Malcolm
Archibald
LAST TRAIN TO
WAVERLEY
For Cathy
PRELUDE
BOTANIC GARDENS, EDINBURGH,
June 1919
Despite the early morning sunshine that threw long shadows from the Lebanese cedar, dew still lingered on the stalks of the grass. A gardener worked diligently with his hoe, barely looking up as the man and his woman eased past. Her arm was hooked into his, but whether out of affection or to support him, the gardener could not tell. The man wore the uniform of an army officer with the three pips of a captain, but as they passed beyond the shadows, the sun gleamed briefly from the three gold wound stripes on his sleeve.
The gardener paused to lean on the haft of his hoe as his interest was briefly roused. The officer was tall and he limped heavily and stopped frequently as if in constant pain. His face was drawn and his eyes haunted, as if the war had not yet left him; although he was physically among the peace of the Botanical Garden, mentally he was still trapped in Flanders mud.
The gardener sighed and returned to his work; Edinburgh was full of injured men recently returned from the War; it was not his concern. This week’s crop of weeds was more important to him. He ducked his head and sliced the hoe through the dark soil.
The couple walked past. They did not notice the gardener at all. Gillian pulled the silk scarf tighter over her throat and took hold of Ramsay’s arm.
“It’s cold this morning.” She shivered and huddled closer, her eyes lifting to his.
Ramsay squeezed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “You may have been better advised to wear a longer skirt,” he said.
“You like it?” Gillian looked down at her sky blue dress. She straightened her left leg so the serrated hem rose even higher up her shin. “Shorter skirts are the height of fashion this season, Douglas.”
“Of course they are,” Ramsay agreed. He tried to lengthen his stride slightly but that damned wound caught him again and he winced and returned to his now-familiar but still frustrating hobble.
Gillian had automatically hesitated when he faltered and now she looked enquiringly at him. “Are you all right?”
Ramsay nodded but said nothing. God! He hated this weakness of his body. He looked up suddenly and ducked his head as something exploded from the shrubbery on his left. It was a magpie: only a magpie. He grinned to hide the embarrassment he felt at having betrayed his ragged nerves.
Gillian patted the stripes on his cuff. “It will get better, Douglas. You will get better in time.”
He watched the bird flutter toward the domed glass of the Palm House, black and white against the green leaves. He saw its reflection in the polished panes and then it was gone, disappeared behind the glittering roof as if it had never been. Here one minute, gone the next; it no longer mattered. The only things that mattered were those that were before you at that second: the here and now. All the rest was unimportant. The past had happened and could not be altered and the future may never happen. Only the present mattered, and that was Gillian. He inhaled deeply, very aware of her perfume mingling with the soft scent of earth and new-cut grass.
“Douglas?” Gillian pulled lightly on his sleeve. “Are you with me?”
I think so Gillian but hold onto me or I may drift away back to the trenches.
The sun had risen in the short time they had been walking. It emerged from the fringe of the shrubbery and eased its light on to the Palm House, caressing each pane of glass as the Earth continued its inexorable orbit around that mysterious yellow globe. Ramsay thought of how the sun had looked on other mornings, in another country, in another world far removed from this place of false tranquillity. Maybe he had left a part of himself there; maybe the memories and the guilt would follow him forever.
“Douglas?” Gillian was leaning into him, trying to catch his eyes. She asked again: “Are you with me?”
“Of course I am with you.” Ramsay forced a smile. He watched as the sun caught the penultimate pane on its gradual spread over the Palm House. There was no sign of the magpie now; nor was there a lark singing. But there should be a lark; there was always a lark. He looked down at Gillian; her eyes were bright, but the concern was also there.
“I think you are getting tired now.” When Gillian spoke in that kind tone, her voice washed over him like warm soapy water, loosening the visible hurt but unable to penetrate to the depths beneath.
She tightened her grip on his arm. “Come along, Douglas; time we were getting back home I think.” She held out her left hand and allowed the sunlight to glint on the central and largest diamond of her engagement ring. “We have a wedding to arrange.”
Ramsay nodded. “We have indeed, Gillian.” He lengthened his stride to match hers, rode the pain and tried once more to concentrate on this strange life of peace, where a sudden noise was more likely to be somebody dropping a cup rather than a dreaded coalscuttle bomb exploding, and men wore dark suits or flat caps rather than mud-coated uniforms stinking of lyddite and sweat.
He heard the whistling before he saw the source, but automatically his mouth formed the words of the song and he joined in, softly.
“Après la guerre finie
Soldat Ecosse parti
Mademoiselle in the family way
Après la guerre finie”
Gillian saw the movement and smiled. “You looked happy there for a moment, Douglas. Please sing louder for me.”
Ramsay shook his head as he realised what he was doing. “It’s a trench song, Gillian. It’s hardly suitable for your ears.”
“I’m not made of glass you know!” Despite Gillian’s smile, the words retained enough of a sting for Ramsay to recognise her hurt.
He saw the residual anger in her eyes and shook his head. “I know that,” he said softly. “I know you have seen plenty and heard plenty, but I still think of you as that young girl I fell in love with a lifetime and four years ago.”
“I am still me, silly.” The hurt faded from Gillian’s eyes. “And you are still you, under that uniform, Douglas. The war was only an episode.”
Ramsay nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It was only an episode.”
The whistling continued to the tune Sous les Ponts de Paris, jaunty and sharp but with an undertone of bitterness. Ramsay stopped and waited for the whistlers. They came around the corner of the Palm House, three men in blue hospital suits and scarlet neckerchiefs. One pushed a wheelchair in which the second sat; the third hobbled behind on a pair of crutches; his single remaining leg heavily bandaged. The badges on their caps advertised membership of three different regiments.
They stopped when they saw Ramsay and two of them saluted. The man in crutches tried to balance long enough to lift his arm but staggered so the wheelchair pusher had to hold him upright.
Ramsay returned the salute. “Stand easy, men.” The words came automatically, as did the instinctive relaxation of the three men. They had stopped whistling and stood as if waiting for orders that Ramsay was not inclined to give. He nodded to the man in the wheelchair. “Where did you get that?”
The man glanced down, where his legs should have been. “Ypres, sir; gas gangrene.”
“And you?” Ramsay nodded to the man on crutches.
“Hindenburg Line, sir.” The accent was East End Glasgow, the cap badge HLI.
“And you?” Ramsay nodded to the wheelchair pusher.
“Amiens, sir.” The man bore himself with some authority and Ramsay guessed he had been a corporal, perhaps even a sergeant. Blue eyes met Ramsay’s in a gaze that was neither obsequious nor challenging.
“Well done, men,” Ramsay said. “Carry on.” He watched them pass, noting they still had their shoulders squ
ared and their heads up; they were soldiers, but more than that, they were men. They started to sing, the words soft but distinguishable as they continued with their defiant, tragic song.
“Après la guerre finie
Soldat Ecosse parti
Mademoiselle can go to hell
Après la guerre finie”
“Well,” Gillian watched them disappear behind the bushes. The song returned to whistling, which gradually faded away. “The guerre is après now, but there is not much partying from these Scottish soldiers.” Her voice lowered. “Not without legs.” She sighed and rubbed her hand up and down his sleeve. “I am very glad you came back intact.” She touched the ribbons sewn on his breast, “and decorated. You are a hero, you know.”
“I am no hero,” Ramsay denied. “And I am not sure if I am intact. The true heroes were the men who did not come back.”
Men such as Edwards, Niven, Aitken, Mackay … the list is endless.
“What nonsense!” Gillian said. She touched his ribbons again. “These prove your heroism and that’s all there is to be said … no!” She held up her hand, palm toward him. “I won’t hear another word, Douglas; not another word. You are intact, just a wee bit hurt and I can cure all of that, I promise you.”
She slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow and they continued to walk, slower now, toward the western entrance gate. A trick of the breeze brought the sound of whistling back toward them and then there was silence, save for the rustle of leaves and the sad refrain of blackbirds.
Ramsay stopped abruptly, and Gillian staggered slightly. The woman stood just inside the gate with a child at her side and hope shorn from her face. The high polish could not disguise the battered state of her shoes and her clothes that had gone out of fashion at least four years before. The child stared at Ramsay, pointed and whispered something briefly to his mother. The woman shook her head.
“Do you know that woman?” Gillian asked.
Ramsay spared her a cursory glance and looked away quickly. “No.” He hesitated for a moment, swore softly and tapped his right hand on his leg. “Excuse me, please, Gillian.” He disengaged his arm and walked over to the woman. She watched him approach, her face disinterested.
“That is a fine boy you have there,” Ramsay tried to smile.
“He’s not bad.” The woman pulled her son back and held him close.
“His father must be very proud of him.”
“His father is dead,” the woman said bluntly. She looked at the medal ribbons on Ramsay’s breast and pursed her lips.
“In the War?” Ramsay asked. He put out a hand but the woman pulled the boy out of his reach.
“Where else?” The woman sounded too tired to be bitter. There were dark rings around her eyes and deep lines between the edges of her mouth and her poverty-sharp nose.
Ramsay nodded. “That must be hard for you.”
“It’s hard for everybody.” The woman barely shrugged. “Why should it be any different for me?”
“Of course.” Ramsay looked closely into the eyes of the boy. They were brown and wide. “How old is he?”
The woman pulled him closer. “He’s four come August.”
“Oh.” Ramsay pulled out his wallet. As the woman watched, he extracted a pound note and held it out. “To help,” he said. “Take it, please.”
“I don’t take charity.” There was a surge of pride in the woman’s voice, despite the desperation in her eyes.
Ramsay shook his head. “It’s not charity,” he said, “your husband might have served with me. Please,” he repeated, and lowered his voice, “please. For the boy’s sake if not for your own.”
The woman glanced down at her son and then slowly took the money. She held it as if it was red hot. “Thank you,” she said. She stuffed it away inside some recess of her coat, turned and walked, round shouldered, out of the gate. “Come on, William.” She looked back once, as if to reassure herself that Ramsay was serious, and hurried away.
“That’s the third woman to whom you have given money in the past two days.” Gillian’s eyes were soft. “You can’t support every war widow you know, Douglas. The government does provide for them.”
Ramsay said nothing. He watched the woman scurry across the road to the tall stone pillars that marked the entrance to Inverleith Park.
“Why do you do that, Douglas? The war was not your fault.”
“No,” Ramsay agreed softly. “The war was not my fault; but some of the killing was.” He began to sing again, the words soft as the tear that brightened his eye.
“Après la guerre finie
Soldat Ecosse parti.”
But there were no larks.
CHAPTER ONE
FRANCE
19 March 1918
Even in Albert there was always the sound of guns. Wherever he was near the line the guns formed an unremitting backdrop, so regular that it became part of life, unheeded unless the unseen gunner targeted him personally. Mostly the rumble came from the north, where the salient around Ypres was constantly under siege, but today they came from the French sector to the south. Lieutenant Ramsay disembarked from the train, lit a cheroot and allowed the sergeants to organise the unloading of the draft reinforcements.
A stocky NCO with the face of a boy and the eyes of an octogenarian stepped past him. “Right lads. I want the Royals to form up on the right, the Durhams to form in the centre behind me and the Fusiliers to the left!” The stentorian roar echoed around the railway station, competing with the sound of the train as it voided steam over the shifting mass of men.
“Should we not be taking charge?” Second Lieutenant Kerr adjusted his Sam Browne belt slightly and checked the holster of his revolver.
“I always find it best to allow the sergeants to do this sort of thing,” Ramsay said. “They do it so much better than us. It’s what they’re made for.”
Kerr forced a smile. “Yes, sir.” He straightened his cap so the peak was exactly square on his forehead.
Did I look as young as him when I first came out here?
Encouraged by the sergeant’s bellowing, the khaki-clad men filed into their respective units. The veterans stood at ease, their faces expressionless, while the recruits looked around in nervous excitement. The stocky sergeant was joined by two others; a taller, slender man who Ramsay guessed was in his late teens and an average-sized man with a greying walrus moustache.
“You’re with me, Durhams.” The tall sergeant barely raised his voice above a conversational tone yet when he gave the order to march the Durhams immediately moved out of the station towards the town outside.
The stocky sergeant blasted the Fusiliers in his wake, leaving the Royals standing, watching the officers with a mixture of frank curiosity and total disinterest. Ramsay noted the difference between the wide-eyed recruits who scarcely halted chattering even when the moustached sergeant barked at them, and the wary eyes of the silent veterans.
The Durhams and the Fusiliers filed into lorries, hauling themselves over the tailgate and taking their seats with nonstop noise and the clatter of equipment. One by one the lorries jerked away, leaving a blue cloud of exhaust fumes and rising dust. Kerr watched them go. “Is there transport for us, sir?”
“No,” Ramsay told him. “From here on, we march.”
Kerr indicated the disappearing files of lorries and the slowly dropping dust. “I thought they were all coming with us,” he sounded disappointed.
“They are replacements,” Ramsay explained, “to fill the gaps caused by casualties and sickness. They are fortunate that they are going to their own regiments. If there was a big push on, they would be spread out wherever they are needed along the whole line.” He glanced at the train. Already empty, it was heading back for more men. The front always demanded more men, like some starving dragon that devoured human bodies and drank human blood. Ramsay shook away the horrific images and glanced up as a new body of men marched past, arms swinging and rifles slung over their shoulder. They w
ere singing, the words familiar, jaunty with sardonic humour.
“Après la guerre finie
Soldat Ecosse parti.”
Ramsay noticed that many looked terribly young, younger even than Kerr, and his face had never experienced the sliding hiss of a razor. Others were little older in years, but their mouths were hardened from experience and eyes embittered by the sights they had seen. Some had socks fastened over the muzzles of their rifles in preparation for the mud ahead. Many had one or more gold wound stripes on their sleeve; few of these were singing and then only softly; more as in prayer than with vigour. Their steel helmets seemed pitifully inadequate protection against the howitzers and mortars that would soon be targeting them. Yet still they marched and still they sang, with the veterans joining in one by one as they slid into the routine of the march.
Ramsay turned his attention to the single body of men who remained. They stood in the fading evening light, some with the patience of cattle, others lighting the ubiquitous Woodbine cigarette and talking quietly among themselves, a few staring at their surroundings in something like awe.
“That’s the men ready, sir.” The moustached sergeant saluted. “The guide is waiting for us.” He nodded to the station exit, where a tousle-headed corporal lounged against the pillar, smoking a cigarette.
The corporal lifted a single hand in acknowledgement and slouched forward. He eyed Kerr’s Sam Brown, raised a weary eyebrow and threw a casual salute to Ramsay.
“I am ready whenever you are, sir.” He was all of eighteen years old.
With the men formed in a short column of four abreast, the replacements for the 20th Battalion, the Royal Scots followed Ramsay toward the front. He felt the familiar mixture of emotions; the slide of despair that he was returning to carnage, the fear that was so constant a companion he had almost learned to control it and the strange exhilaration that he was returning to what now felt like home. This was his regiment; this was the First of Foot, the oldest regiment in the British Army outside the Guards; the right of the line, Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard: he was returning to his family.
There was the clatter of hooves on the central pave.
Last Train to Waverley Page 1
