by Pip Williams
I watched him, as I’d watched him before. He was showing a boy no older than fifteen how to hold a rifle. He placed the boy’s left hand under the barrel; the other hand he positioned around the stock, moving the boy’s index finger back so only the tip was resting on the trigger. He was as focused as if he were selecting type and placing it in his stick to make a word. I saw him stand back to assess the boy’s stance. He gave an instruction, and the boy shifted the rifle from his shoulder closer to his chest.
When the boy pretended to shoot, as if playing at being a cowboy, Gareth lowered the barrel to point at the ground and spoke to him. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw something in the boy’s face that made me recall something Lizzie had told me when she found out Gareth was to be an officer. ‘The army could do with a grown man leading them lads. Posh accents don’t seem to be up to the job, according to what I hear.’ She was right. Gareth had the authority to lead. I’d seen it with the younger compositors, and in the printing room too. I tried to imagine it in France, but couldn’t.
We walked along Castle Mill Stream. Gareth was wearing his uniform, and although he complained that it looked too new, everyone we passed greeted him with a nod or a smile or a vigorous shake of the hand. Only one person looked away as we approached: a young man, his civilian clothes conspicuous.
I’d stopped wishing that Gareth hadn’t signed up, but I couldn’t stop thinking that he was walking towards death. The notion kept me awake at night and I’d watch him sleep. It had me touching him unnecessarily, and at odd times. I wanted to know what he thought about everything, and I tired him out with questions about good and evil, and whether we English were one and Germans the other. I was trying to uncover more layers so that if he died I would be left with more.
Gareth was recalled from leave after the Battle of Festubert. The ‘In Memoriam’ list in the Times of London included four hundred men from the Ox and Bucks. We’d been married less than a month.
‘I’m not being sent to France, Es.’
‘But you will be.’
‘It’s likely. But there are a hundred new recruits who need training before they’re sent anywhere, so I’ll be at Cowley for a while. I’m close enough to catch one of the new autobuses into Oxford. I could meet you for lunch. And on my days off, I can come home.’
‘But I’ve grown used to your lumpy mashed potatoes – and I think I may have forgotten how to wash dishes,’ I said, trying to be lighthearted. But I’d spent too many evenings in solitude over the past few years not to know how lonely I was going to be. ‘What will I do with myself?’
‘The hospitals are calling for volunteers,’ he said, glad to think he’d found a solution. ‘Not all the boys are from around here, and some never get a visitor.’
I nodded, but it was no solution.
When Gareth went to Cowley Barracks, he left bits of himself behind. His civilian clothes hung ready to wear in our wardrobe. A comb with strands of hair still in its teeth – black and wiry grey – sat on the bathroom sink. By the bed, a collection of poems by Rupert Brooke was open face-down, the spine bent in half. I picked it up to see what poem Gareth had been reading. ‘The Dead’. I put it down again.
I took refuge in the Scriptorium. How long, I wondered, before the slips began to mention this war?
Ditte had sent me Back of the Front by Phyllis Campbell. I kept it in my desk and would read it when everyone else had left for the day. Her war was so different to the war in the papers.
It is context, Da had always said, that gives meaning.
German soldiers had skewered the babies of Belgian women, she wrote, then raped the women and cut off their breasts.
I thought about all the German scholars whom Dr Murray consulted about the Germanic etymology of so many English words. They had been silent since the start of the war. Or silenced. Could those gentle men of language do these things? And if a German could commit such acts, why not a Frenchman or an Englishman?
Phyllis Campbell, and women like her, nursed these Belgian women – those who were still alive. They arrived on the backs of trucks, scraps of cloth wrapped around their chests to soak up blood instead of milk, their babies dead at their feet.
My hands shook as I transcribed quotations on slip after slip, heading each with the word war. They added something horrid to the slips already sorted and waiting to be turned into copy. When I was done, I was exhausted. I stood up and searched the shelves for the right pigeon-hole. I took out the slips that were already there and shuffled through them. The slips I had just written would bring something new, something awful, to the meaning of war. But I couldn’t add them. I returned the original slips to the pigeon-hole I’d taken them from, then walked towards the grate. I threw in the quotations from Phyllis Campbell and watched as they became shadows of themselves.
I remembered lily. Back then, I had thought that if I saved the word something of my mother would be remembered. It was not my place to erase what war meant to Phyllis Campbell; what it was to those Belgian women. Among the propaganda of glory, and the men’s experiences of the trenches and death, something needed to be known of what happened to women. I returned to my desk, opened Back of the Front and began again. Once more, I forced each terrible sentence from my trembling pen.
If war could change the nature of men, it would surely change the nature of words, I thought. But so much of the English language had already been set in type and printed. We were nearing the end.
‘It will find its way into the final volumes, I expect,’ said Mr Sweatman when we discussed it. ‘The poets will see to that. They have a way of adding nuance to the meaning of things.’
June 5th, 1915
My Dear Mrs Owen,
I can’t imagine I will address you as anything other than Esme, but just once I wanted my pen to acknowledge the woman you have become. I do not place much stock in marriage, but yours to Gareth is right in every way, and if all unions could be as good I would perhaps change my mind about the institution.
You may think my pen has been idle this past month. I assure you, it has not. Each day since you wed, I have had a mind to write to your father and tell him how beautiful you looked, and how perfectly comfortable you were, standing beside Gareth with St Barnabas behind you, lily of the valley in your hand.
I have been writing to your father for four decades, and it has been a difficult habit to break. I tried, but found I was unable to think properly without the prospect of his thoughtful reflections. I am not ashamed to admit (and I hope it does not offend you in any way) that I have decided to resume my correspondence with Harry. Your wedding has been the catalyst for this – to whom else was I going to report the day in all its glorious minutiae? So, when I say I had a mind to write to your father, what I actually mean is that I did write to your father. He is not silent in my mind, Esme.
He would be particularly charmed by your decision to throw your bouquet, even though most of your female guests were married or confirmed spinsters. What a surprise when you turned your back on the little crowd. I saw you take a sprig for yourself and knew what was coming. I hoped the girls from the bindery would step forward, but when the bouquet left your hand it was clear where it was headed. Lizzie and I must have looked stricken – neither of us daring to be the one to catch it, but neither wanting the blooms to fall to the ground. I could see Lizzie hesitate, and it fell to me to put her out of her misery. I must admit to a moment of giddiness (though no regrets); the flowers were my sweet companions all the way back to Bath.
And now I return them to you, pressed and ready to be preserved in whatever way you see fit. I imagine you will use them as bookmarks, and I can think of nothing better than opening a book you’ve allowed to languish for months, or even years, and the memory of that day falling from it. Of course, you may choose to have them mounted behind glass to hang beside your wedding photo, but I credit you with more taste.
Letters to your father have not been my only pastime since your wedding. James Mur
ray’s health is not good, as you well know, and I have been sent more proofs than I know what to do with. I appreciate James’ confidence in me, but am of a mind to write to the purse-holders and request some small stipend for my contribution. It has increased year on year, and my name in the acknowledgements does not compensate me as it once did. Beth is quite animated on this subject, and has helped to draft a letter of request. But I will not send it yet. It seems mercenary in the circumstances. I shall carry on, as we all must.
I do not want to end this letter without acknowledging Gareth’s upcoming deployment. This will test you, my dear, as the war is testing so many. Please keep me close. Write to me, visit me, lean on me as heavily as you must. Stay busy – I cannot overstate the benefits of a busy day for an anxious mind or a lonely heart.
Yours,
Ditte
Lizzie popped her head in through the Scriptorium door. ‘Why are you still here?’ she said. ‘It’s gone seven.’
‘I’m just checking the entry for twilight. Dr Murray wants to see the end of T by the end of the month. It’s impossible, but we’re trying.’
‘I don’t think that’s why you’re here,’ Lizzie said.
‘Do you know what I do when I get home, Lizzie? I knit. Socks for the soldiers. The first pair took me three weeks, and when Gareth tried them on he said they were so tight that he’d be sent home with gangrene within a week. He accused me of doing it on purpose.’
‘Did you?’
‘Funny. No, I just hate knitting and knitting hates me. I’ve made five pairs now and they seem to be getting worse. But I need to do something or I begin to fret about Gareth being sent abroad,’ I said. ‘How I wish I could fall into bed exhausted each night and sleep without a single thought.’
‘That’s not a wish you want to come true, Essymay. Have you thought any more about volunteering?’
‘Yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit among the wounded. When I imagine it, they all have Gareth’s face.’
‘They always need women to roll bandages and such,’ Lizzie said. ‘And I’ve heard the men like to chat when the company has a pretty face. If you keep your ears open, you might pick up a word or two.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.
‘Have you been talking to Lizzie?’ I asked Gareth.
He had the afternoon off from Cowley, and we were eating sandwiches by Walton Bridge. He avoided my question.
‘Sam’s from the Press,’ he said. ‘But he’s from up north originally. He could use a visitor.’
‘Does he have no friends from the Press?’
‘He has me, but I barely even have time to visit you. And the others … well, they’re still in France.’
Still in France, I thought. Alive or dead?
‘He remembers you,’ continued Gareth. ‘Says I’m a lucky man. I said I’d ask.’
The Radcliffe Infirmary had changed very little since Da was there, except that the wards were filled with young men instead of old. They were enlisted men. Some had all their limbs and all their humour; some were missing both. Those who were able smiled and teased as I walked by. None of them had Gareth’s face. I was relieved, and ashamed I’d stayed away.
A nurse pointed to Sam’s bed at the far end of the ward. As I walked towards it, I scanned the charts of twenty-five young men. Their names and ranks were written large and clear, their injuries obscured by medical terms and crisp white sheets. It was one ward in one hospital. There were now ten in Oxfordshire.
Sam was sitting up, eating his dinner. He looked familiar, but only in the way of someone I might have passed a few times in the street. I introduced myself, and he beamed up at me. His right leg was elevated under the covers.
‘Foot’s gone,’ he said, with no more emotion than if he was telling me the time. ‘Ain’t nothing compared to what I seen.’
Neither of us wanted to talk about what he’d seen. Without a pause he began talking about the Press and asking after anyone we might know in common. I’d paid very little attention to all the apron-clad lads trundling between paper store, printing room, bindery and dispatch, and I couldn’t say who remained and who had gone. ‘I could tell you who’s gone,’ he said, with the same dispassionate tone he’d used to inform me about his foot. Then he told me the name and role of each boy he knew had died. It was monotonous in its detail, and he barely took a breath. But he needed to recall them, and as he did I imagined the paths they’d once traversed over a single day as threads stitching the different parts of the Press together. How could it function without them?
‘That’s all of them,’ he said, as if the inventory had been of stores or equipment, and not of men. He looked at me then and grinned. ‘Gareth, I mean Lieutenant Owen, says you like to collect words.’ He registered the surprise on my face. ‘I reckon I might have one that the Dictionary don’t know.’
I took out a slip and a pencil.
‘Bumf, ’ said Sam.
‘Can you put it in a sentence?’ I asked.
Someone chimed in from across the ward: ‘You do know what a sentence is, don’t you, Tinka?’
‘Why do they call you Tinka?’
‘Shot himself in the foot tinkerin’ with his rifle,’ said the man in the bed next to Sam’s. ‘Some do it on purpose.’
Sam made no response, but turned and said quietly to me, ‘Hand me them leaflets; I need some bumf for the latrine.’
It took me a while to realise he was providing the sentence I’d asked for. I wrote it on the slip and added his name. ‘Why bumf ? Where does it come from?’ I asked.
‘I probably shouldn’t say, Mrs Owen.’
‘Call me Esme. And don’t be afraid of offending me, Sam. I know more crass words than you could imagine.’
He smiled and said, ‘Bum fodder. There’s plenty of it comes from headquarters. Not worth reading but worth its weight in gold when you got the runs. Sorry, missus.’
‘I got a word, miss,’ another man shouted.
‘And me.’
‘If you want something crass,’ said a man missing an arm, ‘come sit by my bed for a while.’ With the only hand left to him, he patted the edge of his bed, then puckered his thin lips into a kiss.
Sister Morley, who was in charge of the ward, strode over to me. The banter stopped.
‘Could I have a word please, Mrs Owen.’
‘She’s got plenty, sister,’ said my one-armed suitor. ‘Just check her pockets.’
I rested my hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Can I visit tomorrow?’
‘I’d like that, missus.’
‘It’s Esme, remember?’
‘A new patient came in yesterday,’ said Sister Morley as we left the ward. ‘I was wondering if you would sit with him. I’ll give you a basket of bandages to roll; that should keep your hands busy.’
‘Of course,’ I said, grateful she hadn’t asked me to turn out my pockets.
We walked the long corridors to another ward. They all looked remarkably alike: two rows of beds, and the men tucked into them like children. Some were sitting up, almost ready to go back out and play; others were supine and barely moving.
Private Albert Northrop sat up in his bed, but there was something about his vacant stare that made me think he wasn’t going anywhere else for a while.
‘Do they call you Bert? Or Bertie?’ I asked him.
‘We call him Bertie,’ said Sister Morley. ‘We don’t know if that’s his preference, because he doesn’t speak. He can hear well enough, apparently, yet he’s somehow unable to comprehend the meaning of words – with one exception.’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
Sister Morley put her hand on Bertie’s shoulder and nodded her goodbye. He just stared ahead. Then she walked me back along the ward. Only when we were out of earshot did she answer my question.
‘The word is bomb, Mrs Owen. If he hears it, he responds with absolute terror. A learned response, according to the psychiatrist: it’s an unusual form of war neurosis. He was at the Battle
of Festubert, but he seems unable to recall any of it. When he’s shown photographs of the men he served with, he shows no sign of recognition. Not even his own possessions seem familiar to him. His physical wounds were relatively minor; I fear the injury to his mind will take longer to heal.’ She looked back towards Bertie. ‘If there is reason to take out one of your little slips of paper while you sit by his bed, Mrs Owen, that will be some small cause for celebration.’
Sister Morley bade me goodnight and said she hoped to see me at six pm the following day.
‘And by the way,’ she said, ‘every patient on this ward has been instructed not to say the word, though none are too keen on it themselves. We would all be most grateful if you could avoid it also.’
I didn’t stay long by Bertie’s bed that day. I rolled bandages and rattled on about my day. At first, I would glance at his face to see if he registered anything I said. When it was clear he didn’t, I took a liberty and examined his features. He was a child, it seemed to me. There were more spots on his face than whiskers.
I continued to visit Sam and two other boys from the Press who soon came through Radcliffe, but Bertie became my distraction. Talking to Bertie, I was able to enter a bubble where the war did not exist. I spoke mostly about the Dictionary, about the lexicographers and their particular habits. I described my childhood under the sorting table and the joy of sitting on Da’s knee and learning to read from the slips. He seemed to register none of it.
‘You’re not falling in love with him, are you?’ Gareth teased when he was home on a day’s leave.
‘What’s to fall in love with? I don’t know what he thinks of anything. Besides, he’s only eighteen.’
