Birdsong (52 page)

She told him she was worried by his listlessness. It was as though he had given up hope and was allowing himself to drift. He said it was hard not to, when the attitude of the people at home to what they had endured was one of indifference.

“Then be strong for my sake,” she said. “I am not indifferent to what happens to you or to any of your friends. I am not impatient. I will wait for you.”

He was encouraged by her. He told her what he had felt when he was on leave in England, when he had stood by the field.

Jeanne said, “You see! There is a God, there is a purpose to it all. But you must be strong.”

She took his hand and held it tightly. He looked at her pale, imploring face.

“Do it for my sake,” she said. “Go back, go where they ask you. You are lucky. You will survive.”

“I feel guilty that I have survived when all the others are gone.”

He returned to brigade headquarters. He did not want to be on the staff. He wanted to be back with the men in the trenches.

He managed only to exist.

His life became grey and thin, like a light that might at any moment be extinguished; it was filled with quietness.

“A
ny progress?” said Elizabeth to Irene during her weekly visit.

“Not really,” said Irene. “He says it’s proving more difficult than he thought. He’s still working at it, but your grandad seems to have covered his tracks pretty well.”

Two months had passed since Elizabeth had given Bob the diary and she decided she would have to find other ways of making contact with the past. From his officer’s handbook she discovered which regiment her grandfather had been in, and attempted to trace its headquarters.

After a series of telephone calls and unreturned messages she found that the regiment had ceased to exist ten years earlier, when it had been amalgamated with another. The headquarters was in Buckinghamshire, where Elizabeth drove one Saturday afternoon.

She was met with suspicion. Her car was searched thoroughly for bombs and she was made to wait for an hour before a young man eventually came to see her.

He was the first soldier Elizabeth had ever met. She was surprised by how unmilitary he seemed. He had the attitude of most clerks and small officials: regimental documents were held somewhere, hard to reach, confidential; there was not much chance.

“The thing is, you see,” said Elizabeth, “that my grandfather fought in this war and I would like to find out more about it. People don’t always appreciate what sacrifices were made for them—still are made for them—by the armed forces. All I would need is a list of names of people in his … battalion, company, whatever it was. I’m sure an organization as efficient as the army must keep good records, mustn’t it?”

“I’m sure everything’s in order. It’s a question of access. And confidentiality, as I’ve explained.”

They were sitting in a little wooden guardhouse near the main gate. The corporal folded his arms. He had a pale, unhealthy-looking complexion and short brown hair.

Elizabeth smiled again. “Do you smoke?” She held the packet across the table.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said, leaning across to accept a light. “I can let you have a look at the regimental history. That should give you some names at least. Then you can follow it up from there. Of course, I don’t suppose there’s many of them still alive.”

“We must waste no time then,” said Elizabeth.

“You wait here. I’ll have to go and get you a pass.”

He left the room and a very young man with a rifle came to stand guard, in case, it seemed to Elizabeth, she should attack.

The corporal gave her a piece of card with a safety pin, which she attached to her chest, and took her inside a large brick building. He let her into a room with a plain deal table and two hard chairs. It looked to Elizabeth like the kind of place in which interrogations took place. He handed her a heavy volume bound in red cloth and stood in the corner watching her as she leafed through it.

Prominent among the names revealed by the regimental history was that of a Captain, later Colonel, Gray. Elizabeth wrote down various other names on an envelope that was in her bag. There was apparently no chance of the corporal’s finding, let alone revealing, any addresses. She thanked him effusively and drove back to London.

That evening she rang Bob to see if he had made any progress with the notebook. She said, “I’ve got a few names of people I think must have been in it with him, but I’ve no idea how to get in touch with them. There’s someone called Gray, who seems to have been important, but he must be incredibly old if he’s still alive.”

She heard Bob whistling pensively at the other end. “Have you thought of
Who’s Who
?” he said. “If this Gray got some sort of medal or went on to do something in civilian life he might be in there.”

Elizabeth found a three-year-old copy of
Who’s Who
in the public library in Porchester Road and worked her way through the details of the fifty-two Grays included. They had distinguished themselves in a range of business activities and public service but
few of them had even been born before 1918. Over the page was one last Gray.

———

“GRAY, William Allan McKenzie,” she read. “Senior consultant Queen Alexandra’s Hospital, Edinburgh, 1932–48.
b
Calcutta 18 Sept 1887,
s
of Thomas McKenzie Gray and Maisie Maclennan;
m
1920 Joyce Amelia Williams
d
of Dr A R Williams; one
s
one
d
. Educ: Thomas Campbell College, St. Andrew’s University, BSC 1909.”

———

Her eye ran on down the small print until it came to the words “Served War of 1914–18”. The details tallied.

At the foot of the entry was an address and telephone number in Lanarkshire. The only problem was that the book was three years old, and even then he had been, Elizabeth calculated … eighty-eight.

As she had remarked to the corporal, there was no time to waste. She hurried back to her flat and made for the telephone. It rang before she could get to it.

“Hello.”

“It’s me.”

“What?”

“Stuart.”

“Oh, Stuart. How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are
you
?”

“Oh, you know. Fine, thanks. Quite busy.” Elizabeth paused so that Stuart could tell her why he had rung. He said nothing, so she chattered a bit more. Still he said nothing when it was his turn to speak. Eventually she said, “Well. Was there something, you know … in particular?”

“I didn’t know I needed a reason to ring.” He sounded affronted. “I just rang for a chat.”

It was not the first time he had rung for a chat and then said nothing. Perhaps he was shy, Elizabeth thought, as she talked on about what she had been doing. She found it difficult to say goodbye to people without at least pretending that they would soon be
meeting, and she found by the time she put the receiver down that she had invited Stuart to dinner.

“You must come round some time,” she said.

“Must I?” he said. “When?”

“Well … God. What about Saturday?”

It didn’t matter. She liked him. She would have time to cook something. Meanwhile she pulled the envelope from her bag and started to dial the Scottish number.

As her finger returned to zero she pictured a cold, grey farmhouse in Lanarkshire where an ancient telephone would ring thunderously on the hall table and a very old man would have to lever himself from an armchair several rooms away and make painful progress down the corridor, only to be confronted with a complete stranger asking him questions about a war he had fought in sixty years ago.

It was ridiculous. Her nerve failed her and she cut the connection.

She went into the kitchen and poured some gin over three ice cubes and a slice of lemon. She added a dribble of tonic, lit a cigarette, and went back into the sitting room.

What was it all for? She wanted to find out what had happened to her grandfather so that she could … what? Understand more about herself? Be able to tell her notional children about their heritage? Perhaps it was just a whim, but she was determined. The worst that could result from the telephone call was embarrassment. It didn’t seem a very fearful price.

She dialled again, and heard the number ring. Eight, nine, ten times it rang. Fourteen, fifteen. Surely even the lamest old man would by now have—

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice. For some reason Elizabeth was surprised.

“Oh, is that … is that Mrs. Gray?”

“Speaking.” The voice had a slight Edinburgh accent. It sounded distant and very old. Joyce Amelia.

“I’m very sorry to bother you. My name is Elizabeth Benson. I have a rather peculiar request. My grandfather fought in the same company as your husband in the First World War and I’m trying to find out something about him.”

Mrs. Gray said nothing. Elizabeth wondered if she had heard.

“I know it’s a very odd thing to ask,” she said. “And I really am sorry to trouble you. I just didn’t know who else to ring. Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes. I’ll go and fetch my husband. You’ll have to be patient. And do speak up. He’s a wee bit deaf.”

Elizabeth felt her palms prickle with nervous excitement as Mrs. Gray set down the receiver with a heavy Bakelite thud. She pictured it lying on the hall table, beneath the draughty wooden staircase. She waited for a minute, then another minute. Eventually a quavery but loud voice came on the line.

Elizabeth explained again. Gray could not hear her, so she went through it for a third time, shouting out her grandfather’s name.

“What do you want to know about all that for? Good heavens, it was years ago.” He sounded annoyed.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to be a nuisance, it’s just that I’m anxious to get in touch with someone who knew him and to find out what he was like.”

Gray made a snorting sound at the other end.

“Do you remember him? Did you fight with him?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“What was he like?”

“Like? Like? What was he like? God knows. You don’t want to go into all that now.”

“But I do. Please. I really need to know.”

There were more noises from Gray’s end of the line. Eventually he said, “Dark-haired. Tall. He was an orphan or something. He was superstitious. Is that the chap?”

“I don’t know!” Elizabeth found herself bellowing. She wondered if Mrs. Kyriades was enjoying the conversation through the wall. “I want you to tell me!”

“Wraysford. God …” There was some more snorting. Then Gray said, “He was a strange man. I do remember him. He was a tremendous fighter. Quite unbelievable nerve. He never seemed very happy about it. Something worried him.”

Elizabeth said, “Was he a kind man, was he a good friend to the
other men?” She did not think she had the army terminology right, but it was the best she could do.

“Kind? Dear me.” Gray seemed to be laughing. “Self-contained I would say.”

“Was he … funny?”

“Funny? It was a war! What an extraordinary question.”

“But did he have a sense of humour, do you think?”

“I suppose so. Pretty dry, even to a Scot like me.”

Elizabeth could sense Gray beginning to recall; she pressed him. “What else do you remember? Tell me everything.”

“Never wanted to go on leave. Said he had no home to go to. He liked France. I remember visiting him in hospital when he’d been wounded. Must have been nineteen fifteen. No, nineteen sixteen.”

Gray spent some minutes trying to date the visit while Elizabeth fruitlessly interrupted.

“So is there anything else? Did he have any friends? Anyone I could speak to now who would remember him?”

“Friends? I don’t think so. No, there was some sapper. I can’t remember his name. He was a loner.”

“But a good soldier.”

The line crackled as Gray considered.

“He was a terrific fighter, but that’s not quite the same thing.”

Mrs. Gray’s voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take my husband away now. He isn’t used to this kind of thing and I don’t want him to get tired out. Do you understand?”

“I do,” said Elizabeth. “I’m very grateful to you both. I do hope I haven’t been a nuisance.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Gray. “There’s a man my husband used to write to. His name was Brennan. He was in a Star and Garter veterans’ home in Southend. It’s not far from London.”

“Thank you very much. You’ve been very kind.”

“Good-bye.”

There was the sound of a receiver rattling in its cradle.

In the silence Elizabeth could hear the thump of music from the flat upstairs.

———

The Swedish sedan had again failed to start, and Elizabeth was compelled to take the train from Fenchurch Street, one of British Rail’s recent corridorless variety, with new orange plush on the seats. She brought a cup of coffee down the rocking carriage, wincing as the boiling fluid seeped out from under the lid and onto her hand. When it was cool enough to drink, she found its taste merge into the atmosphere of diesel fumes and cigarette ends, so it was hard to tell where one ended and the next began. The heating was turned up full and most of the people in the carriage seemed on the point of unconsciousness as they looked out of the window at the flatlands of Essex sliding past.