The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

Dominique milked the beasts and took the metal vats across the road and reported the madman’s latest manifestation. Duthileul Pére squinted up at the news. Something is about to change then. Caution.

  Alert.

  Next morning he was there, sitting in the frosted morning garden on the kitchen chair, looking at his house with a piece of pencil and paper. And in the evening, still there, now with a daft grin when he looked at you. A grin? What’s to grin about?

  Dominique complained about his extra work to his father over their food.

  “Patience.”

  Ardelle too watched him sitting there. What had been in his mail?

  Should I ask?

  Why doesn’t he tell me?

  On the third morning Duthileul and Ardelle watched Jacques working on his cart. Servicing it. To last.

  In the afternoon he was back in the garden chair writing a list.

  A block and tackle.

  Wood for the frame. For the frames.

  A big ladder. A yoke for the cow. No, there’s one in the caves. He ran to check. Solid as the century.

  Hammers. Mallets. Chisels. A crowbar. Stop.

  Think properly.

  Start where you’ll start.

  He went inside and upstairs, the dog following.

  The roof was gabled at the barn and chimney ends. Two oak A frames supported the huge main beam and the cross-beams. From the apex of the roof to the walls ran thinner beams holding horizontal slats on which the tiles rested, and were pinned. The chimney rose through the roofing, sealed with lead. The A frames, their big wooden pins and the long cross-beams they held, were no problem beyond weight. The main beam, resting on the A frames, though... Damn! I’ll need help. Grandfather didn’t put that there himself. And the cross slats were pinned with no-headed nails and would probably splinter. Need to replace them. And need to be able to cut wood to fit. He wrote. Nails. A saw. Two. The hooked pins holding the tiles were old. Might need to replace them. The tiles were good. And there were Grandfather’s pile of spares. He turned his attention to the chimney breast.

  A pick. A pick-axe. A masonry hammer and a metal chisel for the stone – what are they called? Don’t know, but a couple of them. Good ones.

  The floor boards. Oak. Again, no real problem. A good claw-hammer.

  Down the stairs. Oak, nails, simple enough. The living room.

  The fire-place was two oak beams supporting a third, like a goal. The supporting wall between the bedrooms is easy. We will need both bedrooms. I’ll have to build another bed. No, he can have mine, I’ll build us a proper double. Fifteen oak ceiling beams.

  Lime and sand for cement. A lot. When that time comes. A tool to cut stone?

  He went out and stood again in front of the house, Tayo following, animated by his energy. The corner stones. They were big.

  Chalk. I’ll need to mark them. Charcoal.

  Chain – did I write chain? Block and tackle – yes.

  Spades! Good ones. A spare long-handled and another. To dig out footings.

  He walked into the caves. Fifteen oak beams under the kitchen floor. All the window lintels will be heavy. He came out and walked round the house.

  Axe. The heavy-headed and a hand axe. Got both. Will they last? A chisel to make mortis and tenon joints. A drill.

  He sat to consider the corner stones again. Big. The biggest.

  No – the lintel, the stone lintel that supported the wall above the cave door – huge. Same as the one over the front door. And over the windows. And the twelve stone stairs! God! He was looking at his home for the first time. Back inside. The dog, baffled, followed. A trowel, a sieve – Scaffolding? I could make that. Use the oak. And there’s masses of wood there. What else? What else? He took the list to bed, slept well, and woke thinking, a bache. Of course. Otherwise the floors’ll rot. Two? Two, yes. And a third to cover the wood when I get it there. And wood for the frames. Said that.

  Written that.

  All morning he sat in his winter-thin garden and drew first rough plans.

  Rough measurements. Be generous. Can always cut wood. Three saws? A serious one for the oak, one for the pine and another?

  And a new plane. Good, Jacques. And a claw hammer? Said that. He wrote till he was satisfied with the list.

  God’s sake! Food! For me and the cow and the dog. And a pair of horse-blinkers.

  Galtier rode past, delivered to Ardelle and cycled slowly back. He’d report the grave-digger-upper was now drawing pictures. Or something. Sitting in the December cold with paper and a pencil. Cuckoo.

  “Now, we price this,” he showed the completed list to the dog. The beast cocked his head. “Then. How do I sell it and keep it?”

  Ardelle came, her face flushed. “Jacques – it’s Christmas!”

  He was surprised and not surprised. Time was irrelevant now. “Is it?”

  “Yes. Look.”

  He read, “I’m in France. My feet hurt. Arbel.” It was postmarked Strasbourg.

  He looked up at her square fearful grinning face. “You’re right, Ardelle. It must be.”

  She took the card and read it again. And again. “He lives.”

  Jacques’ heart surged with joy and dread.

  “Perhaps there’ll be a train...” she said, letting her tears just roll.

  “Tell Chibret. He’ll go and fetch him.”

  A smile. A beat. He’d joked.

  Jacques was glad for her and now he wanted to return to his thoughts. Please.

  “Jacques – what are you doing?”

  He covered the paper like a schoolboy who won’t be cribbed from.

  “I’m thinking.”

  It was bright, cold and nearly noon.

  “Can I ask what about?”

  “My Christmas present to me,” he said finally.

  “Good.” She nodded, agreeing with herself.

  Please go now, Ardelle. Please.

  “Will you eat with me tonight?”

  “I won’t talk.”

  She smiled and shook her happy head a little. “I didn’t ask you to talk.”

  “Then – yes.”

  “Good. Good.”

  And she left him. This is a sign. Her Joy. And he’s Home.

  This is a Good Sign. I’m doing a right thing. At last.

  He and Ardelle ate her bread and cheese.

  “May I borrow Arbel’s bike?”

  She smiled at the pedantry of his politeness. “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is it part of your present?”

  He almost grinned, she noticed.

  The last time they had shared this house was present in the air, yet both felt strengthened by neither mentioning it.

  He took Arbel’s bike and at dawn cycled the long way down to Maurs, avoiding St. Cirgues. He spent the whole day in and out of shops and stores and wood-yards and had his list priced. He spoke to a Notaire and an estate-agent to get an approximate valuation for his house and garden. Cycled back up the same long and private way.

  He sat in the house looking at his numbers. Figures. What his list cost and what Duthileul would know to pay. He would be ahead, just.

  Next morning he woke and checked the list.

  And, his heart pounding with a future at last, at last, he could think of nothing new.

  Nothing he’d forgotten.

  Add more for food. How long would it take? Years.

  He dressed.

  What – he had to face this moment – what if it doesn’t work? Then – there is this life.

  He went over the plan. Still he stalled.

  Waiting. Fearful.

  And as if by magic, Co-incidence, Fate, Luck, The Hand of God; whatever we call serendipity – Galtier arrived with another envelope with an American postmark.

  Again he hovered. “Any reply?”

  Jacques glowered at him. He who’d snarled ‘foreigner’ at her. “Fuck off.”

  He held the envelope. What is this?

  Is she coming back? Is t
here no need?

  He gently eased the gummed lips of paper apart.

  A picture post-card. A coloured photograph of a square, pencil shaped tower.

  “I never left an address, did I? Write to us, please. I’ll send photos when I can. This is the tallest building in the world. Simone and Jacques.”

  And an address.

  Her address.

  An address!

  Well, of course!

  Oh, risk it Vermande and risk it now! Everything’s to gain.

  Now?

  Yes, now. Greed never rests.

  “Vermande..?”

  Jacques stood there.

  “When you finally hire a man – since you won’t pay me – you’ll have a problem.”

  Duthileul straightened, alert.

  “Yes?”

  Cold eyes, searching.

  “A problem where he’ll live...”

  A grunt conceded the truth in that.

  “He should live in my house.”

  Jacques watched Duthileul hooking into the drift of the unfinished thought.

  “Ye-es,” he allowed that he too had thought that far.

  It’s like fishing. Timing the strike to get the barb in good and deep.

  “How much will you pay for the rest of my land?”

  A quick, sharp, pregnant morning silence.

  “For the house?”

  “For the land, the garden, the earth, the wood.”

  “I’ll think.”

  Jacques named his price.

  More than he needed and less than the Notaire in Maurs had said. So, it was low.

  And Duthileul, greedy greedy greedy, accepted it.

  His head nodded sharply, once, his eyes locked on Jacques.

  Jacques Vermande offered his hand and Jean-Louis Duthileul shook it.

  “When it’s over, eh?” Jacques said.

  “When the war’s over?”

  “When it’s over.”

  Jean-Louis Duthileul nodded. Their hands parted.

  “Where will you live?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  Duthileul took the rebuff, went off somewhere deep inside the house.

  Jacques breathed. Stay calm. Breathe. Calm. Breathe.

  Duthileul came back, leaned over his kitchen table, carefully counted and then handed Jacques another roll of money.

  Jacques took the money, shook hands again and went home.

  I did it!

  I avenged Grandfather!

  Mamman, I did it!

  It is Christmas!

  He sat and wrote the first letter he’d ever composed.

  “I understand. Perfectly.”

  18

  Winter coming. Snow. Ice. Cold. But I can’t wait till Spring. There’s no waiting now. I’d wait forever. I must get it ready.

  He lay his longest ladder against the chimney wall of the house, climbed onto his roof and walked its length to the barn. The gap between the barn and the house was a half-metre. He could stride across though the barn roof was marginally higher. He checked the corner stones of the barn roof for where he could attach masonry pins. Easy. He almost slid back down the ladder.

  Before dawn next day he yoked the strongest cow to the cart. This isn’t my cow any more. Oh, fuck that thought – and he walked through sleeping St.Cirgues, seeing no-one, rode the cart down to the Maurs wood-yard and bought and loaded it with six six-metre lengths of weathered oak, a plane, two wide heavy chisels, the huge tarpaulin covers, rope and a pair of horse-blinkers. And posted his first letter. Walked back. It was evening as he approached St. Cirgues. Fifty yards from the square he stopped the beast. It grazed the hedgerows while he cut a length of string to crudely hold the blinkers either side of his face. Then he walked through the village, taking them off only as he passed the cemetery. Home, he unyoked the beast, fed it, left the wood on the cart, stored the tarpaulins and the tools in the caves. Duthileul was not alone in noting everything.

  What was this? Is he going to build? A house? A shack? Where? Not on land I’ve just bought he’s not.

  Who could he ask?

  Who would know his mad mind? The drunk in the café was his best bet.

  The drunk squandering his mother’s old money...

  At mass on that Sunday before Christmas, the Curé asked God to accept their prayers for the imminent deliverance of Europe from the Hun; to be, by inference, thankful for the death and destruction the Allies were now visiting on Germany. And the good people of St. Cirgues, who had suffered vilely at the hands of the enemy, encouraged their Lord with a collectively righteous vengeful heart.

  Jean-Louis, more than thankful for the bargain price of the house he planned for Dominique, waited in the square for Madame Lacaze and quietly said, “Seasons best, Madame.”

  She swallowed her genuine surprise, he noted, and replied in kind. Jean-Louis, putting his most sincere face and voice together, added, “I’m glad your son survived.”

  “Likewise, Monsieur.”

  He smiled at her, tipped his hat and went to his car.

  Madame Lacaze walked slowly home. What was that? He could have said that at any time in the last few months.

  Sara was not the only one to notice the conversation. She would have loved to have asked her ex-mother-in-law – but she’d tell Jerome when he came to take Zoe down the road.

  “What did Duthileul want?”

  Madame Lacaze registered her son’s aggression.

  “He says he is glad you’re alive.”

  “My God.”

  A little quiet began.

  “Pappa?” asked Zoe.

  “Mm?”

  “What is a God?”

  “Not a God, Zoe. God.” Madame Lacaze simpered, deliberately.

  “No talk of God.”

  Her father’s voice was sharp and Zoe looked up, startled. Madame Lacaze, feeling a warmth beyond the soup and wine, demurred.

  In the quiet Zoe thought.

  “You said it. First.”

  “I shouldn’t have.”

  “Is it a bad word?”

  “The worst.”

  “The best,” said Mamman Two, then turning to her son, “Sorry.” Eating continued.

  He still hates, then. Good. I feared he’d drunk himself beyond that.

  “Who is God?”

  “Zoe!”

  She poked her tongue at her flustered father and Mamman Two giggled. So she did it again.

  “No, no no.” said Mamman Two. Zoe pouted.

  You just never knew where you were with grown-ups.

  “What does that senile gangster want?” Jerome snarled at his mother.

  “Who?” said Zoe.

  “God?”

  Her father laughed and then he shushed her. Great.

  Madame Lacaze looked up at her son, “What possible interest could it be to you?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “No need, I already have.”

  “And what did you conclude?”

  “That it was my business.”

  Jacques measured the width of the oak lengths. Took the new narrow spade and dug two sharp metre-deep holes a half-metre out from both corners of the house wall furthest from the barn. He strode down to the beech-copse, bringing back some of the wood he’d cut. He split and planed it to line the holes till they were the same dimensions as the oak. He tipped one of the huge oak lengths from the cart. It lay, long and heavy at his feet. A few centimetres at a time he dragged the great weight till one end rested on the lip of the hole. I need the block and tackle. Damn. Think, fool. Should have thought of that. It would have saved time. He snorted. Why, what’s Time got to do with anything now?

  Fixing his blinkers with a belt this time he rode Arbel’s bike through the village, back down to Maurs, knocked up the Sunday-lunching shop-owners and store-yard keepers and paid them to deliver the pulleys, chain, rope, hook, the block and more wood. And masonry pins.

  It was evening when he cycled, blinkered, back th
rough the village again. He killed another of the starving chickens, lit a fire, ate well, slept well.

  Next morning two men drove up in a lorry. The last lorry through St. Cirgues had been German. They delivered the materials and drove away. Jacques spent the morning constructing the frame for the block and tackle.

  “What are you doing?” Duthileul suddenly stood in his garden. “Working.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Working.”

  “Working at what?”

  “When it’s over, neighbour.”

  “This is my land you’re digging into.”

  “Yes, when it’s over.”

  Duthileul watched Jacques thread the rope through the pulley, tie the hook on, check the stone counter-balance, make a loop of chain which he slid under and around the oak and round the hook, spit on his hands and pull on the rope and the oak lifted a half-metre. He locked it off there, checked the beam would fit the hole and lifted it a metre more. It slid in, against the split beech, threatening to shatter it and ruin the hole so now he pulled fiercely and the beam slid down the beech, filling the hole so the chain slackened and swung madly free, but the piece tottered upright. With a hammer he whacked more splinters of beech into the sides of the hole till the beam was secure.

  Duthileul walked away.

  Good. I don’t like people watching me work. Makes sad memories. It took him the rest of the day to do the second but by food-time he had both towering posts in place.

  The village said he’d finally gone mad.

  Chibret drove up. It was true. He’d covered the roof of his home with a tarpaulin bache, and was carefully sealing the hole he’d cut for the chimney stack.

  “Vermande?”

  “Monsieur Le Maire?”

  “What is this?”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Then?”

  A pause.

  Chibret puffed. Shouting up to a man on a roof. Pff. “I heard – and was wondering – that’s all.”

  “You mean Jean-Louis asked you to find out?”

  “No. Yes. Among others. What is this?”

  “A bache.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “No...”

  “Then – I can’t stop and chat. I’m sorry.”