by Tim Atkinson
‘Aye, of course, lass. Sorry.’
Jack orders tea. Once the waitress has returned to the kitchen, the girl takes out a folded piece of paper from deep in her handbag. Without a word, she pushes the printed form across the table. Jack opens the letter.
ARMY FORM B.104-82 is stamped in bold at the head of the paper, as is the terse instruction to quote ‘reference number K146 if replying to this letter’.
What would you say by way of reply to a letter like this? Jack wonders.
‘Dear Madam,’ the note begins. The remainder of the letter is a mix of pre-printed words and handwritten phrases filling in the blanks.
It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office notifying the death of:-
No. 24910
Rank: Cpl.
Name: Patterson, J.
Regiment: West Yorks.
Which occurred: in the field in France
On the: 1st July 1916
The report is to the effect that he was:
KILLED IN ACTION
The last phrase is stamped in bold across the middle of the page. What else did they have ready to rubber-stamp across that line, Jack wonders – SHOT AT DAWN maybe? Or LOST IN MUD, perhaps?’
He reads on:
By His Majesty’s command I am to forward the enclosed message of sympathy from Their Gracious Majesties the King and Queen. I am at the same time to express the regret of the Army Council at the soldier’s death in his Country’s service.
I am to add that any information that may be received as to the soldier’s burial will be communicated to you in due course. A separate leaflet dealing more fully with this subject is enclosed.
Jack wonders what was in the leaflet.
‘Please forgive the, er … Well, I don’t know. The intrusion,’ the girl stammers. Jack is shaking his head and looking at the letter.
‘Can I hang on to this?’ he asks.
‘I suppose … yes, of course. It only seems only right, after all.’
‘Aye,’ he says. Then he smiles. Then suddenly, Jack is laughing. He is laughing loudly without quite realising what it is that he is laughing at. And then, once he does, he starts laughing even louder, and for longer.
‘Well you see,’ the girl goes on hesitantly, unsure what it is that Jack finds quite so funny. ‘I mean … Well, apparently no one ever did receive notification from the War Graves Commission telling us about your burial.’
‘Aye, well,’ Jack is dabbing his eyes. ‘For a start, there’d be no one to tell.’
‘No one?’
‘Well, that’s not quite true.’ He looks at her.
‘My mother,’ the girl goes on. ‘She took a personal interest, of course.’
‘Aye,’ says Jack, folding his handkerchief. ‘She would.’
‘I do understand’ – the girl is slightly irritated now – ‘I was informed that you had no living relatives in the village.’
‘Were you?’ Jack narrows his eyes. ‘Well, that’s not quite t’whole truth, is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘But even if it was’ – Jack turns away – ‘no one would’ve received any letter from t’Commission about my burial, would they? How could they?’ He smiles and spreads his arms. ‘I’m here!’
Silence.
‘Why …’ she hesitates. A kettle whistles in the café kitchen. ‘Why did you never … ?’
‘Why did I never come home?’ he says.
‘Even on leave?’ she adds.
He looks at her. ‘It’s a long story,’ he sighs. ‘Let’s just say there was plenty o’ folk quite happy never to see my face in t’village agin.’
‘I can’t believe that,’ the girl widens her eyes. ‘A war hero. Our own war hero. My mother for one was very keen that I should—’
‘Yer mam …’ Jack interrupts, then stops. ‘Yer mam was a good woman,’ he says softly. ‘But she were in a difficult position.’
‘I don’t understand?’ The girls frowns. ‘Are you saying that you knew my mother?’
‘Oh aye,’ Jack smiles broadly, ‘I knew yer mother all right!’
They sit in silence for a while, sipping tea. ‘More?’ Jack asks, once the mugs are empty.
‘No, thank you. Would you mind … ?’ the girl begins. ‘I mean, it’s getting late. I have a train to catch. Either that or else find somewhere nearby to stay. I signed out of my hotel this morning.’
Silence. ‘What is it that you want, miss?’ Jack asks eventually.
She looks at him for a long time. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘As I was saying, my mother—’
‘Aye, your mother.’
‘You know her.’ She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. ‘You know her, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know anyone.’ Jack looks out of the window at the ruined church tower. ‘I’m a dead man, remember?’
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I had no wish to—’
‘Look, miss.’ Jack waves the piece of paper in the air. ‘There were mix-ups like this all the time.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s what Major Dundridge told me. But—’
‘But?’
‘My mother … before she passed away. Well, she did a little digging.’
‘Digging, eh?’ Jack shakes his head. ‘Well, we’ve that much in common, then.’
‘Yes,’ the girl nods. ‘Yes, I suppose so. And she did think it was a little strange that there seemed not to be a letter.’
‘Letter?’
‘From your commanding officer. Not even a brief note from an NCO.’
‘No,’ Jack says. ‘Well, there wouldn’t be. Not after the battle we was in.’
‘Really?’
‘There was no officer and no NCO,’ Jack pauses. ‘There was nobody left that day but me.’
‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘That must have been …’
‘Aye,’ Jack says. ‘It was.’ Don’t ask no more, he is thinking. Leave it there.
‘Anyway, as I was saying, my mother did a little digging and she managed to establish that your Army pay seemed to have been resumed. Only the details …’ She hesitates. ‘Well, she couldn’t be sure it was the same man.’
How could you? How could anyone? And what did it matter, after all?
‘Which is why she was so keen for me to come here personally.’
Aye, Jack is thinking, an’ I’ll bet that wasn’t t’only reason.
‘Yes.’ The girl looks down at her hands. ‘Mama really was most adamant that I should come out here and find out for myself …’
The bell rings as the door of the café opens. Suddenly the girl starts laughing. ‘It’s ironic,’ she is saying as the laughter turns to tears.
Jack passes her his handkerchief. ‘Ironic?’
‘Well, if it turns out that it was you after all, then … Well, that would make a difference to the memorial.’
‘Memorial?’
‘Yes,’ the girls dabs her eyes. ‘You see, Mama was fund-raising, before her final illness, for a memorial to the men from the village who went to war and who never—’
‘Oh aye – The Glorious Dead. Those who never returned. Of course.’
‘Well, yes …’ the girl’s voice trails off. Jack can’t take his eyes off her, even though he realises that what she is about to say is going to alter everything, for ever. ‘That was the intention, certainly. Back in 1918.’ The girl smiles. So like her mother, Jack thinks. So incredibly, unbelievably like her late mother.
‘It seems so long ago.’ Jack shakes his head, still looking at the girl.
‘It does. And back then, of course, before the war was over, well, we hardly dared imagine—’
‘Imagine?’
‘That the village would be spared,’ she says.
Jack frowns.
‘Mm,’ the girl nods. ‘All the brave men of the parish who enlisted and who went to war survived. They all came home.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Jack looks away. The old couple at the next-
door table rise and leave. ‘Well there’s one of ’em here that didn’t, isn’t there?’ he mutters quietly.
‘I beg your—’
‘I’m still here, lass, aren’t I?’
‘Well yes, yes of course,’ the girl is flustered, ‘I mean, at the moment.’ She puts a hand up to her cheek. ‘But not for very much longer, surely?’
‘No?’ Jack says, much more loudly than he had intended. ‘Why not, then, eh?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Why shouldn’t I stay out here for ever?’ Silence. Outside the café swallows swoop and twist past the large, sunlit window – a brief blur of movement like a rifle bullet. Beyond the church, the graves in the military cemetery are just visible, shimmering in the heat. ‘There’s thousands of ’em that will. At least I have the choice.’ Jack jerks his thumb in the direction of the cemetery. ‘Unlike them poor buggers.’
‘Of course,’ the girl leans forward. ‘But I understood … Major Dundridge said you were about to be demobilised.’
‘Aye, I am,’ Jack says. ‘We all are.’
‘Well then?’
‘But that doesn’t mean I’m going home. Wherever “home” is!’
‘You mean, you’re staying here?’
‘Aye, well. There’s certain arrangements to be made, yet. But, yes. That’s the plan.’
‘Of course,’ she sits back. ‘That’s understandable. You’ve been out here for so long. Of course I understand. But—’
‘But what?’
‘At least, if we can confirm that you’re, well …’
Jack raises his eyebrows. ‘Alive?’
The girl nods. ‘The point is that your name, well … your name won’t need to be included on the war memorial as the only one from the parish who fell. And the village—’
‘Edgham?’
‘Yes, Edgham can now officially be recognised as a Thankful Village.’
‘A … what?’
‘A Thankful Village,’ Anna says. ‘There aren’t very many, you know.’
‘Aye, well … I can certainly believe that.’
‘No. But with you alive we can at last erect a memorial to the brave men who served the Empire overseas in the Great War. And who returned home.’
Jack looks around, then leans towards the girl. ‘Look, miss,’ he begins. ‘I’ve got something to tell thee. I think there’s something else you ought to know.’
30
‘Er …’ Jack is struggling to find the right words. The girl could help him, of course, if she wanted to. Expensive private lessons, no doubt, with a governess at the Big House. But she’s in no mood now for talking. ‘Donnez-moi quelqu’un pour m’aider loger femme?’ The landlady looks at him briefly, then looks at Anna, then shuts the door in their faces.
‘Bastard,’ Jack spits. ‘Sorry, love, it’s just that—’
‘Don’t,’ the girl frowns. ‘I understand. And believe me, I’ve heard much worse.’
‘Aye, happen.’ But after trying most of the hotels in Poperinghe (all complets) and half-a-dozen lodging houses, Jack is starting to get desperate. ‘Look, love, I suppose you could bunk down for the night at Toc H, but—’
‘Bunk down? Oh Jack, I think not!’
‘Well, it’s either that or t’church hall,’ he says. ‘We can’t have you sleeping on t’streets.’
The girl looks thoughtful. The few market traders in the town square are packing up. There are shouts in a foreign language. Someone shoos away a dog.
‘Look, love,’ Jack says, ‘if you catch the last train from Poperinghe you’ll probably just make it to St Omer in time for a connection to Dunkirk.’
‘But could I catch the last boat home?’ Suddenly the thought of home, of shaking the dirt of Belgium from her shoes and getting as far away as she can from this nightmare, is becoming more and more attractive. ‘No,’ she says suddenly. ‘I can’t. I’m not going back without—’
‘Look, love,’ Jack shakes his head. ‘I’m not coming with thee. I can’t!’
‘Then at least let me take back home some proof that you’re alive,’ the girl says. ‘For the committee. This is important, Jack. My mother—’
‘Yer ma’s dead,’ Jack says quietly. ‘God rest ’er soul.’
‘I know,’ the girl nods. ‘But the memorial. The Lady Bowker monument. She worked so hard, Jack. She wanted it so much. I feel I owe it to her memory.’
‘Aye, lass.’
‘And you’re, you’re …’
Jack looks down and sighs. It’s impossible to explain. He can’t explain. Not here. Not now. And especially not to her.
‘I just don’t understand,’ the girl says at last. ‘I cannot see why anyone would not want to come back. To come home. Why would anyone want to stay here?’
‘It’s hard to explain, lass.’ He reaches out to her but she pulls back her hands. ‘So much has happened,’ he says. ‘I’m not the same ma—’ He stops. They both laugh. ‘Well, you know all about that, lass, don’t you?’
‘But Jack!’
‘Whatever it says on yon slip of paper, whatever Army number I have on me shoulder, whatever badge they gimme to wear on me titfer, I’m just not the man I used to be. Don’t reckon anyone is,’ he says, ‘who went through this.’
‘Talk to me, Jack,’ she says. ‘I want to know.’
‘It’s a long story,’ Jack sighs.
‘Well you’d better get on with it then,’ the girl says. ‘Come on,’ she puts her arm in his. ‘There must be somewhere else we can try. Let’s find some shelter before it starts to rain.’
‘Well,’ Jack hesitates. ‘I suppose there is just one more place that might have a bed.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
A few minutes later they are walking down the Chaussée Brussels. The sign says ‘Fermé’ but the door of the café is unlocked.
‘Monsieur Steenvan?’ Jack calls. ‘Katia?’ The bar is empty. Then the cellar boy appears. ‘Anyone about, lad? Oh, hang on. I mean, er … Is er hier iemand?’
‘Nee, alleen ik,’ the boy replies.
‘Where is everybody, then?’ Jack looks puzzled.
‘Ik weet waar Katia is,’ the cellar boy smiles. ‘Ze is op Ieper naar jou!’
‘She’s gone to Wipers?’ Jack says. ‘What the bloody hell for?’
The boy shrugs, then says something Jack cannot translate, but understands only too well.
‘Come here, yer little—’
The boy ducks but not before Jack’s hand connects. ‘Hey!’ he rubs his forehead. ‘Je doet me pijn!’
‘I’ll do more than gi’ thee a clip round the ear, lad,’ Jack hisses, ‘if tha doesn’t show a bit more respect.’
‘What’s going on, Jack?’
‘Nowt, lass. Sit down for a while. I’ll just go out t’back to get some coal. I won’t be a moment. Michel here … Michel?’ The scowling boy wanders to the table where Anna is now sitting. ‘Michel’ll get you something to eat. Haal voor de dame wat brood en kaas,’ Jack says to the boy. ‘And you’ – he turns the minute he hears the door opening and Margreet’s heels clip-clopping on the wooden floor – ‘you make yourself useful for once. Go and make up the bed in the small back bedroom, will you?’
‘You mean—’
‘Aye, lass. I mean Françoise’s old room.’
The woman looks at Jack then at Anna and her face changes, suddenly. She nods quickly, and then disappears upstairs.
‘I’m tired, Jack.’ Anna appears in the doorway that leads through to the back room, a blanket draped around her shoulders.
‘Aye, lass, I know. It’s been a long day. Been a bit of a shock for me an’ all, truth to tell. Come on.’ He gently ushers her upstairs. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
A short time later Katia hurries through the door out of the rain. ‘Jacques?’ she shouts. ‘Jacques?’ before turning to Margreet. ‘Has Jacques been here?’
The woman smiles, then nods, then raises her eyes and points to the ceiling.
&n
bsp; ‘He is here?’ Katia is puzzled. ‘In the bedroom?’ Passing the discarded blanket on the floor, she turns and makes for the stairs.
‘Katia?’ Jack calls, hearing her footsteps. ‘Sit here a minute, lass.’ He shows Anna to the small bedroom at the back of the house. ‘Katia?’ Jack calls out again as he picks up the bucket of coal he left on the landing. Hearing no reply, he turns back into the room to light the fire.
Anna is holding her stomach and rocking slowly back and forth on the edge of the bed. Her head is spinning. She has come such a long way, searched so hard. And she has found more than she could possibly have bargained for.
Suddenly the door opens and Katia bursts in, wiping her hands down the side of her skirt. She stares at the girl for a long time, unable to believe what she is seeing. Anna gets to her feet unsteadily, places her bag on the bed and puts out her hand. Jack drops the twisted paper he has lit into the grate and gets to his feet.
‘I’m …’
‘I know who you are,’ Katia takes a step back. ‘Mon Dieu! I know.’
‘I’m sorry, love,’ he says to Katia. ‘There was nowhere else we could go.’ He puts out a blackened hand in an attempt to touch her arm. Katia pulls away.
‘Aye, well.’ Jack kneels down at the hearth. ‘I’ll just set this going. We’ll all feel a lot better with a bit o’ warmth around us.’ An orange glow soon fills the room, casting flickering shadows on the women’s faces. But the fire isn’t giving out much heat.
‘So,’ Jack says, getting up from his knees, ‘Katia – this is Anna. Anna Bowker.’
Katia sniffs and wipes away a tear.
‘Love.’ Jack reaches out to take her hand but Katia turns away again. ‘Love,’ he says again. ‘Sit down. This is going to come as quite a shock.’
An hour later, and the girl is sleeping soundly.
‘It’s been a hell of a day for her,’ Jack says, as they sit watching the tiny, birdlike figure gently breathing beneath the heaped blankets.
‘I’m sorry, Jacques,’ Katia takes his hand. ‘It was such a shock.’
‘I know, lass. I know. Believe me I never planned any o’ this.’
The fire settles in the hearth. Jack adds more coal as quietly as he can. But Anna will not be woken. Even the noise from the bar downstairs does not disturb her.
