Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  My life is about to be destroyed. Mother has introduced me to a wealthy lawyer and informs me I shall marry him. I will not.

  He is not a bad man but he is too old, at least thirty, and while he is pleasant, I do not love him

  I love you, Jack John, John Jack.

  This is not the mere outpouring of some foolish emotional immaturity from a silly young girl, I really do love you. I remember our arguments, our laughter, our walks. Please come to me, please rescue me, brave bold Jack.

  Mother may not approve of you but I know that Simon also loves you. Between us we shall convince mother. Simon has written that he intends to have you, and your mysterious friend Speedy, promoted to a commission. This may provide her with the necessary social acceptability. She is such a snob.

  I should write no more, the war office strictly limits letter sizes. Please come to me, Jack. Please save me from a materially rich but an emotionally inadequate future.

  With all of my love,

  Your Sarah. Your forever Sarah

  XXXXXXXXX

  [Journal reverts to Jack’s handwriting]

  Dear Diary… what the blazes should I do?

  It’s now six years since I wrote the line above. I stopped making occasional entries when life took its fateful turn. I lost the will to continue this journal but now feel I’m able to and shall tell the rest of my story.

  Simon was shot by a sniper while we were in the front trenches. We weren’t there for an attack, just holding.

  The bastard hit him in the front of his shoulder but the bullet bounced off the shoulder blade and down through his torso, ripping up some organs on the way. Speedy and I pushed everybody out of the way to hold him. He smiled at us both, he said it was bad luck for him. He thanked us both, I have no idea for what. I remember his last words to me. “Go to her, Jack. Make me proud.” He died easily and without convulsions or massive pain.

  We ignored standing orders, the dead should lay where they fall until the proper medic teams recover them. Speedy and I were not prepared to allow our friend to become another macabre backdrop to war, he would not decorate nor fertilise this cursed land. We lifted him and took him back to the marshalling area. We left him in the casualty tent. The doctor objected but we made it clear that Simon would be afforded all respect. He could have called the military police but I think he sympathised. We returned to the front trench.

  Speedy and I hatched a plan. That night we slid out into no man’s land and found a German rifle. We used the bayonet to run through my left calf. We concocted a story about an encounter with the enemy while out reconnoitring. Most of our lads knew it was a sham but nobody said anything. They and we knew that we’d be executed if this ruse was discovered.

  I was duly sent back to Blighty as, yet again, a wounded hero. I was a bit embarrassed that we got more medals for neutralising the fictitious enemy reconnoitring team. Still, one Military Cross for fibbing to go alongside the VC for panicking. In all seriousness, we earned the VC but had to accept the silent embarrassment of the MC. We could hardly send them back with an explanation.

  In the drawing room of Penn Court Manor, stood me and Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, betrothed to the young and unwilling Sarah Penn. Sarah and her mother were seated. It was an awkward meeting. I gave the family Simon’s personal property. Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, asked how he died.

  “It was quick and clean,” I partially lied.

  “Boldly facing the foe, I hope,” stated Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE. I considered punching him but this moment was difficult enough already.

  “Who are you with, sir?” I asked him.

  “The treasury, I thought you knew. I advise on fiscal and planning laws.”

  “No sir, I mean your wartime activities, not your civilian occupation.”

  Sarah’s mother glanced at me, she looked a little annoyed. Sarah giggled softly.

  “Sir. Mr Adams. I have a reserved occupation. I am obliged to remain in my civilian position.”

  He was tall, lean, expensively dressed and with a quick attractive smile. In another time and place I may have liked this man. In this time and place I did not. I learned from the conversation that he had recently been promoted due to the death of a senior colleague.

  “How did he die?” I hoped to sound innocent but the look from Sarah’s mother told me I did not. I did notice that the corners of her mouth momentarily curled upwards. She was inwardly grinning at my insolence.

  “He was not young. In his bed overnight, or rather in the bed supplied by his host, he had spent the evening being entertained in Belgravia.”

  “Ah,” I smiled and kept my voice low. “Dead drunk in the bed of some whore, no doubt.” I wasn’t as low-voiced as I’d hoped to be. Sarah giggled, her mother looked disapprovingly at me. Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, invited me to walk with him in the garden.

  The garden was huge, I would have called it a park. We strolled side by side.

  Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, spoke. “I’m a little cross with your disrespectful comment about my friend. You are impressively prescient, he was indeed in a brothel, a high class one I might add. The needs of men, as you know, are complicated and insistent. We should protect his memory and the sensitivities of his family and friends.”

  “I’m sorry. I mean that, I apologise. It’s the needs of men that underlies this situation we’re in, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve considered beating you, do you know that?” He spoke a kind of non-threat intended to be threatening.

  “I’ve killed a lot of men who have tried to, did you know that?” I hoped this was a suitable warning for him. Don’t pick fights with men just back from the trenches, they won’t be able to restrain themselves. In your head you’re just punching a man, in his you’re a deadly threat and he’ll respond on that basis.

  “I intended no threat, sir. Your martial prowess is not required. I shall marry Sarah, you shall return to your old life after the war and never bother her again. I have contacts in places that can ensure you find good well paid work. What do you say?”

  We stopped walking. I moved close to him and looked him in the eye. “I say that your world is changing. I say that you won’t for long maintain the benefits you perceive as your right by birth. I say that if Sarah will have me, I shall have her. I say that you disgust me. I say that I invite you to strike me so that I may strike you back. I say that you will not bully me. I say that your day is done, if not now then soon. I say that you may not control me nor may you buy me.”

  Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, thought about it for a while. He would have gone up in my estimation if he had hit me. He turned and strode away. I followed him back to the house.

  Back in the drawing room, Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, made his excuses to leave. He insisted he had business to attend to and that today would decide his future marital status.

  “Sarah,” he said, rather pompously, “you must make a decision. John is a good man but he is not one of us, no offence intended, John. Sarah, should you decide to marry me our wedding shall go ahead as planned. Should you make the bizarre decision to partner with John, I shall refer to the trustees and leave you to your fate.”

  Trustees? I learned that rich people don’t own much. They apparently rely on wealth and property trusts held for their benefit as a named group or class, such as the family Penn, and therefore may not pass on or dispose of their own assets, which are not theirs but held by trustees who are duty bound to permit the beneficiaries to use them. In this way they avoid several tax obligations. How the other half cheat, eh?

  The implication in the words of Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, was that Sarah would be removed from the class of beneficiaries. Welcome to poverty and reduced life span like the rest of us.

  All of this left Sarah’s mother with a problem. She liked me, I knew that. She also needed to ensure
Sarah’s future. Sarah was now insistent that she would have nothing to do with Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, and he was a cad. My epithet for him would have been a bit stronger.

  Sarah’s mother agreed that Sarah and I should go away for a short while to discuss our options. Part of the Penn family trust included a small riverside house in Devon. We travelled there by train and coach. Sarah’s mother said it should be a clandestine journey and sojourn since Sarah’s reputation should be maintained.

  “I rather suspect your reputation is perhaps already challenged, but probably rescued by your heroism,” Sarah’s mother told me with a knowing grin. Sarah remained inscrutable but I later learned she knew exactly what her mother meant.

  “I shall try to emulate the gentleman,” I sought to reassure her.

  “Oh, don’t do that. Behave properly instead.” We all laughed at her comment.

  The faith displayed by Sarah’s mother was, I’m sorry to admit, misplaced. The needs of young men are complicated and insistent. It turned out that so are the needs of young women. Sarah became pregnant as a result of our earnest discussions about our options. We didn’t know until a month or so later.

  The bayonet wound would not heal properly. The army placed me on a reserve list. This meant that I would only be required again if we started losing and the Germans made dangerous headway.

  I was not dismissed from the army but would have my pay reduced to 9d a day plus 3d for being brave in the past. Obviously courage is worth less on the home front. I was placed as military supervisor at a factory in Stratford, making bullets. The army felt that experience of the front made munitions workers more conscientious, the army was correct; it’s one thing to know that each manufactured round is important, it’s another to feel it in your heart, to feel that each round may represent a British life saved. I wrote to Speedy and wished him well. I told him I’d keep an eye on his family.

  As a result of my new role, I was able to return to Penn Court Manor when news of the pregnancy arrived by letter. Sarah and I had made no clear plans but it was now obvious that decisions needed to be made and acted on.

  I hugged Sarah and meant all of the affection implied by the contact. We were in the drawing room again, tea and sweet cakes were laid out as if I were making a small social call.

  Sarah’s mother stood in front of me.

  “I have to do two things,” she said, a little mysteriously. Then she slapped me around the face. I deserved that and didn’t flinch. Then, to my surprise, she kissed me on the cheek.

  “What do you think Simon would say?” She asked.

  “Honestly? I don’t think he’d mind. I think he’d berate us for our foolishness but I think he would support us.”

  “So do I, and so shall I.”

  The family history was explained, it surprised me. The family were of American descent but the American Penns are originally of English descent. I was informed that they were one of several branches originating from William Penn himself, Quaker activist and founder of Pennsylvania.

  Sarah’s mother made it clear that we, to her great annoyance, were now estranged from the Penns. She was sorry but Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, had instructed the board of trustees that our bastards, his words, were an illegitimate line and should not benefit from the trusts nor be considered worthy of inclusion in the line. Furthermore, since Sarah had chosen to impurify her pedigree with seed from a lower order, she too now failed to qualify as a beneficiary. Sir Jonathon Metcalfe, MBE, should hope we never meet again.

  Sarah’s mother eventually had him dismissed from the board of trustees but the damage was done. I never met any other Penns but Sarah sometimes received letters from some of them. She said they were friendly and morally supportive.

  Sarah’s exclusion from the trust meant she adopted my working class life style. We set up home in Old Ford, my little income assisted by money often sent from Sarah’s mother. The child was a beautiful girl who we named Lilly. It is with deep sorrow that I record she died at the age of four, she just developed a high temperature, went into convulsions and defied the best efforts of doctors and nurses to revive her. When it happened I ran her through the streets to the hospital shouting for a clear way, everybody gave way. I love her eternally and miss her every day.

  Sarah and I stayed together. Her mother took up residence in a small cottage in the grounds of Penn Court Manor and we visited often. The main house was now occupied by another part of the Penn family. Any other children we have will be excluded from the trust. Neither Sarah nor I care about that. We are happy. We intend to have more children.

  Speedy survived. He lives near us. We meet up regularly to talk and laugh together. We often talk about Simon; we call him our mate the gent.

  My mum and dad help us to the best of their limited ability, bless them. Sarah’s mum continues to send money and advice which we appreciate very much. I hope that our children and their children and their children are able to continue the unequal fight to achieve more than the world wants to give.

  ***

  So that’s the big secret, I’m in a bastard line. I can live with that. I acknowledge and welcome that. I am proud of Jack and Sarah. I thank them for their genetic input, it may be where the steel and gravel in my soul originates. I bless them. There were no further entries in the journal. I think that Jack had decided enough was enough and he didn’t want to continue it much beyond the war’s end.

  This time I walked the couple of miles from Whitechapel underground to the hospice in Hackney. I passed Bethnal Green underground where many died in one evening during the blitz. They didn’t die from the bombs directly, just the crush and fright as planes dropped a series of bombs that marched towards the people entering the shelter. Panic did the rest as they tumbled down the stone staircase and were trampled. I was imagining the lost and the people they didn’t make and who they in turn did not make.

  Close by, the national toy museum, the Victoria & Albert Museum of Childhood, seemed to mock the thought; here are the toys they couldn’t have because they didn’t come to get them, now the toys live in glass cabinets untouched. This led to an unpleasant thought, as if the last one was cheerful.

  In nearby Victoria Park is a large boating lake. Now a tranquil pretty environment, during wartime fire bombing it had water pumped from it by fire fighters. The lower water level revealed many, maybe hundreds, of cloth wrapped or boxed aborted foetuses. They also were victims of the war, unwanted results of melancholy and hurried liaisons with soldiers, often American or Canadian but also British. The illegal backstreet abortionists gained good trade from the transient warriors and local girls, all of them expecting to die themselves at any moment. London has many park lakes and canals, I didn’t want to think about them.

  Down this road lives the potential for depression, I decided. I concentrated on walking and casually observing the multi-ethnic cultural babel that now occupied this place.

  From the park I heard children laughing, a tonic at any time. I noticed that the kids were herded into their own tribal groups by the adults, mainly women. I also noticed that the kids showed a healthy disrespect for parental authority and played together anyway. Up yours, tribal cultural restrictions, your offspring have reached beyond your miserable restrictive world. I cheer and applaud them.

  It was a long walk and by the time I reached St. Joseph’s I was clear in my mind what I wanted. I wanted Dave to read the journal, I wanted his reassurance that I was respecting those who went before. I just needed to talk with a friend. I’d been calling his number but he just wasn’t answering, I thought that maybe he’d lost his phone.

  The hospice receptionist was somebody I’d never seen before. An olive skinned young man who greeted me warmly.

  “I need to see Dave Thompson,” I informed him. He looked at me enquiringly, which is never a good sign after you’ve said what you want.

  �
��I’m sorry, he’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?”

  “No.” I hesitated for a second, “Yes, could you please let him know Steve is waiting for him in the chapel. He knows me, my mother was here. I’d like to use the chapel to wait for him if nobody minds.”

  He directed me to the chapel, I didn’t bother telling him I knew the way well, he was trying to be helpful. I’m grumpy enough without being churlish as well. I bought a coffee from the Klix machine before I got there, chemical beverage to sear the throat and destroy the taste buds.

  I’d been sitting in the chapel for about twenty minutes when a young RC priest came in and asked if I was Steve. He was of Philippine ethnicity but with an English received pronunciation accent. Clean cut and well presented with manicured nails, slim weak hands, shockingly white teeth and a faint smell of cologne. I grinned as I wondered what he made of Dave.

  “Will Dave be long?” I asked. “I can wait or come back another time. I tried to phone him but couldn’t get through, I was hoping he’d be around.”

  “How do you know him, are you close?” Asked the young man.

  I must have changed my demeanour a bit at that question because he took a small step back. I know the world and I know people and I know what things mean. That question could only mean bad news. I didn’t need this well meaning but undoubtedly inexperienced youngster pussy-footing around me.

  “Is he alive?” The boy seemed surprised at that direct question.

  “He will live forever in the company of…”

  “Don’t fuck with me, boy.” I showed my palms because he seemed alarmed at that. “I don’t mean to sound angry with you. Dave is my friend and if something’s wrong, just tell me. Me and Dave understand each other, just talk to me the way you’d talk to him.”