A Son of War

by Melvyn Bragg

  Sarah had been kind at the end, hadn’t she?

  Sadie sidled in late and silent in a hooded scarf, hiding her face behind her left hand, the right trembling with a cigarette.

  Ellen did not need to ask. The women separated about their jobs, Saturday morning, four fires to make up, floors mopped, tables polished, corridor scoured, the small pub spick and span by opening time when Sadie would drop into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Ellen thought she might not on this morning. The bruises were bad. But she did come, and sat in the corner, cowed, out of character, distressed. Ellen handed her the cup of tea and offered a biscuit, refused.

  ‘There’s plenty worse off than me,’ Sadie spoke quietly. ‘He’s a gentleman compared to some I know. And you know, Ellen. We both know.’ She lit a cigarette, took a deep pull, let out a long jet of smoke. ‘There’s some in fear of their lives in this town.’

  Ellen wanted to say there was some truth, most likely, in what Sadie asserted though it was not as black as she was painting it. But it was impossible to join in. Sadie’s grief was not to be touched, not even by such a friend.

  She came to the moment and put the undisturbed cup carefully on the table.

  ‘He says I’ve got to stop doing this job. He says I’ve got to stop coming here any time, morning, noon or night. He’s promised me a terrible hammering if I don’t do what he says.’

  Colin. Ellen needed no enquiry. Her stomach lurched in fear, fear so regularly battened down, fear she always knew would be released one day.

  'It’s Colin,’ Sadie said. ‘He says we’re being talked about. He says he gave us the benefit of the doubt for a bit but last night he went on the drink and some of the men got at him.’

  Ellen licked her dry lips, trying to do so without being observed. Colin had exposed Sadie to this. Ellen had told him to be careful but he had disclaimed responsibility.

  ‘There’s nothing in it!’ Sadie’s tone intensified, though she fought not to raise her voice in the barely populated Saturday-morning pub. ‘Cross my heart, Ellen.’ The thin bruised body began to shudder and Ellen went across to her. ‘Cross my heart, Ellen, and hope to die. He is just a good dancer.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Sitting side by side now but still not touching.

  ‘And we had a laugh in the pub often enough, so what? I know there’s plenty don’t like him - sorry, Ellen - but I always thought there was something about him. Something that made you want to look after him even. But there was nothing in it. Nothing. Never. Nothing.’

  Her voice tailed off and Ellen’s relief was tempered by regret. Sadie would go. They would meet upstreet now and then or at a dance but these would be no more than poor reminders, sad echoes, indications of the rift. For Sadie had no choice.

  'I loved this job, Ellen,’ she stared straight ahead of her, ‘I loved coming here of a morning. And helping out at night. You know, you might think this is daft but I was proud to be part of the Blackamoor, me. I was. Sam and you’s made it such a great little place and I would say to myself, well, I helped a bit with that. You know, Ellen, far and away, it’s the best job I ever had.’

  Already Ellen was missing her, the singing when the spirit took her, all the new songs, all the words, the scraps from the newspapers, the sandpaper comments on the town, but most of all the presence of her, just being there, a friend, always and ever a friend.

  ‘You’ll be a big loss,’ Ellen said. ‘You’ll be a big loss for me. You will’

  ‘There’s plenty’ll want this job.’

  ‘But nobody like you, Sadie. It was special, you and me doing it,’ Ellen said, the most she could manage to say. It was enough to make Sadie turn away.

  ‘It’ll break my heart, Ellen, this,’ she said. ‘It will’

  ‘Hello, Richardson.’ His hand shot out.

  ‘Colonel Oliphant.’ They shook.

  ‘So this is the Richardson establishment.’ He looked around the small bar with brisk appreciation. ‘Just as It should be,’ he said.

  ‘I’d heard you were in Korea.’

  ‘They pulled me out. Off to Kenya. Just time for a quick turnaround and I thought why not a spin through to Richardson’s place? Not much chance of finding a good pub among the Mau Mau. God save us, another shambles like India. How’s the local brew?’

  ‘Bitter?’

  Colonel Oliphant nodded and Sam drew a careful half. They were alone in the bar. The military man had arrived on the stroke of opening time. As Sam levered the pump gently, the Colonel took out a Craven A, bounced it on the bar top and flicked it into his mouth. He offered the slim silver case to Sam, who took one. The Colonel lit up both of them with a flame like a blowtorch. ‘Joining me?’

  'I don’t,’ said Sam. ‘Not here.’ He smiled. ‘But I will this time.’ He drew his own half-pint more briskly.

  The Colonel let the beer settle and then held it up towards the window. ‘Clear as glass, Richardson.’ He took a small sip, paused, then a real pull. ‘And very good.’ He sighed. ‘God! You miss a decent beer in a proper pub.’

  Sam remembered the talk of pubs in Jap-filled jungle. ‘Good luck,’ he said, and held up his glass for a moment before tasting it.

  Although he was in mufti - sports jacket, leather pads on the elbows and cuffs, cavalry twill trousers - Oliphant was unmistakably a military man of a recognisable type. Squared shoulders, emphatic movement, clear focus, restless, high-tempered, highly controlled, very fit. The appearance of one of his former officers from Burma spun Sam back seven and more years from the windy autumn of North European Wigton to the sweltering strangeness of the East.

  ‘Do you see any of the chaps?’

  ‘Only now and then,’ Sam said. ‘Very rare.’

  ‘That’s the story everywhere. Curious, though, I find. You’d have thought. Months together. Years together. Some hairy moments. Come through. The sense of camaraderie might have persisted.’

  I would bet it does,’ said Sam, ‘but you don’t have to see each other for that.’

  ‘Very true.’ He finished his drink. ‘What do I owe you?’

  ‘On me.’

  ‘The next one on me.’

  'I'll stick with what I’ve got.’

  ‘Give me a pint this time, Richardson. Ah!’

  Diddler came in looking particularly ravaged after a successful day at the horse sales.

  ‘How do you do?’ The regimental cufflinks shone. Diddler wiped his hand on his filthy trousers before taking the proffered hand.

  ‘This is Colonel Oliphant,’ said Sam. 'I served under him in Burma. This is Diddler.’

  ‘A soldier,’ said Diddler, glad to be in the picture. ‘Now that’s a thing.’

  ‘And you?’

  Diddler looked at the ceiling, sucked his gums and said, ‘A very clever man, Colonel, once told me that what I did was the “burthen of the mystery”. But I sold a good horse today in Wigton sales and I bought a better and I came out with a profit so the drinks are on me.’

  The young officer laughed, loudly, happily, infectiously.

  ‘I’ve just ordered,’ he said.

  ‘Put the soldier’s drink on my slate,’ said Diddler. ‘I’ll have a glass of porter, a double Bell’s and twenty Capstan Full Strength, Sam.’

  Although the Blackamoor was the furthest pub from the auction market, there was enough swollen business - gypsies, dealers, tinkers, farmers, trainers, breeders - at the three-day horse sales to trickle down the town, and Sam’s reputation from his bookie years and his sporting buses also encouraged a trade much bigger than that of any normal weekday.

  He called upstairs for Ellen.

  When she came he wanted to introduce her to the Colonel but the spruce, clear-eyed soldier was in deep with Diddler and three Irish tinkers - Diddler called them his cousins. They wanted to know where the regiment bought its horses and how the situation could be improved: by them.

  Joe came back from the baths, looking wetter than when he had been in the water, and Sam again wanted to introd
uce him, but the Colonel, it seemed, was cut off, surrounded. Joe took one of the tea trays and waited on in the Darts Room and the kitchen.

  ‘Must dash,’ The Colonel brandished his watch. ‘Been here a couple of hours. Could stay all night.’

  ‘This is my wife. Ellen - Colonel Oliphant.’

  ‘Absolutely delighted to meet you.’

  ‘And you,’ said Ellen, suddenly sixteen shy as she took the firm hand. He was the cut of man you very rarely saw in Wigton. The black curly hair, the fine handsome confidence.

  ‘I’ll see you out.’

  Sam stepped out of the bar as the Colonel left to a warm chorus of farewells. Joe was in the corridor. Sam nodded to the boy to follow him.

  ‘And this is the boy. Joe. Colonel Oliphant.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He pumped Joe’s hand. ‘Your father and I soldiered together in a nasty piece of business in the war. Very pleased indeed.’

  The three of them went out on to the front.

  ‘Have you been in Korea?’ Joe asked, to Sam’s surprise.

  ‘Just got back.’

  ‘Mr Kneale says there’ll be a third world war start in Korea.’

  ‘He’s a history teacher,’ said Sam.

  ‘It’s ugly out there, I’ll grant him that.’

  ‘He says the Americans will drop the H-bomb. That’s twenty times bigger than the A-bomb,’ Joe explained, ‘that wiped out Hiroshima and Nagasaki.’

  ‘Your father and I weren’t altogether sorry about the atom bomb, Joe. Saved many more lives than it took. Never a bad tactic.’

  ‘But will there be a third world war?’

  The soldier took the question seriously enough to pause; the pause made Joe feel grown-up.

  ‘There could be, yes. And it could be a good thing in its way. The first war left loose ends that went rotten and, to my mind, the second has done the same. The sooner Communism is stopped the better for all of us, over there and over here. What we have now is a war of nerves as well as a real war. What the boffins are calling psychological warfare. There’s a mouthful. So: maybe.’

  ‘But who would be left if the H-bomb was dropped?’

  ‘The winners, Joe. Now I really must fly.’

  Once more he pumped Joe’s hand and Joe reluctantly knew this to be the cue for him to go back in.

  A smart red MG stood by the doorsteps, keys left in.

  ‘She’s not mine I’m afraid. More’s the pity. What’s the boy going to do?’

  ‘I don’t think he knows.’

  ‘Lucky blighter. I was marked down for the army from the font. Still,’ he looked around the gloom of the town, across to the caves of Market Hill and into the darker holes which signified alleyways and yards, ‘can’t complain. There’s always going to be something for us to do. You might put a word in for us, though. Good army stock around here.’ Climbed over the door and into the seat. ‘Tremendous little pub, Richardson. Tremendous characters. Especially …’

  ‘Diddler?’

  ‘The same! Got some rather good ideas too.’

  He turned the key and revved up the engine.

  ‘Good luck,’ Sam said, and added, 'Is it still Colonel?’

  ‘They did decide to give me another pip. Can’t think why.’ The soldier waved, revved up as if going for the land-speed record and rocketed towards Carlisle.

  Sam watched until he was out of sight. He would have liked an interval, a quiet stroll, a time to reflect. But the pub was beginning to roar and Ellen was on her own.

  ‘You could have a word with him,’ said Ellen, of Sadie’s husband.

  ‘It’s not what you’ve said before.’

  ‘I know.’

  They were alone in the kitchen. It was well past eleven and the weariness of the unexpectedly busy evening lay upon them. Sometimes it could have a warmth, like a light daze, make them more open to each other.

  ‘It would do no good,’ Sam said. ‘He has a point.’

  ‘There’s no excuse for knocking her about like that.’

  ‘But he has a point.’ The quiet voice disguised the insistence. ‘Colin and her were blatant.’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘They were still blatant. He shouldn’t have hit her, I agree.’

  ‘Just because they liked dancing together.’ Ellen hesitated. Sadie’s distress had triggered a distress of her own, a distress compounded by fears for Colin, the continual effort of the pub, and other darker anxieties that stirred out of reach but not out of mind.

  ‘It didn’t seem like just dancing, Ellen, and you know it.’ He looked closely at her and saw the unhappiness. He wanted to help, yet he also wanted, quite badly, to get back to The Big Sleep.

  Ellen was silent, not yet giving up. Sam gave it a couple of moments then let himself be taken over by the novel.

  Joe was tired of waiting for them to come upstairs. They had let him stay up to help with the clearing but after a quick mug of cocoa and a biscuit he had been declared ‘out on his feet’ and consigned to bed. After changing, he had stood at the top, leaning on the banisters, waiting for one of them to emerge so that he could tackle his bedroom. He had rushed into his pyjamas and forgotten the dressing-gown and slippers so his feet were turning slab cold and he was beginning to shiver but somehow that helped. Try as he might he could decipher nothing from the low murmurs coming from the closed kitchen.

  Mr Kneale had said nobody would be left. Except, he said, primitive tribes in remote continents or archipelagos. H-bombs, because there would be more than one, he said, would not just kill millions, they would make everything on the planet radioactive so that nothing could be eaten or drunk so those not blown to smithereens would starve to death. There was no protection against them, said Mr Kneale. They were the ultimate weapon.

  Joe had wanted to ask the vicar what God was doing about it. The other servers had reported that they had had a serious talk with the vicar and Joe had looked forward to that bit. Surely God wouldn’t let just everybody be killed off. Everybody could not be bad, could they? Maybe they were. Maybe God wanted to start again. What would the vicar have said?

  What would it be like if an H-bomb dropped on you? Did you just frizzle to a cinder right away? Did you turn into atoms? And what about the soul? Would you know it was happening? What would the world be like with nobody on it? The Colonel had more or less backed up Mr Kneale. And on the newsreels at the pictures when they showed the Korean war they made it sound like the end of the world. With the Americans and the Russians and the Chinese involved as well as us it was all set for a showdown; the Colonel had said as much. He would tell Mr Kneale.

  The kitchen door opened and he scampered lightly into his bedroom. Not lightly enough.

  Ellen came in. ‘You should be asleep.’ The tone was not unkind, but Joe heard something strained. He wanted to ask what was wrong.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Goodnight then. And,’ her voice, not at all loud, dropped further, ‘stop hanging about at the top of the stairs. Your dad doesn’t like it.’

  She closed the door quietly and he snuggled down, drawing up the sheet and blankets so high he all but made a tent. He heard his mother in the bathroom. The warming of the bed summoned up sleepiness. She came out of the bathroom and then, he had not anticipated this, she went back down the stairs.

  The sleepiness retreated. He wanted to get up again - but his dad, she had said. And the bed was warm. He had already said his prayers.

  ‘You blame Colin, don’t you?’ Ellen was unusually blunt.

  With an audible sigh, Sam wrenched himself from the drug of Raymond Chandler and re-entered the conversation. ‘They’re two adults, Ellen,’ he said.

  ‘Sadie was just being kind. That’s what’s unfair.’

  The pause lengthened until Sam had to speak. Ellen would talk about this, he decided, whether there was anything much to say or not. For Sam, there was a great deal to say but he would not say it. He did not w
ant her more upset.

  ‘You know she was, Ellen, and I accept it, but others see it differently and he shouldn’t have hit her but it’s understandable he was maddened. What would I think if you gallivanted with a fancy man?’

  ‘He wasn’t her fancy man.’

  ‘A good dancer, then.’

  'I think you would trust me.’

  ‘It might be hard.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  'I wouldn’t like you dancing about all over the place with somebody else, that’s what I’m saying, Ellen, what else was I saying?’

  ‘You would trust me.’

  ‘That isn’t the point, sometimes.’

  ‘You either do or you don’t.’ Ellen spoke flatly, harshly.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Why can’t we find a way to help Sadie?’

  ‘Because it’s none of our business.’

  ‘It isn’t her fault. That’s what’s up.’

  ‘Not according to you. Not according to me. But we don’t count in all this.’

  ‘You think it’s Colin’s fault.’

  So rarely did she or dared she bring up Colin between them that Sam was almost thrown. But he had to hold steady. Colin was a no-go area.

  ‘Colin carries his share, yes.’

  ‘You think Colin’s …’ Ellen paused, aware now that, quite suddenly, she was ready to do battle, but for what reason? '… no good.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You did. Right at the start. Right at the very beginning. How could I ever forget? When he first came. You said he was no good.’

  ‘That was then, Ellen. That was then,’

  ‘Now isn’t any different, though, is it? You’ll blame Colin for this, more than Sadie, and more than that terrible husband of hers.’

  'I'll see him if you want. It’ll do no good. It could make things worse. But, if you want, I’ll see him.’