Dead Man's Land (27 page)

Bloch had made the first step towards the man when he felt Hilde’s hand on his elbow. ‘Ernst. Please. What’s wrong?’

They quickly left the café and crossed the square, heading towards the town hall. ‘Ernst, please slow down. Is everything all right? You seem so tense. Like a wire stretched taut.’

Of course everything isn’t all right, he wanted to say. Nothing will ever be all right again. ‘Of course everything is all right, now you are here. I’m sorry. That man, the way he looked at you, it just . . . I’m not used to having women around and now I have, I find I don’t want to share you. With anyone.’

‘You don’t have to.’

He found himself blurting out his thoughts. ‘Can you stay? Tonight? We can have dinner. Be together.’ He realized how that sounded. ‘What I mean to say, you can stay in a women’s hostel if we can find one.’

A heartbreaking shake of the head followed. ‘I promised I’d be back. It was hard enough for them to let me come without a chaperone. I practically had to swear on a Bible I wouldn’t . . . I’m so sorry.’

‘I understand. I shouldn’t have asked.’ He fought hard to keep an irrational anger out of his voice. What did he expect? This was Hilde, not some red-light tart.

‘You should. You should say what you think. What would you like to do now, Ernst?’

He thought for a moment and wiped the drizzle from his eyes. ‘I’d like to walk. In silence. No questions. Then I’d like an early dinner, just looking at you. Then I’ll put you on the train. And then you can forget me if you wish.’

‘Ernst . . . ?’

He put a finger to her lips. ‘No questions.’

‘On one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You come under the umbrella.’

He had put her on the nine o’clock train. She had insisted that there be no steam-wreathed tearful platform goodbye, no watching forlornly as the train chugged out. So they had kissed, briefly, and he walked out of the station without a backward glance, back to his
estaminet-pension
, feeling surprisingly light-hearted. He had a quick drink in the bar downstairs, even though he had drunk enough for one night at the meal. He smiled at the barmaid, and made small talk with the corporal next to him. They both agreed that a strange inversion had taken place. That this town, the bar, the hotel, this was the dreamworld. The trenches, the filthy, sodden, rat-infested trenches, they seemed more real than anything else now. It would be a relief to get back, away from all the play-acting, back to where people understood.

On his way upstairs, he asked for some hot water to be sent up, then went to his room and undressed slowly, not begrudging the sounds of merriment he could hear from below. They had hardly spoken the whole evening, but she had made sure it was a comfortable silence, full of placating gestures. Letting him unwind in his own time. He loved her for that. It had been good for his soul. If only because it reminded him he had one. But, as the corporal had said, it had just been a little, comforting dream.

He put on the cheap cotton robe he had bought at the market when the water came, answering the knock with a few coins for the girl. He saw the jug first. Then Hilde, holding it.

The noise he made barely counted as speech.

‘There’s been a train crash,’ she said.

‘What? Oh my God. When? Are you all right?’

‘Or a derailment. Or a sudden movement of troops causing delays. Perhaps a strike by Belgian train drivers. Or conductors. An act of God has brought the railways to a halt.’ She gave a smile that caused his heart to race. ‘Don’t worry, Ernst, I’ll have thought of something by morning.’

She pushed past him to enter the room. She had alighted the train when he left, followed him from the station, watched him from the street perhaps, bribed the maid, planned all this. His Hilde. The girl he had dismissed as just a passing dream.

As a major, Watson could always request or commandeer a seat on a military transport, and there was no shortage of that on the roads of Flanders or Northern France. However, he wanted to be independent of others for this trip. It was de Griffon who came up with the solution – he should borrow Lord Lockie for the ride to the hospital at Nieppe. The horse, he said, could do with the outing and ten miles there and back was as nothing to him, the captain promised. Watson wasn’t so sure it would be as nothing to his buttocks, but he accepted the offer.

So he found himself back at Suffolk Farm, now full of idling lorries, waiting to take the Leigh Pals back up the line to the relief trenches, and then, after a few days, back to the front proper. Watson was in the gloomy interior of one of the two stone barns, with Sergeant Platt helping him saddle a bay gelding with a white blaze down its face. It was short in the leg, wide in the forehead and cautious about the old man who wanted to ride him. But Watson knew that bedside manner and stable manner were closely related and, over the course of fifteen minutes, with lots of soft whispers and several tasty bribes, he won Lord Lockie round. De Griffon had told him the horse was oddly proportioned – he hadn’t inherited the looks or grace of his father, an Eastern England point-to-point champion – but, once settled, he was tough and trustworthy.

While they blanketed, bridled and saddled the horse, Watson asked Platt to tell him more about the Leigh Pals. Although he knew the rough details from Egypt, it was worth hearing a more complete picture to try to establish why anyone would target its members. He asked the sergeant to speak slowly and clearly, so he could turn the account into the Queen’s English with relative ease.

‘You knows about the Pals, reet? The idea be’ind them?’ Watson nodded. ‘Spread all over the north like a measles rash, it did. Dunno whose idea it was, but someone said that men should enlist wit’ their muckers and workies. It were Liverpool first, I thinks.’

Watson knew he was right. It had been Lord Derby who suggested raising a force of entirely local men in the city. The patriotic drive, and the use of friends to chivvy each other along, was a clever way to avoid introducing an unpopular conscription.

‘Then Salford got a Pals, Accrington, Sheffield. We heard there was taxi drivers’ and footballers’ battalions in London, an’ trammen in Glasgow. So’s our MP demanded to know why there wasn’t a Leigh Pals, when them Germans was bricking up Belgian mines with Belgians in them, and setting fire t’mills with women and children still at looms, like. So he set up a raising committee. An’ we said – cotton is an important cloth for t’war. Who’ll do the work if we gin over there? Wives and daughters, they said. Oh, aye, and when they can get the women for farthings, what happens when we come back? And who’d feed our childer then? Well, most of them mill owners, and t’mine owners, too, says they’d pay six shillings to a wife a week and a tanner a child. Some even said ten bob for a family, no questions asked. Happen what swung it was, they said we men’d ’ave our jobs back after the war at old rates or better. That the women were temporary, like. Plus you know, when we enlisted we got the King’s shilling, then a guinea a week for training. That was a lot o’ brass. And, honest, for most of us it were a break from t’mills when all were said and done. Aye, so many of us turned up at the Hippodrome recruiting drive, they ran out of khaki. Wore civvies for the first few months, we did. Wi’ army boots. Right shite they were, pardon me, Major. Some o’ the boot makers made a pretty penny out of givin’ us riffraff boots that fell apart after one drill. Lumber, they was. Them mullocks should have been shot, I reckon. War profiteering that were. Anyways, we trained at Conwy in Wales and Catterick, and had us some fine times, and then we went to Egypt for more clompin’, before we came here. We thunk it’d all be a six-month adventure. A bit of a mank, like.’

Six months and a bit of a lark, Watson translated. ‘And remind me, every man in the battalion is from Leigh?’

‘No, no.’Twern’t like some of the bigger towns with slums, where they just emptied folk out. We didn’t have enough for a whole battalion, us. No. A Company, them of us what you did your blood tests on, we’re all Leigh, so is most of C. But B is Bolton blokes, and D is Bolton and a lot of Wigan men, n’ all. Some of the officers’re from Liverpool and Manchester, as ye know. Some, like Captain de Griffon, had links to the area. He’ll be all right now, will he? The captain?’

‘I hope so.’

‘And you dunno who did this to him?’

‘Who or what, Sergeant, no. Tell me, what do you think of him? De Griffon? Just between us, man to man.’

‘I think he’s a fine fella, sir. Had no hesitation in promoting me. Happen he might see me worth when I get ’ome, too.’

If, Watson automatically corrected. If you get home.

‘And ’e’s got some gumption, too; won’t ask a man to do anything he won’t do ’isself. Not like some officers. If you don’t mind me sayin’.’

‘Not at all. Any particular officers in mind?’

‘Not really.’

‘Lieutenant Metcalf?’

Platt’s eyes went to his boots. ‘I couldn’t talk out of turn, sir.’

‘One more thing, Platt: could you get me a list of which particular mills each man worked at?’

‘Aye, I reckon.’

Watson put a foot in the stirrup and, with a helping push from Platt, hauled himself into the saddle. Lord Lockie sidestepped a little and shook his head, but stayed calm. Watson leaned down. ‘Sorry, one more thought . . . how many mills do the de Griffons own in town?’

‘Three outright. The B-Stones they are called. Blackstone, Bankstone and Bradstone Mills.’

‘Right. Just the names of the men who worked at those three for now. And do it discreetly, if you can.’

‘Oh, I know most of ’em already, don’t you worry. ’Tain’t a big place, Leigh.’ He adjusted the stirrups. ‘You want a nip of brandy, sir, keep you warm?’ He tapped his pocket.

‘No, thank you, Platt.’

‘Reet you are. There. You be all reet now.’ He gave Lord Lockie’s rump a light slap and Watson ducked under the barn lintel as the horse clopped out onto the cobbles, with the doctor wondering when was the last time he’d been foolish enough to get on a strange horse. And, later, how he came to ask all the wrong questions.

After Watson had left to fetch Lord Lockie, de Griffon felt well enough to sit up and try to take a few steps. His head was still prone to attacks of vertigo and when he stood, his legs felt unable to carry his body. He asked Miss Pippery to support him while he walked the length of the tent. He found he needed to grip her arm harder than he had imagined.

‘He’s quite a character, your Major Watson,’ de Griffon said as he plonked one foot down after another.

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Miss Pippery. ‘A lovely man.’

‘But should he be galloping around like this? Literally, I mean, now he has Lord Lockie. At his age? He’s not a young man.’

‘I suppose you can’t break the habit of a lifetime.’

‘How do you mean?’

Miss Pippery recounted what Mrs Gregson had told her.

‘You mean he’s that Watson? Oh my Lord. I never . . .’ He shook his head, smiling to himself. ‘Well, gosh, it’s quite a privilege to have him investigate your case. If only the great detective were here as well. Soon solve it then, eh?’

‘Oh, no, that’s not likely, sir. Mrs Gregson said there’d been a,’ she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, ‘falling out.’

‘Really? That’s a crying shame. Still, it’s all terribly exciting. Right, here we are.’ They reached the exit of the tent, and he looked outside for a second. ‘Looks like more damned rain. Excuse my language. We’re due back in the line soon. The water table is so high here, you live and sleep in water. So, shall we try going back to the bed again? Oh, Cecil, there you are!’

De Griffon bent down and ruffled the back of his dog’s neck. The animal gave a bark of greeting and began to pant excitedly.

‘Why is he called Cecil?’

‘After Cecil Rhodes. Another great explorer. All over the place, every day. Eh, Cecil?’

The dog yapped a reply.

‘Miss Pippery, do you think you could get me a pen and paper? My company is due to return to the reserves imminently. I need to remind Lieutenant Metcalf of a few things before I can rejoin them.’

‘That might be a few days.’

‘Nonsense. I can feel my dancing legs coming back. Although don’t think I am in any hurry to leave you lovely ladies behind.’

Miss Pippery blushed.

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to be crass. As I said the other day, it’s just that— Ah, Mrs Gregson, hello there.’

Mrs Gregson gave a brief smile, as fleeting as a lightning strike, ‘Sister Spence says, thanks to Major Watson’s representations, I can stay on for a few days, just as long as I do nothing more medical than serve tea.’

‘Well, that’s something,’ said Miss Pippery, hesitantly.

‘And only to the men. Not the officers.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said de Griffon, as he pulled himself back on the bed. ‘Can Miss Pippery here still do me a brew?’

‘I think the rules only apply to me. Miss Pippery is all yours.’

De Griffon gave Miss Pippery a wink. ‘So, Mrs Gregson, I hear tell you are from Manchester?’

‘Cheshire,’ she corrected. ‘But my father worked in Manchester for a good few years when we were young.’

‘And you, Miss Pippery? The name’s Old English, I believe.’

Miss Pippery nodded, pleased someone had noticed. ‘It is. Or so my father drummed into us.’

‘And how did you two meet?’ he asked. ‘Come on. Sister Spence isn’t here now.’

‘Motorcycling,’ said Miss Pippery slowly, in case he was one of those who considered it an unladylike pursuit. ‘My brother was a keen motor-cyclist, you see, and so was Mrs Gregson’s. Both did time trials and hill climbs. I used to go along to watch at first.’

‘Miss Pippery’s parents will tell you I corrupted her to a world of leather, oil and grease.’

‘Sounds rather splendid. I love motor cycles.’

‘Do you?’ asked Miss Pippery.

‘Yes, I have a Sunbeam at home. A lovely machine. Perhaps all three of us could go riding. One day.’

Miss Pippery beamed at the thought.

‘Look, about that paper,’ he said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Oh, of course not. I’ll fetch you some.’