by John Masters
There was a knock on the door, and she went to open it. A tall young woman with dark blue eyes and brown hair stood outside, a large leather suitcase resting on the pavement beside her. She said, ‘Mrs Fagioletti?’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Ethel said. ‘But …’ She peered more closely – ‘You’re Lady Helen Durand-Beaulieu! I’ve seen you!’
Lady Helen nodded, smiling. ‘I am … I heard that you had a room to let.’
‘That’s true, milady, but …’ Ethel stopped, puzzled. How could her room concern Lady Helen?
Helen said, ‘I would like to take it … May I come inside?’
‘Of course, milady.’ She hurried back in, fluffing up a cushion. ‘Sit down, milady. You look tired … Did you say you’d like to take my room?’
Helen said, ‘Yes, but first … I’m going to have a baby, Mrs Fagioletti. The father was killed before we could be married … ’
‘Oh dear!’ Ethel wailed. ‘You poor lady … Oh, oh, oh, it was Mr … Captain Charles!’
Helen said, ‘It was. I want to find a quiet place to live … work that I can do in the house… I only have a few pounds now, but I expect I’ll get some more soon. And I’ll have to change my sugar card, of course … Probyn’s Woman is coming up to help me have the baby. After that – I don’t know.’
‘Oh, milady, of course you can have the room. It doesn’t matter about money. I’ll look after you, I’m a good cook … learned to cook some of those Italian things, too, for Niccolo … he’s a sergeant now. We’ve been married again, by proxy.’
Helen said, ‘Thank you … You’re very kind. May I call you Ethel?’
‘Oh, please, please.’
‘And will you call me Helen?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t, milady.’
‘Please! … Helen Rowland – Mrs Rowland, a woman whose husband has just been killed in action in France.’
Isabel Kramer faced Christopher Cate across the fireplace and said, ‘Christopher, this is my last visit here.’
He stared at her; not comprehending. Then – ‘You mean you don’t like the village people knowing, or guessing, that you are my mistress?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m beyond caring what the village people think, my dear. And I never did care what the people of Liverpool or London think … It’s what I think that has made up my mind. I can no longer bear these separations. Our meetings and our times together are such heaven that the partings have become proportionately deeper hells. It is like having a piece carved out of my flesh each time … Virgil has obtained passage for me on the S.S. Mystic, due to sail for New York from Liverpool a few days before Christmas – probably the 21st.’
Christopher said at last, ‘I can’t blame you.’
Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, then, but her voice was still steady when she said, ‘I was going back to the States in any case, to see my son, Walter, before he is sent overseas. He’s just been drafted into the infantry, as a private soldier. He refused a commission. I shall not return to England.’
Christopher thought miserably, what can I say? How can I ask her to wait for me, when I don’t know for how long? Margaret was likely to live at least as long as he did. Why did he not have it in him to throw up the Manor, and Walstone, and go with her? Get a divorce in America – there were several states that would grant it, in his circumstances, Virgil Kramer had assured him – marry her, and live over there? The only answer to that was – that he could not do it. He was Squire of Walstone.
She said, ‘Let’s walk to the station, dearest. Holding hands. When they don’t see me again, they’ll understand.’
The winter wind rattled the windows of the stone house on Officers’ Row at Fort Sill, and blew the smoke from the chimney flat to the south, across the parade ground. It was near dusk, and Jean Burress was holding a little ‘cocktail’ party – she was always in the front of fashion in these matters. A dozen young men from the course just completed at the School of Fire were attending, with only one other lady – a captain’s very unfashionable and very plain wife: Jean did not like competition in these affairs. The young men were all, Johnny had noticed, from the upper crust of American society: none of the intelligent farmers’ and artisans’ sons on the course had been invited. Lieutenant Burress was at a conference in San Antonio, at Fort Sam Houston, to do with Fort Sill’s part in the defence of the southern border against possible attack from Mexico, which was in its endemic state of political turmoil.
Johnny stood apart from the crowd in the front parlour, a drink in his hand. He did not know what was in it, but Jean had pressed it into his hands when he arrived, saying, ‘It’s the latest thing, John dear, a Bronx – you must try it.’
The telegram burned in his pocket – this one just come yesterday: Stella broke left upper arm hunting yesterday is in hospital recovering well sends love Father Christopher. First the baby, now this … the poor girl must be feeling terrible. He must get to see her, and comfort her. He had graduated well, and was now a 2nd Lieutenant of Field Artillery, the single bar heavy on each shoulder. In a few days, they’d all be posted. He had told the Adjutant that he wanted to return to France – but so did everyone else on the course; and Field Artillery officers were desperately needed for the expanding National Army here at home… So, if he was sent to France, as soon as he got there, he’d apply for a few days’ leave – there wouldn’t be any serious fighting until the spring; if he was retained in the States, he’d apply for leave at once.
He found the captain’s wife beside him. She was forty, plump, and homely. She laid a hand on his arm, ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your wife’s arm, Mr Merritt.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. Jean must have told her.
‘And that on top of losing the baby. You must be longing to get back to her side.’
‘I am.’ He liked the lady; she was comforting in a genuine way; but … he was not in a mood to be sociable.
The woman said, ‘If you wouldn’t mind, could you tell me what was the matter with your baby – why she died? It was a girl, wasn’t it? … It’s not just idle curiosity,’ she added quickly. ‘But I lost a baby, too, a long time ago … and I always wonder whether it was necessary, whether he need have died.’
Jean, or one of the young men, put a very loud ragtime record on the phonograph; and Johnny raised his voice to be heard – ‘The baby had apnea – stoppages of breathing – shaking tremors – convulsions – and died of suffocation.’
A cheerful voice at his elbow said, ‘Sounds like a heroin baby to me.’ Johnny swung round to find himself face to face with Lieutenant Aquila, one of the post’s younger doctors. He was from New York, and had joined the Army’s medical department as soon as war was declared. He was a loud spoken, curly-black-haired man of about thirty-five, very proud of his conquests among the ladies. Johnny did not like him, but Jean Burress apparently did – though he was far from being in the Four Hundred.
Johnny said, ‘What do you mean?’
Aquila had a pale drink in his hands, which Johnny recognized as a Dry Martini; and he’d probably had a couple more earlier. His face was flushed and he said, ‘Overheard what you said … couldn’t help it … I was an intern at Bellevue, then lived and practised in Hell’s Kitchen … what you were describing are the symptoms of a baby whose mother was a drug addict – probably heroin – when the baby was born.’
Johnny found his fists doubled and his chest constricting with fury. The captain’s wife eased herself between the two men as Johnny said, ‘The death was given as “natural causes.”’
Aquila said, ‘Twenty to fifty percent of all infant deaths are called “natural causes” … but that’s because the old medical fogies are too lazy to investigate. The baby’s dead, so what does it matter? Don’t rock the boat, don’t cause a scandal.’
Johnny said furiously, ‘This baby’s mother was my wife, Lieutenant.’
Aquila was drunk, but not very; he said appeasingly, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know … apnea
is very common in newborn children … even convulsions are not all that rare.’
‘Then why … ?’ Johnny began.
The captain’s wife cut in, ‘Now, Mr Merritt, I have to take Lieutenant Aquila to meet my husband …’ She hustled the doctor away.
Johnny stood a long minute where he was, staring after them … heroin addict … which meant, drug fiend. Impossible!
Burress’s striker, acting as bartender, poured him another drink. Time passed. The crowd in the room began to thin. He had another cocktail. Soon, it was time to go. He went to find his greatcoat, gloves, and cap. In the passage his hostess stopped him and whispered, ‘Don’t go, John … I want to talk to you.’
He hesitated; but she had gone, and slowly he returned to the parlour. The striker cleared the bar table and left. The last guest went. He was alone. Fifteen minutes later Jean Burress came in. She had changed, and was wearing now what looked almost like an evening robe, except that it left her shoulders bare, and Johnny had never seen a robe like that.
She sank onto a sofa, and patted it beside her. ‘Sit here, John … Do you want another drink? I’ll make you one.’ She had always called him John, and he was beginning to think of himself as John rather than Johnny. Harvard, and careless youth seemed a long time ago.
He said, ‘I’ve had enough … thanks.’
‘I’m so sorry … but don’t take it too hard. Broken arms heal quickly, and in a few days she’ll be right as rain … except that she’ll be wearing a cast for a bit … And in a few days you’ll be leaving Fort Sill. Where do you want to go?’
‘France.’
‘Oh, I know you all have to say that, but do you really?’
‘I do want to, Mrs …’
She put a finger to his lips, ‘Jean! How often have I told you? … Would you like to stay here?’
‘Here, at the School of Fire?’
She nodded – ‘Or as a Field Artillery instructor at Camp Domiphan? George could arrange it. He says you could be a very good instructor. Of course, you’re a Harvard man … and so handsome, too. It isn’t fair.’
Johnny said, ‘I really do want to go to France, Jean. Once I’m over there I can get leave and …’
She put her finger back to his lips and murmured, ‘I want you to stay, John.’ She looped her arms round his neck and gently pulled his face down onto hers. Her lips parted. They kissed. Johnny could not help himself; he was being kissed, and he responded. He felt an erection growing inside his trousers, and dropped one hand to her bosom, slipping it inside the robe to cup the naked swelling breast. She smelled marvellous, of perfume and women, her hair was a golden halo in the dim light, her body writhing against him, her breath coming fast. She was almost as pretty as Stella, and –
‘Upstairs!’ she whispered. ‘Upstairs, now!’
Stella! Oh God, Stella! His poor wife … He broke free, rushed out of the room, found his coat, cap, and gloves and ran out into the winter evening.
Stella Merritt pulled up her silk knickers, rose from the couch and brushed a hand through her hair. Charles Deerfield finished buttoning himself. The cast on her arm had not prevented him demanding his pound of flesh from her. She’d learned it was no good asking for the needle before he was ready.
He said, ‘Sit down, Stella. I have something to tell you.’
‘What?’ she asked uneasily.
‘I’m leaving Hedlington. An English alienist I met in Vienna – a Freudian, like myself – has built up a very successful practice in Wimpole Street, but unfortunately he is now dying – cancer. He has asked me to be his partner until he can no longer work, and then take over … of course I can not compel his patients to come to me, but he thinks most of them will, and so do I. There are not that many Freudian analysts even in London.’
‘But … but … what am I going to do?’ she said.
He said seriously – the most seriously she remembered him speaking to her – ‘When I started giving you heroin – and sometimes sharing it with you – it was a game … something exciting, more exciting than drinking, you were drinking too much, trying to find adventure – that is your nature, my dear … I knew heroin caused addiction though I myself have never had that problem, but to tell the truth, I did not realize how deeply you would become addicted. When you became pregnant, I told you that you must cure yourself, and I tried to help you – with sedatives, hypnotics so that you could sleep, analgesics for the pain. But – you would not summon up the willpower to do it. Instead, you blackmailed me.’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ she burst out. ‘I’m trembling now, sweating, because you haven’t yet given me the injection. How can I ever cure myself?’
‘You were taken to hospital to have your arm put in a cast, were you not?’ She nodded. ‘Did the sister who bathed the arm comment on the needle marks?’ Stella shook her head. ‘But she noticed them?’ Stella nodded. ‘Then you may be sure that she also interpreted them correctly, even in a small country town like this … I suggest that you return to the hospital and tell them the truth – that you are a heroin addict. I suppose I can’t stop you saying I gave it to you, but I shall deny it, and it won’t help you, or your marriage, or anyone concerned – so please don’t. If you submit to detoxification in a hospital, you could be clear in a week or two … I could certainly arrange for it in a London hospital, if you don’t want to have it done here.’
‘For God’s sake, Charles … !’
Shrugging, he got out the needle and the heroin, and injected her, saying, ‘I’ll give you a week’s supply. Within that week, you must get to a hospital. Or you’re as good as lost.’
Daily Telegraph, Friday, December 21, 1917
CIVIL WARFARE IN RUSSIA
The Bolshevik Petrograd News Agency now admits that Rostoff – an important city of over 200,000 inhabitants, about twenty-five miles from the mouth of the Don, which flows into the Gulf of Taganrog – has been captured by the Cossacks … The infantry has gone over to the Cossacks. The Red Guards laid down their arms and surrendered. General Kaledin has entered into communication with the Smolny Institute (the headquarters of the Bolsheviks) proposing a cessation of the civil war. He stipulates that the Maximalists shall not intervene in the affairs of the Don, and insists on the immediate formation of a National Government.
Meanwhile in Petrograd chaos, if not something worse, prevails. Martial law has been proclaimed by Lenin and his accomplices. Street fighting is of the commonest occurrence, and some idea of what is going on is afforded by Reuters’ correspondent, who, in explaining some delay in the despatch of two telegrams on Wednesday, says that the firing in the street was too intense to permit of his reaching the telegraph office.
Drastic demands have been put forward by the Ukrainian Rada, involving complete freedom from interference by the Bolshevik Government at Petrograd … There is no really authentic news regarding the peace negotiations at Brest-Litovsk. An Exchange Company’s message from Petrograd, dated Wednesday, asserts that ‘the German delegates and the Austrian Minister, Count Czernin, agreed to the formula of no annexations and no contribution (indemnity). They oppose the other formula as to the basis of self-government, considering that this is a question of internal policy for settlement by individual States.’ This statement must be accepted with reserve. In any case, the enemy is merely bent on laying traps for the Russian Delegates.
So, for Russia, one war had ended, and another was beginning: war is dead, long live war. It was impossible to guess whether the Bolshevik regime would survive. It was almost impossible to realize that it had come into existence at all, in what had been such a devout and traditionalist country as Holy Russia. Now the Cossacks were rebelling, and other peoples in the huge country would certainly do the same. If Lenin succeeded in putting down the rebellions, and holding Russia together, he would have worked a miracle. And if so, there would be a new force in the world, a Bolshevik revolutionary Russia, no longer a lurking, inward-looking sullen, only part-civilized bear, but a hungry, ang
ry, world-ranging bear. And the chief force to contain Russia, and counter-balance her enormous potential strength was – as it had been for centuries – the Teutons … whom the rest of the civilized world was intent on destroying. The future looked darker every day.
Friday … in the old days he’d give young Hilda half an hour’s writing lesson on Fridays; but Hilda had long since left his service and was working in Coventry, where no one cared whether she could write well or speak well; but where she made more money. He’d ride Marquis over to Beighton and visit Stella. She wouldn’t be out of the cast yet, and perhaps he could do a few little things for her … then, back here and round the village. That would help to restore his sense of proportion. He’d lost Isabel, and nothing could heal that wound, but he must go on living. Russia, Holy Russia was gone, but England lived, and would live; Walstone lived, and would live; Cates and Gorses and Rowlands and Durand-Beaulieus lived, and would live – changed, certainly, but still enjoying this air, this season, and sharing this land, this time of history.
35
England and Flanders: Christmas, 1917
Christopher Cate read the paper with increasing despondency. Isabel was gone and the chances were strong that he would never see her again. In the night, lying awake, he had finally decided that he must sell Upper Bohun Farm to a land speculator from London; he needed the money. The Mayhews had been warned, and were understandably unhappy, even though Christopher had promised to stipulate that their lease could not be terminated until after the war ended. That suited the would-be buyer, who in any case would have to wait for peace until he could start his ambitious project – building medium-sized houses for fairly rich people to live in, and go to London by train everyday for work. ‘The line will be electrified within ten years after the war ends,’ the man had said. ‘You’ll see. The people who buy my houses will get the best of both worlds – town and country.’ Perhaps. Perhaps not … electrified trains were certainly cleaner and he supposed they were more convenient, but if they had a third rail, like the London tubes and the Metropolitan, there’d be terrible casualties among hounds if the fox ever crossed the line … but there wasn’t going to be a pack after the first of the year. Swanwick was holding a New Year’s Day meet as a farewell and then disbanding the hunt: another familiar sight and sound gone the twang of the horn across the winter furrows, the music of the bitches on a screaming scent…
