. It’s a lovely place,’ she says. ‘I love the birds. I should have brought some food for them.’

  She feels herself sit back – almost as if her body decided by itself, without any command from her.

  ‘So you’re not a regular then?’

  ‘No,’ she smiles. ‘But you are?’

  ‘I am. I work in the Foreign Office – over there.’

  He indicates with a leftward movement of his head.

  ‘It sounds important.’

  ‘More so than it is. Though it’ll probably hot up over the next few weeks.’

  ‘You mean the business with the Archduke.’

  It is only because she remembers seeing something on a newspaper seller’s poster as she made her way here. She’s bluffing. She doesn’t really know anything about this. But she remembers one time, when she and Henry were courting, how in a moment of self-analysis and exceptional honesty, she said to him, ‘I pretend to know much more than I do.’ She is never that honest with Henry now. Now, she keeps all that kind of thing to herself.

  ‘Oh, you know about it?’

  He sounds surprised.

  ‘Of course. I do read the papers, you know.’

  She’s really pushing it now. But it’s his turn to apologise. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I find a lot of people don’t know – or maybe it’s that they don’t want to know – what’s going on in the world. They’re happy to eat and sleep and just get on with it.’

  ‘So what do you think will happen?’ she asks. ‘About the Archduke, I mean.’

  Whatever she learns, she’ll try out on Henry tonight. He’ll be surprised – and mystified. She won’t tell him where it came from though. Maybe she’ll just say the same thing to him – ‘I do read the papers, you know.’

  ‘Too soon to say,’ the man from the Foreign Office says. ‘There are all kinds of possibilities. None of them are particularly good, and some are much worse than others. Perhaps the most optimistic one says that there’ll be a small war in the Balkans.’

  Then he adds, ‘Again.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she says.

  Then, trying to show off the one piece of knowledge she does have, she says, ‘So you know Sir Edward Grey?’

  ‘He’s my boss’s boss.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘You’re not related to him, are you?’ he asks.

  What a strange question, she thinks.

  ‘No,’ Clara says. ‘I’m not related to him.’

  ‘He’s the sweetest man. Likes fishing. Very keen birdwatcher.’

  Then he adds, ‘Birds. Yes, he likes birds. A bit like yourself, actually. But he’s not keen on foreigners, though.’

  She smiles. She isn’t sure whether the man from the Foreign Office is being serious.

  ‘No?’ she asks.

  She thinks it’s a good response.

  But all he replies is, ‘No.’

  Clara isn’t quite sure what to say next. She doesn’t want to make a fool of herself.

  ‘It doesn’t sound like the best qualification to be a Foreign Secretary.’

  ‘No indeed,’ he says. ‘I once heard him say at a meeting something to the effect of foreign statesmen ought to receive their education at an English public school.’

  Clara is smiling but the man from the Foreign Office’s face is deadpan. She still can’t tell what this is all about. The man is silent for a few moments and then says, ‘And he’s not that fond of foreign travel, either.’

  Clara feels like bursting out laughing but she doesn’t know if her companion is being serious or pulling her leg or what he’s about. Maybe he’s one of these people who’ve worked in the same place for so long that he’s forgotten what the world outside is like and can only talk about where he works. Henry will be like that one day, she thinks. Maybe he is now.

  To the man from the Foreign Office, Clara simply says, ‘No?’ hoping the direction of the conversation will become clearer.

  ‘No. To the best of my knowledge, apart from a non-stop journey through the Continent long ago on his way to India, and a brief state visit to Paris in the retinue of King George V – he has never visited Europe.’

  Clara can’t help herself any longer and starts to laugh. This is all too ridiculous. There is a terrible moment when she thinks she has gotten this all wrong and that she has grievously insulted the man from the Foreign Office. But then his deadpan expression becomes a smile. He seems to be enjoying the fact that he made her laugh. And she is indeed laughing. For some reason, she finds this desperately funny, so much so that her eyes start to water. She fumbles in her bag for her handkerchief. The man from the Foreign Office continues to enjoy her reaction. She finds the hankie and dabs at her eyes. Finally she manages to get her laughter under control.

  But she is bursting to add a comment of her own, even if she
knows it will cause her to erupt again. The man from the Foreign Office seems to be looking at her expectantly. It’s as if he knows she has something to say. Finally, almost of their own accord, the words escape from her and slip out.

  ‘We’re in good hands so.’

  Now it’s the turn of the man from the Foreign Office to laugh. He does – a soft, warm chuckle. He has a nice laugh.

  ‘Indeed,’ he says dryly.

  Clara dabs her eyes again and thinks it’s safe to return the hankie to her bag. She’s not sure what to say next and so she opts for changing the subject.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m keeping you from your lunch.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replies. ‘Nice to have somebody sensible to speak with.’

  She’s very taken with his use of the word ‘sensible.’

  ‘Is all of that true?’ she asks, knowing she risks plunging back into another bout of laughter. ‘About Sir Edward Grey, I mean.’

  He nods.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  The laughter is there again, at the door, knocking, wanting to get in. The Pickwick Papers all over again. She manages to contain it. Eventually she is able to say, ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Oh dear, indeed,’ he agrees. ‘Anyway, I should probably be getting back.’

  Three of the four sandwiches lie uneaten in the package.

  ‘What about your sandwiches?’ asks Clara.

  ‘I’ll save the rest until later. I think we may be working late tonight. Oh, that is – unless you’d like them? They’re very good. Even if I do say so myself.’

  It’s Clara’s turn to be embarrassed again.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ he says. ‘But they are good.’

  ‘I’m sure they are but no thank you. Save them for later. If you’re working late you’ll need something. Or if you don’t want them, I’m sure the ducks won’t say no.’

  He smiles at this thought. Then he proceeds to re-wrap the package, stands up and extends a hand.

  ‘Can I say what a pleasure it’s been Mrs—?’

  ‘Jordan. Clara Jordan.’

  ‘Mrs Jordan.’

  He bows ever so slightly as she takes his proffered hand.

  ‘James Walters. I hope I shall have the pleasure again some day.’

  ‘The pleasure was all mine, Mr Walters.’

  And then he is gone, his back quickly disappearing amongst all the others who have been taking their lunch in the park and are now returning to work.

  She sits there for a long time after he is gone. Birds continue to fly and swim and run, to waddle around importantly, to land and take off. People come and go.

  Why did she tell him her maiden name? She never does that. She has been Clara Kenton ever since she got married. What made her do that?

  And she suddenly has the strangest feeling. It is as though all of this – the grassy lawns, the water, the blue sky, the paths, the drenching sun, the birds and the people – it is as though all of it has ceased to be real. Rather, it is like it has all become a sort of backdrop to a play or an opera. And she has the feeling that, amidst all of this, she is the only thing that is real. And if that is true, if that is really true, then she is truly and utterly alone – in all the world.

  She has felt loneliness before – but never like this. Looking around, it is as though everything else is on the other side of a sheet of glass. Only she is on this side. It is a horrible feeling which prompts her to stand up and seek to escape from this place.

  She begins to walk back towards the gate. But the feeling refuses to leave her. Rather, it intensifies. It isn’t just that the people are a backdrop now – they are ghosts. Brightly coloured or bathed in sunlight they may be, but they are still ghosts. Nothing is real or substantial any more. Except her – and she is like a wraith who has entered this strange world and now is destined to wander it for ever.

  She walks more and more quickly as though she is trying to outstrip this sensation, but she can’t. It won’t go away. She had intended to get the omnibus home but now she just wants to hide from all of this. She hurries down the steps into the Tube station. But it is the descent into Hades and the platform, with its scattered people, the ante-room to hell. The trip on the train is like a voyage of the damned. People stare vacantly ahead and, even though she emerges into sunlight at the end of her journey, this terrible feeling persists.

  When she arrives home, the girls run to meet her. Clara gives them their presents. Mrs Parsons tells her what good girls they have been. But it is as if Clara is wondering who these people are.

  Later she goes through the motions of making tea. Henry comes home, kisses her and sits down at the table with the girls. He opens the Evening Standard and begins reading. Part way through, he lowers it and, with a ‘by the way,’ mentions something about the firm having a management meeting on the last day of every month and that he will have to go. She thinks he says something about having to ‘stay up in town.’ The girls became fractious and normally it is she who reins in their high spirits, but tonight Henry has to do it. Even Ursula notices there is something out of the ordinary because she asks, ‘Is everything alright, Mummy?’

  ‘I’m just tired, darling,’ Clara says automatically.

  Later, after the girls have been put to bed, Clara claims that she has a headache and goes to bed herself. It is still light. Eventually she dozes, but wakes later to find that it is dark. A black, velvety light fills the room. But then she hears Henry on the stairs and he comes in. She pretends to be asleep. He doesn’t turn the light on but draws the curtains. He says, ‘How’s the head, darling?’

  She knows he knows she’s not asleep.

  ‘Still there,’ she says, at length. ‘I’m sure it’ll be gone in the morning.’

  ‘What do you think caused it?’ he asks.

  She hears him taking off his trousers.

  ‘Maybe I just got too much sun,’ she says.

  When he returns from the bathroom, he gets in beside her. She is lying on her side with her back to his side of the bed. He comes across and lies up against her, passing an arm around her and taking one of her breasts in the palm of his hand. He is aroused. It’s not the weekend, is it? Clara wonders.

  ‘Why don’t we dine out next Saturday?’ he asks. ‘We could go to the Criterion.’

  Normally, she says, ‘That would be lovely’ automatically. This time she says nothing.

  ‘What do you say?’ he says, giving her breast a slight squeeze.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she replies.

  He does nothing for several moments. Then, as if he’s made a decision, he takes his hand away and rolls onto his own side. They go to sleep with their backs to each other.

  Earlier, in the House of Commons, Sir Edward Grey expressed the deep sympathy of the government with the Emperor of Austria in the tragic loss that had befallen him. As it happens, the Emperor didn’t actually like his nephew that much but diplomatic niceties have to be maintained. ‘There is not a Foreign Minister in Europe,’ Sir Edward said, ‘who does not know what a great support the life of the Emperor of Austria has been, and continues to be, to the cause of peace in Europe.’ Sir Edward then went on to talk about tolls on the Panama Canal and how the German Baghdad Railway project would terminate at Basra.

  Now, dear reader, is probably as good a time as any to tell you about mobilisation. Mobilisation was central to the Group of Death. Mobilisation was how each of the teams in the Group of Death would get their soldiers into battle. It worked like this: Say you were a soldier or a reservist in any of the armies. If your country went to war then you would become aware of this because posters would appear in cities, towns and villages ordering mobilisation. In France, for example, the posters would read:

  Armée de Terre et Armée de Mer.

  ORDRE DE MOBILISATION GÉNÉRALE.

  In Russia, red notices would be posted up all over the country. Beside each red notice would be a white o
ne. This would inform you that you would be paid a sum of money for your clothes when you exchanged them for a uniform. This sum would vary from five roubles down to fifteen kopeks, depending on the state of your clothes.

  It was also possible that you might receive a mobilisation notice through the mail, though this was more likely in some countries than in others. In France, even in remote country districts, it was almost certain that the postman would appear carrying a letter. (One supposes these things are possible in a country where – still – about half the people work for the government.) In Russia, where the exact population was unknown, it was more likely to be posters followed by recruiting officers to ensure that those who were called up went.

  Whatever happened, once you became aware that mobilisation had been announced, you would be under orders to proceed at once to a certain military barracks. There you would be outfitted in your uniform, given all your equipment and join your unit. After that you would proceed to a designated railway station at a designated date and time to catch a designated train to a station near the front. From there you would follow certain roads at certain times, in concert with all the other units, to get to your fighting position. All the support services, equipment and so on would be similarly deployed.

  The Germans (of course) had taken this a stage further with the Von Schlieffen Plan. The Von Schlieffen Plan was Germany’s plan to defeat France in six weeks. (After that it intended to go on and beat Russia.) The Von Schlieffen Plan demanded that four armies consisting of 840,000 men should be passed through a narrow gap, eighty miles wide, in Germany’s western frontier. If these crowded armies did not keep moving forward then utter chaos would prevail. As a result the plan laid down what every soldier would do, from the day mobilisation was ordered, until victory in the West was achieved and the German Army was marching down the Champs Élysée.