Tomorrow, Jerusalem

by Tomorrow, Jerusalem (retail) (epub)

  They stood in silence for a long time. Peaceful August sunshine streamed through the window, patterned the polished wooden floor. Far off a bell tolled musically. Through the open window came the sounds of children playing, a woman’s voice called. Eyes closed, Sally held her husband to her, every fibre of her concentrated upon him; the feel of the light, long body against hers, the roughness of his jacket against her skin, the fresh, male smell of him, the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

  ‘I have to go, my love.’

  ‘Yes.’ She stood back, calm with the miserable calm of near despair. How could it have come to this? How could it? How could things so far away, so outside their control possibly be tearing them apart? How could it be that Philippe, lovely, laughing Philippe who had never to her knowledge been able to harm a fly, was leaving her, to maim or to be maimed, to kill or to be killed? ‘It’s madness,’ she said quietly, ‘utter madness.’

  * * *

  By the middle of the month Liège had fallen, and within a couple of days both Louvain and Brussels had been overrun, whilst King Albert and his Government retired to the entrenched position of Antwerp. Thanks to the brave and stubborn defence put up by the Belgians however, the French had managed to reach the Sambre river, and the British Expeditionary Force under Sir John French was at Mons.

  There was no word from Philippe.

  The household on the Groenerei lived in fear: fear of the day that German boots would march across the bridges and into their streets, fear for Philippe, fear for themselves. Protesting, but seeing the sense of it, Annette and her husband at the outbreak of hostilities had fled to cousins in France with some of the children, leaving Sally and Philippe’s parents with perhaps half a dozen children and Flip. Philippe’s father over the past months had been far from well; he had lost weight and his breath was short. Alice, through the other anxieties, watched him with worried eyes.

  ‘You should go to England, my dear,’ Anselm said to Sally. ‘Now. Whilst it’s still possible.’

  ‘Not till Philippe gets back. I’m not going anywhere without him.’

  ‘But Sally – the child.’

  ‘I don’t care! I won’t go! Not without Philippe!’

  Doggedly she refused to believe that anything could happen to him. She would know – surely, surely she would know? – if he had been hurt.

  The tide of war swept on. The British after initial success were falling back from Mons, terribly mauled. The French had been unable to hold the German advance. Rumours of atrocities committed by German troops in Brussels began to seep through.

  The way to the coast was still open.

  ‘Father’s right, Sally. You should leave while you still can,’ Alice said gently, an arm about Flip, who leaned unaware at her knee, playing with the brightly coloured tapes of her pinafore.

  ‘I can’t. I can’t! How could I leave you both? How could I go without Philippe? When he comes we’ll all go – when he comes—’

  But he did not come. Nor since he had left had they heard a single word from him. Yet still she clung to hope.

  The streets of Bruges were thronged with refugees coming, going, simply sitting on their bundles on street corners staring into space with puzzled, unfocused eyes. With them came the stories – of women raped and children murdered, of babies spitted upon bayonets, of burnings and beatings and unspeakable horrors.

  The terrible month moved on, and the news was bad. French troops, still fighting in the brilliant uniforms of the Napoleonic era, their white-gloved officers and gallant, sabre-waving cavalry as vulnerable to the chattering machine-gun fire and the vicious bombardment of the German big guns as the bright lines of infantry, suffered terrible defeats and were everywhere in retreat. The British, in retreat from Mons, were forced as much by fatigue as anything to stand and fight at Le Cateau, an indecisive battle with heavy losses on both sides. All along the Western Front the allies were being pushed back, towards the sea and towards Paris.

  In the last week of August the remnants of the Belgian army, still stubbornly holding on in Antwerp, attacked the enemy from the rear, a brave terrier snapping at the heels of a wolf.

  A few days later, on the first day of September, Philippe came home to Bruges.

  * * *

  Sally recognized the ragged, blood-soaked, skeletal figure that leaned against the kitchen door more by instinct than by anything else. Certainly there was nothing here of the Philippe who had left just a little less than a month before. A bloody bandage encircled his head and obscured most of the left side of his face. Through the great ragged holes in his uniform more filthy bandages could be seen; his left arm was strapped awkwardly across his chest, the hand a shapeless lump of stained and dirty dressings. His skin was yellow, dry as old parchment, his dark eyes blazed with fever. How he had ever made his way to her she would never know.

  ‘Philippe!’ She was across the floor in a moment, stopped an arm’s length from him, afraid to touch him, afraid of hurting him.

  He held out his good hand, the long mouth moved in a shadow of the old smile. ‘Sally.’ His breathing was quick and shallow, and she could see the painful movement of it in his bandaged chest.

  There was one moment of terrible silence. Then she caught his good hand in both of hers. ‘Come and sit down. Careful – oh, my love be careful!’

  Perfectly obviously every movement was agony. Fresh blood was seeping through the old dark stains.

  ‘Alice!’ She shrieked the name, not letting go of his hand, not letting her eyes stray from his poor, damaged face. ‘Alice, quickly! Quickly!’

  He sat at the kitchen table, gingerly upright, holding himself rigidly against the agony of the gaping hole in his side, his long fingers clamped painfully about Sally’s hand.

  ‘Dear God.’ Alice paused for a split second by the door, her quiet words a shocked prayer, and at the same time a small thanks. She hurried forward. Like Sally she knew she could not embrace him. ‘Sally – run for Doctor Brabant! Quickly!’ Her voice was calm and crisp.

  Sally hovered. ‘But—’

  ‘Hurry! Greta and I will get him to bed. Go and fetch the doctor. He’ll come quicker for you than for one of the maids.’ For though she had every faith in the soundness of her daughter-in-law’s nerves Alice instinctively knew it would be best to have the girl out of the house for the next few minutes. Philippe’s uniform, what was left of it, and the bandages beneath it were fused to his body by the blood that had seeped, and dried and seeped again. To get him to bed and prepare him for the doctor would be a harrowing task.

  * * *

  For a week Sally hardly slept, and when she did it was on a pallet on the floor next to Philippe in case he woke and needed her. For a week she watched him, nursed him, willed him to live, willed him to fight the infection that rose in his body like fire and sapped the last of his strength, bled the last of his reserves. She did not know and did not care what was happening in the outside world, hardly listened to the news that the retreat of the Allies had been stopped at last as a French victory at Guise turned the German Front and, for the moment at least, ensured the safety of threatened Paris, nor to the reports that Zeppelins had bombed the civilian citizens of Antwerp. Her every thought, her every energy, was spent upon Philippe. He could not die – not after having made this effort to get back to her – it was unthinkable. She held his good hand as he slept, willing her own good health into his battered, failing body. She made frantic bargains with God. She talked lovingly and softly when he was awake – of Flip, of their life together, of the future they would make, somehow, somewhere, away from this madness, when he was better. She refused to see the signs of death upon him.

  ‘She’s killing herself,’ Alice said, her own exhausted anguish tamped down, a damped furnace to burn slowly and deeply beneath a calm, still surface. ‘She won’t leave him. She won’t let anyone else nurse him.’

  ‘It’s natural.’ Her husband sat by the kitchen range, his kindly face drawn and grey. He reach
ed for her hand, and she was shocked at the lack of strength in his grasp. He coughed a great deal now, and for the past two nights had passed the restless, sleepless hours sitting upright in the bedroom chair. ‘And it’s best for both of them. If anyone can save him it’s Sally.’

  Sadly, slowly, Alice shook her head.

  Philippe lay in a cocoon of pain, his jaw smashed, his left hand mangled, his ribcage cracked and broken, a fist-sized hole in his left side from which pieces of shrapnel still worked themselves in a mess of blood and pus. He drifted sometimes in a welcome haze of delirium, more efficacious than any of the puny drugs that Doctor Brabant had to hand to tame the pain.

  Until the morning, very early, when he woke and felt nothing.

  The first faint light of the day crept through the shutters. The bells of the city tolled the hour. Sally slept in a chair beside him, her hair tumbled about her drawn face. His body was light, and still and totally painless. He tried to move the hand that lay near Sally’s and could not. Faintly surprised but in no way alarmed, he closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted by so small an effort. When he opened them again she was watching him. As his eyes met hers she smiled, a smile of exhaustion, of indomitable love. The first rays of September sunshine danced upon the pine-panelled walls, lit her tousled hair to a halo about her face.

  ‘Philippe?’ Her voice seemed to come from very far away, a sweet whisper, calling him from the still, painless peace in which he lay. He smiled, or thought he did, once more tried to reach for her hand.

  Correctly interpreting the faint movement of the long, pale, bony fingers that lay so helpless upon the bedspread, she reached a hand to cover his, and was shocked at its chill. ‘Philippe?’ she said again very steadily, very quietly, doggedly ignoring the sudden, fleet flash of fear that stopped her breath and twisted in her empty stomach like the claws of an animal. ‘Philippe, my love?’

  She leaned to him, clinging to his hand, her face close to his. The flesh of him had fallen away, the bones of his skull stood clear. He opened his eyes, remote, unfocused.

  ‘No,’ she said, the word a whisper in the silence. ‘No, Philippe! Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me!’ Fiercely she lifted the all but lifeless hand to her lips. The fingers uncurled, lifted to her face, then lost all strength. ‘No,’ she said again, ‘You can’t. You can’t. Try Philippe, for Christ’s sake, try. Don’t give in! Think of Flip – think of me – of us – think of rowing on the canal – think of summer picnics – think of feeding the swans and the ducks on a Sunday morning – think of the son we don’t yet have – Philippe!’

  When Alice came half an hour later she was still sitting, rigid and cold to the bone, holding the dead hand, her dry eyes empty. Even Alice’s own tears could not, it seemed break through the icy shell of her grief and shock. For the two days until the hastily arranged funeral – not the first to be held lately in such circumstances in the stricken city – she barely spoke, cried not at all. Nor, despite her exhaustion, did she sleep. The light in the attic bedroom burned bright and steady all night. Even Flip, bemused and unhappy, though barely understanding what had happened, could not reach her.

  ‘Sally, my love,’ the grieving Alice, worried half to death at the effect Philippe’s death had had upon his ailing father, yet still had time to watch and worry over her daughter-in-law, ‘you must try to eat. For our sakes as well as your own. And – please – why won’t you let Doctor Brabant prescribe something to make you sleep a little?’

  ‘No.’ Flatly Sally shook her head and then, more softly added, ‘No, thank you. I – don’t want to sleep.’ Her eyes, as always now, were distant, as if they looked upon something she alone could see. Nothing roused her. In France the Government had left the still-threatened city of Paris for Bordeaux while the French armies stubbornly held out on the Marne. The British too were pushing cautiously forward. The battle lines that were to last for so long and to cost so dear were being drawn. Antwerp was being battered. Sally ignored it all. It was as if the living, breathing girl who had loved Philippe van Damme had been buried in his grave beside him, leaving to the world – to her daughter and to the family who loved her – an empty shell.

  The shell cracked at last one sunny Sunday afternoon, a week after Philippe’s death. Alice had persuaded Sally to accompany her and some of the children on a walk beside the canal. Sally, holding Flip’s hand, walked in silence, the children tumbling and laughing about her like puppies. They fed the swans with the stale bread they had brought for the purpose, and then turned back to cross the bridge. Lifting her head, looking into the setting sun, Sally stopped as if thunderstruck, her face alight.

  Alice followed the direction of her gaze.

  Standing upon the bridge, silhouetted against the sun, was a tall, limber young man in army uniform, his kit-bag resting upon the parapet of the bridge, his dark head bent to consult a piece of paper held in long, steady hands. For a moment Alice’s own heart lurched, and then in sudden horror she said, ‘No, Sally! Oh, no!’

  Too late. Sally had dropped Flip’s hand and was running, feet flying over the ground towards the young man. Alice saw him lift his head, watching the running girl with a pleasant, enquiring, slightly puzzled expression. Yards from him Sally stopped as if she had run into a brick wall. Alice too had picked up her skirts and started to run, hampered by the children, who tumbled and laughed beside her, loving this new game. ‘Sally!’

  The sound the girl made stopped her in her tracks. The young man, concerned now, stepped forward, hands outstretched. Sally backed away from him, warding him off, flinching from him, hiding her face. A couple passing across the bridge turned to look, puzzled. Sally cried out again, a terrible sound full of savage, almost animal misery. As Alice reached her, her knees buckled. Tears streamed down her face, tears that had been pent for too long, that would no longer be denied, tears that flowed now as if they would never stop. She raised hands that were crooked like fierce claws to her face, her whole body shuddering to the anguished, ugly sobs. The young man hovered, worried, confused – had he done something? – could he do something? Alice, her arms fast about the trembling, crying girl shook her head. ‘She mistook you for someone.’

  A flash of understanding darkened the pleasant face, and suddenly he looked older. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Come, my love.’ Gently Alice cradled the distraught girl. ‘Come along home.’ And in her heart she thanked God for the healing tears.

  * * *

  Sally slept like the dead for twenty-four hours, woke up to a plate of broth and some thick, dark bread, then slept again. When she woke she was quiet, melancholy, but rational. Her first action was to seek out her daughter and to hug her, hard, her face pressed against the dark curls. When someone spoke she heard and she answered, her interest in the children was as it had always been. She took her turn in helping to nurse Philippe’s father, who was now all but bedridden, talked with him of the news of the war. On the Marne the trenches had been dug, the big guns bedded in and the first hint of stalemate was in the air, the first signs of the terrible pattern of modern warfare as men died in their hundreds and then in their thousands taking a few square yards of land that in days, or even hours, would be lost again. In Belgium itself the pressure upon Antwerp was growing; it was becoming obvious that the gallant and beleaguered young King even with help from his French Allies could not hold out for much longer. Then the defensive dam would burst and the muddy, destructive waters of war would be upon them. But for now the way to the coast was still clear and a steady stream of refugees was using it, fleeing towards Holland, France, England.

  ‘Go while you can, Sally – you and Flip – please!’

  But Sally’s loyalties were divided, her mind and her will still not recovered from the virtual breakdown caused by Philippe’s death. She did not want to leave Philippe’s parents, who had become like a mother and father to her. She did not want to embark on such a perilous journey alone, with the child – who knew what might happen, or what they mi
ght be called upon to face? Yet as steadily as the flood of refugees grew, so grew the brutal stories of atrocities committed by an army determined to terrify the population into submission, of barbarities that caused the adults’ eyes to meet above the heads of the innocent children in horror. If the enemy came to Bruges – and who could doubt that they would – then such things could happen here. And Sally was English.

  ‘But – so are you!’ she said in fierce concern to Alice.

  Alice shook her head, oddly tranquil. ‘I’m old. What would they want with me? But you – you should go. While you can.’

  On 25 September the Germans launched a massive bombardment upon Antwerp, apparently intent upon reducing the rebel city to rubble, obviously the forerunner to the final attack that would lay the way open to the coast. And still, as the roads clogged with people fleeing from the vicious fighting, Sally vacillated.

  On the day that she opened the kitchen door to a peremptory knock and saw a uniformed man standing upon Alice’s scrubbed white doorstep she nearly fainted with fright. Too late, then, they had come. It was several full, speechless seconds before her wits informed her that the uniform was not of the dreaded field grey but the more familiar and friendly British khaki. And – most astonishing of all – the square, craggy face beneath the neat peaked cap was no stranger’s.

  She could not believe her eyes. ‘Ben,’ she said faintly, ‘Ben Patten. It can’t be! Wh–what in the world are you doing here?’

  The shock he had felt at the sight of her was well if not easily concealed. He half-smiled, sketched a very vaguely military salute. ‘Lord only knows how it happened but I seem to find myself – at least temporarily IC Refugees, Bruges,’ he said, neatly removing his cap, tucking it under his arm, stepping past her into the warm, clean kitchen. ‘While it lasts, I don’t suppose you know anyone who could do with a lift back to Blighty?’