Coming Home

by Roy E. Stolworthy

  The large red-bricked house was the third on the left, No. 5, a semi-detached Victorian dwelling three storeys high with dark green ivy smothering the bottom half. The garden, laid mainly to lawn with a rounded flowerbed, surrounded a concrete statue of Pan. Already green shoots heralding spring flowers peeped through the ground promising better times ahead. Of hot summer days and warm, gentle evenings. A tall hedge of striking evergreen Leylandii separated the front garden from the house next door. To the right, a row of beech trees, stiff and unbending, stood like protecting sentinels acting as windbreak and a screen from unwanted prying eyes. Black drapes hanging sombrely at the pulled-shut windows gave a sense that something wretched had occurred and the house seemed deserted.

  Making his way down the winding pathway to the heavy wooden door, he tugged the thin rope and listened to the musical jingle of bells from inside. Tentatively he straightened his cap and clasped his hands behind his back, and hoped that Catherine would open the door and smile at him with her bewildered eyes, perhaps even touch his arm with her tiny, warm hands.

  A huge grey cat caught his eye. He watched it stretch and stroll slowly across the lawn, without a care in the world. Seized by a mounting sense of impatience, he tugged the thin rope once again. At the sound of withdrawing bolts he stepped back and waited. Finally a small shifty-looking man in his late fifties opened the door. He wore brown overalls and looked like someone who dealt with mechanical problems. His beady eyes surveyed him and there was a weasel-like quickness about his movements.

  “Mr Banner?” Thomas asked.

  “No,” the man said in a cackling voice. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Archie Elkin. Miss Catherine said I could call on her. We met a week ago, on the boat from Calais.”

  “Henry, who is it?” a woman’s voice called from inside.

  “A gentleman in uniform asking for Miss Catherine, ma’am,” the man answered.

  There followed an undisturbed silence and Thomas nervously brushed away the creases from the front of his tunic. The cat arched its back and with a short series of purrs rubbed its body against his legs, and Thomas smiled at the man holding the door. He declined the smile and returned a non-committal stare.

  “Oh dear, better ask him in.” The voice sounded tired and resigned, with a tinge of sadness.

  Reluctantly the man stepped to one side with a look of disdain on his face. Thomas took off his cap and made his way cautiously down the long, dim corridor. Passing a table holding a vase of tired daffodils, by the doorway to the lounge he stopped and peered inside. A woman, tall and slim with gold-coloured hair piled on top of her head and dressed from head to toe in black, met his gaze. Her eyes were wide and sympathetic, her lips full and parted, and her high cheekbones offered a vision of eternal youthfulness. He knew immediately it must be Catherine’s mother.

  “I’m so sorry. I never caught your name.”

  “Archie Elkin, Ma’am, like I told the gentleman, I only met Catherine last week. She said it would be all right for me to call on her. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  The woman moved away and peered through a gap in the black drapes.

  “I’m afraid Catherine was killed hours after she arrived at Dover, during a Zeppelin attack on the harbour,” she said with her back to him. “She was pulled from the quay with a broken neck. They promised me she died instantly.”

  The words struck into his brain, echoing and re-echoing like the sound of a giant bell. His legs felt unsteady, close to buckling, and without invitation he sank into a plush velvet chair. For a brief moment his lungs struggled for air, and when it came he held it, afraid he would never draw breath again. Not Catherine, with the golden hair and bewildered eyes, who had kissed his cheek for helping her with the injured soldier and clutched his arm at the sight of the Dover cliffs. Not the same sweet Catherine whom he wanted to tell he loved.

  “I’m sorry,” he said through gritted teeth. “I shouldn’t have come.”

  She noticed his discomfort and, looking down at the floor, felt a slither of pity and forced a semblance of a smile.

  “I never had the opportunity to speak to her that day, everything happened so quickly. You must have been one of the last people she spoke to,” she said gently.

  Thomas never answered, shadows darkened his feelings and his heart sank ever deeper into a void of despair at another part of his life being snatched away from him. He had known her for only a matter of hours and she had been taken from him as though it were only a fleeting dream. Already, he missed her. What harm had she ever done to anyone? How dare they have the effrontery to say she was too frail to assist men dying in agony? Ask the men she nursed in death. Ask the men to whom she became a surrogate mother when they cried out for their own mothers while gripped in the throes of a horrible death. Why is she dead, she wasn’t a soldier? Some give some, some give all. Like quicksilver anger flashed in his eyes. He wanted to tell the woman what he was thinking then thought it best not to make a bad situation even worse.

  She watched him, sensing his vulnerability. “You are returning to France today?” she asked, sitting in a chair and facing him.

  “No, Ma’am. My ship doesn’t leave until tomorrow evening. I’m truly sorry to hear of Catherine’s death. I’ll leave now, I need to find lodgings,” he mumbled quietly.

  “Oh dear, you won’t find lodgings anywhere on the south coast while the war’s on. You poor man, you must stay here, I have more than enough room to spare and Catherine would never forgive me if I turned you away.”

  Dazed, he followed her up the creaking treads of the carpeted stairs. On the first floor she showed him the bathroom and toilet. In the bedroom, with tentative fingertips, he reached out and felt the softness of the bed. He was exhausted. Undressing, he stepped from his clothes and left them where they lay. With the crisp cotton sheets pulled over his head, he sobbed himself to sleep. When he woke, the falling dusk matched the mournful ache in his heart. Immersed in the luxury of a hot bath, he tried to recover his senses and come to terms with his loss, wallowing until the water turned cold. He shivered – it didn’t matter, nothing mattered any more.

  Naked and dripping water he gazed from the window overlooking the garden. In his mind he saw a picture of dead men fighting a dead enemy in grey trenches overflowing red with blood. He stepped back, fearful he was going mad, and blinked the thoughts away. Why did such thoughts invade his mind? He doused his face with cold water. When a vision of Catherine formed in his mind, he trembled. He wanted to reach out for her, to hold her, to feel the warmth of her body and smell the sweet fragrance of her perfume. He attempted to shrug the thought away, but it remained, teasing and tantalising his nerve ends. Catherine, sweet, frail Catherine, wrenched from his grasp like Ruby, Marie and Dilly. Sometimes love was like a razor and left only a bleeding heart. From that day on, Thomas knew that the only things that really existed in this world were in people’s heads.

  The light tap on the door disturbed his thoughts. Back in the real world, he pulled on the bathrobe and opened the door. Mrs Banner stood holding an armful of men’s clothing.

  “You are the same build as my husband,” she said. “I thought perhaps you might like to be out of uniform for a while. As I said, it was just a thought, the choice is yours. Dinner will be in one hour,” she smiled, handing him the clothes.

  Slowly he stroked his fingers across the smooth coolness of the silk shirt. He couldn’t muster a smile, and even if he could he really didn’t want to.

  Dressed in light trousers, a dark blazer and the white silk shirt he discovered the shoes were two sizes too small. Ignoring the pain he tied the laces loosely. With only a passing glance at the striped tie, he felt the flush of self-consciousness and dropped it on the bed. He’d never worn fine clothes before and considered changing back into his uniform. If Archie could see him now he would never have lived down the shame.

  On a small table by the door, standing next to an empty china bowl, stood a bottle of men’s
cologne. Removing the cap, he sniffed at the contents, unsure whereabouts on his body it should go, or how much. The clock on the wall stated it was a further thirty-five minutes before dinner was served. Should he wait in the bedroom or go downstairs? Again, uncertainty filled his mind. Accustomed to eating when he was hungry, and certainly not accompanied by refined ladies like Mrs Banner, he prayed she wouldn’t spread a row of cutlery on the table making him look foolish. He became nervous and decided to go down for a recce to work out the lie of the land, like snipers do.

  “I’ve decided on steak, potatoes and green beans, followed by apple pie and cream and a glass of beer from the cellar – man’s food,” she smiled, not wishing to appear pretentious. Tomorrow he would be gone and Catherine would approve of her hospitality.

  “Yes please, I mean, thank you,” he stuttered. Noticing only two places set, he frowned.

  “Mr Banner’s in London, on business. He won’t be joining us for dinner,” she said, noticing his glance.

  “What business is he in, Ma’am?”

  “Oh, he owns a carpentry business, but at the moment he has a government contract to produce rifle butts for the army. I hardly see him these days, spends all his time in London. He was called away just before you arrived. I’m sure he would have liked to meet you. He and Catherine were very close. He has ambitions of becoming a politician, but I don’t think he’s cut out for it. Would you know anything about such things, Mr Elkin?”

  “Yes, I do, Ma’am. I’m a sniper with the 3rd Yorkshire Rifles. Would you mind calling me Archie? I can’t get used to being called mister. I keep thinking people are talking to someone else.”

  “Of course, Archie,” she smiled knowingly, “and you must call me Sarah, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

  Throughout the meal they struggled with small talk. When Sarah leaned back, her meal hardly touched, he took it as a signal to leave the knife and fork side by side on the plate, like his mother had taught him.

  “Please, tell me how you met Catherine,” she said.

  Surprised, he found her easy to talk to. She listened attentively, never interrupting, and showed her generosity and graciousness when he stumbled over a word. She was a kind, gentle woman, like he knew Catherine would have been. They chatted while he drank his beer and she sipped small glasses of sherry.

  With the meal over she stood to remove the plates, and he got to his feet with the intention of helping. She smiled inwardly at his boyish enthusiasm. Maybe it was the sherry that caused her to stumble. Whatever it was, it happened quickly, and he automatically reached out to save her from falling. She flushed and reddened at the feel of his hands on her body. He felt the warm firmness of her slim frame and quickly pulled away. Still blushing at the contact, she moved backwards, brushing her hands down the front of her skirt. Thomas felt the heat burn into his face and the sudden uncontrollable warmth spread into his groin. Embarrassment and disgust welled in his stomach. He hated himself and wanted to run outside and hide his face in shame.

  “Sit down, Archie, and I’ll make coffee. We both seem to have been over-excessive with the drink – must be the times,” she said, attempting to diffuse the tenseness. “You do like coffee I presume?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he stuttered, dropping her Christian name.

  He sat alone in the dining room with only his burning shame for company while she busied herself in the kitchen with the coffee. He couldn’t keep his feelings from overpowering his body – he wanted her to be like Dilly, or Marie, to touch him and arouse him. But she was the same age as his mother. He crossed his legs and prayed she took her time.

  The following morning at breakfast, he asked for tea only. She seemed happy to oblige and chatted amicably, like the previous night had merely been a figment of the imagination. She looked different, he thought, radiant and relaxed, and the texture of her skin glowed pink and smooth. Dressed casually but conservatively, with no jewellery other than a string of pearls around her neck, she wore a white ankle-length skirt and matching silk blouse with a low neckline. She looked almost angelic, and he couldn’t erase the thoughts of the night before. He felt a vague disorganised affection for her and again the juices of desire enflamed him. He seethed with anger and shame, and dared not look at her. Do people only do it when the woman wants to? Doesn’t the man have any say at all? he thought. When she excused herself and left the room he heaved a sigh of relief.

  Although the sun shone outside the house was dark and gloomy, enveloped in the black drapes in respect for Catherine. Glancing around the room in the hope of seeing photographs of her, he was disappointed by their absence. From the rear window he gazed out over the long expansive garden reaching as far as the row of beech trees. At the bottom, a large greenhouse with moss-covered glass panels stood partly hidden by overgrown St John’s Wort bushes, already sprouting yellow. Feeling the need for fresh air he wandered slowly through the garden, urgently in need of a good pair of willing hands to return it to its former glory. A pond, half-full with still, green water caused by an excess of algae, lay before a fancy wrought-iron bench for two, and a weeping willow offered adequate shade during the hot summers. Flowerbeds invaded by weeds waited for the cut of the hoe to halt the invasion, to bloom and become easy on the eye. Inside the greenhouse wooden tables stood bare, empty terracotta pots lay scattered and broken, and a rusty pruning knife lay on a brown wicker chair with a missing leg.

  Minutes later Sarah entered carrying a mug of tea in one hand. He took a few sips, purposely avoiding her gaze whenever she spoke to him. When she brushed by him, the smell of crushed lavender wafted into his face – she and Catherine shared the same taste in perfume. When she leaned to replace a broken plant pot on a wooden table, the fabric of her blouse fell away from the creamy skin of her neck revealing the cleavage of her small breasts. He held his breath and gazed at the shadowed gap between silk and flesh, and again felt a tremor spread through his legs. He wanted her, now, not later, this minute, he wanted to remove her clothes and feel her soft cool flesh respond to his touch. Suddenly, unable to control his feelings any longer he strode by her, heading for the house. She watched him walk away, her large blue eyes momentarily clouded with sadness.

  Henry appeared later in the afternoon. He had functioned as an odd-job man, butler and fetcher and carrier since she first married her husband twenty-two years ago, and Sarah Banner relied on him heavily. In no hurry Thomas packed his suitcase and prepared to leave. The brief honeymoon with reality was over. Too soon the time had arrived to return to the harsh life in the rat-infested trenches of France and Belgium, and face recompense for his past sins. She packed him ham and pickle sandwiches to eat during the crossing and smiled when he opened his crammed cardboard suitcase to find room without crushing them. In the lounge she felt awkward, knowing that Henry might walk in at any moment. It was impossible to say goodbye to him the way she wanted to.

  His presence had given her a renewed strength and, for a brief moment, had filled the empty void in her life caused by the continual absence and lack of attention of her husband – and now the sad loss of her daughter would add to her unwanted loneliness. She had felt the loss of Catherine all the more during Thomas’s stay, yet she knew that if he’d offered the slightest gesture she would have gone willingly to him. Even the shortest interlude of love and affection would have brightened her life and made her once more feel like a woman. She wanted to hold him and tell him to take care of himself, to feel his strong arms crush her waist and make her do all the things she shouldn’t do and say the things she shouldn’t say. He stood before her, his deep-brown eyes staring into her soul, and she felt her pulse quicken. From a small bag hanging from her wrist she extracted a silver pocket watch attached to a silver chain.

  “I want you to have this, Archie. It belonged to my father and I have no further need for it. It was meant for the man who would become my daughter’s husband. Now that can never be, but perhaps you will remember us both when you look at it.” She blu
shed slightly and looked beautiful. “Goodbye, and please take care.”

  His tender age of sixteen years sprang back into his soul and he felt vulnerable, alone and sad. His defensive walls crumbled and the forced bravado and effort of acting like a man melted away. With a swish of her loose skirt she was gone, leaving the wisp of her perfume hanging in the air. He was glad she hadn’t seen his chest pumping with emotion and felt a tug of relief that nothing had transpired between them the previous evening. She was a lady, both gracious and kind, like his mother.

  Gently closing the gate he stepped into the deserted street. At the corner, he turned and looked back. He saw her face at the window, pale and ashen against the blackness of the drapes. The bus arrived at the bus stop the same time he did.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The port of Dover was busy as usual and he expected no less. A deathly hush hung in the air. He gazed sadly at the rusting ship bobbing up and down at the quayside destined to carry him back to France. With a casual eye he watched men in uniform walk slowly up the gangplank. No band played and a handful of young boys waved paper Union flags in a half-hearted manner as if they preferred to be elsewhere. The soldiers moved in a grim, determined manner with heads bowed, eyes sunken with resignation, anxious faces desperate for reassurance now they knew that the war was a deadly serious business and not a part-time adventure. They had witnessed the return of the wounded: men without limbs; men blinded for life by the swirling gas; men in a state of shock, shivering and trembling like frightened rabbits caught in the glare of a car’s headlights. A killing field waiting for the conscripted victims who shook and quivered in their shiny black boots.