by Pat Barker
Brooke nodded, asked questions, taking it all in. What an extraordinary coincidence, Elinor wrote, when he told her he was serving with her brother. Wasn’t a bloody coincidence at all. He asked for me. Oh, he didn’t flatter himself for a minute that Brooke had any particular interest in him personally, he just wanted an experienced dresser for his team and he made bloody certain he got one.
And slowly, with the bitterness of that realization, the hut took shape around him. While he slept, they’d moved him from his cubicle on to the main ward. In the next bed, Trotter was struggling to ingest the regulation amount of gruel. The nurse who was feeding him looked across at Kit. ‘You’re awake, then.’
People’s willingness to state the absolutely bleeding obvious never ceased to amaze him. ‘Yes.’
‘That’s nice.’
Mousey brown hair; eyes like currants stuck in dough. Good pair of tits on her, though. It humiliated him: this melancholy, all-pervading lust.
‘You going to the concert?’
‘Not allowed out of bed.’
‘Oh, what a shame. I always think it breaks up the day.’
The day was feeling pretty bloody broken, yes. He turned on his side to indicate that the conversation was over, but the sounds of Trotter being fed went on and on. Couldn’t screen them out. He knew every stage of the process that produced these chokings and gurglings and regurgitations, the oohings and aahings and cooings, the ‘just one more mouthful now, there’s a good boy’. If he stayed in this place much longer he really would go mad.
Somehow or other the morning passed. Just before lunch, Gillies, attended by Sister Lang-widge! and surrounded by white-coated acolytes, appeared at the foot of his bed. They stared at him. He stared back. Gillies examined the trunk, which he appeared to think was a very good sort of trunk, and then they all retreated to the foot of the bed and began talking to each other in low voices. Mouths opening and shutting, drooling strings of words. It was a relief when they moved on. He was feeling drowsy; he wanted to sleep, though he knew the moment he closed his eyes he’d find Brooke waiting for him on the inside of the lids.
For God’s sake. He was tired, so tired. Bloody well bugger off, can’t you, and leave me alone.
Seventeen
When Elinor met her father in his favourite restaurant on George Street she was shocked by the change in his appearance. Toby’s death had aged him ten years, though he greeted her cheerfully. An elderly waiter doddered across to their table and Father addressed him by name. He loved this place, mainly, she suspected, because it served exactly the same kind of food he ate in his club. They ordered Brown Windsor soup and steak-and-kidney pie: God alone knew what would be in it, probably neither steak nor kidney. She watched him lovingly as he chased globules of grease around his soup. ‘So how have you been keeping?’ he said.
‘Not too bad, I’m spending more time in London now, staying with Catherine. You remember Catherine?’
‘Yes, of course.’
It was quite clear he didn’t.
‘What about you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you know, work. And more work.’
‘I don’t really know whether it’s worth my getting a flat in London, I still spend quite a bit of time at home.’
He pushed his plate away. ‘That’s really what I want to talk to you about.’
But he didn’t talk. He simply sat, staring down at his hands. She could feel tension gathering behind the silence and it made her nervous. ‘Yes?’
‘The thing is, I don’t think your mother’s going back. She seems very settled at Rachel’s.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s a bit soon.’
‘No, I don’t think she’s ever going back.’
‘Has she said so?’
He nodded.
‘I think that’s a mistake. And she shouldn’t be taking a big decision like that anyway. It’s too soon.’
‘But she has.’
‘What does Rachel think? I mean, I know they get on really well, but …’
‘There’s a cottage in the village. Only half a mile away, she could see the children every day. Alex, you know, he’s the spit of Toby at that age.’
Elinor didn’t know what more to say. She thought it was a mistake, but in the end it was her mother’s decision. How different people were. She’d clung to the house and the memories it contained; her mother, apparently, couldn’t wait to see the back of them.
‘The thing is …’ Father was toying with his knife, not looking at her. ‘She’s made up her mind.’
‘What does Rachel say?’
‘She thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘A good idea for Mother to buy the cottage or a good idea for Mother to get out of her house?’
‘Elinor –’
‘Oh, I know. I’m not being nasty, really I’m not. Rachel’s borne the brunt of all this, I haven’t done anything.’
‘Well, the answer’s a bit of both, I think. I know she finds your mother … Well, the word she used was “draining”. And you can hardly blame her. Those two boys are absolute little tearaways, and there’s another on the way.’
‘Really?’
‘Nothing’s been said, but your mother thinks so and I’d back your mother’s judgement on that any day.’
Rachel had been tense lately. The last time they’d met she’d really lashed out at Elinor. You’re behaving like a widow, for God’s sake. Surely you can see how offensive that is? Startled by the ferocity of the attack, Elinor had tried to explain that she always wore black because it was easy: you didn’t have to think what to put on. But she knew Rachel’s accusation had nothing to do with clothes. There it was again: the shadow under the water that none of them ever admitted seeing.
‘So what happens now?’
‘I’ll put the house up for sale.’
Elinor froze.
‘I don’t see any alternative. Your mother’s not going back. I certainly don’t want to live there.’
‘You never did.’
That was too sharp, though he showed no sign of having heard.
‘I’m afraid it’s got to go. I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to keep it on just for you.’
‘No, of course not.’ Her heart twisted. It felt like losing Toby all over again. ‘I’ll start looking for somewhere in town.’
‘You’ll need a bigger place. I’m quite happy to give you the same allowance I gave Toby.’
‘No, you mustn’t –’
‘Why not? There’s nothing else to spend it on.’
She’d need storage space for the paintings. He was right, she would need a bigger flat …
‘So how do you feel?’ he said.
‘It’s very generous of you.’
‘You know I didn’t mean that.’
‘How do I feel? Well. As if something just broke.’ She smiled. ‘Too many broken things.’
‘There’ll always be a bed for you in the cottage. Whenever you want one.’
Which would be never. ‘What about you, Dad? Will there be a bed for you in the cottage?’
He straightened his knife and fork. ‘I spend most of my time in London anyway.’
So this was the moment when, finally, the breakdown of the marriage was going to be acknowledged. The loss of Toby hadn’t brought his parents together; if anything, it had driven them further apart.
The steak-and-kidney pie arrived, looking rather wan and sad, flanked by boiled potatoes and anaemic cabbage. They ate in silence for a while; then Elinor, searching for another, less painful, topic of conversation, hit on her recent meeting with Tonks.
‘And he’s asked me to work there.’
‘What does it involve?’
‘Drawing.’
‘No, I mean, how many hours?’
‘Don’t know, didn’t ask. Frankly, I’m –’
‘You’re not going to turn it down, are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Elinor, you really ought to take this, you know. It’ll he
lp you … help you –’
‘Move on?’
‘Or back, or in a circle. I don’t know. Move, anyway.’
She hadn’t realized till now how stagnant her life must seem to him. ‘I do work, you know.’
‘I know you do.’
Only she hadn’t been, not recently. Whenever she went back home, she got her brushes out and tried to paint, but it didn’t happen. And Toby’s portrait, draped in its white cloth, was still unfinished.
‘What do you suppose Toby would say?’
‘Dad, that is completely and utterly below the belt.’
‘Perfectly reasonable question.’
‘Well, he’s not here to answer it.’
‘No, that’s true.’
He was looking away from her across the wet street, and that gave her a chance to study his face more closely. The washed-out blue corneas of his eyes were ringed with circles of opaque grey. The arcus senilis. Had it been there the last time she looked? She couldn’t remember.
‘Anyway, I haven’t decided yet. I’ll know more tomorrow after I’ve seen Tonks.’
It was raining when she left the restaurant so she decided to take the Underground back to Catherine’s lodgings. She stood on the deserted platform, listening to the rumble of distant trains, her hair and skirt ruffled by the dead wind that blew out of the tunnels.
What would Toby say? Not a difficult question to answer. On his last leave, they’d lain out on the lawn, side by side, close enough to smell each other’s skin, but not touching. Never touching. He’d said, then, how much he wished she’d do something for the war effort. They’d wasted hours of their last days together arguing about it. Which, as she tried to explain to him, was precisely what the war did: leached time and energy away from all the things that really mattered. ‘I’m not going to feed it,’ she’d said.
He’d been exasperated. ‘I think I see what you mean but isn’t it all a bit theoretical when people are suffering so much? I don’t see how you can ignore that.’
‘But there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘Of course there is, lots of things.’
‘Such as? I haven’t got what it takes to be a nurse …’
‘I think you have.’
‘Oh, Toby, I’m hard as nails.’
‘Precisely.’ He lifted himself on to his elbow to look at her. ‘Are you proud of that?’
‘No, it frightens the life out of me.’
He lay down again. ‘You could always knit.’
‘Oh, yes, socks for you, I suppose? Don’t think so.’
‘Just as well, probably. Nothing gives you blisters faster than a badly knitted sock.’
They lay in silence, soaking up the sun, peaceful on the surface, but with a bead of tension between them that made her miserable. ‘Can’t we just agree to disagree?’
‘I thought we had. Do you see that bird over there? I’m sure it’s a buzzard.’
The bird was no more than a shadow in a ripple of green leaves. ‘No, it’s a sparrowhawk.’
‘Buzzard. Definitely.’
‘Sparrowhawk.’
‘Good God, woman, are you blind? BUZZARD.’
Standing on the edge of the platform, listening to the roar of an approaching train, she began to smile. The dead wind blew in her face, but she was back on the lawn, Toby alive beside her, his arm an inch away from hers. She felt the prickle of grass on her bare skin.
Oh, Toby, why did you have to die?
Eighteen
Towards evening Neville’s temperature rose. A doctor he hadn’t seen before came and examined him. He leaned into Neville, speaking slowly and clearly, as if to a small child. ‘Try to sleep.’
Sleep? In this hellhole? The ward at night was never quiet, not for a second: squeaky footsteps, creaking mattresses, snores, groans, farts, the scream of a man struggling to escape from a nightmare, followed by the flap-flap of rushing feet, voices, half scolding, half reassuring, cajoling or bullying the dreamer back to sleep.
Neville fought off sleep as long as he could, but when, for the third time, the night nurse passed his bed and found him awake, she gave him a sleeping draught and stood over him while he drank it. After she’d gone he lay looking at the lamp on the nurses’ table. It shifted and blurred as lights sometimes seem to do in a high wind. It was raining too, great bursts of it hurled against the windows of the hut. How was anybody meant to sleep in this? But then, gradually, his eyes closed.
He was travelling again, the train bumping over points. His consciousness, the fine point that was left of it, still bright and sharp, like a needle tacking darkness …
Cattle trucks? He hadn’t expected that. He was used to columns of marching men, mud-coloured against a muddy road, dodging the sprays of slush and gravel that motor lorries flung up in their wake. But now, the carriages loomed up on his left as he stood with the others: indistinguishable, expressionless blobs, all of them, enduring the long wait with no more impatience than cows. So perhaps the trucks were appropriate after all.
The pressure of men behind moved the line forward. A group of officers, Toby Brooke among them, stood and watched. The trucks had white letters on the side: HOMMES 40; CHEVAUX 9. A damn sight more than forty men were clambering up the ramp into the dark interior. Was it French or simple arithmetic they couldn’t manage? He was being jostled and pushed, carried along against his will. A nail paring of a moon appeared between banks of black cloud. Not enough light to see faces by, just a silver gleam on the railway lines as they snaked away into the darkness.
He was about to set foot on the ramp when an officer shouted, ‘That’s enough!’ and so they had to march further along the track until they reached the next truck. He was among the first to enter, which meant he ended up in the far corner, a long way from the door. Shapes of men crowded in after him: miserable, grumbling hulks encased in cloth that the drenching rain had made as stiff as cardboard. Sighs and groans of relief as they took off their packs. He made the mistake of trying to sit down with his still on his back, toppled over, and lay there waving his legs feebly, like a fucking stag beetle. No straw on the floor, nothing, but at least in this truck they weren’t too badly packed in: there was room to move. Men began to set out their possessions, form circles, talk in hoarse voices that had been bellowing songs all day, though towards the end, as the rain pelted down on helmets and capes, they’d marched in silence. Some of them lit candles. The stumps were precious, had to be preserved, but crouched here like this, heading for the front, they felt the need for light. Card games were begun and bitterly argued over, people fanning the disputes to distract themselves from the immense, straining darkness outside.
Neville lit his own candle, settled down with his back to the side of the wagon, and sketched. They were used to him now, him and his endless drawing. It didn’t impress them, except when he drew portraits; then, they all gathered round and watched, amazed by his ability to get a likeness in a few quick strokes. The rest of the time, they were tolerant; they left him alone.
He looked around, imprinting the sight on his memory. Raw, red hands shielding guttering points of flame, the shadows cast on faces as they bent over the cards. Water cans were swigged, mouths wiped, hard biscuits bitten into with disgust. Somebody started a song – ‘Tipperary’, predictably – and the sound bounced off the walls of the truck until it seemed to vibrate like a communal ribcage.
The sweetest girl I know …
It was Elinor that he saw, not because she was the sweetest girl he knew, or even very sweet at all, but he’d just met her brother and that brought her, particularly, to mind. Her face floated in front of him, laughing and chattering, as he’d first seen her in the Antiques Room at the Slade. At that stage he’d only spoken to the men; contact between male and female students was discouraged. But he’d been aware of her, all the time. She was wearing a paint-daubed smock that fell straight to her ankles, a shapeless garment that nevertheless managed to hint at the firm, young body underneath. Pig
eon toes poked out from beneath the hem. She stuck her tongue out when she drew. Elegant, she was not, and all the time, chatter, chatter, chatter … He’d assumed, then, that she was one of the young ladies who attended the Slade as part of their finishing, girls whose interest in art would fade as soon as the duties of marriage and motherhood claimed them. Quite a few of the women were merely filling in time till the right man came along. Not Elinor, though. He couldn’t have been more wrong about that.
The train lurched forward. As it gathered speed, draughts crept in through gaps in the sides and blew the few remaining candles out. Narrow bands of moonlight striped the floor. Many of the men were sleeping now, sprawled out, heavy limbs straining against wet cloth, sullen, cold, slack-mouthed faces pressed against kitbags and rolled-up coats. The air was full of snores, coughs, snuffly breaths: the same sounds horses or cattle would have made. Neville felt he’d begun to behave like a bullock, putting his nose to a gap in the wall, smelling, beyond the grit and smoke, moist green air, sucking it in, bloody great lungfuls of it. Cattle don’t know about the slaughterhouse, at least not until they smell blood. Only men have foreknowledge, and the thought of what was facing them kept him and others like him awake. Looking round, he could see, here and there among all the blank and shuttered faces, a glint where sleepless eyes caught the light.
Somebody said: ‘No, he’s dead to the world. I don’t think he needs any more.’
