Coming Home

by Roy E. Stolworthy

  “You don’t look it, you always look the bloody same to me.”

  “That’s because I’m always tired, Thomas. I do believe you are growing up at last,” Moses said, playfully slapping him across the back and getting to his feet.

  Thomas turned and looked into the smiling face. He felt good. Moses had never addressed him in that manner before. He wanted to grow up to be like other men, to be like Moses, to feel assured of his being and perhaps gain a better education. Without realising it the call of life beckoned him. He’d met death head-on and survived. He’d offered his body as a willing sacrifice to amend his past misdemeanours, but death had refused him. Then, like it always did whenever he dared think these thoughts, a vision of Archie’s grinning face flooded into his mind and, in a rage, he gritted his teeth and rebuked himself for his selfishness and remembered his vow. With downcast eyes he watched a sergeant handing out tin triangles to be tied to the back of a soldier’s pack, thus allowing the observers at the rear to see how far he got before he was blown to pieces. They think of everything he mused.

  “Here, Sergeant, give me a large shiny one,” he grunted.

  Grey skies signalled the arrival of early autumn, yet still the air hovered mild and comfortable. In far-off parts of the world falling leaves would produce a splendid golden-red carpet to herald the harshness of winter. In Flanders, falling leaves were as rare as a glacier in a sun-baked desert. Stan Banks’s heart sank at the warm rain spots, and groans reverberated down the length of their trench. Sentries reached for groundsheets just to be on the safe side – better to be prepared when the rain plopped and bounced off their helmets. As quickly as it had started, it stopped. One more time he read Mary’s letter before carefully folding it and pushing it into his pocket. All was well, and he could ask for no more. He was happy, and the tremble in his hands had diminished.

  Leslie Hill sat content eating chocolate and biscuits washed down with a brew reeking of the fickle taste of diesel oil, although a liberal helping of brown sugar helped to dispel the taste. In his pocket a letter from his feisty wife demanding he get a promotion and send her more money or she would run away with an Indian sepoy she’d met on one of her regular forays to the local pub. He’d already penned a harsh reply telling her good riddance and that he intended to join the circus the next time it appeared on the Northampton racecourse. He hadn’t yet worked up the courage to post it.

  Thomas glanced up from cleaning his rifle and watched an officer on a Dapple Grey approach from behind the lines. When the colonel reined in, the horse whinnied and threw its head to one side, pawing at the air with its front legs.

  “Easy, girl, easy,” the colonel said in a soothing voice and glared down at Thomas through a rimless monocle. “I’m looking for a Private Elkin. Any of you lot know of his whereabouts? Come along, speak up now, I haven’t all day.”

  “Yes, Sir, I’m Elkin,” Thomas said without looking up at the officer, and walking over to the horse he whispered and rubbed the animal’s nose and mouth with the palm of his hand. “She has a soft mouth, Sir, and this bit is wrong for her. She needs a straight one, Sir, if you don’t me saying so, Sir.”

  “Know horses do you, Private?” he said. “Didn’t you used to be a corporal? God, you don’t look old enough to be out of short trousers.”

  “Yes, sir, I used to be a corporal, and yes I know a little about horses,” Thomas answered easily.

  “I’ll see it’s changed the moment I get back. Now look here, see the large chateau over there, behind the elms?” he said, pointing to the grey building on the dull horizon. “Be there by four this afternoon, and don’t be late. I won’t be kept waiting, understand.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Thomas answered, rubbing his palms down the side of his trousers and feeling his breathing quicken.

  “I wonder what he wants,” Stan Banks said, watching horse and rider canter away on a loose rein. “Nothing bloody good, I bet. Mary sends her love by the way, thought you might want to know. A colonel eh. You must be becoming important, Archie, unless they’re going to put you back in front of the firing squad,” he grinned evilly.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Chateau

  For the time of year the sunflowers were the biggest he’d ever seen, even the pear trees laboured against the weight of over-ripe succulent fruits, and sweet peach trees holding golden delights dizzy with juices were enough even to tempt Eve away from the forbidden apple. Everywhere the lulling smell of rotting wood and perfumery of swaying hollyhocks embraced the senses. Only the sight of a snow-white unicorn amid the fields of bright red poppies would be proof that God had breathed his breath and the world was made that same day. Removing his peaked cap he unbuttoned his tunic and ran the back of his hand over his perspiring face, then wiped the sweat down the side of his trouser leg.

  For a long time he sat in his filthy uniform in the middle of this newly-discovered world and gazed on nature’s response to man’s destruction. This was how it was meant to be, the air so pure it should never be allowed to be breathed by man. For another mile he wandered unaware of the time along ragged hedgerows and through the avenue of scents, where flowers growing beneath his feet sprung back dreamily against his touch. All around the songs of wild birds filled his head and he clenched his eyes shut and tried to distinguish one call from another.

  Then, in sudden contrast the stone wall surrounding the chateau loomed up black and grimy, divided by two large rusting gates worked in Spanish scrollwork. Above the pillars either side sat two rampant stone lions like frozen guardians waiting for better times. He stopped and gazed up at the chateau and noticed it was badly in need of a cleaning to restore the stonework to a semblance of its one-time glory. In awe, he re-worked his mind and out of the fog of his memory the chateau vividly reminded him of the wicked giant’s castle he’d once seen in a children’s storybook that George Spikes had received for Christmas. The front shaped flat with large windows devoid of drapes and the roof surrounded by a castellated wall, tall enough for men to look over and beat off an attack. To both sides, large rounded towers with slated roofs covered in red creepers pointed sharply skywards, giving the building an air of the spectacular. A dried-out moat provided a home for random tall weeds, and nettles mingled with thorn roses and thistles to flourish unhindered along with bushes teeming with full ripe succulent blackberries. Small outer buildings, some collapsing and in need of repair, others beyond care, lay dotted around tree stumps, cut down to provide fuel during the cold winter nights.

  To the left of the chateau, a large silver lake surrounded on three sides by elms and beech shimmered beneath the sunlight, throwing long shadows over the small whirlpools displaying the presence of feeding carp. It was the most wondrous place Thomas had ever seen in his life, and he felt he should not blink for fear he might miss one magical moment.

  As he drew closer he saw a freshly painted white boathouse shaded by thoughtfully-placed weeping willows standing on the end of a small peninsula jutting out into the lake. Nearby, a young woman of approximately twenty years of age and wearing a pair of grey tailored trousers struggled to pull a dinghy onto the bank. Her blouse hung partly undone and the white lace strap of her bra slipped down her arm, dangling freely. When he approached, she made no attempt to cover herself and despite his appearance smiled warmly at him, her teeth gleaming white against the gloss of her bright red lipstick. Her honey-blonde hair, grown long and tied back by a black velvet ribbon, danced in the autumn sunlight like a swaying field of golden corn, and a red silk scarf matching the colour of her lipstick lay knotted around her slender neck. His eyes widened and he wanted to pinch himself to prove she was real, and not a trick of his imagination.

  “Thank God,” she laughed. “Help at last. You wouldn’t mind giving me a hand would you?”

  “No, ma’am, of course not,” he mumbled feeling the heat sear into his cheeks.

  With the dinghy finally nestled safely on the bank, he nodded shyly and began to move away towards the
chateau.

  “Thanks awfully, rather sweet of you. Have you come to see Daddy? I’m afraid he’s not in the best of moods,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “I’ve been told to report to the colonel, ma’am; if you’ll excuse me,” he said tugging off his hat.

  “I’m Charlotte, the colonel’s daughter. I hope I haven’t taken too much of your time and made you late,” she interrupted again.

  “No, ma’am, I’ve plenty of time.”

  A faint course of water weaved and trickled like a mini waterfall down the steps leading up to the chateau, leaving small dirty puddles on the uneven worn stone. Above him, on the upper level, a weedy thin private with a long expressionless face and gimlet eyes leant on a bracken brush with a pail of water by his feet. He jerked at the unexpected sight of Thomas.

  “You must be Private Elkin?” he asked, more hopefully than directly.

  “Yes.”

  “Been told to expect you, follow me,” he said, striding into the building with water dripping from his trousers.

  Thomas felt irked and wanted to ask if he knew what the colonel’s business with him might be. But the weedy private strode so quickly he struggled to keep up and, biting nervously on his lip, he followed him up an ivory-coloured marble staircase. A stone balcony with more Spanish-style scrollwork matching the heavy gates overlooked a magnificent long dining room, on all sides hung cracked dull-framed mirrors. The walls along the upper corridor showed signs of crumbling plaster, bare of rows of past portraits depicting the severe faces of the former masters of the chateau. An absence of furniture or fittings of any description gave a sense of wilful neglect.

  The chateau lacked the grandeur it would have once ostentatiously displayed in its days of unbridled finery and pomp – days of narrow-waisted ladies with painted faces cooling themselves with delicate ivory fans, pursued around the ballroom by men cavorting in powdered white wigs to the strains of Schubert and Johann Strauss. The emptiness emitted a feeling of coldness and depression, and he felt like a trespasser setting foot where he had no business to be.

  At last the weedy private stopped in front of a pair of double doors standing at least twelve feet high. Thomas looked up in awe and wondered why anyone would want doors so high, unless people from Flanders were exceptionally taller than others. He struggled to remember if he’d ever seen any.

  “Private Elkin, Sir,” the weedy private said through the open doors.

  “Ah, come in, Elkin. Thank you, Cockshead, that will be all,” the colonel boomed.

  Thomas looked up at the weedy private finding it difficult to conceal his smirk. The private’s lip curled at one corner and he noisily slammed the doors shut.

  “My name’s Cookson, you useless stupid old bastard, not Cockshead. I’ve told you a dozen times in as many days, and now half the Western Front will know and the name will stick forever. How would you like it if I called you Colonel fucking Dickhead? I hope you fall off your horse and break your fucking neck,” he muttered angrily. When he returned to his place of work, he undid his flies and urinated down the flight of steps.

  “At ease, lad, sit down. I understand you were a sniper with the Yorkshire Rifles, and a damn good one by all accounts,” Colonel Dickson said standing by a window with his feet apart.

  “Well yes, Sir, I suppose so,” Thomas stammered awkwardly at the officer, wondering why he was here.

  Colonel Dickson was a handsome giant of a man with broad shoulders and a pansy-purple nose gained from imbibing glasses of fine vaporous wines, one ear slightly higher than the other added to his timbre. His whole person suggested that of a military peacock and he carried a carefully practised swagger designed especially for the ladies of the day. As far as the ladies were concerned, his sharp blue smiling eyes were his first line of attack, a force no female barricade had ever resisted. Other than that, he was thought to be an honourable man and a good officer.

  “I keep livestock here, Elkin,” he said in a bombastic voice that might have struck terror into lesser men. “Pigs, sheep, chickens, turkey, geese and a small herd of Friesian cows, even a few wild ducks out on the lake stocked with brown and rainbow trout. Oh yes, I nearly forgot the goats. All used for fresh food for the staff officers at general headquarters. That’s it in a nutshell. Problem is, some bounders are stealing them. Not only that, but they’re tearing them to pieces. We suspected foxes in the beginning, but it didn’t seem feasible that they could inflict the kind of damage we have witnessed on the animals. German soldiers hungry for a square meal were considered, passing gypsies, perhaps even the locals. Might be anybody or anything, and I want the blighters apprehended as soon as possible. I want you to patrol at night, discover the culprits and shoot the bounders on sight. No mercy, mind you. There’s a war on and we can’t have the generals going hungry, can we? Course not. You will be relieved of all duties on the front line. This is of great importance to me and I expect a quick result, for obvious reasons. Well, speak up man, what have you to say?”

  A cold, moist, damp air blew into the room and the drapes hanging behind the colonel shifted. Thomas felt a mixture of elation seasoned with apprehension.

  “May I ask where will I be billeted, sir?”

  “Why, here of course.”

  Thomas pondered for a moment, wondering if he dare ask another question, and then raked up the courage.

  “I was wondering, Sir,” he ventured, “if perhaps two of us might be better than one man alone, if there are more than one prowler it might prove difficult to catch them.”

  “Absolutely splendid idea, I should have thought of it myself, anyone in mind?” he boomed.

  “Yes, Sir. A West Indian. He’s a very good shot, Sir.”

  “A West Indian, eh? By God, one of those darkie fellows, with built-in camouflage they won’t spot him in the dark in a hurry. Very good, Elkin, very good indeed, you’ll go far in this army,” he said in a loud condescending tone. Squinting, he leaned forward and tapped his fingers on the desktop. “We’re going to get on just fine, young man. By the way, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen, sir,” Thomas lied.

  “Look more like twelve to me. Be sending them straight from the crib next wearing nappies. Off you go and see Marie Antoinette. She’s the cook and she’ll give you something to eat. And for God’s sake get yourself cleaned up. Can’t have you walking around in that state. After you are billeted, come and see me.”

  When Thomas entered the kitchen, Marie Antoinette was hollering and cursing in a language he didn’t understand, and flapping a wet cloth in a vain attempt to be rid of a troublesome fly. With practised ease he snapped out his hand, caught it, threw it on the floor and stamped on it. She puffed out her heavy cheeks, wiped her face with the damp cloth and smiled.

  “Zank you,” she wheezed.

  “The colonel told me you might give me some food.”

  “Zit,” she said, jabbing a podgy finger towards a brown chair with a wicker seat. The kitchen was enormous and stretched the length of the building. Pots and pans made of copper hung next to cooking utensils of all sizes from hooks fixed to the walls. From the dark-stained beams swung cooking contraptions he failed to recognise. He thought they might be instruments of torture. Four large sinks, three with silver taps and one with an ornate wooden handle used for pumping in the water from an outside well, were arranged beneath rows of spotlessly clean windows. To one side three huge wood burning black ovens stood side-by-side. Two remained unlit gleaming from continual polishing, the other hurled out heat and aromatic smells from bubbling cooking vessels sent saliva running into his mouth.

  He waited impatiently, staring at her as she prepared a wooden platter of cheese, onions and black bread. An overly fat woman with brush-stiff black hairs hanging untrimmed from a large wart protruding from her left cheek, her chins too numerable to count. A course of sweat dribbled from her jowls and ran down the loose turkey folds of her neck before disappearing down her cavernous neckline. But it was her eyes th
at took his attention – they were big and staring, almost frightening, like ripe damsons.

  “Eet,” she said, dropping the platter on the scrubbed table and sending the onions bouncing over the table. For fear of offending her he ate in silence, quickly aware she was obviously not a woman a person would dare to trifle with.

  When he was finished, he stood to leave and opened his mouth to convey his thanks.

  “Zit,” she interrupted and clattered a huge plate of hot bread pudding in front of him.

  By the time he’d finished he could hardly move and loosened the band of his trousers for comfort. Whether or not she mistook his action for a sexual attack, she picked up a ladle quicker than a pike taking a baited hook and, without holding back, smashed it against the side of his head.

  “Out!” she roared.

  Moments later Private Cookson nervously watched him approach and prepared himself for the insulting barrage. Even when Thomas failed to mention his mispronounced name, he kept a wary eye on him.

  “I suppose you are staying for a few days and need somewhere to sleep?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Come back later, I’ll clean out one of the back rooms for you.”

  Thomas nodded and made his way back to Colonel Dickson’s office.

  “Ah, Elkin, been fed and watered have you by our gentle, refined cook? By God, don’t cross her. Pricklier than a troop of lancers that woman. Now then, about the horse, find the stables and try her with a straight bit, take her out for a spin, do her the world of good.”

  The doors to Thomas’s mind flung wide open, and with his mouth gaping he sucked in a great breath. To ride the colonel’s horse was a dream come true, to feel the fresh wind in his face like he had with Ruby was a thought almost too large for his brain to digest.

  “Perhaps I could ride her to the farmhouse, Sir, to see the West Indian I told you about?”

  The colonel raised his eyes and stared into Thomas’s face. Thomas felt the flush burn into his face, and nervously licking his lips knew he’d overstepped the mark.