by Tim Atkinson
Do your balls hang low?
Do they dangle to and fro?
Can you tie ’em in a knot?
Can you tie ’em in a bow?
‘Well done, big fella, well done.’ Ocker slaps him on the back. ‘Didn’t think you had it in you!’
‘Neither did he, did you, Skerritt lad?’
‘Haven’t heard that one since we gave Haig his own personal recital!’
Skerritt sits in silence, a twisted smile fixed like a mask to his face.
By now the men are well out of the town and far along the Menin Road, passing Hell Fire Corner. Turning left down the Cambridge Road to the line of the old Ypres–Roulers railway, Jack decides to bring the truck to a halt.
‘This’ll do, I reckon.’ The men roll the barrels down the long path and upend them at the chosen spot.
‘Right, Jacko.’ Ocker passes him a shovel.
‘Come on,’ Jack says. ‘You an’ all.’
‘No, mate! Ingham was most particular wasn’t he, fellas? Said it was you had to do the digging. Isn’t that right, Mac?’
‘Oh aye,’ Mac says, lighting up his pipe. ‘We’ll stand here and make sure no one interferes, won’t we, Skerritt?’
‘Like heck, you will.’ Jack throws them both a shovel. ‘Come on you lot – get bloody digging.’
With mock reluctance the others slowly pick up their tools and set to work. Before long they’ve dug a small trench, shallow so as to collect only the drier, cleaner topsoil near the surface. But so far they have filled only one of the barrels. The early November rain has made the rest of the ground sticky and wet. Eventually it becomes easier to slice out brick-sized chunks like peat and then bag each one before placing it in the remaining barrels – leaving it to the journey and the Abbey to dry out the soil.
Meanwhile, across the Western Front as far apart as the Somme, the Aisne and Arras, and all the way back to Elverdinge, four bodies are now en route to St Pol on board four old ex-RAMC motor ambulances. Arriving at their destination, each truck is met at the gates by the padre. The men unload the stretchers, draping a Union Jack over each of the bodies. And inside the small cemetery chapel waits a single huge oak coffin.
‘Our fella’ll rattle around a bit in that, won’t he, sir?’ asks Fuller. ‘If he’s chosen, that is.’ Ingham doesn’t answer. Townend is thinking they could probably get all four men in the enormous box. But at midnight tonight, 9 November, Brigadier-General Wyatt will enter the chapel by candlelight and place a hand on one of the stretchers, after which the load it bears will be placed in the coffin and the lid sealed and secured for its final journey.
Forty miles away, Jack is driving away from a Flanders field with six barrels of the soil that will be used to bury the chosen warrior in Westminster Abbey.
‘Don’t know about you,’ he says, as they drive back through Ypres with the barrels bouncing and rolling in the back of the truck. ‘But I could do with a drink.’
‘I reckon you’re after more than just a drink, Jacko,’ Ocker jokes as Jack brings the truck to a halt outside the ruins of the campanile.
Halfway down Boter Straat the men pass a local loading rubble onto the back of a wagon.
‘Hey!’ Jack shouts. ‘That stuff’s ours. Hands off.’
‘Technically, of course,’ says Mac, ‘it belongs to the Germans, doesn’t it? They made it, after all.’
‘That’s stretching t’point a bit isn’t it, Mac?’ Jack says. ‘It belonged to the Belgies long before Fritz started using the place for target practice.’
‘Well either way it’s just a heap of flamin’ rubble now,’ says Ocker.
‘Aye, but will you just look at it!’ Mac points to the jagged outline of the ruined tower, silhouetted against the darkening sky. ‘Never saw it, did you, Jack? Never saw it in its heyday?’
‘It was in already in ruins when I arrived, Mac. Not totally destroyed, but still in a pretty bad way.’
‘There was scaffolding up around that tower well before the war, y’know. Before the Germans ever fired a shell.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Yes. Restoring it, they were. Like so much of the town, even then.’
‘Got a bit of a bigger job on their hands now, I’d say.’
‘You’re not wrong there, mate!’
‘Hallo,’ Jack calls as they walk into the bar. The room is quiet, but empty glasses on the smeared tables suggest a busy lunchtime session.
‘Not as many of you here as usual?’ Katia turns to fill a jug of beer as soon as she gets the nod from Jack. ‘The others are all right, are they – yes?’ She looks up at him over her shoulder.
‘Aye, lass, they’re all grand,’ Jack says smiling to himself as she straightens up and turns round, jug in one hand, the other tucking loose strands of her hair behind her ears. ‘They’ve gone over to St Pol with a body, that’s all.’
‘A body?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘Where are they taking it?’ she asks.
‘Home,’ Jack says, looking at her. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t … Oh no! Jacques – no!’
‘Got a big funeral planned for him in Westminster Abbey.’
‘Oh my God, Jacques.’ She holds up her hand to her face. ‘Jacques, Jacques – what have you done?’ Big tears are welling in the girl’s widening eyes.
Jack shakes his head. ‘What’s up, lass?’
She shakes her head quickly. ‘You must not … I never thought you would also get involved, Jacques. Please. Monsieur de Wulf and the others, yes … but I never thought … no, not you.’
‘What are you on about, lass?’
She turns abruptly and makes her way into the small kitchen behind the bar, holding a handkerchief to her mouth.
‘Played a blinder there, Jack, ol’ son.’
‘I wish I knew what that were about,’ Jack shrugs.
Out of sight of the men, her back to the wall in the small kitchen, Katia closes her eyes and tries to slow her breathing. A wagon passes in the square outside. A train sighs in the station. In her mind the street beyond the window, the ruined town of Ieper and the pockmarked road to Poperinghe all slowly emerge from the turmoil of her mind.
At the door of the bar, the dark silhouette of Monsieur de Wulf briefly blocks sight of the street as he pauses for a moment on the threshold. But none of the few regulars, hunched over beers and glasses of petit rosé, looks up. Jack turns away to avoid catching the man’s eye. Only Skerritt is staring, mouth open, with what’s left of his lower mandible mouthing words he’ll never utter.
‘Ah, the Tommies!’ de Wulf raises his arms. ‘Tommy Atkins!’
‘Come on, lads, let’s get a seat.’ Jack nods curtly at de Wulf, and the men sit down, turning their backs to the bar. ‘Don’t want ol’ Fatso to hear what we’ve been up to, do we?’
‘Has a habit of turning up like a bad penny, that man,’ Mac says.
‘Can’t stand the fat bastard,’ Jack adds. ‘And have you noticed he seems to hang around more and more these days?’
‘Really?’
‘Aye. Fuller says it was de Wulf who took Ingham back to Remy the other day after they’d been out on their little nocturnal expedition.’
‘Ah!’ Mac taps his nose. ‘You mean the top-secret mission?’
‘Aye, the one half the camp knew about afore Ingham was even tucked up in his bunk.’ The men laugh.
‘Christ, laddie, did you not get Skerritt a straw!’ Mac suddenly gets to his feet, breeches covered in beer.
‘Don’t laugh wi’ yer mouth full, will you, Skerritt? Waste of good beer, apart from owt else. Shall I get you another one, Mac?’
‘No,’ Mac says, flapping at the damp patches on his trousers with his tartan handkerchief. ‘As a matter of fact I think I’m going to turn in. We ought to get this soil back to the sidings before too long. Coming, Ocker?’
‘I’m done in, mate. I’m with you.’
‘Jacko?’
‘No, lads. Not y
et.’
‘Daft flamin’ question.’
‘Aye, but take Skerritt with you an’ all, eh?’ Jack says. ‘Ocker – you can drive the Albion, can’t you? I think I might need to stay on here a bit.’
‘Got some explaining to do, eh?’
‘Summat like that.’ He glances at de Wulf. ‘Though I’m blowed if I can think what for. Oh, and lads’ – the men turn before opening the door – ‘cover for me, will you, if you have to. I’ll walk back later if I can’t find a bike.’
‘Or something else to ride on, eh, laddie?’
‘Private MacIntyre, that is beneath your God-fearing Scottish dignity.’
‘Away, who ever said I had any?’ Mac laughs. ‘I’ve been a soldier far too long, son.’
‘I know. You never stop reminding us. Now bugger off back to base and get to bed, grandad.’
‘Come on then, Skerritt,’ Ocker calls. ‘You can fire her up for me.’
The men pull up their collars as they open the door. Rain has started beating hard against the corrugated iron roof and there is a brief rush to the door as the regulars, too, decide to turn in early. Even de Wulf seems preoccupied as the rain suddenly gets harder and the wind blows stronger. Pretty soon he’s rushing out into the night, and at last Jack finds himself the only customer.
‘So it’s just me and thee then, lass!’ He stands up and starts gathering the empty mugs and glasses.
‘You don’t have to do that.’ Katia shakes her head. ‘I can manage.’
‘I’m sure you can, lass,’ he smiles at her. ‘But it’s no bother.’
‘No bother,’ she repeats, another linguistic note, a nuance to be stored away for future reference. The glasses and beer mugs chink loudly as he gathers them a handful at a time. Katia clears the remaining tables then – as Jack puts the final glasses on the bar – she reaches out a hand and places it on top of his. ‘Sit down,’ she says to him softly. ‘Another drink?’
‘Why not?’
She pours a mug of de Snoek Vlaams bier blond from the pewter jug and sits down opposite him across the small round table in the middle of the bar. Her hair, dishevelled after an evening running the bar on her own, surrounds her face in loose strands. She looks tired. The shadows beneath her eyes are darker; whites still bloodshot from her earlier tears.
‘I don’t know why I thought …’
‘Neither do I, lass. In fact, I’m not right sure what you thought. But whatever it was, it wasn’t owt to do with what we’ve been doing today.’
She looks down and smiles.
‘So, where’s everyone else then tonight? Why are you on your own?’
‘I am not alone.’
Jack frowns. Then suddenly the noise of glass clinking as the cellar boy brings up a crate of bottles. ‘Mademoiselle!’ the boy shouts. ‘Êtes-vous là?’
‘Oui, Michel, je suis ici. Je viens.’ She smiles at Jack. ‘I have to go and help Michel for a moment. I won’t be long.’
‘Who’s Michel?’
‘The new cellar boy,’ she answers. ‘I told you I was not alone.’
‘You did,’ Jack nods. ‘You’re playing games wi’ me!’
‘I am not, Jacques.’ She puts her hand on his. ‘My father has taken him on to help me here, since Françoise …’
‘Aye.’
‘He is strong. But he is young. He will wish to go home now. He has school in the morning.’
‘Aye, well.’ Jack drains his beer and gets to his feet. ‘Now t’rain seems to have slowed down a bit I suppose I’d better do t’same … Go home, I mean.’
‘I did not think you also would be going to school,’ Katia laughs.
‘No.’ Jack gets to his feet and looks at his boots, ashamed at his sudden change of heart. Outside the bar the street is deserted. The last train in the station opposite begins to gather steam for Poperinghe. In spite of the recent rain, in spite of the walk, in spite of his plans for the evening, Jack now feels a desperate need to get out into the night air, to be alone. ‘Plenty more graves to dig in t’morning, love.’
‘Still?’ She puts out her hand to delay him. As he leans towards her she draws him in a little closer. He can feel her delicate, warm breath on his face like the wingbeat of a tiny bird.
‘Oh, aye.’ He turns towards her, wanting to turn away. ‘There’s thousands of them all over t’place. They’re everywhere.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Aye. And someone has to bury ’em.’
‘And does that someone still have to be you, Jacques?’
‘Aye, lass. It does.’
‘But why?’ She reaches for his free hand. ‘Jacques!’ He allows her to take it, but he won’t turn to face her. She holds on tight, covering the hard, spade-calloused skin with her delicate fingers. ‘There is other work,’ she says at last. The stubble on the side of Jack’s neck reflects in the light of the candles, like tiny grains of sand in the sun. ‘My father, he is weary – he is finding things so difficult now.’
‘Aye,’ Jack turns at last to face her, to properly look at her, her brown eyes large and dark in the dim light of the bar. ‘I know.’
‘He is thinking he can no more run l’estaminet in Poperinghe.’
‘No?’
‘Not without help, Jacques.’ She closes her eyes and shakes her head. ‘And there is going to be more and more for him to do here in Ieper, with the rebuilding.’
‘What is it you’re saying, love?’ he asks. He knows what she is saying, though. He knows he should be pleased, flattered even. But he knows too that that is nothing like what he is feeling.
‘Nothing.’ She shakes her head. ‘Don’t think about it.’ Katia covers her mouth with her hand as if trying to push the words back in. Tears start to prick at the corners of her eyes. ‘It is just … it is so much more difficult since my sister …’
‘You were close.’ He draws her to him, opening his arms. ‘You and your sister.’
‘We were,’ says Katia. ‘We were – we are – we are a close family.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I know.’
Katia lifts her head. ‘You were … fond of her too, Jacques. You liked her too?’
‘Aye, I …’
‘I know …’ Her bottom lip is trembling. ‘How does the world keep on turning, Jacques? How can the sun keep shining every morning?’
‘Shhhh …’ He holds her, holds her close to him. He feels her sobs.
‘How can things go on, Jacques, as they did before?’ She rubs her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Why is not the whole world dressed in black?’
The rain returns and settles to a steady rhythm on the tin roof of the bar. Jack’s heart beats against Katia’s face. Her lungs rise and fall in the warmth of his embrace.
‘Game goes on, I suppose, lass. We’re still …’
‘The game?’ She looks up, puzzled for a moment. ‘Are we, Jacques … Are you still playing? Are you … are we all just playing a game?’
‘Aye, lass!’ He shakes his head. ‘Reckon we are.’
‘Don’t go, Jacques. Please. You don’t have to go. Not tonight.’
‘I know.’ He looks down, neither pleased nor surprised.
‘Please!’ she cries. ‘Please wait, just a moment longer, Jacques. Let me send the boy home first, at least. Please?’
Slowly, Jack goes back to the table as the girl gives Michel brief instructions. The boy asks – in French – about the barrels, and whether he should fetch another crate of bottles. But she is already helping him into his coat and shepherding him towards the door. Unseemly haste. The cellar boy turns and looks at Jack – a strange, curious smile curling at the corner of his lips – before pulling on his hat and walking out into the rain. The noise flares as the door opens, then subsides again as the girl replaces the latch and slides across both bolts.
‘You can’t go out in that, Jacques.’ She wipes her wet hands on her apron. ‘You will catch your death …’
He looks at the bolts on the door, then
looks at her, then smiles. Then slowly, starts to laugh. Suddenly, great, chest-heaving guffaws that leave him wheezing and in pain echo round the empty bar.
‘I don’t know what you find so funny.’ Katia looks puzzled, then annoyed, and then concerned. And then slowly she, too, begins to smile. ‘I see,’ she says at last.
‘Yer do?’
She nods. Picking up Jack’s empty glass, she stoops, wiping the table, blowing out the candle with a gentle ‘pfft’. In the dim light of the oil lamp Jack sees the outline of her hips, the neat bow tied at the back of her apron, and imagines the gentle tug that it would take to loose the ribbon. His mind moves to the strings of her stays, the laces round her stocking tops, the taut elastic of her petticoat, the waistband of her drawers. Without warning he leans forward, turning her head and kissing her first on the cheek, then full on the lips.
‘Not here,’ she whispers, taking him by the hand and leading him across the bar and through the small kitchen, pulling back a curtain to reveal a tiny area at the back of the building complete with single bed, washstand, chest of drawers and mirror. The floor looks familiar. Jack recognises the bare outline of the room from a time months, even years earlier, when it had been no more than chipped flagstones within sight of the ruined campanile. Someone had been sweeping the floor while he dug post-holes with a pickaxe ready to erect the building’s temporary timber frame. Wooden walls, a window overlooking a bare yard; the dark, jagged edges of the Cloth Hall just visible in the darkness through a curtain of steady rain.
An old blanket has been neatly placed across the stone floor. Dried flowers in a vase give off the scent of roses. Katia turns, undoes the buttons of Jack’s tunic and rubs her hands against his chest. The smell of sweat, soap and stale smoke leaches from his pores. She drinks in the scent like the most refreshing draft of clear spring water.
Just as he imagined, the apron strings untie themselves at the merest tug of his thumb and forefinger. Her blouse is trickier. He fumbles with the laces at her neck but she helps, holding up her arms – eyes closed – for him to pull the garment up and over her head. The loose stays fall easily to the floor. Her bare breasts have suddenly nothing but his cupped hands to support them, and his mouth, his lips, his tongue to caress, to kiss, to tease, to nibble the hard brown nipples. Her skirt, then petticoats, fall to the floor and his hand is sliding down her belly underneath the waistband of her drawers, between her legs. She moves backwards, to the bed, undoing his belt, the buttons of his flies, letting his breeches fall to his ankles, pulling him over on top of her and feeling his hardness against her groin and then suddenly inside her, moving slowly first, then faster as she brings her knees up high and digs her fingernails into his buttocks.
