The Inheritance of Solomon Farthing

by Mary Paulson-Ellis

  ‘I’m going over for him,’ he said.

  Walker swore. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. Fritz’ll get you.’

  But before they could stop him, Alec slid into the river, head first, like an otter, like a boy who was used to swimming wild. Stone and Walker watched, hearts racing in their chests as Alec sliced through the cold surface, and disappeared into the current beneath.

  He came home as dawn approached, hot beneath his uniform as the farmhouse chimney loomed from the mist at last. As he turned in from the road Godfrey Farthing remembered that first time, his heart in his throat at the thought of carnage, only to discover Eden, cabbages covered in sacking and chickens strutting in the yard. He thought of his men who were left, what they would do when he woke them and gave them the news. Nothing to do now but count the hours till the bells rang at last. Flint hanging his washing in the grain store. Walker sweeping chiff chaff from the barn. Jackdaw and Promise larking in the hayloft. Stone plucking the last chicken to make them all a feast. Then there would be Hawes hiding in the barn with his book, turning and turning those pages. Alec, his new recruit, wandering the hedgerows with a pawn ticket in one pocket and a rabbit’s foot in the other, searching for autumn treats. And not forgetting Ralph, of course, Godfrey’s second lieutenant, tossing his dice high in the air and laughing as they fell. Godfrey Farthing’s men, safe in their Eden, nothing to bring them harm now.

  Godfrey was almost at the yard when he heard it, a sort of shuffling and a dragging, a low whine as he approached. Some sort of creature creeping towards him beneath the hedgerow. He couldn’t understand what it was at first. A filthy thing, matted. Perhaps a hare injured in one of Alec’s traps. Or a fox grown thin over the winter, pitted and scarred. He was wary, uncertain whether to approach. Most foxes if cornered preferred to fight, would rather bite than surrender. It was only as the thing got closer that Godfrey was able to see that it wasn’t a fox, but something more familiar. The new recruit’s dog.

  Godfrey couldn’t remember the dog’s name, if he’d ever been told it. He walked towards the creature and it halted in its progress as though aware all of a sudden that someone was there. The creature lay, its flanks lifting in and out and in again, a small cloud of white around its muzzle. For a moment it reminded Godfrey of Archie Methven laid out beneath a similar hedgerow many hours’ walk back along the way.

  Godfrey crouched, ran his hand across the dog’s head, held up its jaw for a moment so that he could look into its face. The dog’s eyes glinted, a pair of tiny mirrors as Godfrey reached for each notch of its backbone, one, two, three. The dog gave a soft whine as Godfrey touched its back legs, left femur shattered, bone sticking out from amongst the skin and muscle. The dog had been shot at, just like Methven. No one left behind to stitch its wound.

  The yard, when Godfrey got to it, was skimmed with frost, ice turning the mud into some sort of frozen wonderland as a hint of dawn began to show in the sky. Everywhere was silent, nothing but an abandoned mess tin lying by the pump. Godfrey stood with the dog in his arms and listened to the stillness, knew at once that he had returned too late. He looked towards the sky, a faint echo of grey. It was difficult to know exactly what time it was, whether the men would have gone over already or were still waiting for the clock to tick down. Godfrey wished then that he had not given his wristwatch to Fortune, probably bargained away long since for his passage home. Then he heard a rustle in the dirty straw.

  Godfrey found him in the shed, the last man standing, nothing on but a shirt and a pair of britches, chicken shit all over his boots. He had lifted the bar from the door hoping to find his second lieutenant, found Hawes, his temporary sergeant, instead.

  Hawes was shivering like he would never stop, a ghost at the far end of the coop. When Godfrey opened the door, Hawes lifted his hands to his face as though ashamed to be seen. Godfrey knew what had happened before he opened his mouth. Archie Methven had been right. Hawes had sold the men to Ralph in return for safe passage, not even there when the moment came.

  The temporary sergeant turned away as his captain approached, would not look him in the face.

  ‘They’re coming back for breakfast, sir,’ he said. ‘Once they’ve shot the rest.’

  ‘Shot who, Hawes?’

  But Godfrey didn’t really need to ask. Three miles there and three miles back, a fire fight on the far side. If Ralph had taken the section to the river they were either dead in the field on the other side by now, or bogged down and frozen to the earth arguing about who should go first. He came to stand close to his temporary sergeant, could smell the fear lifting from the man, the stink of him like that time in the trench.

  ‘Who shot the dog, Hawes?’

  But Hawes just shook his head over and over, fingers tipple tappling on his thigh.

  ‘I don’t like blood, sir. I couldn’t help it.’

  A man worn down by war until there was nothing left of what he had been. A man no use to Godfrey, or anyone else. And yet, out of all of them, he was still here. He was still here.

  Godfrey left Hawes in the shed because his temporary sergeant would not come out. He knew what he must do. A wade through a swamp. A scramble through a drainage ditch. A crawl to the banks of a river for a reckoning, count out whatever remained. Before he left he climbed the stairs to the attic, brought down a blanket and draped it over his temporary sergeant, placed the dog in his lap, too. He left Hawes a knife taken from the kitchen, the one Stone used to slice the necks of the chickens, wasn’t prepared to see one of his men go unprotected again. Also that book with the red woven cover, fetched from Hawes’s pack in the barn.

  Old Mortality.

  Battle pages ripped out at the end.

  At the river, George Stone and Alfred Walker lay flat on the bank, straining to see. The water flowed silent in the semi-darkness, ice floating on its fringes, the current strong in the middle where Alec had disappeared. On the far side they heard Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson calling once again.

  ‘It hurts, Stone. It hurts. Come and get me.’

  Another boy in the grip of the freezing water, would not last long now. Stone could hear Walker breathing next to him – in out, in out – the rapid beat of his own heart as though it must burst. Then the petty thief’s grasp on his arm.

  ‘There!’

  As halfway across, Alec bobbed up again, fair head pale against the grey. The two men watched as the new recruit rose from the water like some sort of merman rising from the sea. The boy’s breath was a small cloud against the dark water as he breathed out, then in again, prepared to disappear once more.

  On the bank, George Stone held his breath, too, tried to stop his teeth rattling in his skull. He could feel the grip of Walker’s fingernails through the rough wool of his tunic sleeve as Alec vanished into the dark water again. Nearly there, he thought, one boy swimming to save another, bringing him home so that Stone could account for them all.

  On the far side of the thick rope of water, there was a sudden splash, followed by another. Then a voice calling louder this time as a figure emerged from beneath the lip of the bank.

  ‘Stone? Stone? Are you coming? I’m here.’

  ‘Keep down, you idiot,’ Stone hissed between his teeth. ‘Keep down.’

  But Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson could tell that something was different now. He moved from his hiding place, buttons glimmering in the semi-dawn, flashing on his collar and his cuff visible as he raised his arm.

  ‘I’m here, Stone! Here!’

  His voice louder now.

  ‘Keep back!’ Walker cried.

  Too late.

  George Stone ducked his head, face buried in the frozen grass, as down it came. Lead falling from the sky once again, pitter pattering the surface of the river as though it were nothing more than rain. Walker ducked, too, calling out as the bullets struck the water, the grass, the earth all around. And on the far bank, within sight of the prize, Alec Sutherland the new recruit rose from the dark water, straight into the
hail.

  1921

  Stone

  They had gathered so that they might get the best view: a thousand men lined each side of that slab of grey stone in the middle of the parade, one empty coffin stacked on top of another and another, all piled on a plinth. Ex-soldiers three deep either side, men pressed front to back and front to back again, as though they were waiting to board a train to France. George Stone could smell them as he stood pressed tight. Damp wool and cheap cloth, stale hair oil and the sweat of folk who did not wash every day. The men were thin, their coats hanging from their limbs as though from a clothes horse. They looked starved. Not surprising after everything they had seen.

  The first year it had been a cardboard sarcophagus. Last year, the unveiling of the plinth before him now. One more monument to all the men who had fallen, those who were left standing silent, as the Generals and the politicians marched past. Men who came home to find themselves begging with tin cups, wheeling themselves on trollies where their legs had once been. Or standing on street corners holding trays of matches — one box for 3d, don’t strike it above the parapet – all that was left of their hopes and of their dreams. This year, for the first time, it was splashes of colour on all the men’s shoulders. Red. Like the flowers in the cornfields. Like Beach when he went down. Stone tried hard not to look, but the poppies were everywhere, stains upon the lapel.

  As they waited for the commemoration service to begin, George Stone stared over the heads of those in front towards the memorial, its great grey bulk. He imagined it full of men buried one above the other, a whole pile of them reaching into the sky. But he knew that the coffin on top was empty, like all their hearts were now. In his pocket he fingered the means by which he made his living – two dice and a piece of green cloth – wondered how the game would go tonight. Armistice Day always did prove rich pickings. All those old soldiers used to gambling with everything they had.

  It was the scuffle that caught his eye, a bit of argy bargy on the far side of the street. Stone strained his neck to see as one man in a smart coat turned to a silent group on the edge of the pavement opposite.

  Disgusting. Shouldn’t be allowed.

  The men did not respond to the slur, stood silent, shoulders tight against each other, as though they were about to go over the top. But it was something else that caught Stone’s attention. Not a flower on their lapels, but small flaps of paper attached there instead. Some pink. Some blue. Pawn tickets pinned above their hearts.

  Stone had heard that there might be protests, but he had not expected this. Something that suggested it was not the coats the group were wearing that were for sale, but the men inside them too. He let his eyes wander along the row and back. For a sudden moment he was sure that one of them was Percy Flint, hair smoothed down, parting a white arrow on his scalp. But when he looked again he knew that he was wrong. Flint would never do anything as dignified as this.

  Parade done, wreaths laid, and the dancing could begin. From London to Liverpool and back again, the most popular celebrations were those in the victory halls. Bands with their trumpets and their big bass drums. Girls with gin rickeys. Beer spilled on the floor. George Stone had already decided to try his luck in the East End, knew there would be less police there. Plenty of ladies wanting a thrill. And ex-servicemen looking for a throw.

  He set himself up in an alleyway, down the side of one of the dancehalls not far from the Thames, back pressed against the wall, an old sweat crouched above a playing area swept clean with the quick brush of his cuff. Not cards this time, but dice. Crown and Anchor – the soldiers’ sudden death. Stone throwing out his patter.

  ‘Put a little snow on it . . . Make it even on the lucky old heart . . . Are you done, gentlemen, are you done?’

  Urging any revellers who appeared at the end of the alleyway to place their bets on his square of patterned cloth. George Stone shook the little coloured dice in his hand, trickled them onto his playing field as he waited for his first round. He sometimes offered three dice to even the odds. But Stone did not want to take any unnecessary risks here. Crown and Anchor was his livelihood now that all the other jobs were gone.

  He began at six, as the band was warming up and the beer was beginning to flow. By seven things were tipping his way. By nine the clientele were flushed and swaying as they attempted to throw. George Stone was quids in, the bank flourishing, knew that it would be a very good night. He understood how to put on a show for them – all the young men and girls. Rolled up his sleeves and crouched over the game, hands quick, spewing out the chat.

  ‘Who’ll make it even on the diamond or the meat hook . . . I touch the money but I never touch the dice.’

  Just as he had when he took the ship home across the Channel once the bells had pealed, tossing the dice against the gunnel until he made enough for a meal. A steak fried in butter. Mashed potato on the side. Now he hunkered beneath the lamppost, cast in its weak pool of light, waited outside in the cold November evening for his latest prey, while inside the boys and girls danced beneath a glitterball.

  It was the shoes that made George Stone pause. A pair of men’s sharp-toed brogues, two tone. Next to him, two women wearing T-bars, one black, one cream, buckles glinting in the light. One of the women was saying something.

  ‘Oh, do let’s, Alfie.’

  The man laughing, in a way that made you want to join in. ‘Why not. Might as well have a whirl.’

  Stone recognized the laugh at once. Alfred Walker, the section’s petty thief, come out to play with a girl on each arm.

  ‘Stone! Bloody hell.’

  The look on Walker’s face when Stone stood to show himself was worth the loss of a game or two. Both men shook hands as though they might never stop while the ladies giggled behind. It was a small reunion, but the first George Stone had ever had. It was strange, he thought, staring into the face of this boy he used to know so well, how Walker had become another person altogether, his past self some sort of ghost from which he had walked away. When they were done being amazed, Stone turned to introduce himself to the girls.

  ‘George Stone, ladies.’

  ‘Dorothea.’ The girl with the black shoes held out her hand for Stone to take. ‘Dottie for short.’

  Dorothea was young, nineteen perhaps, hair that fizzed in the lamplight, a fox fur draped about her neck. She had a ribbon tied around her forehead. Green, of course. The other girl was younger, barely eighteen, perhaps not even that. Cream shoes and a skirt skimming her knees. Walker said she was a friend of Dorothea’s, come to celebrate the Armistice like all the young folks of the day.

  ‘Daisy,’ said the girl, holding her hand out for Stone to take so that he could see the bangle shining gold about her wrist. ‘Daisy Pringle.’

  As though she was some sort of flower herself.

  ‘The ladies want to throw, Stone.’ Alfred Walker laughed again. ‘Treat them gently, won’t you.’

  Then they began.

  Walker placed a tanner on the diamond, a penny on the club. The two ladies both put down a thruppenny bit, one on the heart, one on the diamond, too. The coins had been polished so that they glinted in the lamplight, made Stone think of Jackdaw and all his shiny things. Stone handed Walker the dice first. The petty thief shook them in his hand, pretending to blow on his fingers before throwing, made a score on the club, got back his penny, plus a penny from the bank. Both girls took their turn, Daisy winning with a squeal, Dorothea losing with a small frown. Then they played some more.

  The game wound on in a swift to and fro of bet and counter bet, George Stone’s hands quick, lining his treasure along his side of the cloth so that they could see. Pearl buttons. A half-crown. A small round of scented soap.

  ‘Come and put your money with the lucky old man . . . are you done, gentlemen? Are you done, ladies? Are you all done?’

  Then, towards the end, he drew it from his pocket. An orange, bright amongst the grey.

  Walker whistled when he saw the fruit. ‘Where’d you g
et that from, you bugger?’

  Stone just smiled. He had his ways and he had his means. Dorothea and Daisy giggled, urged Alfred to have another go. He paused for a moment, then opened his jacket and took something from the inside pocket. A wishbone, tied at the end with a piece of pink thread.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Daisy’s voice had a little whine to it. But Dorothea hushed her with a grip to her arm. George Stone stared at the good luck token, a sudden quiver in his hands. The old sweat could feel the cold contraction in his heart as he saw again the men that were left standing in a circle beneath the naked trees. The crackle of walnut shells beneath their boots as Godfrey Farthing gave the order. The silence as one by one they knelt to rummage in a dead man’s clothes. Stone’s fingers felt sticky as he remembered the treasure:

  A wishbone;

  A tanner;

  A reel of pink cotton.

  Wiping his hands on his tunic again and again before they dug the hole. Their knees had been black by the end, after they’d taken turns to scratch out the grave, rolled a dead man into it face first before covering him over.

  None of them had spoken of it after. Not when they walked away across the fields. Not when they met Hawes standing on the far side of the pond. Not when the bells rang out across the empty land later that morning, even though it wasn’t a Sunday, the end suddenly arrived. That had been the deal, George Stone thought as he dipped a hand into his own pocket now. No one says a thing. Not now. Not ever. Nothing to do but let it eat the soul. And each item returned to the man to whom it had belonged, as though in payment for everything they had done wrong. Except the wishbone, of course, property of one Bertie Fortune, who never did return to save them, from wherever he had gone.

  George Stone stared at the wishbone where Walker had laid it on the diamond. Then he took his own treasure from his pocket and laid that down, too. They were all silent as they stared at the old sweat’s offer. A cap badge, glinting in the lamplight, small lion raising its paw.