Moonlight

by Fergus O'Connell

  The next time you are in London, dear reader, go to St James’s Park. If you could locate it, it would be possible to find the very spot where James sat that day. And if it were possible to find a way to push open the door to the past, there he would be. The summer’s day – the perfect backdrop to what is about to take place. The hot sun, the warm breeze just enough to caress the leaves and the skin, the sound of people and birds calling, the smell of warm earth and grass. A day when, instead of squashing insects which happen to land on us, we gently move them on their way.

  There is James. He is five-foot-ten, trim and with tiny flecks of grey hair. He has left his hat at the office and has just removed his jacket, folded it and laid it on the seat. He is unwrapping his packet of sandwiches.

  And now here comes Clara, in the distance, hurrying towards him. She wears the same hat, white blouse and cornflower blue skirt she wore last week. She is conscious of wearing the same outfit a second time but it’s not like she has a vast wardrobe of good clothes and, anyway, she likes how she feels and how she looks in it. This morning, as she was dressing, she noticed that her face was becoming a little tanned. It suits her – makes her look like she is bursting with health.

  She approaches James and from his face it is clear that he is both surprised and delighted to see her. He stands up. The expression on Clara’s face is almost angelic – something not quite of this world. Unlike their previous encounters, James takes both her hands in his. We can hear the words he speaks next.

  ‘There’s something I must tell you, Clara.’

  She looks anxiously up into his face. All sorts of thoughts go through her head. He is not divorced after all. He can’t go through with his promise to be her ally. What is it?

  ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘Ever since I met you I’ve loved you. I can’t sleep properly at night for thinking about you. I want to help you get this wretched divorce out of the way as quickly as possible so that, then, I could ask you … you might do me the greatest possible honour of becoming my wife.’

  Clara goes to say something, but James continues.

  ‘If you say yes, I will be the best father I can be to your girls. I haven’t met them but I want you to know that I love them already. And I will love and cherish you—’

  Suddenly he seems to run out of things to say.

  All Clara can say is, ‘Oh James’ before they kiss – oblivious to the people around them or any of the conventions of the day.

  They sit down.

  ‘I wondered about you from the moment I met you,’ James says. ‘I imagined you with this perfect life, perfect husband, perfect children. I found myself cursing fate that I had not met you earlier in my life. And then, when we agreed to meet again, you will never know how much I was looking forward to that second meeting.’

  He is speaking quickly. There is so much he seems to wants to say. Clara is in a state of wonderment. She cannot believe the day is unfolding like this.

  ‘And then when you asked me about becoming divorced … I knew then I might have a chance. But I thought that, even if I could only be your friend, I would help you through it – and that would have been enough for me. I wanted so much to be the one who helped you. If I could just be your friend and get to spend time in your company.’

  By this time, they are turned towards each other on the bench and holding hands.

  ‘And then when I said that I really liked you – and you responded with the same words, I knew then – or at least, I hoped I knew … That I hadn’t misinterpreted.’

  ‘You haven’t misinterpreted,’ she says, smiling.

  She shakes her head. ‘You haven’t misinterpreted at all.’

  And then, like all lovers everywhere, there are those first few hours. Hours that are like reading the first page of a big fat novel that you have not read before, hearing the opening bars of a symphony that you have never heard, seeing the first moments of a long film that you have not seen: there is so much to be discovered.

  And that afternoon Clara and James each discover just a little. Their ages and their birthdays. Books they have read. Books they like. Their favourites. Amusing things that have happened in their lives. They find that they can make each other laugh. (Clara had always thought she had a good sense of humour. Now she has found somebody who thinks the same.) Places that they have visited that are important to them. ‘You must see France,’ he says. ‘Learn a little French. It is such a thing to speak the language.’ (Clara feels so unsophisticated and unworldly and inadequate in this regard. James has seen so much and she so little. But he poo poo’s that. ‘You shall see all these places,’ he says. ‘And more.’)

  ‘Tell me about your girls,’ he says to her, and here she feels on firmer ground. ‘I don’t have any children,’ he adds. ‘So I want to know all about them. (It is only afterwards, when she is replaying their afternoon together, that she realises he deliberately steered her away from the subject of travel because he knew how she was feeling. She is so grateful for that. How wonderful that he should have known – that he was so sensitive.)

  She doesn’t know how long they have been talking when he suddenly asks her if she is hungry. She is absolutely starving but hadn’t noticed it until now. She laughs and they go to find a place where they can eat.

  If this is the beginning of a book or a symphony or a film, then Clara is starting to feel that this book is going to have far more pages than she will ever have a chance to read; this symphony will just run on and on and on; this film will never end.

  After they have eaten they walk in the park, seeking shade amongst the trees. They find a deserted bower and kiss and touch each other’s faces. If anyone saw them they would be scandalised. It hardly costs Clara a thought.

  She has never known such complete harmony. She has no fears about James, that he will fail her or do anything other than what he has promised. Neither is she concerned about the future. What will come will come and, good or bad, she will deal with it as it does. She feels as though a magic circle encloses them and that the world is in a state of blissful perfection. The ordinary world – worry about her girls, money, Henry, divorce, the crisis in Europe – none of these things matter this afternoon. It is possible that terrible things may lie waiting for her up ahead, but this afternoon, she finds that possibility as remote as the stars.

  Instead she imagines things they will do together. Ideas tumble into her head. Bird watching in France. Buying James little surprises or cooking him beautiful food. Travelling with him. Eating in restaurants and staying in hotels. Exploring wherever they go, whether it’s just a walk in the park as they are doing now or on a trip to some far off place. Reading. He is holding her hand and the warmth of him makes her wonder what making love with him would be like.

  And so the afternoon shadows begin to lengthen as they walk in St James’s Park in that far away time. Far away, yes, but close also, so very close – if only we could find the door to the past and push it open.

  Eventually, the world calls Clara back as it always does. A distant bell strikes four.

  ‘I’m going to have to go,’ she says.

  ‘I know,’ he says, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. ‘I’ll see you to the Tube.’ They take the long way out of the park so they can delay the moment of separation for as long as possible. They walk hand-in-hand, silent, sad at their impending parting. Occasionally, they look at one another and when their eyes meet, they smile.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he says. ‘I nearly forgot. I’ve made the appointment with the solicitor for two weeks Thursday, the thirteenth. At noon. I couldn’t get it any sooner because the man I would like you to see is on holiday until the tenth. And I assumed Thursday would suit you best.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she responds softly. ‘I appreciate it. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise. Without you. You’re so very thoughtful.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he replies. ‘I can come with you, if you like. I mean, I’ll take you there, but I’ll come in with
you, if you want me to.’

  ‘Oh please, of course,’ she says. ‘That’s exactly what I’d want – that’s if you really don’t mind becoming involved in my suddenly very complicated life.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to become involved in your life from the moment I laid eyes on you.’

  Clara sits on the train, unsure whether she wants to laugh or cry. Their beautiful afternoon is over. They’ve arranged that they’ll meet again next Thursday and then James will take the rest of the day off. He tells her that he can’t guarantee he can get any other time off before that – especially if the crisis in Europe intensifies. Clara is not sure how she’ll get through the next week without seeing him. And she knows there will never be another day quite like today. There may be other days when they do similar things. But this day, this day is just about the most perfect she has ever lived through. It is gone now but – in some ways – it can never go. She knows she will cherish it all the days of her life. She imagines it will be her last conscious thought in this world.

  Interlude

  One of the things you’ll notice from now on, dear reader, is that the Austrians – the people who started the whole bloody thing – will figure less and less in our story as the (really) big boys in the Group of Death start to take over.

  PART 2

  Chapter 42

  Thursday 30 July 1914

  Upon hearing of Russia’s partial mobilisation, Der Kaiser says that he too must mobilise. The German Ambassador in St Petersburg tells the Tsar that Germany will mobilise if Russia doesn’t demobilise at once.

  That afternoon, in the Tsar’s study at Peterhof, its windows looking out onto the Gulf of Finland, Sazonov, the Russian Foreign Minister, accompanied by Russia’s top generals all urge the Tsar to go for full mobilisation. Sazonov has finally understood that there is really no such thing as partial mobilisation and explains this to the Tsar. The Tsar agonises but eventually he tells his Foreign Minister to pass on the order for general mobilisation.

  The German Chancellor, Bethmann Hollweg tells a meeting of the Prussian State Council that his only interest now, for domestic political reasons, is to ‘represent Russia as the guilty party’ behind the war. If it appears to public opinion that Russian mobilisation has forced Germany into a war, then there is ‘nothing to fear’ from the Social Democrats and ‘there will be no question of a general or partial strike or of sabotage.’

  Later that day, the Chancellor sends a message to the German Ambassador to Vienna, increasing pressure to accept the ‘Halt in Belgrade’ proposal, saying that: ‘If Vienna … refuses … to give way at all, it will hardly be possible to place the blame on Russia for the outbreak of the European conflagration.’

  At 9:00 p.m. the German Chancellor gives in to Moltke and Falkenhayn’s repeated demands and promises them that Germany will mobilise at noon the next day regardless of whether Russia begins general mobilisation or not.

  But shortly afterwards the Chancellor is overjoyed to learn that Russia has indeed ordered general mobilisation, which allows him to present the war as something forced on Germany by Russia. He instructs the Ambassador in Vienna ‘that all mediation attempts be stopped.’

  The British Prime Minister, Asquith, writes: ‘The European situation is at least one degree worse than it was yesterday, and has not been improved by a rather shameless attempt on the part of Germany to buy our neutrality during the war with promises that she will not annex French territory (except colonies) or Holland or Belgium. There is something very crude and childlike about German diplomacy. Meanwhile the French are beginning to press in the opposite sense, as the Russians have been doing for some time. The City, in a terrible state of depression and paralysis, is for the time being all against English intervention.’

  In London, the price of wheat rises by four shillings a quarter.

  In Acton, the girls are in bed, Henry is downstairs and Clara is having a long, hot bath. She can’t remember the last time she took a bath for pleasure – for years it has just been about making herself clean. She knows that since yesterday there must be a glow around her but nobody seems to have noticed it or, if they have, have not remarked on it. There are times when she wonders whether yesterday was all just an illusion, but then she smiles and remembers how real and perfect it actually was.

  She and James have arranged to write to each other. Since she doesn’t want any letters arriving here in Horn Lane, they have arranged that she will write and James will reply. But he will keep his replies so she can read them when they meet. Clara thinks it’s a beautiful idea and eventually, when they are together, they will have this wonderful sequence of love letters.

  Clara is not the only one bathing before she goes to bed. The Tsar, after perhaps the most monumental day of his life, has a bath and then writes in his diary just before going to sleep, ‘I went for a walk by myself. The weather was hot. Had a delightful bath.’

  Chapter 43

  Friday 31 July 1914

  The weather is fine in Berlin, pale blue sky at early morning with the promise of a hot, uncomfortable day. Moltke, Chief of the General Staff, telephones General Hell, his man on the eastern frontier with Russia.

  ‘Do you think Russia is mobilising?’ Moltke asks.

  ‘I have thought so for several days,’ is the reply. ‘The frontier is sealed. Nobody crosses either way. They are burning the frontier guardhouses. Red mobilisation notices are said to be posted up in Mlava.’

  Moltke orders Hell to get his hands on one of the red mobilisation notices, and two hours later Hell has done exactly that.

  On this basis Moltke telegraphs Conrad in Austria saying, ‘Mobilise at once against Russia.’

  And by half past noon, the Austrians have done so.

  Taking an early lunch, Henry calls into a solicitor’s not far from the office. He finds himself blushing as he explains he’d like to speak to a solicitor on a ‘matter of family law.’ The only other time Henry has been in a solicitor’s was when they were dealing with Clara’s father’s estate. Then, about to become a man of property, he had felt confident, sure of himself. For some reason, he finds being here now, for this reason, somewhat humiliating.

  He had thought he would get to speak to somebody right away and he is relieved when he is told that the partner who deals with such matters is not available today. Furthermore, he’s about to depart on two weeks’ holiday and so won’t be back until the 17th. An appointment is made for the 17th.

  As Henry returns to the office, not only is he relieved at this two-and-a-half week reprieve, he is delighted that this delay will probably annoy Mary. But he’s already rehearsed his reply. ‘He’s their best fellow. A specialist in this kind of thing. You wouldn’t want me to use anything less, would you?’

  Henry’s also going to push her for another night in a hotel next week. And she’d damn well better say yes, if she wants this whole business to continue.

  Elsewhere in London, the Stock Exchange is closed – ‘until further notice’ says a notice on its door – and the bank rate goes up from four to eight per cent.

  The Prime Minister, Asquith, writes that, ‘the general opinion at present – particularly strong in the City – is to keep out at all costs.’ The British Cabinet is badly divided with Lloyd George, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, strongly opposed to Britain becoming involved in a war. The Conservatives, on the other hand, say they will support a war against Germany if France is attacked.

  Grey tells the German Ambassador that if France becomes involved in a war, then Britain will inevitably be drawn in. However, he tells the French Ambassador that, as far as Britain is concerned with regard to its relations with France, no treaties or obligations are involved. Grey describes the meeting as ‘rather painful.’

  That night, the Prime Minister asks the King to ask his cousin the Tsar to stop mobilisation.

  The Tsar writes to Der Kaiser explaining that Russian general mobilisation is not intended to be a prelude to war. He thanks his cousin for his
mediation efforts and says that he hopes all will still end peacefully. He explains what he has discovered about mobilisation – and what Der Kaiser will soon find out – that it is impossible to stop mobilisation once it is set in train. The mobilisation was necessary, the Tsar explains, because of Austria’s mobilisation. ‘We are far from wishing war,’ the Tsar continues. ‘As long as the negotiations with Austria on Serbia’s account are taking place my troops shall not make any provocative action. I give you my solemn word for this.’

  Later that night, the Tsar will write in his diary, ‘A grey day, in keeping with my mood.’

  In Paris, there is a run on the banks. Long queues form outside the Bank of France which announces that it will pay no more than fifty gold francs per depositor once a fortnight.

  When word reaches Berlin of Russian general mobilisation, Der Kaiser agrees to sign the orders for German mobilisation, and German troops began preparations to enter Luxembourg and Belgium as a preliminary to invading France. The German Social Democrats support the government on the basis that it is Russia that has forced Germany to mobilise.

  The Bavarian military attaché at the War Ministry writes, ‘Beaming faces everywhere. Everyone is shaking hands in the corridors. People congratulate one another for being over the hurdle.’

  Both Moltke and Falkenhayn tell the government that Germany should declare war even if Russia offers to negotiate.

  And in Berlin, Der Kaiser writes, ‘I no longer have any doubt that England, Russia and France have agreed among themselves – knowing that our treaty obligations compel us to support Austria – to use the Austro-Serb conflict as a pretext for waging a war of annihilation against us.’

  At seven o’clock in the evening, the German government declares a state of Kriegsgefahrdzustand – ‘preparation for war.’ It is the preliminary step to mobilisation.