The Gates of Rutherford (11 page)

She wasn't even sure if he had. Not the kind of brash, beefy man that you imagined as being a success in the army. She had no idea how he got along, or if the others just tolerated him, like you would a dreamy child.

Ah, but he had that smile. That was what had drawn her to him, and that was what would see him through. He'd still had it—buried, but coming back eventually—when he had last been home. Only when she'd asked him where his brother had been buried did the smile vanish again. “I don't know,” he'd told her.

“But you must know!”

He had taken her hand. “Ah, Mary. Don't ask. I don't know, and that's the truth.”

The two women resumed their walk, coming to the tenant farm in another ten minutes. This was kept by Mr. Giles—farmer Giles, like the story—a bluff Yorkshireman with a permanent smile on his face. Giles was in his forties and had married late: his wife, Frances, was stout, cheerful, and welcoming as a rule, but she was suffering with influenza now. When they opened the door this morning they found her in a large Windsor chair near the kitchen range, a cushion behind her back. The fire on the range was burning brightly, and a kettle stood on it, beginning to boil.

“Morning, Mrs. Giles.”

“Hello, girls.” She gave a sudden huffing noise, and shook her head.

“What is it?” Mary asked.

“I'm not right sure,” the woman replied. Her accent was almost as broad as she was. “My head's all blocked. Proper miserable, it is.”
But, eventually, she waved her hand. “Tis nowt. Tea's mashing. Shift thisselves, then. Make us a cup, there's good girls.”

After they had done so, they sat down at her bidding. “Not long for you,” Frances observed to Mary. “Four months?”

“I know.”

“Tha's got a long face about it, then.”

“No,” Mary replied. “I just don't feel right well, that's all.”

“Sick?”

“Yes. And . . . more peculiar, like. As if something's not right.”

“Well, what can't be right? You look all right to me. Bonny.”

Mary shrugged. “I feel heavy.”

Frances laughed. “Aye, you'll feel heavier, and that's a fact.” She wriggled slightly in her seat to make herself more comfortable. “If you don't want to take more peculiar still, you'd best not go into the yard, then.”

“Why?” Jenny asked.

“They brought us help this morning, off the camp.”

“The prison camp?”

“Germans, aye. Six of them to get the barn wall repaired. How'd you like that? I said to them guards what's brought them, don't let me look at them. Don't bring them to the house whatever you do. Fancy, if you like. Murdering Germans!”

“Who asked for them? Did Andrew?” asked Jenny, naming Frances's husband.

“He did not!” Frances exclaimed. “It's the land steward. The master's man. Andy told him we was in need of help, next thing we know, the steward's gone to Lord Cavendish and there's a man come from Catterick. But I mean, how can you refuse? We need the help. The barn's lost part of its roof in the snow. We've only got the three men now, and two of them blinkin' half-wits—Jed and Billy Watling.
Neither use nor ornament, those two. So we got to take the prisoners, I suppose. Germans or whatever.”

The girls looked at each other. “I suppose they're just people like us,” Jenny volunteered hesitantly.

Mary set her face, and got to her feet. “Let's see what they've brought us,” she said. As she passed Jenny, she gave her a withering, contemptuous look. “People, is it?” she hissed under her breath. “People what kill other people, like David's brother.”

She went out of the door, and Jenny glanced back apologetically at Frances.

The other woman gave a sad, conspiratorial smile. “Tis David, you see,” she murmured. “Don't mind her.”

•   •   •

T
he barn was an ancient building standing at right angles to the yard. Alongside it was the milking parlor, and through the gate the cows were standing close to the yard, sheltering in the lee of a wall while the rain continued to drift down.

The animals stood facing them, intrigued by the presence of the guard dog being held by a soldier who stood under the eaves of the barn roof. He looked as if he was asleep, his head slumped on his chest, until the door slammed behind the two women. Then, hearing their footsteps, he straightened himself up and looked their way.

They hurried across the yard, sidestepping the mud.

When they got alongside him, Mary stopped. “Are they in there?”

“Aye,” he told them. “But it's no business of your'n.”

“Where did they fight?” she demanded.

“What?”

“Where did they fight?” Mary repeated. “Where in France?”

“How should I know?” he said. “Who the bloody hell cares?”

Jenny tugged on Mary's arm. “Let's go and see to the butter,” she murmured. “That's what we're down here for.”

But Mary hesitated, staring up at the guard, and her eyes then strayed to the barn door. “It don't much sound like anyone's in there.”

“They're having a break,” he said. “Tea.”

Mary's mouth dropped open. “Tea!” she echoed. “Tea, is it? Why don't you give 'em cake, then? Cucumber sandwiches while you're bloody at it?”

Jenny took hold of Mary's hand. “Come on,” she urged. “Mary . . .”

Mary kicked at the door. The guard dog began to bark, and the guard himself stepped in front of her. “Here, missus . . .”

“Mary,” Jenny pleaded. She purposefully threaded her arm through Mary's, and pulled her back in the direction of the house, and the dairy building attached to it. “We won't see them,” she said, trying to be a comfort. “We'll never see them, Mary, will we? Why should we?”

A
t last, the letter came from Caitlin. It was ten days after the wedding, and it seemed that she was already back in France, on duty.

It was a long letter, and Harry's heart had quickened when he saw it. But it turned out that there was nothing in it that he wanted to read.

Dear Harry,

I have tried to write to you so often. You will know it is difficult, but the lack of time is no excuse. It is one in the morning now. I am no longer nursing on the hospital trains, but the convoys. The ship is rolling. It is appalling weather, and I am not a sailor. But never mind—compared to others. You understand. I've been here a week, and I don't know if I shall be here another week, or a day, or if I am to go to England. But that doesn't matter. What I have to say to you is what matters.

Do you remember when you showed me Rutherford after you were first wounded, when you were taken there after the second operation? Do you think of it as a dream? I sometimes wonder if I was ever there at all. Such a lovely place. So utterly quiet. I don't think I have known anything like that. Where I was brought up was never peaceful, and besides London is never asleep. There was certainly not much sleep in the house. Always a drama. The dramas that you described to me of your own home did not seem to mark it at all. I tried to imagine myself back there just recently. The open doors on the terrace, and the candlelight at dinner. Impossible.

Made more impossible by what has happened.

I wonder if you ever remember my talking of Eleanor Brinkley? She was posted with me to Albert when we first came over. We were at the first station back from the front. And then again on the trains. I pointed her out to you. A fair girl, with long hair that she would not cut. A rather gapped smile. You would remember her if you had seen her, no doubt. She is from your part of the world, or close to it. Whitby. I could hear the North Country when she spoke. Such a nice voice, Harry.

You know, some are rather hardened to all this. It's not that they mean to be cruel. But it is so necessary. But Eleanor is different. She is a vicar's daughter, and knows all the Bible texts, but she isn't one to quote them. Not in a lecturing fashion. But I have heard her murmuring a few lines to those that want them, those that ask for them. Faith. Extraordinary, don't you think? I have lost mine. I know as a certainty that I shall never regain it.

We have been at the Channel ports—I am not, I suppose, meant to say where, but you will know more than most. You took the hospital convoy yourself, didn't you? I remember you saying how dreadful it was to wait on that quayside as other wounded
were dumped unceremoniously either side of you, and how the ships disgorged the new arrivals, so hale and hearty. You told me that you thought that you had seen one of Rutherford's own horses on that quayside, the great Shire horse you loved, but of course it could not be so, for that would have been a miracle. Have you seen any miracles? No, and nor have I.

Anyhow, Harry, we were posted there; one might have thought it would be a respite from the hospital trains, but it was not so. We were obliged to meet the barges coming up from the Somme. I was taught to drive a lorry. The biggest, you know, the Willys-Overland. Imagine that! I had never been behind a wheel before, and the thing was noisier than the front. The tires were solid; the springs had gone; and the roof was covered with tin. One could not even hear the voices of anyone sitting alongside you. When I got out to crank it up, it regularly slipped out of gear and threatened to run me over.

The lorry was the first and last in one of the rushes; it was the first and last on the field. We took all the blankets and stretchers and officers kit back and forth. When the ambulance trains came down, I was lucky to be in bed before 2 a.m. Alongside us on the quay and in the station were mules and horses, and some of the horses were rather fine, and could be ridden.

I was waiting at 5 a.m. one morning for one of the barges to come in, and we had word that it had been delayed. It was still dark, Harry. Early March, and bitingly cold. We had to wait for the telephone bell to ring: it was that that would tell us if the barge were coming. But the wind was so high that the barge had been stopped somewhere a few miles hence.

Eleanor and I were together that morning. It was said that the casualties were very severe and that both the drivers should be experienced nurses—extra hands, you see. I had been in that
situation before. I have climbed back behind the driver's wheel many a time and had to clean my hands before I could grip it. My shoes, too. One set one's face and scrubbed the stains away, and put the shoes to dry next to the belching brown stove in our dormitory.

Eleanor liked to ride horses. Or she had done before the war. I told her, standing there in the cold and blowing darkness, that I had never ridden a horse in my life. “You have missed something wonderful,” she said. And the next thing, she had run over to the sergeant and asked if she might take two of the horses that waited in line. They are not war-wounded horses, you know, or not very weary at least. Though they stand sometimes with their heads down, patiently absorbing the noises, the cries, the chaos, and turning soft and beseeching eyes to you if you manage to find a scrap of bread or sugar to give them. Poor beasts! I do feel for them.

I have told you that I do not believe in miracles, and yet here I am about to tell you of one, Harry. The sergeant had said that it was all right for Eleanor to take those horses upon the sands. There is a beach right alongside the casino, and lovely flat sands that long ago would have held holiday crowds. I think that Eleanor had spoken to the sergeant before; I don't know if he was a little sweet on her. But he turned a blind eye that morning.

There were no saddles, only the tack to hold on to. My little mule did not know how to canter, but he trotted along with such gusto, as glad to see the sea as I was. Eleanor's horse took off at a gallop, and I lost sight of her. I was simply lumping along, and I began to feel utterly strange. Can you guess why? I had begun to laugh. It was so absurd. The waves were breaking over the mule's feet and making him skip from time to time, and I thought how fantastic it all was—the waves, and the awkward sack of potatoes that I was on the poor animal's back—although he did not seem to
mind. Perhaps I was a good deal lighter than anything else he had carried recently.

A few stray streaks of light began to show in the sky. And then I saw Eleanor coming back at full tilt. Her hair had come loose and there was a smile of such bliss on her face. She looked about eight years old. She wheeled the horse around us, and they came to a standstill. We all stood there—Eleanor, horse, mule, and me—in the growing dawn while the waves chattered around us, and I realized that I had not laughed—no, nor really smiled at all—for so many weeks. Not an authentic smile. I don't mean the “there, there” smiles one is forced to give. The comforting smiles of the professional. I mean the smile broken out of the soul. It was like fresh water running through me.

We took the animals back, and the sergeant continued to turn a kindly blind eye. The incinerator man—who would have that job, Harry?—had made tea. We all drank out of enamel cups. Nothing had ever tasted so good, not even the brews of perfection that Bradfield delivers to Rutherford's table.

We had on our large coats, and had scraped our hair back into a semblance of neatness. At last the telephone call came and we went to the lorry. Sure enough, as I cranked it, it slipped out of gear and it was Eleanor who called out. She scrambled over to the driver's side as I skipped out of the way, and she saved it from plunging down the road. She was laughing when I got back in.

There is a French battery near the EMO, the Embarkation Medical Officer. Just occasionally we were shelled six weeks ago. A blip in our fortunes, another seemingly relentless push that then is extinguished for no apparent reason. They have long-range shells, the Germans. As do we. But would you think they knew that they shelled the medical offices, the transports, the queues for the convoys that would go up to the port? The gunners probably never knew exactly
what they would hit. I like to think so, at any rate. I like to comfort myself with that. That there would be some residue of human feeling in an artilleryman's heart when he saw the damage he wreaked.

We were driving past the French battery. I had a sudden violent premonition that something was about to happen. It was full daylight by then, but there was suddenly a kind of onrushing silence—a moment of calm. Like a still pool in the center of ripples, I suppose. Instinctively, I put my foot on the accelerator. And then the crash happened, and I felt myself torn out of the lorry and being rushed along the ground. My face was rubbed by the gravel and mud. I could feel the skin burning. When it stopped, I felt my nose. I thought it might be broken.

And I looked around for Eleanor. The car that had been coming along behind us was flattened into the road. There was no sign of the people who had been in it. I saw Eleanor then by the roadside ditch. She was sitting up. When I got to my feet my back hurt considerably, but I appeared to be mobile, and so I went over to Eleanor. “You look quite horrible,” she told me. “You will need to get that cleaned.”

The French came running up. They descended on her, picking her up and cradling her and calling her a poor little pigeon and such. She looked as if she wanted to brush them off. “Gosh, I am winded,” she murmured. “I can't catch my breath.”

I got down beside her. “Don't speak,” I told her.

We got several bootlaces to each leg around the thigh, and then the idiot nearest her put his arm across his eyes like a child and wailed, “Complètement coupé.” I could have struck him down. I could have felled him with my fist. What a fool. Eleanor looked up and said, “What is cut?” and I told her that her jacket was in a mess, and she said, “I can always fix a ripped jacket, Caitlin.” And she paused, looking intently into my face.

She died just a few minutes later. We couldn't get anyone to her fast enough. Both femoral arteries, you see. Despite our bootlaces and all other efforts. The ambulance came and some sprightly young officer I had never seen danced down as if he were waltzing round the Ritz, as gaily as you like, and gave her morphia. The smile was still on Eleanor's face. I snatched at his arm. “There's no use giving her bloody morphia,” I told him as he flourished a hypodermic.

He reported me for swearing at him.

Oh dearest Harry, I can see your face. Concern for me, and horror for Eleanor. Someone whom you only met briefly and I suspect made only a fleeting impression upon you. I wonder how long she will remain in your memory. Will she be obscured gradually by the years, or is she obscure already?

I expect her mother and father and her sister remember her very well indeed, of course. They will have seen in her other times and other years: all the years that she was growing up. They will know things about her that we don't know, and I have known things about her that they will never know. Twenty years is not a very long time into which to cram a lifetime, and so there remain great empty pages of time where something might have been written or experienced. And now what will happen? When her parents go, and her sister goes, she will go. It's like washing away people, my love. Hundreds of thousands, millions. Washed away and only fragments of themselves remaining until at last one day her nieces or nephews will ask who Eleanor was, and her sister might retrieve a memory of something she said. And she'll struggle to conjure up how Eleanor looked, and half of it might be accurate, and half of it might be something fantasized. And the real person . . . by then she will have vanished entirely.

I think I will keep her expression close to me as she rode back that morning as the light was coming up. There was joy in that.
How can I write to her mother and say that she had joy in the last hour of her life? Would it sound empty, or comforting? Would one hold on to that unwitnessed joy until it replaced any other? I don't know what to write to them, and, Harry, it has been six weeks. Things happen, and days run past. . . .