That same evening, Sergeant Bull sent for him.
“I understand you’ve had another falling out with Banks?” he asked.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Thomas related the story as he saw it. Sergeant Bull listened impassively without interrupting until he’d finished.
“Corporal Elkin, I don’t care if a soldier crosses over to the German lines and makes love to them every night, as long as he kills them before he returns. You don’t seem to be able to grasp what war is about and how it affects people differently,” Sergeant Bull said in a patient voice. “Plundering and pilfering goes on all the time. It’s a way of life in the trenches. You yourself always carry an empty sandbag like the rest of the men. You cannot steal from a dead man, you can only take from him, remember that. Men take from their dead comrades in No Man’s Land all the time. Watches, rings and other meaningless trinkets go missing, but they are not taken for gain, the men take them to prove to themselves they have survived and are able to do so. Do you understand?”
Thomas frowned and the words tumbled around in his head.
“No, Sergeant, I’ve tried to understand, but it doesn’t seem right,” he said doggedly.
“Then listen to me for a moment, they steal to prove to themselves they are still alive and have made it back safely to their lines. Back in the trench the man will inspect the watch he has taken from the body of a dead comrade and perhaps, out of habit, he will shake it and then check the time against his own watch,” Sergeant Bull continued. “During those few fleeting seconds, all thoughts of the war are obliterated from his mind. Later, he will throw the watch away, maybe sell it or trade it for something else. Call it an instant tonic, a medicine that wipes away the memory of war and the thought of death. Call it whatever you will, but it works.”
Thomas fidgeted and scraped the toe of his boot over the wooden floor. The sergeant’s words verified those of Moses. Nevertheless, stealing was stealing, and stealing from comrades, whether dead or alive, was a crime he couldn’t tolerate.
Sergeant Bull stared into Thomas’s eyes, curious to see if he’d understood, but he knew that he hadn’t and he hesitated for a moment. Then, crossing the room to a small table in the corner, he rummaged underneath a pile of dog-eared magazines and produced a packet of cigarettes. With a small metal lighter he lit a cigarette and inhaled. Thomas watched, baffled, as he sent the grey stream of smoke spiralling into the air. Thomas hadn’t realised until that moment that Sergeant Bull smoked.
“Sit down, lad,” the sergeant said in a gentler tone. “I once had a man from Wakefield under my command. He was a lawyer and he believed the war was illegal and even refused an officer’s commission. When the war was over he planned to bring the British and German generals into court for crimes against mankind. So he went to a medical station and took as many small empty bottles as he could carry. Before he went over the top he scraped a piece of mud from the trench, put it in one of the bottles and labelled it. He did this in every trench he found himself in, and even took samples from German trenches he fought in. He called it evidence to be produced in court. Ten bottles should be enough, he told everyone. The whole battalion, aware of what was going on, took it upon themselves to protect him. He filled eight bottles before he was ripped to pieces by shrapnel. He went over the top like a lion, his only ambition to kill the enemy and fill the bottles. The men went with him willingly and fought like devils for a cause that wouldn’t stand up for two seconds in a court of law. It was their way of enduring the war without thinking about it.”
Thomas raked his fingers through his hair and a shiver ran down his spine. He smiled, and he understood. Then his smile faded and his gaunt, sallow face grew drawn. In the flickering glow of the candlelight, the words slowly seeped into his anguished mind. What have I done? Who am I to pass judgement on better men than I?
“How do you manage to get through the war, Sergeant?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Me, lad, I tell everyone what to do, then spend my time worrying that they’ve done it correctly. I don’t have time to worry about dying.”
It was still light, and dusk was in the throes of preparing to close down another day when Thomas left, his mind a kaleidoscope of contradictions, disjointed and ill-fitting – nothing felt simple any more. He thought of his schooldays and Mr Webster – the more you learn, the more you need to remember, he used to think.
From a small wooden bridge spanning a fast-running stream he noticed scattered groups of bright red flowers and stopped to stare. Poppies – he hadn’t seen those since his time on the farm. His face creased into a warm smile. At last, something fine flourished amidst the stark cemetery that had once been beautiful countryside. Back at the farmhouse he sat alone and knew what he must do. He must find Stan Banks and make reparation for his foolhardiness. Snared in the trap of guilt at sending Stan away, he knew the feeling would not pass easily. It was neither sentiment nor possessiveness but a way of existing within his own weakness. However, regardless of his enquiries to contact him, all investigations into his whereabouts were fruitless. Stan Banks had vanished from the face of the earth.
Chapter Fifteen
London
“I don’t want him under my roof again, and that’s final,” Mrs Tuttle rasped, patting her chest and coughing. “He’s a dirty little sod, that’s what he is.”
Dilly held her breath certain that at any moment the tortured chair would at last succumb to one final assault.
“Oh, Ma, you don’t mean it. He’s come all that way, the least you can do is give him a room. He’s been fighting in the war, he might even have another medal. We can’t just turn him away, what will the neighbours say?”
“Neighbours? Them bleeders have said enough already. Brought shame on the household, you have. You’ll have to dig him a trench in the back garden, he’ll feel at home there.”
Dilly tossed her head, covered her mouth with her hands and gave a muffled shriek of laughter. “Ma, that’s a horrible thing to say! Let him stay just one night until he finds another room. Give us both time to sort things out. We can’t ignore him, can we? Under the circumstances, I’m surprised he even wants to talk to me.”
Mrs Tuttle’s dark eyes scrutinised her daughter.
“One night, that’s all, and then he’s on his way. What time are you meeting him?” she finally relented.
“Half-past-one it said in his letter, under the big clock. I hope he’s not late, I hate Victoria Station, always full of dirty-mouthed soldiers.”
“Well you better get a move on girl, it’s after twelve now.”
Thomas didn’t mind waiting. He’d purposely arrived twenty minutes early, he didn’t want to be late because he wasn’t certain if pregnant women possessed the stamina to stand for long periods of time without sitting down. He knew little or nothing about women having babies, apart from how they were made and where they came from. After almost six months, perhaps she might already have given birth to the child. He should have asked Moses – he knew the answers to most things – now he would have to play it by ear. The visit to the gents for a refreshing wash and brush-up had raised his spirits. He’d dampened his hair, parted it in the middle and slicked it down with his comb. Pensively he glanced around at his surroundings.
The station was much the same as before: fresh batches of soldiers reluctantly going out in their hundreds to replace the poor shuffling hulks covered in bandages making their way along the crowded platforms. Occasionally some stopped by the wooden-built bank offering to change francs and centimes into pounds and shillings. Foreign money bought nothing in the churlish side streets of London. As ever, always on hand in a crisis, the nurses assisted wherever needed and the Salvation Army handed out free cups of tea and currant cakes to those short of a few pennies. He’d seen the Salvation Army on the front many times, situated just behind the trenches – brave bunch they were, and the troops loved them for their kindness. He finge
red the pocket watch and thought of Catherine and her mother. The engineers had made a good job of repairing the winder.
The large station clock overhead clunked one-thirty. It was a bright sunny afternoon and he felt overwhelmed with excitement.
“Hello, Archie,” she said from behind him. “It’s good to see you.”
He spun round, nearly losing his balance, and smiled. “Well, it’s the least I can do isn’t it, you know, what with everything?” he said sheepishly.
In a moment of tenderness he wanted to kiss her and could see no reason not to press his lips against her sweet mouth. He leaned towards her, but she made no effort to reciprocate and so he quickly pulled back. Disappointed, he frowned at her reticence and allowed the moment to pass. Maybe later, when she grew accustomed to having him back, she might melt and show him a glimmer of affection. He glanced at her stomach hoping to see a visible sign of a swelling.
“Ma said you can stay for one night, and then you will have to find somewhere else,” she said distracting his attention.
“Oh well, it’s only to be expected I suppose,” he said, sensing an abrupt coldness in her voice he hadn’t expected. “Come on, we’ll get a cab, can’t have you walking around in your condition.”
He’d forgotten how pretty she looked and glowed with pride when men turned to look at her with appraising glances. She looked radiant in a cream two-piece ankle-length suit, with a pink lace blouse and matching hat perched jauntily on the side of her head. He wanted to put his arm around her waist, to advertise to all that she belonged to him, Thomas Elkin, a soldier who’d fought in the war and won a medal and still lived to tell the tale. Now his whole life was about to be shaped forever by a single act – he was about to become a father – and the intensity of his cravings frightened him. The memory of her firm white thighs, her soft pubic hairs curling between his fingers, burned in his groin and disgusted him. He lowered his arm and quickly pushed his hand into his trouser pocket in an effort to quell the offending bulge.
By the time they reached the house on Frith Street and paid the cabby, he thankfully had himself under control and sighed with relief. Mrs Tuttle sat in her chair by the window, as usual the inevitable sound of spittle rattled through the glowing pipe like water pouring down a partially blocked sink as she sucked harder to keep the tobacco alight.
“Hello, Mrs Tuttle, keeping well I hope?” he said.
“Well enough, Archie, how about you?”
“Aye, same as you, well enough.”
Dilly left and busied herself in the kitchen, leaving him alone with a feeling of unease. He held his cap in his hands and fidgeted with the peak, feeling the sweat beneath his tunic. Mrs Tuttle cleared her throat and, turning her head, stared out of the window as though he wasn’t there. He struggled to understand her off-handed attitude and thought maybe he should apologise for making Dilly pregnant. Then thought better of it – what is done is done. In his own way he loved Dilly. Well, he thought he did, although he wasn’t too sure how being in love felt, until he thought of Catherine.
Finally Dilly returned to the drawing room carrying a tray containing a china teapot and matching cups. Silently, she poured out three cups and passed one to her mother and another to him. All the time his mind raced – he wanted to speak, to begin a course of conversation. Mrs Tuttle murmured something he didn’t catch about opening a window, and with flapping hands she waved the pipe smoke away from her face. He turned to Dilly hoping for some form of support; he noticed her hand shook slightly and heard the rattle of cup against saucer. He smiled at her, and she fluttered her eyelids and turned away.
“Well, say what it is you’ve come to say, Archie. You can stay the night and that’s it,” Mrs Tuttle suddenly interrupted.
He placed the cup on the table and frowned, puzzled by her unfriendly manner. In his mind no problem existed – he had come prepared to marry Dilly and do all that was required of him both as a father and a husband.
“If Dilly and I are to be married, don’t you think we should try to get on?” he said, staring directly into her face.
Dilly’s face turned white, her bottom lip trembled like a child about to cry and the cup tumbled from her hands and shattered on the floor.
“Archie,” she said tremulously.
“There now, no need to fret, lass. Surely you didn’t think I would abandon you, I know it’s what you want. What would you have expected me to say?” he said gently.
“Archie, you must have read my letter or you wouldn’t be here,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Aye, course I did, that’s why I’m here, Dilly, to do the right thing. If I’m to become a father we’ll need to be married straight away.”
“What are you talking about? You couldn’t have read the letter properly. I told you I didn’t want to marry you,” she said, clasping her hands to her cheeks. “I’m engaged to Cyril Beale, a manager at the brewery. He’s in charge of the drays and horses, and a little house comes with his job. I wrote about the baby because I thought it was the right thing to do. I’m so sorry, Archie. I wanted the baby to have a proper father – you could be killed at any time.”
Thomas sat stunned. The heat of foolishness and confusion burned deep into his face. His world shattered like the broken cup on the floor. He looked into Dilly’s face and saw the tears run unchecked down her cheeks. She murmured soft words and reached out to touch his arm. He recoiled and squeezed his eyes shut, remembering he’d only read part of the first page of the letter. She didn’t want him, as a husband or a father to their child. She could make that decision and there was nothing he could do to change her mind.
“Aye, looks like I’ve made a right fool of myself,” he said, blinking hard and shaking his head. “You’ve not had the child yet then? Only I wondered if I might see it,” he mumbled, getting to his feet.
Mrs Tuttle coughed and rasped as she fought for her breath. The pipe twisted in her hands and red-hot tobacco spilled onto her lap.
“Get out of here, you silly beggar, go on, be gone with you, you daft bleeder! What would Dilly want with the likes of you? I’ve seen more brains up a horse’s arse,” Mrs Tuttle shrieked at him. Finally, the chair gave up the ghost and, with a resounding crack, splintered and disintegrated under her weight, leaving her floundering like a beached whale on a shore of hot needles.
Justice was served and he found himself unable to stifle the grin spreading across his face. For a moment he stood with stilted legs and then jerkily made his way to the front door. He heard Dilly call his name, her voice plaintiff pleading for forgiveness. He ignored the hooting omnibus and crossed the street, pushing his way through the crowded pavements making no attempt to avoid barging into people. For the next two hours he walked without direction or thought, finally he stopped and in an open doorway stamped his feet to relieve the tiredness and hesitantly watched people go about their business. Checking his pocket watch, he saw it was just after three-thirty. The stab of his own foolishness seemed much more painful than Dilly’s rejection, even more painful than Mrs Tuttle’s tirade at his lack of common sense and intelligence.
Dilly was a nice girl and in all probability he would have married her. Whether the marriage would have lasted is a matter for conjecture. Perhaps if he had something to live for he might have found some solitary haven for happiness in his heart. The baby, he thought, what about the baby? It’s mine and I’ll never see it. Months of deceit, lies and pretence after the death of Archie had finally taken their toll and he felt himself drowning in a sea of abandonment, unable to keep his head above the waves of existence. The harsh grind of his twisted and tormented life eroded his mind, pulling him further and further down into a bottomless abyss and making him doubt his own identity. He had given life through Dilly who, in return, had rightly or wrongly cast him aside for the sake of security for her and the baby. Now he wanted to experience a life of his own, to make his own decisions, a life he was entitled to embrace like everyone else.
He needed new a
venues, but where would he look to find them? When do people start to live a life? How does a person know what to do and when to do it? He thought of Archie and felt nothing: no remorse, no sorrow, only propriety for his right to taste the bitter sweetness of life on earth. Moses had been adamant that Archie’s death had been no more than an unfortunate accident born of his own wrongdoing. Why should he torture his own soul for someone like Archie? Why should he suffer the stinging darts of conscience when so-called intelligent men sent hundreds of thousands of innocent soldiers to their death in the name of war?
Outside an inn called The Tramlines, he listened to the loud drunken voices bellowing out the songs of the day. Pushing open the door, the raucous noise slammed into his ears, and changing his mind he turned and left.
When he reached the river and could go no further, he sat down on a wooden bench overlooking the Thames. Faded green paint curled and peeled off the bench leaving the exposed wood to rot beneath time’s unforgiving teeth. Perhaps the man responsible for the care of green benches lay in pieces at the bottom of a bomb crater in a foreign country, leaving a wife and children to fend for themselves. He turned his mind away. His brown eyes flickered and steadied like the flame of a dying candle, and he concentrated on the murky river. The water ran like undiminished time, slipping through unsuspecting fingers.
He didn’t take much notice of a man wearing a tight-fitting suit, a worn shiny bowler and scuffed black boots until he sat down beside him. From a silver tin he pulled out the makings and hand-rolled himself a cigarette.
Coming Home Page 25
