Tomorrow, Jerusalem

by Tomorrow, Jerusalem (retail) (epub)

  Hannah stood up.

  Fiona grinned and winked at Sally.

  ‘Excuse me.’ The words were a breath. Hannah looked at no one around the table. Lifting her skirts and with no further apology she edged around the table and started to hurry across the lawn. The young man nodded to the nurse and turned. Seeing Hannah – and, Sally thought with wry sympathy, being utterly unaware of an audience – he stood for a moment watching her approach.

  ‘And if ever it could be said that a man’s heart was in his eyes—’ Fiona, somehow, had materialized beside Sally, the words breathed into her ear, ‘there it is. Lucky old Hannah, eh?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Artist chappie. Giles Redfern. Caught it – oh – must be four months or so ago. Now he’s back.’ Fiona smiled, and her eyes on Hannah were affectionate, ‘And good luck to him.’

  Hannah had stopped, hesitating. Giles snatched his hat from his sandy head and ran to her; held out both hands. Shyly, Hannah took them in hers.

  ‘Right-o, chaps,’ Fiona moved easily, elegantly nonchalant, to the centre of the stage, ‘who’s game to chance a dance? Bags I someone’, a long, pointed finger swept the circle and rested, pointing at the kilted Rory MacAllister, ‘suggests forcibly to the dear band that a garden party is not the same without a small tea dance?’

  ‘What about Matron?’ someone asked.

  ‘Ask her yourself. Here she is.’

  Sally scrambled to her feet. Colonel Foster, his hand firm upon Matron’s small arm, beamed at her. ‘Caroline – here she is – Sally van Damme – best driver – best damn’ mechanic – I’ve ever had!’

  The diminutive Lady Bennet extended a capable hand and flashed a warm smile. ‘Well done, my dear. We’ll show ’em, eh?’

  ‘Er – yes – ma’am.’ Sally, feeling an ungainly, inarticulate and untidy giant beside the tiny, neatly uniformed woman, heard Fiona’s soft laughter and, flushed to the roots of her hair.

  Caroline, Lady Bennet, Matron in Charge of Number Two Casualty Clearing Station, Béthune, indulged in a wicked wink, and nudged her elderly escort. ‘Home and hearth eh, Reginald? Wasn’t that what I’ve heard you say? And where was your vote on women’s suffrage, eh? Feeling a bit different now, are we?’

  The colonel cleared his throat. Sally avoided his eyes and kept, with some difficulty, a dignified straight face.

  Matron reached up to pat her arm maternally. ‘They’re used to us patching up their cuts and bruises, my dear. Not so used to having our fingers in their engines, eh?’ She laughed, a clear, infectious laugh, ‘Keep up the good work, my dear. We’re driving the trams at home. They won’t keep us down now.’

  Sally grinned. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Lady Bennet bestowed a general smile, turned to leave.

  ‘Matron?’ Fiona flashed her own most beguiling smile, ‘would you mind if we asked the – band—’ the subversively graphic lift of her brows upon the word brought a few hastily disguised chuckles, ‘to play a waltz or two? One or two of us wondered if we might dance? It’s such a lovely afternoon.’

  In the distance the guns grumbled.

  ‘By all means, my dear, by all means. Enjoy yourselves – have some more cake.’

  Fiona led her chosen beau to the bandmaster, bent to his ear. A moment later, baton high, he launched his men into an enthusiastic rendering of Die Fledermaus.

  ‘I say – would you mind?’

  Smiling, Sally allowed Lieutenant Reece to lead her into the grassy space beneath the tree. Other couples, laughing excitedly, were taking up the challenge, the girls in their nursing uniforms, the young men in muddy khaki. No man got a full dance; every few steps came a good-humoured tap upon the shoulder, another pair of arms in which to waltz. Fiona, Sally noticed with hilarity, actually had a queue waiting patiently in line for her to pass. She lost count of the number of young faces she smiled into, all so very different, all so very much the same. And then, suddenly, a face she knew; knew all too well. A pair of arms that would not give way to a tap on the shoulder, a breadth of shoulder and a coolness of eye with which no one would argue. They danced in silence, she and Ben, he with his eyes fixed upon some point in the far distance; waiting, she refusing to lift her head, obscurely unwilling to look him in the eye, to face the questions, her own as well as his.

  Then, with a flourish, the music changed, and she stumbled, missing her footing on the grass, having to grip Ben’s arm to prevent herself falling.

  Next to them a young man broke into song. ‘Oh Danube so blue – la la, la la—’

  She stopped dancing. Shook her head. Ben tucked a firm hand beneath her arm and guided her through the tables, round the side of the house and into a tangle of overgrown fruit bushes through which a path meandered towards a tiny orchard. As a background to the birdsong and the sound of the music the war rumbled its own almost unnoticed refrain, far off. They walked slowly and in silence under the trees that were heavy with slow-forming, unripened fruit until, as if drawn by the same thread, they stopped, turned to each other in the dappled sunshine.

  Sally stood like a statue, staring fixedly at the shining button, the crossed Sam Browne that was on a level with her eyes.

  His hand lifted her chin, forced her to look at him. ‘Well, Sally Smith? What is it?’

  ‘What’s what?’ Her voice lacked conviction.

  ‘I thought we were friends again? I thought – after Belgium – we were friends?’

  ‘Of course we’re friends. How could we not be? You saved me – and Philippa.’

  ‘That isn’t what I meant. You know it.’

  She said nothing. Could not look away from his narrowed dark eyes. She sighed, the breath trembling in her throat.

  ‘You’ve been in Amiens for three months. Why didn’t you come to see me?’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to see me?’ Her voice was impassioned.

  He waited a long time before saying quietly, ‘It’s a fair question I suppose – except – I would have thought the answer obvious?’

  ‘So obvious I can’t see it.’ Her voice was caustic. She turned from him, walked a little way away, stood picking at a tree trunk, scratching viciously with her fingernail.

  He did not move to follow her. There was a long, thoughtful silence. ‘A long time ago,’ he said, his voice steady and very quiet, ‘I hurt you very badly, I think. I wasn’t sure – didn’t know—’ For the first time, beneath his control, she sensed the strain, the uncertainty, ‘if Belgium made up for that? I hoped so. I thought we were friends. But then – thinking about it – I wasn’t so sure – it seemed—’ he hesitated, ‘best to leave it to you. I thought you’d let me know, somehow, if you’d—’ the pause was longer this time, ‘forgiven me. Is that the word?’

  She had turned to stare at him. She said nothing.

  ‘When you arrived in France – it seemed best for me to wait; to give you the choice, to contact me or not. When you didn’t—’ He stopped.

  A surge of something that she identified as fury – certainly it was strong enough, hot enough to be so described made her low voice shake. ‘And why should I?’

  She saw an answering spark of temper rise in his eyes and was glad of it. ‘No reason, I suppose. I just hoped—’

  ‘Hoped?’ She picked up the word sharply, stepped closer to him, head up, challenging. ‘What did you hope, Ben?’

  For a moment they stood, the fine-drawn thread of attraction that had been strung between them so strongly and for so long, that both had denied and tried so hard to break, holding them, even now unwilling. It was the sudden, almost infinitesimal dropping of his shoulders, the helpless turn of his head that broke her.

  ‘Ben,’ she said, ‘oh, Ben!’ and her voice, suddenly was a breath away from tears. ‘And you called me a fool!’

  He stood for a moment, and for the first time since she had known him she saw him bewildered, less that certain of himself. He shook his head. ‘Sally – I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Yes you did.’ Her
husky voice was positive. ‘Don’t lie to yourself, Ben. Don’t lie to me. We both know what you meant. Why don’t we admit it?’

  He looked at her then, and his face was full of anguish. ‘Because we can’t. I can’t. Because I’m not free – because I can’t offer you the things you deserve. Oh Christ, Sally, you were right – right again – I should have stayed away from you.’

  ‘But you didn’t. In the end, you didn’t.’

  ‘No.’

  The silence lengthened. Faintly a shell whistled and boomed. Ben half turned away from her. She watched him. ‘Ben?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why did you do it? Why were you so – so very cruel that night? Did you know what you were doing to me?’

  He nodded.

  She waited. When he said nothing, ‘For my own good,’ she said flatly.

  He turned on her. ‘Yes! Bloody yes! And it worked, didn’t it? If I hadn’t – if I’d taken what you were offering – what we both wanted – oh, yes, I don’t deny it – where would you have been? What would you have had to offer Philippe?’ He grabbed her shoulders, shook her. ‘Well?’

  She was very still in his hands, offering no resistance to the unthinking violence of his strength. ‘You wanted me?’ she asked very quietly.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Of course I did.’ He became aware it seemed of the savagery of his grip on her shoulders. Very suddenly he let her go, stepping back from her, his face calming. Tiredly he rubbed the back of his hand across his jaw. ‘I’m a married man, Sally. I was then, I am now. There’s nothing I can offer you.’

  ‘I know.’ She was watching him, her eyes unfathomable.

  ‘I should have left you alone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it too late?’

  She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  He struggled for a moment with the words, a complex, arrogant man unused to bending, ‘Too late to be friends?’

  She smiled at that suddenly, held out her hand, the tension gone. ‘It’s never too late for that.’ Somewhere, very deep within her, something small and warm was moving; growing – something that had been cold and lifeless as stone since Philippe’s death. She smiled calmly, guarding it, unwilling for the moment even to think about it, to acknowledge it. ‘We’d better get back.’

  He nodded, took her arm to guide her back along the narrow path towards the lawns. As they emerged into the sunshine they stopped, listening to laughter, watching the couples – only a dozen or so due to the lack of partners, even Matron herself being waltzed breezily across the grass by a fresh-faced young Guards officer. Ben dropped her arm and gave her a gentle push. ‘Off you go. Poor little devils – caught in this ghastly game – Matron’s right – they do deserve some fun. And so do you.’

  The band’s repertoire of waltz tunes was obviously exhausted and they had begun a second round. As the so-familiar strains of the ‘Blue Danube’ struck up yet again Sally turned her head, caught the smile in Ben’s eyes as he watched her.

  ‘I say – would you care to dance?’ A breathless young man appeared before her, his head neatly bandaged, one eye covered in a patch.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, I would.’

  ‘One of my favourite tunes this – just about the only one I can manage.’

  She swung into his arms, humming. He grinned from ear to ear. ‘La la la la la, la-la, la-la.’

  III

  Sally was kept very busy for the next few days; it was quite obvious that something important was afoot. She ferried Colonel Foster and various high-ranking companions to and from meetings and conferences; the odd word, dropped here and there, confirmed her suspicions. Battalions were moving into the line all along the Somme. Something big was coming.

  ‘Well, lass – we’ll be going over soon, I reckon,’ Eddie said during the course of one of their infrequent meetings as he strolled by her side through the darkened streets, the fireworks of the front lighting the skies above them. ‘You going to give me a kiss for luck?’

  She laughed – it was so very easy to laugh with Eddie – and did not answer.

  He pulled a comic, affronted face. ‘There’s plenty more fish in the sea, thee knows!’ He exaggerated his Yorkshire accent, ‘Happen thee’ll be sorry when I’m dead an’ gone!’

  She turned swiftly. ‘Don’t say that! Not even in fun.’

  He slid an arm about her shoulder. ‘Aha! Caught you!’ And – surprisingly gently – he turned her face to his and kissed her lightly. ‘There. That weren’t so bad, were it?’

  She smiled her affection, tucked her arm into his as they turned to stroll on. ‘No, Eddie. That weren’t so bad.’

  ‘Happen you’d like to try it again sometime?’

  She was aware that his eyes were rather more serious than his bantering voice. ‘Happen,’ she said very lightly.

  When he left her at her door that evening, stepping back with the half-mocking salute he always gave her, it was she who stopped him. ‘Eddie—’

  He waited, the thin, gipsy-dark face in shadow.

  ‘You will be careful?’

  ‘I always am.’

  ‘I doubt that. But – this time – if I don’t see you before – well, whatever is going to happen happens—’ she hesitated, ‘be specially careful? Don’t go trying to get that stripe back?’

  She saw the glint of his teeth. ‘Any particular reason?’

  She posed her head in parody of deep thought, then shook it. ‘No. Nothing I can think of. It’s just I’ve grown quite fond of rissoles and plonk, and I don’t know anyone else who knows where to find them.’

  His chuckle was warm. ‘Good night, van Damme.’

  ‘Goodnight, Corporal.’

  She had little spare time; no one did. As well as fulfilling her official capacity as driver to the colonel, she spent a lot of time ferrying hospital personnel and supplies to new dressing huts and clearing stations that were being set up close to the line. Oh yes, she thought, as she bumped for the third time in a day along the dusty, rutted, shell-pocked road that led forward, past the endless marching lines of men, the processions of horse-drawn gun carriages, the plodding mule supply trains, the field ambulances grinding their slow way to the Front, something was very much in the air. But in the few precious spare moments she did get in those last long June days, despite the genuine friendship that was growing between her and Eddie, and despite her pleasure in watching Hannah, in brave defiance of the circumstances, grow daily more happy in her love for her Giles, one person and one person only seemed to monopolize her thoughts, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it.

  Ben.

  She had gone over and over, word for word, that strange conversation in the garden at Albert. She had recalled every expression, every nuance of every phrase. She could not get it out of her head. It was, in a strange way, as if the conversation had not been finished; as if there had been so much more to be said. For the first couple of days she had looked for him; surely, after what had been said – after what he had at last all but admitted – he would come to find her? But he had not, and deep in her heart she had not been surprised. He had said nothing that afternoon to suggest that he had changed, and the intransigent pride, the steel-strong sense of duty was still there, a barrier between them that must surely be almost insurmountable. No, she was disappointed but not surprised when she did not hear from him. She knew, as surely as she knew night from day, that he would make no further move towards her. She could leave things as they were and nothing more would ever be said. He was a principled and honourable man, a man she knew who saw the world in black and white, a man who would not take easily to deception and betrayal.

  But – deception of whom? Betrayal of whom – or what?

  He did not love Charlotte. She did not love him. Would Charlotte know – would she care? – if her husband stole a few precious months of happiness from this nightmare in which they all found themselves? Weren’t so many people doing it? Didn’t the war change things?

  And she always stopp
ed there. Because she knew what he would say if she put it to him. No. The war did not change things. He was still married. He still could not do what for him would be dishonourable. So he would do nothing.

  He was, of course, almost certainly right.

  She sat one still, late evening towards the end of the month at the small table in her bedroom, the smoke from her cigarette drifting through the open window into the street where, with steady tramp, yet another column of men in dusty khaki, hung about with helmets and gas masks, packs and entrenching tools, water bottles, pouches and rifles, marched past in ragged formation, led and escorted by their mounted officers – heading, she supposed, as everyone in the world in these past days had been heading, for the front line. She watched them pass. It seemed to her that the Allied bombardment had increased tonight, the sound rolling together in a thunder that echoed constantly in the summer skies. She wondered with an odd stirring of something like excitement if that were significant. There had been more activity in the air, too – enemy and Allied planes challenging each other above the long line of observation balloons that drifted in the sky over the front line. Eddie’s battalion had moved into the line two days before. Jaunty as ever he had waylaid her the evening before they had left and they had managed a snatched couple of hours, with, inevitably, rissoles and plonk, in Eddie’s favourite bar. There had been about him she had thought, a little worriedly, a high-strung, vivid tension that had disturbed her.

  ‘You’re looking forward to it!’ she had said suddenly, in some amazement. ‘You’re positively excited!’

  He had leaned to her, elbows on table, smoke spiralling into the already smoky air. ‘And why not, lass?’ he had asked very softly. ‘It’s something happening, isn’t it? It isn’t sitting on your arse in a hole with Gerry lobbing over Jack Johnsons or HE, with rats big as cats gnawing at your boots, with food like pig swill and sodding officers shouting the odds about your buttons being shiny? It’s doing something. In a funny way, once it starts, it’s you, on your own.’ He had grinned, stubbed out his cigarette, lit another immediately. ‘Trench raids. That’s how I keep getting my stripes back, see lass? Trench raids. For most of the lads – they’ll break a leg not to go. Me? I’m God’s own volunteer. Out there, on your own, crawl through the wire, freeze when the flares go up – God, lass, you don’t know what it’s like! No one knows who hasn’t been there.’ The dark eyes, lit by candlelight, had smouldered with excitement. ‘Then it’s up an’ at ’em. Him or you.’ He had laughed suddenly at the expression on her face. ‘Hey up, lass – don’t look so took aback! Isn’t it what life’s all about? Takin’ a chance?’