Tomorrow, Jerusalem

by Tomorrow, Jerusalem (retail) (epub)

  Chapter Thirteen

  I

  The way to the North Sea – and to freedom – was still open, though how long it would remain so, as Ben Patten soberly pointed out, God alone knew. Sooner or later – and of the two any realist would say that sooner was the more probable – Antwerp was bound to fall, and the tide of war would flood to the coast, cutting off all hope of escape.

  ‘It’s difficult enough now. The roads are jammed with refugees and with troops. Your only chance is to leave at once. It’ll soon be impossible.’ Ben sat at the kitchen table sipping weak coffee, his eyes on Sally’s gaunt face.

  Alice watched them both. ‘Could you take the children?’ she asked Ben quietly.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Ten. Aged between five and twelve. And there’s Philippa, of course.’

  He nodded. ‘I can get hold of a motor truck. As a matter of fact I’ve already arranged it, more or less. I’m stopping over at Zeebrugge for a couple of days. Troop ships are unloading there every day. I can get you all berths on the return trip.’

  Alice shook her head, gently. ‘Sally and the children, yes. But – Anselm and I will stay.’ She held up a swift hand as both Sally and Ben opened their mouths to protest. ‘I’m sorry, but no – it’s no use to argue. It would kill him, I think, the journey. And anyway – this is our home. All we have is here. How can we leave it to – to them? If they come, they come. We are old. Why should they harm us?’

  Ben pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Anselm’s unwell?’

  Alice nodded.

  Ben stood up. ‘You’ll let me take a look at him?’

  ‘Of course. I had hoped that you would.’

  Sally sat alone in the big, quiet kitchen. Somewhere in the tall house a child’s voice called. And in the distance something rumbled in the air, like the faintest, menacing echo of thunder. She tilted her head, listening, but it had died; or perhaps she had imagined it?

  She got to her feet and walked, wearily restless, to the shining black kitchen range upon which bubbled a large pot of vegetable stew. It had been a full week since they had been able to buy meat. She lifted the lid, stirred the savoury liquid, sat down again at the table, her chin resting on her hands.

  Ben had come.

  She could not believe it.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. She was tired; desperately, painfully, defeatedly tired. Her body and her brain ached with deadly fatigue – as they ached with desolation and grief at the brutal loss of Philippe. If he had been alive she would not be sitting here like a spineless doll waiting to be told what to do. She would, she knew, have been up and active, grasping with both hands the chance for them all to escape – organizing, scolding, urging them all to haste.

  If Philippe had been here.

  She opened her hands and, bowing her head, covered her face. Not for the first time the shattering sense of loss washed over her. She would never see him again. Never hear his voice. Never wake to the touch of his hands, the feel of his long, limber body lying against hers. Yet it was a terrible hurt that in her head and in her heart, in the deepest recesses of her body, he still lived. She could see him, hear him, feel him. She could see the long, mobile, kindly face, hear his laughter – oh yes, she would always hear that – feel the subtle pleasures wrought by his hands and body upon hers.

  She threw back her head, teeth gritted, glaring determinedly at the whitewashed ceiling, battling tired, despairing tears. If she started to cry again she truly feared she might never stop.

  At least Ben had come. Somehow he would get them all back to England, where Flip would be safe. For of course they must all go – she could not leave Alice and her ailing husband to fend for themselves in this uncertain and dangerous world at war. Ben would arrange it. He’d get them all home. That was what he had come for – he had already admitted under Alice’s shrewd questioning that this convenient stopover at Zeebrugge had been contrived with it in mind. He had not of course known about Philippe.

  Philippe.

  When Ben and Alice returned ten minutes later Sally was asleep, her head pillowed on her arms, tears streaking her face.

  Alice tiptoed past her to the stove to check on the stew. ‘It’s nearly the children’s dinner time, but it won’t hurt them to wait a while longer. Don’t wake her, Ben. She’s had little enough sleep since—’

  But quiet as her voice had been it penetrated the girl’s shallow slumber. She lifted her head jerkily. She looked truly dreadful; was, Ben thought, almost unrecognizable as the girl he had known. The flesh had fallen from her always thin face, her eyes were sunken into bruised hollows that were like caverns. The small, neat scar on her mouth, the gash that he himself had stitched in another time – another life – stood white against her sallow skin. She shook her head a little like a tired, confused child. And Ben flinched to see the naked pain in her eyes as, waking, she remembered again.

  He sat down very briskly at the table. ‘Alice is right, I’m afraid,’ he said, brusque and capable, not looking at Sally, ‘Anselm’s health won’t withstand the journey to England. So—’ he lifted opaque eyes to Sally’s shadowed, impassive face, ‘—it’s just you and the children. You have twenty-four hours. I’m going back to Zeebrugge now, to arrange the transport. I’ll be back with a truck some time early tomorrow afternoon.’

  Sally was staring at him. Then she turned to look at the woman who had been so much a mother to her – who had been truly mother to the man she had loved. ‘Alice?’

  Alice faced her with tranquil strength, shook her head. ‘It’s no good, my dear. I have quite made up my mind. To move Anselm would probably be to kill him. This is our home. Here we will stay.’

  ‘Then I’ll stay too.’

  ‘No!’ It was Ben; faint, almost angry colour creeping into the taut skin about his cheekbones. ‘I’m sorry, Sally, but that isn’t an option. You have to come – you and little Philippa and the other children.’

  ‘Why?’ Sally’s mouth had set in the familiar, stubborn line.

  ‘Why? Sally, for the love of God, are you mad? Have you heard just half the stories that have come out of Liège, of Brussels?’

  ‘Of course I have. But—’

  ‘But nothing!’ He was, inexplicably she thought, as fiercely angry as she had ever seen him, ‘You and the children are getting out now, while you can. Who the hell knows what might happen? Do you want to find yourself in the middle of a battlefield, for Christ’s sake? Supposing the Belgian army decided to make a stand in Bruges? God, girl, have you taken leave of your senses? Stay? You’re coming home. If I have to tie you hand and foot and put you in a sack to get you there!’ In his glowering belligerence he looked capable of carrying out the threat.

  Sally glared back.

  Alice moved quietly to the girl, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sally, my dear – for me, please, and for Philippe – do as Ben says. If Philippe were here he would say the same. You know it.’

  Sally covered the hand that rested upon her shoulder with her own and bowed her head.

  Ben’s chair scraped loudly on the tiled floor as he stood up, reaching for his hat and cane that lay upon the table. ‘That’s settled then. Early tomorrow afternoon.’ His voice was clipped and clear. ‘A small bag each is all, I’m afraid – each child will have to carry his own, so don’t overload them.’ He lifted his head, as did the two women, listening to the distant, thunderous rumble that had shifted the china upon the big old dresser.

  ‘Guns,’ he said.

  In the distance they growled, infinitely menacing.

  He turned to Sally. ‘You’ll be ready?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be ready.’

  It was like trying to organize a barrowload of monkeys. For most of the youngsters the whole thing was a game, and they saw no reason not to play it to the full. Each was allowed to take a favourite toy – Alice’s idea – and a change of clothes. The dithering of a little girl who could not make up her mind between her baby doll and her teddy bear, the bo
isterous hooliganism of the older boys who tore about the house taking full advantage of the fascinating disorderly state of affairs that prevailed, the tears of a child who could not bear to leave a much-thumbed sleeping blanket almost drove Sally to distraction. As often as she organized half a dozen of her charges into some semblance of order so the other four or five confounded her, disappearing, fighting over the ownership of some cherished toy, snatching each other’s bags, tossing them about like so many footballs. By the time the army truck that Ben had requisitioned turned the corner of the street she was at her wits’ end; but at least the children were fed, packed and ready – more than ready most of them – for the adventure.

  Thankfully she let Ben and the driver, a cheerful Cockney with a grin as cheeky as any of the children’s, take charge of the task of loading the youngsters and their belongings and the provisions for the journey, whilst she and Philippa took five quiet minutes in the kitchen to say goodbye to Alice and Anselm, who, face and body gaunt and thin, an unhealthily bright flush upon his sharp cheekbones, was tucked into an armchair beside the stove. Alice and Sally clung to each other for a long, quiet time, Sally’s head bowed upon the older woman’s shoulder. A mildly tearful Philippa, affected by the adults’ emotions, had climbed on to her grandfather’s lap, where she sat sucking her thumb.

  ‘Take great care of yourselves – both of you—’ Sally looked from one to the other. Nothing could keep the harsh note of fear and grief from her husky voice. She stopped. What in God’s name was there to say? She felt as if she were abandoning them; who knew when – or even if – they would see each other again? ‘Alice—’

  With the instinct of a mother Alice divined what she was about to say and interrupted. ‘No! You must go, Sally. We’ve been through it all – you know it as well as I. For us. For Philippe. For Flip. For yourself. Take this chance of safety. We’ll be together again, one day. I promise you.’ Nothing in her steady voice betrayed her own uncertainty, her deadly fear, her conviction that in fact she would never see Sally or the children again. She moved to Anselm’s side, took his hand in hers, smiling calmly. ‘We’ll be all right. Even if the Germans do come – why should they harm us?’ She put her hand in the pocket of her apron, pulled out a long white envelope. ‘Take this, my dear—’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter. To our solicitor in London. The address is on the envelope. The letter releases an income – a small one, but adequate, I hope – from our London funds to you.’ She held up a hand as Sally opened her mouth to protest. ‘We insist. You are our dear daughter, Philippa our granddaughter. What else should we do?’

  ‘Sally?’ Ben appeared at the door, cap in hand, ‘We’re ready.’

  Sally hesitated for one more brief moment, then she took the envelope, stooped quickly to kiss Anselm and to swing Philippa from his lap to her accustomed place astride her hip, smiled blindly through her tears at Alice and without a word followed Ben out into the street.

  The children, remarkably docile, were sitting as if at a Sunday School treat upon two benches that ran down the sides of the open truck. A space had been left for Sally and Philippa on the end nearest to the open window that let on to the driver’s cabin. Ben handed her aboard, lifting her as if she had been a child herself, handing Philippa up to her. One of the older boys fidgeted a little, pushing his neighbour. Ben’s big hand fastened into the lad’s thick curly hair, the gesture casual and nowhere near as rough as it looked. Ben shook his head warningly, his eyes crinkling into a smile. The boy grinned back. Sally, watching, seeing too the smiles on the faces of the other children, the way in which even the most excitable of them seemed to have calmed to good behaviour, was struck as she had been before by the man’s immediate rapport with children, even youngsters such as these whose language he did not speak. ‘Behave yourself, Willi,’ she said to the boy in Flemish. ‘See – Mother Alice has come to say goodbye. Wave to her, children.’

  Alice had appeared, smiling dauntlessly, at the door of the house. The little girl sitting next to Sally sniffed loudly. Sally, smiling as brightly and as stubbornly as Alice herself, waved vigorously. Ben had swung himself into the driver’s cabin beside Private Benson, the cheerful driver. The engine grumbled noisily into life. The truck moved slowly, bumping on the cobbled street. Alice’s hand was still lifted. Sally smiled until her face ached. ‘Wave children – wave to Mother Alice.’ And then the truck turned a corner, and the tall, handsome house on the Groenerei was gone. Neatly and carefully, her face frozen into a mask of a smile, Sally settled herself upon the bench, fussed with Philippa on her lap. The truck rolled on to a bridge, bumping and swaying. The children swayed with it, exaggerating the movement, shrieking rowdily. The little girl next to Sally was in tears. Unable for the moment to speak, Sally tucked a comforting arm about her.

  Ten minutes later the truck rolled out of the city and on to the coast road. Despite all that Ben had said it was only then, with a force that jolted her, that Sally was struck by the reality of the situation. The road was bedlam. A great river of refugees flooded it, heading for the coast: men, women, children, their belongings in bags and bundles, cases, prams and carts. Women dragged tired children, men carried them upon their shoulders. Everyone, down to the smallest toddling child carried some kind of bundle or pushed some wheeled contraption piled high with household goods. Dogs barked and snapped at heels, families sat wearily by the wayside, resting feet that were as often as not wrapped in rags. The truck in which Sally and the children travelled could not itself move at much more than walking pace. People lifted their heads as they passed, watching with lacklustre, envious eyes. Women held out babies and small children towards Sally, pleading for a lift.

  ‘Ben—’ Sally said through the open window.

  Ben turned, shaking his head. ‘No, Sally. Absolutely not. If we take one we’ll be overwhelmed.’

  ‘But – we have room—’

  ‘No.’ The word was utterly uncompromising. Sally subsided, lifted her eyes to the wide, flat Flanders countryside, trying to ignore the desperation in the eyes that followed the truck’s progress. One or two other motor vehicles were on the road but most of the wheeled traffic was horsedrawn – farm carts, pony traps, delivery wagons of varying kinds, all packed with people, all overflowing with the goods and chattels of their wrecked and abandoned homes.

  A red October sun gleamed in a sky that was heavy with autumn mist. The still, flat lands on either side of the road were wreathed too in wisps of vapour, the occasional clump of trees standing like an island from a misty sea. Canals and drainage channels gleamed in the low-slanting sunshine. The columns of people tramped on, bowed beneath their loads, hardly looking up as the truck rumbled past them. Sally watched a young couple, the girl obviously far gone in pregnancy, her young husband supporting her, his arm about her shoulders, their belongings in a bundle upon his other shoulder. As she watched the girl stumbled on the uneven cobblestones, almost falling, and in his effort to save her the young man dropped the bundle, spilling its meagre contents on to the road. People coming from behind stepped over and around or simply kicked their way through the pots, pans, blankets and broken teacups without pausing in their steps. No one stopped to offer help.

  Sally looked away.

  A slow hour went by, and the best part of another. Under normal circumstances they would have been at the port by now; as things stood it was anyone’s guess how long it might take. She opened the basket Alice had packed, handed out bread and cheese, apples and biscuits. Even the most fractious of the children were subdued and tired of the bruising, bumping and swaying of the truck. At one stop Ben swung down out of the driving cab and came to join them in the body of the truck, a small gesture of moral support for which Sally was more grateful than she would have cared to admit. Philippa was asleep on her lap, lulled by the movement and the feel of her mother’s firm arms about her. Sally’s left arm was numb beneath the weight. The little girl beside her was sleeping too, hunched uncomfortably ag
ainst Sally’s side. She shifted a little, trying to ease her own cramped joints and aching back without disturbing the children.

  ‘Not long now,’ Ben said gently. ‘We’ll soon be there.’

  There was army traffic on the road now, some of it ploughing with some considerable difficulty in the opposite direction to the seemingly endless stream of refugees. Convoys of trucks, horse-drawn carts and guns, the occasional column of infantry, even a small band of cavalry, harness jingling, the young officer at its head jauntily saluting Ben as they passed.

  Ben watched them, his slate dark eyes unreadable, his head shaking imperceptibly.

  ‘What?’ Sally asked.

  He turned, and she saw real pain in his eyes. ‘Two months ago that lad was on the polo field – or training his father’s favourite hunter for the winter—’ He stopped suddenly alert, lifting his head, listening.

  Sally had heard it too, over the buzz and racket of the road. Distantly an explosion, and then another.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wait!’ Ben was frowning ferociously, concentrating, trying to listen. Then, suddenly and urgently, he was at the open window that led into the driver’s cabin, his hand on Private Benson’s bulky shoulder. ‘Stop!’

  ‘What? Here? But sir—!’

  ‘Stop, I say!’

  Sally stared at him. She was aware of a stir of unease around them. People were stumbling to a halt, pointing. There was an odd noise in the air, a thin droning, some kind of engine – there came the crunch of another explosion, much nearer. ‘What – what is it?’

  ‘Stop, damn you!’

  ‘I’m trying, sir – it’s the people—’ Private Benson was steering the truck on to the verge.