by Anthology
“Mom, I’m not gardening. I’m in.” He looked at me.
“I’m in.” I nodded.
“Okay, pack your things and let’s get to Lovelock. We have a lot to talk about.”
“Yes, sir,” Troy and I said together.
Back in the dorm, Troy approached me as I stuffed my one change of clothes in my bag.
“That was okay, right? I’m not sure we have many choices.”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
“I’m guessing you want to say goodbye to Nave and your Mom. I’ll meet you out there.”
I swung my bag over my shoulder and scanned the dorm, hoping I never saw it again. The nurse had woken Nave, and she and Mom sat opposite me in the conference room. “I wish I could give you guys huge hugs,” I said, my hand pressed to the glass.
“Nave’s vitals are already better. They say it may take a month or so for her body to start healing itself.”
“That’s good.” I nodded and then met my sister’s gaze. “Nave.”
“Yes?”
“When you get better I’m going to teach you how to use the bow to get rabbits.” But no guns, I thought.
Her watch dinged and she turned her wrist over. The blue eyes that matched Dad’s brightened. “Do you know what day it is?”
“No, I kinda lost track. This place messes with your head.”
“It’s your birthday. Happy birthday, Jema. I hope you get your favorite chocolate cake.”
My mom’s hands went to her mouth and tears sprang up in her eyes. She pressed both hands to the glass. “Happy Birthday.” Water ran down her face, and she wiped her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Mom, no, I’m good. Everything’s going to be fine. I talked to the commander, and we came to an agreement.” I hadn’t been sure till I’d seen Uncle Owen. Having a clear purpose changed everything. Staying in the cave day in and day out would’ve driven me insane. With the opportunity to get out, travel even, I knew Troy and I would be okay.
“I love you both. We’ll talk every day, and a month will seem like nothing. Then, we’ll figure out cake together.”
The End
There will be more of Jema and Troy’s story in Lovelock Ones: Bred One - January 2018
THE DARKNESS CREEPS into every crevice. More than once this evening a lone shot has rung out into the velvety blackness. It’s the kind of night that makes minds play vicious tricks on the men. I peer over the parapet into no man’s land. It’s useless, I can’t see anything. A couple of times I think I do but I know it’s all in my imagination. My feet squelch in the mud as I step down and walk along the trench. It’s almost time to go out on patrol, I need to get back to my dugout and prepare.
At the sound of a faraway whistle, I stop and look up. It’s a distant screech now but coming ever closer. Fear creeps into my stomach as my trained ears pick up where it’s heading.
It sounds like it’ll be a direct hit.
I start to sweat, my heart beating behind my ribcage. Maybe these are the last beats it’ll get. I register all of this in a split second. The whistle grows more shrill, getting louder and louder as it flies closer to its target…us.
“Get down,” I yell. My men look towards me in fear.
The khaki-clad soldiers around me start panicking. We won’t all make it, they know that. No-one survives a direct hit. Yet, the instinct to survive is too strong to resist. It’s a constant battle within the greatness of this war.
I dive to the side, landing amongst other men who are trying in vain to shield themselves, although we all know it’s pointless.
The whistle continues to echo across the barren landscape. It’s only been a second or two since it first started up but time seems to have slowed right down. My senses make the most of each final millisecond before obliteration.
The explosion rips through the ground. Vibrations move the earth beneath me. I no longer know if I’m still lying down or whether I’m flying through the air, whether I’m rising or falling, whether I’m dead or alive.
The evening hate has begun. It appears they’ve found their aim at last.
Pieces of shrapnel, dirt, and flesh hit every piece of my body.
Am I injured?
Is this supposed to hurt?
The answering silence is deafening.
There’s nothing but ringing. The shrill, demented ringing one hears when a shell explodes beside you.
I think I taste blood. I don’t know if it’s mine or someone else’s, but I cling to that one sense, the only one that seems to be accurate. Everything else is failing me. A boot stamps down on my head. More blood fills my mouth as my teeth sink into my cheek. He thinks I’m dead, he’s running to help the living, the dead don’t mind being trodden on. I try to make a noise, to move any part of me, but it seems to be impossible.
As my other senses sharpen, I feel weight on top of me. More blood is soaking into my uniform as people, or parts of people, lay upon me. I can’t move, they’re weighing me down.
What if they come now?
I can’t defend myself. I can’t protect my company.
Mouths move as people shout to one and other, trying to find their friends or establish who is still alive. I can’t hear them. All I can hear is ringing. My ears are alive with it. The ringing bounces around my skull, driving me insane. There’s another explosion, further down the line. I can feel the impact rumble through the ground beneath me. I manage to move my fingers, clenching them in the dirt. I see my skin coated in mud, feel the wetness inside my fist. I cling to that feeling, to the mud which I know to be real.
I try to picture her face. This is my tactic whenever I’m lost or hurt. I picture her and everything falls into place, I can find myself again in her. But now, I can’t seem to do it. She isn’t there anymore. I squeeze my eyes shut, creasing my brow with the effort.
Ida.
I start to panic now, as she remains just out of my grasp. She is all I have. She is all I’ve ever had. I need to see her face. If I can picture her face, remember the feel of her arms around me, of her lips on mine, everything will be alright. But her face doesn’t come. The warmth of her presence is absent. I try to scream, but I can’t. I need to see her, just one memory of her face and I’ll be alright. But it’s no use, the only company I can find here is the ringing in my ears and the deep cold of this manmade storm.
I CAN’T REMEMBER his face. It’s been like this for a while. I look to my left and can see him smiling out of a polished photo frame. He’s tall and slim, his smile wide as his dark blond hair falls into his eyes. We had this photo taken a while ago. His arm is around me and the photographer caught us in a laugh. This is how I see him every morning but I can’t picture his face on my own anymore. It’s been too long. A weight drops into my stomach as I imagine him not returning.
What if I never see him again?
What if I never get to see his face?
I want to fall asleep and wake up beside him as I used to do. Not just the frozen picture of him but the real him. I want to watch him smile when our eyes finally open and we see each other for the first time that day.
I close my eyes and try to remember the feel of his lips as he would lean in, pressing them to mine every morning. That was always my favourite time of day. Before life got in the way, there would just be the two of us. That’s how it always should have been. Until this ridiculous war carted him off.
He was so happy the day he left, full of optimism and dreams of glory as he stood in his khaki uniform. His letters had reflected that at first, but they had grown darker. I hold his most recent letter in my hand. His writing started careful but grew scruffy, desperate. I smile, it’s almost like he’s still here. His kisses were like that, sweet and tender for a few minutes before they turned more frenzied, as if he could never get enough of me.
I trace each letter he’s written with my finger, imagining his hand brushing over the page. What had he seen to be writing such things to me? I can’t imagine. I know I’ll never understa
nd this war.
I hear footsteps approaching the bedroom door. My breath hitches, as it does every time someone approaches now. The steps seem to be excruciatingly slow. It’s early, the perfect time for the postman to be doing his rounds. My fingers clench the old letter in my hand absentmindedly, the paper crinkling. The clock on the wall ticks, filling the otherwise silent room.
Please let him live.
Please bring him home.
There’s a knock at my door. “Ida? I mean, ma’am. I’m sorry…m-may I enter?”
“Of course, come in. Please call me Ida. I can’t bear to be called ma’am.” I sit up further in bed as my maid walks into the room, carrying a small tray of tea and toast.
“I've got your breakfast,” the maid mutters, with a timid smile, stating the obvious.
“Thank you, Nina.”
I sit up even further and plump the pillows behind me for support. Nina places the tray on my lap. She turns to leave after another timid smile, but stops, hesitating.
“What's wrong?” I ask her. “It's alright, don't be afraid of me. I won't let you go for asking a question.” I tried to make it sound like a joke but she looks scared when she turns back around again. She plays with her apron, her fingers worrying the corner where I can see it's already beginning to fray. I curl my legs beneath me - with some difficulty so the tray doesn't topple over - and pat the spot in front of me, inviting her to sit down. She does so, but slowly. She's shy and afraid. I want her to stop, to open up to me. I hate having people afraid of me.
“Sit down, sweetie. Tell me what's wrong. I can't sort it if I don't know what it is.”
I know people aren’t supposed to talk to their maids this way but the formality of what I’m supposed to do is such a bore. I’ve been on the other side of that fence, so to speak, and I’m done with those rules.
The girl opens her mouth several times, as if to speak, but closes it again each time. Finally, she draws in a deep breath and her words come out in a rush.
“How did you get here Ma-Ida? To be the lady of the house, from where you were. I'm sorry if it's a rude question, I just - I wanted to know how someone goes from being a maid to being...well, to having maids. It's nice to know there's hope for me too.”
I smile slightly to reassure her. She seems even more embarrassed than before she spoke. Her cheeks are bright red.
“I fell in love,” I whisper, glancing back towards the picture of Percy and I on the nightstand. It’s my turn to blush now. I can feel my cheeks heating up beneath my skin. I place a cool hand against my throat. I’m smiling, just at the thought of Percy.
“Is that easy to do then? Fall in love, I mean.”
I laugh a little at Nina’s question. “Yes and no.” It’s not an easy question to answer. “I grew up with Percy…Mr Denton. My mother was his governess so we were taught together, until we were too old for it to be proper. A maid’s child being taught beside a rich boy isn’t good for appearances. But neither of us could help ourselves. The feelings, the love, was as easy as breathing. Being with him was…is, the best thing in the world. It’s everything else that makes it hard.”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. I think of our life together before we were married. The struggle to be together, the sneaking around, the disapproval, the gossip, the eventual joy of success, followed by the crush of dis-ownership. Percy’s parents couldn’t disown him completely though. They took him back when they realised he was serious about me, how he always would be. I’m grateful for that at least, even though I’ll always be followed by sour looks from the old money around me. Even if I’ll never be truly accepted into this world.
“Everything else?” Nina prompts.
“Oh, it’s different for everyone. Everyone has issues they have to work through but provided you have love, nothing else is needed. We were all set to be dirt poor. He was going to be a shop assistant, if you can believe it, in the pie shop down the road. I was happy though, just to be Mrs Denton, no matter what that meant.”
“That’s awfully romantic.”
I smile again. “I suppose it is, isn’t it?”
“It’s like a novel. I like Mr Denton, Mother always told me about the sort of master I could end up with. I never dreamed my employers would be as nice as you and Mr Denton.”
“Well, I’ve been in your shoes, love. I know what it feels like to be bossed around.”
The doorbell rings, making me jump. It sings through the house with a false joviality. The maid stands up with a jolt, staring at the door for a couple of seconds. As she walks out of the room I hear her dainty footsteps start down the hall. I count each stair as she makes her way down them. There’s sixteen stairs but she must have skipped one, taken two at a time, for I only count fifteen.
If I stay completely still I can hear her muttered conversation with the postman through the floor. They seem to know each other. They only talk for about a minute, their hushed voices inquiring about each other’s families, but it’s excruciating.
I hear his name being uttered. The name that’s always in my thoughts. Mr Denton…Percy. His face flashes into my mind now, so sharp, so violent, I have to clap my hand to my mouth to save from crying out. The tray falls to the floor with a clatter, its contents spilling on the dark wood. I bend double, grabbing a fist full of my blanket in anguish.
Please let him live.
Please let him live.
Please let him…
“Ida? There’s a telegram for you.”
I DRIFT IN and out of consciousness. At some point, the weight of bodies, or parts of bodies, on top of me is removed. I don't know if it's been minutes, hours, or days. My uniform becomes cold as the wetness of it quickly dries in the wind. As the last of the bodies are removed, with an excruciating slowness, I let out a grunt. It's the first noise I've made, the first noise beside the ringing that I've heard. The ringing still continues, buzzing in my ear like an insistent fly, but behind it, as if from a distance, I hear a torrent of cries.
“Sir? Sir? You're alive! Stretcher bearer, we need a stretcher bearer! Sir, are you alright? John, go fetch the stretcher bearers or the MO, where is he? Sir, you're safe now.”
I don't feel safe though. Ida. Where is Ida?
I open my eyes and peek at the man leaning over me. He is right in my face and jumps as he sees my eyes are open. He speaks, but I'm not listening. I can only see his mouth moving, the sounds undecipherable amongst the noise in my mind. At least I know it's in my mind. That's a start at least. The young private frowns at me and says something else. Is it me or does he look vaguely German?
No. Germans wouldn't help me. They wouldn't be so relieved I'm alive. Unless they need me, a pawn perhaps in their plan to infiltrate our lines.
No. That's madness, I try to tell myself but my mind won't stop talking, trying to convince me of the impossible.
“Shut up,” I whisper.
I see the young private move back slightly. He thinks I'm talking to him.
“Shut up,” I whisper again, to the noise in my head.
With sufficient space now around me I bring my knees up, only half noticing the fact I still have knees, and that this is a good discovery. With my knees in my chest, I press my hands over my ears, desperate to shut out the voices, the thoughts, and the ringing. The ringing gets louder, mixing with the voices until it is chaos in my brain.
“Shut up!” I bellow, making the private, still crouched uncertainly beside me, jump to his feet. I only half register him scrambling back into the wall of the trench in fright. I squeeze my head tighter, but it makes it worse. They've got me. The Germans have got me. Everyone in my trench is a spy. I won't survive this. A more rational part of my brain desperately tries to speak reason. Of course these aren't Germans. You are safe, England is safe...Ida is safe. But my hand moves down to the holster at my belt, as if acting of its own accord. The holster's empty. Panic takes over everything and I roll over, crawling in the mud to find my gun.
“Where is it?
” I demand. Dozens of eyes stare back in fear and uncertainty. “Who's taken my gun?” I seize hold of the young private's tunic, shaking him. “Where is it?”
“I-I-”
I shake him again, slamming him against the trench wall. He looks petrified.
“Lieutenant!”
I stay holding the private.
“Lieutenant!”
My fists clench tighter around his tunic.
“Percival Denton, look at me. Percy!”
Someone grabs my arm and pulls me around to face them. The private scarpers the second I let him go. I don't register who it is holding me, I just try to get them off. To break free. I don't want them to have a hold on me. I need to find my gun. I thrash violently, desperate to get away from them. I don't feel like myself anymore. I feel like someone else entirely. It scares me. I can feel myself sinking further and further away from myself as more people grab me, dragging me away down the trench. I know Ida would bring me back. She's the only one who could help, but she isn't here. I don't give up fighting, it's what I've been taught to do, what my purpose is. I've survived this far, I won't fail now. I'll find my way back to her.
NINA HANDS ME the telegram. It’s crisp, unlike the old letter now lying abandoned beside me. This one’s clean, untarnished by mud. It’s been made in an office, not a trench. I hold my breath.
Please be alive.
Please come back to me.
I scan the brief message. It’s just a few short lines. They address me as Mrs Denton, it’s still a relatively new title and it takes me aback to see my name and his combined in such a formal setting. I let out a breath of relief. The feeling is almost as crippling as the initial fear. He’s alive, I chant to myself as I read the rest of the words in detail. He’s alive.
He’s wounded, but he’s alive. That’s all that matters. I swallow, my mouth devoid of moisture. It doesn’t say how badly he’s injured, just that he’s in the hospital…the local hospital…that he’s been there for weeks. I lean back, my hands trembling. I can see him. I have to see him.
