Soon, though, as he began to pour out his story, he looked only inwards at the images that his memory had obliterated during those long weeks in hospital.
Cully stood before Roper, his face streaming tears and the inner seams of his khaki trousers becoming dark and soaked. ‘I can’t! Don’t make me, I’m afraid, sir. They’m Germans and they wants to kill me,’ and so on, sobbing and becoming incoherent.
Roper, his revolver already in his hand, pointed it at Cully’s lower belly. ‘Bloody, pissabed! Half-witted bastard! Two seconds and you won’t need any bloody Germans – I’ll kill you myself.’ Jack, with his own rifle and bayonet as though petrified and fused to his hands, shouted, ‘Come on, Cully. Come on. It’s all right, they’re gone.’ Roper, with spittle of fury spotting his chin, had cocked his revolver. He fired into the air. ‘One!’ In spite of the screaming of injured men, and the rattle of machine-guns, that single report as the bullet left Cully’s rifle seemed to Jack to silence all other noise.
Roper, with a small hole in his cheek and an enormous one behind one ear from which spilled grey matter, twisted and fell as Cully also sunk to the ground, crying hysterically like the terrified child that he was.
Head bowed, with three fingers on her brow and thumb on her cheek, Otis covered her eyes. Danny Turner, his face showing the stress of listening to Jack’s anguished voice, stared at his own knees and drummed his fingers.
‘They wouldn’t let me see Cully at first, but when I insisted that I was going to act as Prisoner’s Friend at his Court-Martial, I was allowed a single visit. Because I was not an officer it was deemed that I could not act in that capacity. However, after a day or two of argument, somebody took the decision that in the interests of fair play, a private who was a qualified lawyer would serve better than an officer with no experience in law.’
Cully stood – as he had been told to stand by Jack – to attention, answering questions truthfully. The proceedings had not taken long. Cully not only admitted cowardice in the face of the enemy, but that he had shot his own commanding officer.
Both charges carried the death penalty.
The presiding officer agreed with the defence that the man was obviously not of high intelligence, but he had been passed as fit for service, and low intellect was not a suitable defence against either charge.
And so Private Cullington was sentenced to be shot by a party of riflemen. There were no grounds for appeal, and in the interest of humanity the sentence should be carried out at first light on the day following the trial.
‘I had one more visit. I don’t think that he had any idea of what had happened or what was going to happen. I ask you, how does one say: “Listen, Cully, they’re going to take you out and shoot you in the morning. Is there anything you would like me to say to your mother? Would you like a swig of rum to help you through?” What can you say to a boy like Cully in those circumstances?’
Danny Turner’s voice was thick. ‘I’ve heard enough.’ Jack halted him with his hand. ‘No. You have to hear. Not you, Otis. Why don’t you do as Danny says and go down to the shop?’
‘I’ll stay. If you and the boy went through it, it’s not much to ask that I sit and listen.’
‘The execution party which went out with picks and entrenching tools thought that they were a party of coal-picking volunteers. It was not until they reached the coal-mine and they saw the post and rope that they realized what it was that they had volunteered for. There was no going back, or they too would find themselves facing grave charges. Mutiny? Or carry out a death sentence on one’s own comrade? What a choice. From the outcome, it is likely that either every man suffered a fit of tremors, or he determined that he would not carry this particular death on his conscience.
‘Cully received wounds in every part of his body except where they would prove fatal. It fell to the officer in charge to give Cully the bullet of grace through the temple.’
‘Were you there?’
‘It was the least that I could do. It took less than ten minutes. Within hours the execution party was back in the thick of battle, doing mad heroic deeds, blindly winning medals. I was wounded, but I don’t remember how.’
There were a few long-drawn-out moments of silence. Then Jack said quietly, bitterly, ‘Well, Mr Turner, do you understand why, whatever you decide, I shall never again take aim at a fellow human being? Do you?’
Danny Turner stood up purposefully and held out his hand. ‘Nothing personal, Jack. I am doing what I have to do to protect the rest. It’s my job.’
There was a moment when it looked as though Jack Moth would not take his hand.
‘Isn’t that what we all say? It’s my job.’ Swallowing his bitterness, he grasped the proffered hand.
‘Join the pacifists of the world, Jack.’
Part IV
Now the last hurdle was over.
Otis had offered their papers and they had been accepted – Mr and Mrs John Hewetson of Dublin returning home after a death-bed visit to Mr Hewetson’s father. Mrs Hewetson, with her lilting Dublin accent, understandably did most of the talking. She could probably be quite pretty under the dowdy coat and hand-made scarf that added to her plump and bulky appearance, but her severe mouth and scraped-back hair stuffed untidily under an unfashionable hat put off anyone with half a mind to have a bit of a crack to liven things up whilst they waited. A lonely pair, with no one to wave them off. Other people passed remarks to one another, or nodded a response to some friend or relative on the quayside. No one expected the tall man and his wife in mourning to do anything but sit and comfort one another in their grief. They were left alone.
The smell of engine oil caused her to feel queasy.
A tall, stooped Mr John Hewetson, nervously guarding his various rush and cloth bags saw the gap between himself and the quayside widen, and felt the vessel shudder as the engine churned and turned her prow seaward. For a moment he dared a look into his wife’s eyes. One day, he hoped, he would find there the response he sought.
She, looking inward, saw this journey as the first step in a much longer journey that was going to take her far.
Quietly she said, ‘We shall be all right now, Jack.’
He took her hand and looked down at the wedding band that Danny Turner had provided and which in her own rooms she had jammed upon her own finger as a final defiant gesture that she was still her own woman. Still Otis Hewetson.
—
Victoria Ormorod had been prepared for Moscow to be cold, but nothing, nothing, in her previous existence had prepared her for the November outside air of this, her first Russian winter.
Since she and Tankredi had stepped down from the train with their few possessions, the days had passed in a whirl of activity. Breathing in deeply, she relished the burning sensation to her bronchia in the same way that she relished the slight pangs of hunger and the alien, deep, deep dry white snow that enveloped the surrounding countryside, and the male-sounding language of which she already had a fair understanding.
She had not felt so alive, so necessary, so involved in anything for ten years. She had not been so totally committed to a cause since the intoxicating and powerful years when she had toured England speaking to huge audiences. Now, conscious of her bulky clothes, of her thick, coarse mittens and shapeless fur-lined boots, she smiled at the image of her younger self, dressed in a sway-enhancing cream skirt, straw hat with a ribbon band, and close-fitting white blouse, as she dramatically removed her calf-skin gloves whilst holding those same audiences in thrilling anticipation.
Nor, until Tankredi’s dramatic reappearance into her life, had she realized how physically dull she had become. The men and women who had come into and gone from her life over those years were transient lovers. Only with Tankredi had she ever experienced authentic, wholehearted passion. And passion was not to do only with the body, it was to do also with the soul and the intellect, and it was only when all three were uninhibited that life was worth living.
Now, she had everythi
ng.
She was useful.
She had a cause into which she could pour her enthusiasm, the cause that would result in peasants and workers taking control of their own lives in the way that she had once hoped that English women would.
And, one day at a time, often living on the knife-edge of danger, she and Tankredi were back together, living the exciting, passionate lives that fulfilled them.
—
Dear Jack. It was nice of you to send us a Christmas card. I saw it was your writing and we noticed the postmark straight away and will send this to the address in London and hope that you get it all right. You dont need to be sorry about it, I only hope that you are all right and you havent gone abroad for convalessant or anything like that. I could read between the lines all right when you particular said you hoped that I was keeping very fit and well. It wasn’t no wishful thinking what I told you about when I took you to the station and my babe came in November a bit premetur but she is perfect in every way. You can guess all right that Bert is like an old hen with a chick and have made all sorts of plans for her. I still cant hardly believe our luck. I wanted you to know as you was the first one I told outside of the midwife. Weve called her Johnetta on account of you. Folks round here thinks its a bit fancy but they probably puts it down to me and Bert getting above ourselves in our old age what with getting a baby at our age and all. Still, while theyre talking about us theyre giving other people a rest. I dont suppose theres a chance of you coming to Johnettas christening is there. If there was we should be really pleased because we cant think of anybody we would rather have as godfather for her. We dont have to have her done yet and could easy wait till you come back. Dont think weve forgot Arnold just because of Johnetta. We couldn’t never ever forget him. We shall tell Johnetta how she had a brother that died in the war and about how him and you was soldiers together. Take care of yourself lad.
Your grateful and affectionate friend,
Fanny
Christmas 1917.
Dear May,
A card to wish you comfort at Christmas. I don’t know what robins have to do with it, but I thought that it was the pretty kind of card that you would like. I’m glad you agree with me about Wally. It’s like I used to say to Mrs Blood, we have to talk about those who have gone before or it’s as though they wasn’t ever real. I’m glad you were pleased with the painted likeness from Wally’s photograph, it was done by a young widow of one of our members. As you can see, she is very good at it and I don’t see why she shouldn’t get trained at a proper school. A good many of the men in the union think I’m daft, but there’s nothing wrong with trying is there? They’re still suspicious of a woman wanting to do union work, but because of my Saturdays giving family advice in the Islington bookshop, they tolerate me and if I can get somebody interested in getting this widow trained, then I’m sure I shall squeeze some sort of help for her fees from them. It’s kind of devious, but then that’s how women have to work don’t they? People say that the first year after a loss is the worst, but there’s still hardly a morning goes by without Wally don’t come to my mind. Funny enough I feel easier in my mind now I know what happened to him. It must have been over in a second. You hear stories about men who was posted ‘Missing’ turning up, but I knew in my bones that he wasn’t just missing, but I couldn’t never set my mind to anything properly. One day, when people come to their senses, they will see that men like Wally stood against the tide of things and was true to their beliefs, and that it took courage when the tide was so strong gainst them. And people will be ashamed that honest men was treated so vicious and cruel. I have minutes of meetings and union accounts and that to make up. The Executive’s a bit funny about a woman taking part in union work (but they don’t mind a good dogsbody) and I know they’re only waiting for me to trip up – but I won’t, you can depend on that. I shall be over for the day; I wouldn’t miss one of your sherry trifles for anything.
Love from Nancy
Quite casually, the French woman – a member of the ‘Committee’ in the lodging house that serves as headquarters for their group – mentioned that she thought that today must be Christmas.
Victoria slips out into the harsh, snow-rivelled streets to see if she can find a church open, not for any religious reasons, but because she has always sat in a church once a year, on Christmas Day. Her earliest memory is of her atheistic grandmother and agnostic and doubting Aunt Kate puffing smoke-like breath as they joyously sang Christmas carols in the village church.
It is the one day in the year when Victoria allows herself a few minutes of nostalgia and wonders where she will be next year this time. Wherever that may be, she hopes that Tankredi will be there.
December 1917
My dearest child,
I suppose all this cloak and dagger business is necessary. Until today, when your Mr Danny called at my office with an address for you, it has been most frustrating not to be able to write to you.
Now that I come to put pen to paper, I scarcely know what to say. ‘Wishing you a Happy Christmas’? I do, most sincerely, yet what a strange and ineffectual greeting from a father to a most cherished daughter who was whisked away. I think that Emily will never get over her dashed dream of white satin and cathedral bells, but you know E. – she is never bested so she spreads the romantic notion that you have eloped and are travelling abroad. None can say that this story has not the bones of truth.
It has been hard to be without you; my dearest, but I have always been of the opinion that women are as capable as men are of living their own lives and succeeding or failing at it, and I have, as you know, believed in their right to do so.
The letter you sent when you ‘eloped’ prompted as many questions as it gave answers, but they are questions that I am not able to ask until you and I are together and alone. I know you well enough to believe that your reasons for doing what you have done are sincere – and that is enough for,
Your most affectionate Pa
Mere Meldrum
Dear Father,
Although I am, naturally, disappointed that you and Effee will not be coming down to Lyme at Christmas-time as I had hoped, I fully understand your wish to take a touring holiday together. I am sure that you will love Scotland. Do you remember that Otis and I spent one holiday bicycling in the area of the beautiful Trossachs? The scenery there in winter must be very imposing.
Thank you for your Christmas present for Baby. I am sure that when Santa Claus has delivered it she will spend many happy hours dressing and undressing her doll and taking it for a breath of ozone along The Cobb, which is still our favourite walk.
You will be pleased to hear, I am sure, that I have become quite a social being of late (for which I have only Nancy Dickenson to thank, she having put me once more on the path to life) and have made many acquaintances in the area, not the least of whom are Anoria and Pamela Hogan, two sisters who write books and paint pictures (respectively).
I am sorry that you feel about Jack in the way that you do, for I feel most content and want everything to be nice. I hope that you will come to realize that Jack is not a man to take such a drastic step lightly. I know him well enough to be assured that there is something grave behind his decision. One day we shall know his story, and until we do I believe in his integrity, courage and honour. I can think of no more suited couple than Otis and Jack, and (whatever ‘rash and unwarrantable action’ they might have taken) I shall never cease to love them for the fine people they are.
I am arranging a very grand dinner party on Christmas Evening. The invitations have gone out and none have been refused. I believe that people are curious to see inside Mere and what I have made of it. Please come to visit in the New Year, and please give my warm regards to Effee,
Esther
Mere Meldrum
My Dear Otis and Jack,
For one reason in particular I should have liked you to have been to visit here this Christmas, and that is to become better acquainted with Colonel Holman Hay wh
om you met briefly on the occasion when Baby was christened, and whose estate, as you will probably remember, adjoins Mere. I suppose, having gone thus far, I may as well continue and tell you what I should have told you the moment I received an address for you, and that is that he has proposed marriage to me and I have accepted and that we shall announce our engagement to be married at my dinner party.
Holman is a widower with a young son, his wife having so sadly died in childbirth (oddly enough, the same morning as Bindon died) which means that Baby will soon have a little brother. She has named him ‘Boy’, but I think that one can hardly have children who are known as ‘Boy and Baby Hay’. I have no secrets from Holman. I believe that it was his understanding of the pressures that soldiers may suffer that advanced our friendship. He himself has had to face life with only one hand, but has told me that this is small damage compared to that of many men whose wounds have been caused by mental shock or gassing.
With the changing circumstances of my marriage, we shall need to discuss the future of Mere Meldrum, as in a few months I shall no longer be in residence here. This house has become very dear to me and it is my fervent wish that the day will come when Holman and I will have Otis and Jack as our closest neighbours.
With love this Christmas-time, from Esther and Stephanie
Mere Meldrum
Dear Kitt,
Father will have told you the good news that you are to spend the holidays with Baby and me. What fun we shall have. We have a large tree in the hallway and a small one just for you and Baby in the morning room which we have left for you to trim with decorations just as you wish. There is to be a party for you and Baby and another (very) little boy named Stephen (though Baby insists that his name is Boy).
Goodbye Piccadilly Page 37
