Birdsong. Part 32

Gray's old voice barking down the line from Lanarkshire had been good; the glimpse of memory through the chaos of Brennan's recollection had been thrilling. But finally she had what she wanted: the past was alive in the spidery letters in her slightly shaking hand. She read: I don't know how the days pa.s.s. The anger and the blood have gone. We sit and read. There is always someone sleeping, someone strolling. Food is brought. We don't read real books, only magazines. Someone is eating. There are always others unaccounted for or absent.

Since Weir[?] died I have not been very close to reality. I am in a wilderness beyond fear. Time has finally collapsed for me. I had a letter from Jeanne this morning. She said two months have pa.s.sed since we met.

Men come out from England like emissaries from an unknown land. I cannot picture what it means to be at peace. I do not know how people there can lead a life.

The only things that sometimes jolt us back from this trance are memories of men. In the set of the eyes of some conscripted boy I see a look of Douglas or [name illeg. Reeve?] I find myself rigid with imagining. I can see that man's skull opening as he bent down to his friend that summer morning-Yesterday a signaller came up to talk and his gestures reminded me of W. I had a clear picture of him, not sprawling in the mud as I last saw him, but emerging from his burrow in the ground, wild-eyed. The image lasted only for an instant, then time collapsed and drifted past me once again.

I have been summoned to see Gray tomorrow. Perhaps he will feel the same. We are not contemptuous of gunfire, but we have lost the power to be afraid. Sh.e.l.ls will fall on the reserve lines and we will not stop talking. There is still blood, though no one sees. A boy lay without legs where the men took their tea from the cooker. They stepped over him.

I have tried to resist the slide into this unreal world, but I lack the strength. I am tired. Now I am tired in my soul.

Many times I have lain down and I have longed for death. I feel unworthy. I feel guilty because I have survived. Death will not come and I am cast adrift in a perpetual present.

I do not know what I have done to live in this existence. I do not know what any of us did to tilt the world into this unnatural orbit. We came here only for a few months.

No child or future generation will ever know what this was like. They will never understand.

When it is over we will go quietly among the living and we will not tell them. We will talk and sleep and go about our business like human beings. We will seal what we have seen in the silence of our hearts and no words will reach us._

FRANCE 1918--PART SIX.

Stephen put away his pen and notebook. It was nighttime. There was moonlight on the hills above the village. He lit another cigarette and turned the pages of a magazine. There was a pile by the chair of others he had already skimmed. His eyes scanned each page but barely read.

He went outside into the yard behind the little house. Chickens scattered in front of his footsteps.

He went into the lane and began to walk. The road was only partially completed. He felt the puddles and the loose stones beneath his feet. He went as far as the main road and looked around him. The guns were soft and distant; they rumbled like a train going through an embankment.

He stood and breathed deeply. He could hear an owl's call. He went slowly up and down the lane. The owl reminded him of childhood; it was a noise boys would make with their hands. His own seemed so long ago that it felt as though someone else had lived it for him.

Back in the billet he found Mountford sitting at the table, playing cards with a lieutenant called Tylecote. He declined their offer of a game, but sat in a daze and watched them move the greasy pictures over the wooden surface.

In the morning he went to see Colonel Gray in battalion headquarters two miles away.

Gray sprang up when Stephen went into the room. "Wraysford! How good to see you again. Civil of you staff men to pay us a call."

Gray had changed little in appearance. He gave the impression of an enquiring terrier with its head on one side. His moustache and hair showed patches of white, but his movements were still swift and certain.

He pulled back a chair and gestured to Stephen, who sat down.

"Do smoke," he said. "Now then. Are you enjoying yourself with your wee maps and lists?"

Stephen breathed in deeply. "We... exist."

"Exist? Good heavens, that's not the sort of talk I'm used to from a frontline man like yourself."

"I suppose not. If you remember, sir, I didn't ask to be transferred."

"I remember very well. In my view you were battle-weary. Mind you, most people were never allowed to reach that stage. A bullet saw to that."

"Yes. I've been lucky." Stephen coughed as the cigarette smoke went down into his lungs.

Gray looked out of the window and swung his feet up on to the desk. "Our lot have done pretty well, you know. Terrible casualties on the Somme, but who didn't? Otherwise not too bad. Both battalions are pretty much back to full strength."

"Yes I know," said Stephen. He smiled. "I know quite a lot about troop strengths in this area. More than when I was fighting."

Gray nodded his head quickly up and down and tapped his teeth with a pen.

"Tell me," he said, "when the war is over and the regiment puts up a memorial, what words will we inscribe on it?"

"I don't know. I presumed there would be a divisional memorial. The regiment would list the actions it was in, I suppose."

"Yes," said Gray. "It's a proud list, isn't it?" Stephen did not answer. He felt no pride in the unspeakable names.

Gray said, "Well, I've good news for you. Your staff attachment is finished. You're coming back." He paused. "I thought that's what you wanted."

"I... yes, I suppose it is."

"You don't look very pleased."

"I can't be pleased by anything that carries on this war. But I'm not displeased. I'm indifferent."

"Now listen to me. Quite soon we are going to attack. On a long front we are going to move rapidly forward into Germany. Parts of the line have already started to advance, as you know. If you want to lead your old company, you can. The temporary OC will become your second-in-command."

Stephen sighed and said nothing. He wished he felt pleased or excited. Gray stood up and came round the desk. "Think of the words on that memorial, Wraysford. Think of those stinking towns and foul b.l.o.o.d.y villages whose names will be turned into some bogus glory by fat-a.r.s.ed historians who have sat in London. We were there. As our punishment for G.o.d knows what, we were there, and our men died in each of those disgusting places. I hate their names. I hate the sound of them and the thought of them, which is why I will not bring myself to remind you. But listen." He put his face close to Stephen's. "There are four words they will chisel beneath them at the bottom. Four words that people will look at one day. When they read the other words they will want to vomit. When they read these, they will bow their heads, just a little. 'Final advance and pursuit.' Don't tell me you don't want to put your name to those words."

Stephen laughed. "I really don't mind what--"

"Go _on." _Gray growled at him like a dog. "There must be one of those words you like the sound of."

Stephen said, "I suppose so. 'Final.' "

Gray shook him by the shoulders. "Good man. I'll tell the men you're on your way."

The work of the tunnellers reached its climax with the explosion at Messines Ridge. Weir's company was absorbed by the three RE Field Companies attached to the division in which Stephen served. The work was less arduous and less interesting. Jack Firebrace wrote: Dear Margaret, These are just a few lines while I have a moment. Thank you for the parcel which got here yesterday, though it was slightly damaged. Did you put in razor blades?

We are on road repair work again. It is very hard work, though most of the men think it better than tunnelling. We have to fill big holes with stones and what they call facines, which are bits of spoil, masonry and suchlike, from damaged houses.

What with the mire and the rain and all the dead animals, it is a sorry business. We feel sorry for the dead horses, such beautiful animals so badly knocked about and they didn't ask for any part of it.

We still do a bit of digging. The CO says we've made our contribution to the war, but that it's going to become a much faster business fought above the ground now. We'll see about that. We have started to advance now and there is a real feeling that one more push and it will be over.

We are all keeping cheerful and bright. Evans has had a new pack of cards and I am quite the star turn at brag now. I have also done some more sketching. Trusting you are keeping well and that I will see you again soon.

From your loving husband Jack.

Before he rejoined his company, Stephen took two of the days owing to him in leave and went to Rouen, where Jeanne had moved during the German spring offensive. It was a hot Sunday afternoon when he arrived. There was a festive atmosphere in the streets. Old motor cars were taking families for a drive. Others had four-in-hands, carts, or bicycles--anything to keep their promenade moving. There were numbers of small boys running on the cobbles and shouting to the drivers of the vehicles.

Stephen moved through the crowd in some puzzlement. Following Jeanne's instructions, he came to the cathedral and turned into the medieval part of the city, where she had taken a room until she could return to Amiens.

She was waiting for him when he rang the street bell. She took him across a courtyard and up to her lodgings. There were only two rooms on the first floor, but she had managed to make them pleasant with the things she had been able to take out of Amiens.

She sat him down in one of the two armchairs and looked at him. He had grown very thin and his skin had become lined and leathery about the eyes. Their expression was no longer guarded; to Jeanne it seemed vacant. He had not lost any hair, even at the temples, but there were now streaks of early grey almost everywhere in it. His movements had a dreamlike quality, as though the air about him were very thick and had to be pushed slowly back. He smoked without seeming to know that he did so and dropped ash on his clothes.

This was the man who eight years earlier had so stirred her younger sister. Isabelle had told her nothing about their lovemaking, but she had given Jeanne a strong physical sense of him by referring to his shoulders, his eyes, and the deft movements of his hands. The man Jeanne saw was different; it was hard to believe it was the same person. This thought made her feel easier in her mind. They went for a walk in the town and then to the museum, where they sat in the gardens.

"What happened to you in the spring?" said Stephen. "I had no letters for a time."

"I did write," said Jeanne. "Perhaps they got lost in all the commotion. To begin with the town was filled with refugees from other places as the Germans advanced. Then we were bombarded and the mayor gave the order to evacuate the town. I stayed for a time because I didn't want to come back to Rouen. They used to sh.e.l.l at night, using flares to guide their fire. It was frightening. I went to the cathedral to help them take out the stained-gla.s.s windows. We wrapped them all up in blankets. Eventually I had to leave, but I didn't tell my parents where I'd gone. I managed to find these rooms with the help of a friend I'd known when I was a girl. My parents don't know I'm here."

"Would they be angry?"

"I don't know. I think they've almost given up hope with their daughters. They heard that Isabelle had gone to Germany. They had a letter from an old friend of Azaire's in Amiens, a man called Berard. He said he thought they ought to know." Stephen sang softly, " 'And the little boat sailed away-y-y.' "

"What was that?"

"I knew that man. He used to visit when I was there. He was a_ _bully, a preposterous little man, full of his own importance. But he seemed to have some sort of power over people."

"I wrote to Isabelle and told her what had happened. She wrote back and told me that when the place was first occupied by the Germans this man Berard offered the commandant his house to live in. He thought they would be staying there for the whole war. When they moved on after a few days he was left feeling shamefaced. According to Isabelle he tried to make up for it afterward by making very belligerent noises."

"But he didn't join the army?"

"No. Perhaps he was too old. Isabelle said she was happy, though Max is not well. He had to have his leg amputated and he has not recovered his strength. She's very devoted to him."

Stephen nodded. "Poor man. I'm sorry."

"Now what about you?" said Jeanne. She took his hand and squeezed it in her affectionate, sisterly way. "You're looking very distracted and pale. I worry about you. I told you that, didn't I? I don't suppose you're eating properly either." Stephen smiled. "I'm all right. The food was much better in the job I've just finished. There was plenty of it, too."

"Then why are you so thin?"

He shrugged. "1 don't know."

Jeanne's dark eyes lit up with seriousness as she pressed his hand and made him look at her. "Stephen, you mustn't give up. You mustn't let yourself go. It's nearly over. Any day now we'll advance and you'll be free to resume your life."

"Resume? I can't remember my life. I wouldn't know where to look for it."

"You mustn't talk in this way." Jeanne was angry. Her pale skin showed, for the first time since Stephen had known her, a pinpoint of blood in the cheeks. With her left hand she lightly beat the wooden bench on which they were sitting to emphasize what she said.

"Of course you won't resume whatever it was you were doing in Paris, drifting around as a carpenter or whatever it was. You'll do something better, you'll do something worthwhile."

Stephen turned his eyes slowly to her. "You're a dear woman, Jeanne. I would do what you say. But it's not the details of a life I've lost. It's the reality itself." Jeanne's eyes filled with tears. "Then we must make it come back. I'll bring it back for you. I'll help you find whatever it is you have lost. Nothing is beyond redemption."

"Why are you so kind to me?" said Stephen.

"Because I love you. Can't you see that? From all that's gone wrong I want to make something good. We must try. Promise me you'll try."

Stephen nodded slowly. "We will try."

Jeanne stood up, feeling encouraged. She took his hand and led him through the gardens. What else could she do to invigorate him, to bring him back to the reality he had lost? There was one thing, naturally; though the complications might outweigh the benefits. It should happen spontaneously or not at all. They had dinner early in a restaurant on their way back to her lodgings and she made Stephen drink wine in the hope that it would cheer him. Gla.s.s after gla.s.s of red Bordeaux went down his throat but brought no light into his dead eyes. On the way home Jeanne said, "Please be very quiet as we cross the courtyard. I don't want the concierge to know there's a man staying the night in my rooms."

Stephen laughed for the first time. "You Fourmentier girls. What would your father say?"

"Be quiet," said Jeanne, glad that she had made him laugh. It was a hot night, and it was not yet dark as they walked. A small band was playing in one of the squares among the plane trees, where the cafes were starting to put on their lights.

Stephen went with elaborate care over the paving of the courtyard and made no sound until they were safely back in Jeanne's lodgings.

"I've made up a bed for you on the sofa in the corner. Do you want to go to bed now or would you like to sit up and talk? I think I have some brandy. We could take it on to the little balcony there. But we must keep our voices down." They sat in two wickerwork chairs on the narrow strip that gave a view over a dry, sandy garden.

"You know what I want to do for you?" said Jeanne. "I'm going to make you laugh. That's going to be my project. I'm going to banish your Anglo-Saxon gloom. I'm going to make you laugh and be full of joy, like a proper French peasant." Stephen smiled. He said, "And I'll tell stories and slap my thighs like a Norman farmer."

"And never think about the war. And those who have gone."

"Never." He drained the brandy in a gulp.

She took his hand again. "I'll have a house with a garden at the back with rose bushes and flowerbeds, and perhaps a swing for children to play on--if not my own, then visiting children. The house will have long windows and be full of the smell of wonderful meals from the kitchen. And the sitting room will have freesias and violets. And there will be paintings on the wall, by Millet and Courbet and other great artists."

"I'll visit you. Perhaps I'll live there with you. It will shock the whole of Rouen."

"We'll go boating on Sunday, and on Sat.u.r.day we'll go to the opera, then to dinner in the big square. Twice a year we'll have parties in the house. They'll be full of candles, and we'll hire servants to take round drinks on silver trays to all our friends. And there will be dancing and--"

"Not dancing."

"All right, no dancing. But there'll be a band. Perhaps a string quartet or a gipsy violinist. And those who _want _to can dance, somewhere in a separate room. Perhaps we'll have a singer."

"Perhaps we could persuade Berard."

"A good idea. He could sing some German lieder he had learned from the commandant and his wife. The parties would be famous. I'm not sure how we'd pay for them."

"I'll have made my fortune by some invention. Your father will have left his millions to you."

They drank some more brandy, which made Jeanne feel dizzy, though it seemed to have no effect on Stephen. When it grew cold they went inside and Stephen said he would like to sleep. She showed him his bed and fetched him a carafe of water.

In her bedroom Jeanne undressed. She felt encouraged by Stephen, though she could see he was making efforts for her benefit. It was a beginning. She walked naked across the floor to take her nightgown from the back of the door. It opened just before she reached it, and she saw Stephen outside in his shirt, his legs bare.

He recoiled. "I'm sorry, I was looking for the bathroom." Jeanne had grabbed reflexively for a towel that lay on the chair, and tried to arrange it modestly over her body.

Stephen turned and began to move back into the sitting room.

Jeanne said, "Stop. It's all right. Come back."

She put the towel on the chair and stood quite still.