But something happened. The onlookers could feel it more than see it, especially the fliers. He’d gone just a touch too low, too steep, didn’t pull back soon or hard enough. Spencer could feel his own muscles tighten in sympathy with the effort of controlling all that plunging, screaming power, and then feel the sweat on his face and palms as it didn’t quite happen – there was another split second when it might have gone either way, you could sense the plane heaving against its own trajectory, the frame trembling with conflicting forces. It half-rolled, but the moment was already past, the wing-tip hit the ground, scoring the tarmac with a stench of burning, and then it rolled over, suddenly huge and cumbersome and ugly, a smoking broken engine of death instead of the swooping bird it had been seconds before.
There was a moment of stunned, deafened silence, through which not a car, not a bird, not a voice could be heard. They stared, transfixed, as the black smoke poured upward and shimmering shock waves of heat radiated out from the wreck.
There were two things that Spencer would always remember about the vicious waste of Si Santucci’s death. One was that minute, post-impact pocket of silence. The other was seeing for the first time tears on a man’s face, as Frank began to weep.
Then, pandemonium.
He wrote Caroline and Mack, and Trudel, about his visit to Oxford, but did not mention Si’s death. He could not himself have said why this self-inflicted accident seemed more brutal than death in combat, but that’s how it was. That, he told himself, was why Frank took it so hard.
Si’s death wasn’t the only bombshell to hit Spencer in those days running up to Christmas ’44. On 20 December Rosemary came home. He’d been helping out at a kids’ party organised by the base at the village hall. Mo was Santa Claus, but they had to stop the older kids, like Davey, giving the game away. One or two guys who were members of the Stars ’n’ Stripes big band at the Ramrod Club came along and played music for the games, and while the kids ate their tea. A few of the mothers, Janet included, were there in a crowd-control capacity, something the airmen did not take for granted.
At the end, as the children were collected and left with their balloons and candy. Mo sat in the kitchen with his Santa whiskers pushed down so that they hung beneath his chin like a great fluffy bib. There was snow falling outside, but his face was nearly as red as his robe and covered in a sheen of sweat which he dabbed at with a handkerchief. Ellen ran in and out of the hall, peek-a-booing him, but he was all out of the festive spirit. Janet, who was doing the dishes with a nice, churchy woman called Mrs Cornforth, handed him a cup of tea.
‘Freshly made for Father Christmas.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. You don’t by any chance have a cold beer?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘In that case . . .’ He took a noisy mouthful of tea, the steam making larger drops of condensation on his nose and brow. ‘Not bad . . . not bad at all. Tell you sump’n – I’d rather face the whole damn’ Hitler airforce than a bunch of kids.’ As the women laughed and went back to their washing up, he leaned confidentially towards Spencer, eyes sliding in Janet’s direction, ‘Nice lady, Spence. She’s real pretty. Classy. You done good there.’
‘Hey!’ Spencer scooped up Ellen, preventing any further comment, and hung her upside down so that her face turned red and she cackled with laughter. ‘Leave Santa alone, he’s had a hard day.’
Davey came in, his hair and shoulders dusted with snow. ‘Spence and Mo, driver said to tell you jeep’s going.’ Like all the kids, especially the boys who hung around the base every free moment, he’d picked up American ways of saying things but they sounded quaint in his English country accent.
‘Boy, is that music to my ears!’ Mo put his empty cup on the draining board. ‘Thank you again, ladies, terrific cuppa. Spence, you comin’?’
‘Tell them carry on, I’ll help the ladies finish up here and walk back.’
Mo made a get-you face, then slapped his hand on Davey’s shoulder. ‘Say, you wanna ride up in the jeep instead?’
‘Can I? Yes! Mum, can I ride in the jeep?’
Janet turned, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Is it all right if he does that, Sergeant?’
‘I asked him, didn’t I?’
‘But you’ll walk straight home when you get there, Davey?’
‘Yes!’
‘All right then.’
They watched them leave, hands reaching out to help Davey jump up, and Mo with his hood up and whiskers in place against the cold, hoisting his robe to follow suit, breaking into a run amid rowdy laughter as the jeep pulled away.
‘That’s something you don’t see every day . . .’ observed Mrs Cornforth. ‘Lieutenant, you’ve all given the children a really wonderful time – a party to remember. Thank you so much.’
‘It’s been our pleasure.’
‘Well now.’ Mrs Cornforth looked at them with the perfect, noncommittal politeness Spencer had come to associate with certain kinds of English lady. ‘Are we ready to lock up?’
They did so and walked together to the end of the path, where they parted company. Spencer crouched down and let Ellen climb on for a piggy-back. It was bitterly cold, the snow powder-fine, the tiniest stardust-flakes in the blackness.
‘You know,’ said Janet, ‘I shall miss the dark when the lights go up again. Even the few we’ve got here. Once you’re used to it, it’s friendly. It’s only when you push it away that it seems frightening.’
‘I guess so . . . in the country. But towns and cities should be lit up. London must be pretty dazzling when the lights are on.’
‘Yes, I’ll look forward to seeing that. And to hearing the bells ring.’ They walked for a couple of minutes in silence and were in sight of the cottage when she said: ‘You must be homesick at this time of year.’
‘We all are. But I’m lucky, I have compensations.’ Ellen’s head was flopping with sleep on his shoulder. He held out his hand to Janet, but she did a little trick of hers of just passing her fingers quickly over his palm, not giving up her hand to his. He couldn’t see her expression but he could imagine it – a little close-lipped smile, eyes downcast or averted: an evasive Mona Lisa.
When they got back she drew the curtains and then he carried Ellen upstairs and they got her into bed without waking her. Then to his surprise, standing right next to Ellen’s cot, she took his hand, and said: ‘Spencer.’
‘We can’t. Davey will be back.’
‘Not for ages if he’s gone up there in the jeep, he’ll have to walk home.’
‘And I should go.’
‘In a minute.’
She led him to the bed. It was odd that she always both invited and yet seemed passive. She chose the time, then as it were made herself available. He could never tell where the balance of their relationship lay, who set the pace, what was going on, and this strange formlessness was part of its magic.
Now they took their clothes off and lay together, their two bodies stretched out, face to face, toe to toe, her arms beneath his. They were the same height, and he gazed at her face, trying to read it. Her eyes were closed, she seemed warm and present in his arms, and yet she had withdrawn into that other place in her head, behind her eyelids. He could almost feel her private thoughts swimming softly between the two of them like fish in a darkened tank. He kissed her on the mouth, and wondered, as her lips parted, who she was thinking of. Her secrecy as always excited him, she fuelled his desire by retreating from him, it was Spencer now who whispered, ‘Please . . . please . . .’ But she never made a sound.
At the moment of no return, he heard the front door, and voices. Forever after, the memory of sex with Janet would be linked to the shock of that moment. And for the first time her eyes flew open, staring wide and direct into his, and her hand was placed over his mouth.
From downstairs, like an alarm bell ‘Mum!’
She uttered a single word, in a fierce whisper: ‘No!’
Then she was out of bed, wrapping herself in her robe, pullin
g at her hair in the mirror. He could hear her breathing shallow and fast, punctuated by little whimpers of anxiety.
‘Janet?’ It was Rosemary’s voice. And then with quick understanding: ‘Don’t disturb her, she must be having a lie down after the party, David!’
Davey’s footsteps on the stairs, Janet whisking the door open, then closed, but not quickly enough to prevent the boy from seeing him, or to protect Spencer from the expression of confusion and surprise on his face.
‘What’s Spencer doing?’
‘Having a rest.’
‘Spencer!’
‘He’ll be down in a minute. Hallo, Rosie, why don’t you get the kettle on? Go on, darling . . .’
She came back in, wouldn’t look at him, got dressed as if he wasn’t there, left the room and pattered briskly down the stairs. He felt paralysed by his own guilt and hers, could not even get out of bed when every movement, every line of her body, so absolutely rejected him.
When she’d gone and he was putting his uniform on he thought grimly of Mo’s remark and reflected that he, too, would rather face the Luftwaffe than what awaited him downstairs.
The women were in the kitchen at the back. Davey sat at the table, drawing. He looked up as Spencer came in.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi, Davey. Good ride?’
‘Yes, but they wouldn’t let me walk back.’
‘So, what – you got a ride back as well?’
‘Some of the way. Auntie Rosie was getting off at the bus stop so they dropped me off there.’
Throughout this short everyday exchange the boy’s eyes were on Spencer’s face, and he looked exactly like his mother. Spencer could sense those confused, uncomfortable thoughts, the half-formed questions that might not be answered for months, perhaps years, yet. But eventually they would find answers, and he didn’t want to be around when that happened. Terrifying, that one second could turn a tide and change a life.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well, better be going.’
‘Okay.’ Davey leaned over his drawing again.
Spencer went into the kitchen. Janet was slicing bread. Rosemary was beating up a single precious egg with milk in a bowl, to make French toast – what they called gypsy bread.
‘Hallo there,’ said Rosemary, ‘staying for tea?’ Like Davey her voice said one thing and her eyes another, but with her there was no confusion.
‘No, I’m late, I have to go.’
‘Davey said it was a good party.’
‘They seemed to enjoy it. ’Bye, Janet.’
‘ ’Bye.’ She turned her head a little in his direction, but her eyes didn’t meet his.
‘Be seeing you.’
‘I expect so.’
‘Night, Rosie.’
‘I’ll see you out.’
‘Night, champ.’ He ruffled Davey’s hair and was shaken off. Both gestures were a habit with them, but this time he thought he could feel a difference.
Rosie came to the gate and stood there with her arms folded against the cold.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’ll be all right.’
He seemed to breathe properly for the first time in half an hour. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘But Davey . . . his father . . . I feel terrible.’
‘I’ll look after him.’ She shrugged, wounded and wordless, and the shrug reminded him of how young she herself was. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’
‘No.’ He kissed her cheek, which was warm, touched her arm, that was cold. ‘Thank you for being so understanding, Rosie.’
Her eyes were unusually bright as she said, quietly: ‘I don’t understand. That’s the trouble. But I wish I did.’
He fled.
That was the end of it, of course, by mutual consent. But there was a postscript. On Christmas Eve he took down some presents and found Janet on her own, dressing their little tree.
‘Rosie took them into town on the bus,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d have this done by the time they get back.’
‘Can I help?’
‘There’s no need, I’m nearly finished.’
He sat awkwardly as she put the finishing touches. The tree was wedged with stones into a galvanised iron bucket covered in Christmas paper. It looked secure enough but it wasn’t quite straight – he could picture the two women doing this on their own, the sort of job that only a few days ago they’d have asked him to do. Some of the decorations were proper ones – coloured glass balls and icicle-drops and tinsel – others were homemade, perhaps by Davey, from silver cigarette papers and coloured cardboard with string or cotton threaded through. On the top was an angel made out of a big clothes peg, with bright yellow wool hair and scarlet crayon lips.
‘There . . .’ She sat back on her heels.
‘It’s pretty. I brought a couple of things to go underneath.’
‘You shouldn’t have done.’
‘Least I could do.’ He put his offerings round the tree-bucket and then quickly laid his hand on hers. ‘Janet—’
‘Don’t.’ She removed her hand and did something unnecessary to her hair. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Is Davey all right?’
‘He’s fine. We haven’t talked about it.’ She perhaps meant this to be soothing, but Spencer found it the opposite.
‘And Rosemary . . . I know she’s your sister, it’s not the same, but she’s still young. I feel bad about this.’
Janet didn’t answer. She rose, dusted her skirt, adjusted the brassy angel with her long, elegant fingers. When she turned to him he was reminded of that first time, after the death of her husband – a moment of truth, but of truth known only to her.
‘Spencer, I want to tell you something.’
He nodded, feeling that even the sound of his voice might scare her off.
‘You’ll be the only living person I have told.’
‘Are you sure you want to?’
‘Yes, you ought to know. It might help to explain.’
She didn’t say what it might help to explain, and he didn’t ask. He waited.
‘Rosie’s not my sister. She’s my daughter.’
Of course, was what he thought. Of course. That was it: the strangeness, the secrecy, the thing he had never been able to fathom or understand.
‘Does she know?’
Janet shook her head. ‘Like I said you’re the only living person who does.’
‘But your husband – Edward?’
‘Yes. When we married he took Rosie on, she’d been living with my parents. She called my mother Mum.’
‘Will you ever tell her?’
‘What would be the point?’
‘And her own father – where’s he?’
‘Gone. He never even knew. It was only the once . . . and I didn’t want it.’
Those last few words, so typically restrained, horrified him. He put his arms round her and she stood still in his embrace, not responding except to lean her forehead on his shoulder. He thought she might be crying, but when he released her, her face was waxwork-calm.
‘So now you know.’
‘I shan’t tell a soul.’
She nodded. He was awed by her trust. But he was to be middle-aged and married himself before he saw how in this English family, the secrets, lies and loyalties of his own childhood had been repeated.
The week after Christmas Jenny the chuck-wagon girl, arriving early on her rounds, found Ajax sitting outside a latrine hut, whining. Inside in one of the cubicles was Frank’s body. He had cut his wrists and then leaned forward into the toilet bowl, so there was no mess.
Suicide was in itself un-American, and as little was made of it as possible. No one speculated as to why Frank had done it. War was a bitch. If one or two of them had their suspicions they kept them to themselves, and Spencer did the same with the contents of the letter that was left for him in Frank’s locker.
Some things were best left undisturbed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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‘So saying he breathed strength and courage into the horses. They shook the dust from their manes on to the ground, and quickly carried the fast running chariot’
—Homer, The Iliad
Harry 1854
The terrain was not unlike the rolling, grassy uplands of southern England, but that there were no trees or bushes, nor anything green to be seen.
Far to the west, beyond the ranks of the French divisions, the stately allied fleet moved with them, the funnels of the steamers belching mighty banners of smoke into the blue air, its guns capable of giving cover on the right flank as far as two miles inland. It was impossible not to feel a swell of pride in the English Army, the dazzling wave of the infantry’s scarlet and white and the matchless splendour of the cavalry, the dash of its mounted officers, conspicuous as fighting cocks in their nodding white plumes, making the workmanlike, well-supplied French appear drab by contrast.
They moved in an order of broad columns, capable in the event of attack from the left or rear of forming a hollow ‘box’ with the baggage at the centre. The Light Cavalry formed the advance guard and left flank. From this position they could appreciate the deceptive openness of the country, and also recall the humiliating disappointments that it had inflicted on their foraging expedition of a few days before. Beneath the thin, dry grass the ground was bone hard. The only evidence of cultivation was concentrated close to the scattered farms and deserted hamlets. There was a pale haze, like the dust of an approaching army on the horizon, which presaged fearsome heat. There was no breath of breeze: the only movement of air was that stirred by their march. Proudly borne regimental colours hung in heavy swathes.
Riding steadily on the inland edge of all this, Harry could not help but feel the contrast between the noisy, colourful tide of the armies to his right, reaching to the sea, and the hot, silent spaces of the Crimea, from which their progress might be secretly, balefully, watched.
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