Keepsake (46 page)

‘Blimey,’ joked one, ‘I’m glad my missus isn’t like you, I see enough of her at home.’

Patiently listening to their quips, Etta finally explained which regiment she was seeking and was greatly surprised when another of them replied, ‘You’ve found it, blossom.’

But to her vast, heart-shattering disappointment she learned that this was only one of the many territorial battalions in the regiment. Her husband had been with the regular army. Despite this, she gave his name.

They shook their heads sadly. ‘Sorry, don’t know him.’

She sagged. ‘You must think my question ridiculous – that you could possibly know him out of thousands…’

‘It’s not daft at all, Mrs Lanegan,’ said one, others agreeing. ‘My cousin lives in London, I’ve only seen him a couple of times in my life but I saw him here last week!
So, buck up, you’re sure to come across somebody who knows him.’

Then, one of them broke off peeling the orange he had just bought and said, ‘Hang on, the name sounds familiar. I think Cyril was with that mob till he got sent to us.’ And he cupped his mouth and called to a man some twenty yards away who was gathered with others at a water cart refilling his bottle. ‘Have you heard of a bloke called Lanegan?’

‘Ham and egg?’ Deafened by the months of perpetual bombing and the current background noise of guns, the other misheard and came hurrying over.

‘Eh, he’s always thinking of his belly.’ His friend laughed and called again, ‘Lanegan!’

Cyril finally arrived to be told the reason behind the enquiry. Frowning at Etta, he said in a Yorkshire accent, ‘I know a Marty Lanegan.’

She cried out in joy and seized his arm. ‘Yes! Do you know where he is?’

‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’

From his odd reaction, she sensed that he was holding back and begged him with earnest brown eyes, ‘But do you know where I might find him? Please, you must tell me, I’m his wife!’

He looked awkward then and she had to prise the information out of him. ‘Well, it’s only rumour…’

One of his pals gave a murmur of recognition then, ‘Oh it’s that bloke what –’

‘What, man, what?’ Greatly irritated, Etta pressed him.

‘I’m sorry, missus, I heard he’s been arrested.’

She sucked in her breath. ‘Arrested – for what?’

Again he seemed reticent.

‘For pity’s sake, man!’

‘Desertion,’ he said sheepishly, then, at her speechlessness, he looked around to include his comrades, more of whom had begun to gather around this shapely woman as
he gave his opinion, ‘but it can’t be right, he’s a good bloke is Marty.’

Etta’s sunburned cheeks had turned white. ‘Tell me all you know,’ she directed unhesitatingly. ‘Where shall I find him?’

‘I don’t want to send you on a wild goose chase, but well, what I heard was the redcaps took him back down the line a few days ago.’

‘To be tried?’ At his sympathetic nod she almost collapsed, envisaging Marty in prison.

Before anything much else could be uttered a sergeant appeared on the scene and the soldiers were called away, issuing hasty farewells to Etta.

She remained there for a moment as the troops milled around her, too distraught to move, tears blurring her vision. Eyeing her on their return from their errand, the peasant girls noted her troubled mien, one of them pausing and, with no English but a sympathetic gesture, handing Etta the last orange in her basket before moving on.

What in God’s name to do now? She stared bleakly at the fruit in her hand, then made as if to trail after the girls – but in a bout of quick thinking instead she ran after the soldiers who had informed her, calling out to them, asking where she could find the nearest headquarters where she might learn more.

Fortune had it that Divisional HQ was not so far away, and so, tucking the orange into her skirt pocket, and retrieving her belongings, Etta went rambling yet again through hordes of military traffic, choked by clouds of dust thrown up by lorries, in search of the deserted estaminet that was HQ.

Assumed to be a local peasant, she was for a while allowed to roam at will. Yet before too long came the inevitable picket to bar her way.

‘Bong jour, mamselle!’ The
greeting was stern; a rifle emphasised the point. ‘Vous marchez the wrong way.’ The soldier made a twirling motion with his hand, indicating for her to turn around.

For a few seconds, Etta continued to stare at him obstinately, wondering whether it would aid or hinder her to address him in English. No, it was probably best to have the army think she was local; it might at least allow her to remain in the vicinity. Reluctantly, despondent, she turned around and wandered back along the road, wondering over her next move.

After several steps, thoroughly wornout from her travels and also from despair, she flopped down on the dusty verge. Immediately, flies began to buzz about her. She gave a half-hearted swipe at them, then, taking the orange from her pocket, she began distractedly to remove its peel, her mind on other things, her eyes still searching the faces of passing troops in the forlorn hope that the information she had just been given might be wrong, that she might yet see Marty walking past; that, like before, there had been some mix-up with the surname.

But what would happen if it truly was he who had been apprehended? She bit into a skein of orange, grateful for the juice upon her parched tongue. When would he be tried? Would she be allowed to be there to lend support? Swallowing the portion of skein, she inserted the other half, chewing thoughtfully as she tried to think what to do, demolishing the orange bit by bit. Remembering the awful staff officers in Amiens she dreaded coming up against similar treatment, especially now that she had come so far, so ironically far, only to be told that Marty was no longer here.

Abstractedly, she inserted the remaining half-skein. Instantly she balked at the sharp pain at the back of her tongue and in a highly unladylike manner tried to rid her mouth of the half-chewed orange, spitting it out along with the wasp that had been sitting on it.

Within seconds she was feeling unwell. Within minutes
she was struggling to breathe. Aware that her tortured choking sounds had brought men running, she reached out to them, eyes bulging, overwhelmed by terror that she would never see Marty and her children again. She was going to die.

When her eyes opened again, wide in fear, her immediate impulse was to put a hand to her throat. No longer suffocating, she nevertheless had the sense of some foreign body in her windpipe and tried to remove it. But to her horror her hands were bound. Got to get to Marty, she wanted to say, but no words emerged.

‘You’re all right!’ The loud voice attempted to calm her. ‘You’re able to breathe now, it’ll just take a few minutes to get used to the tube. Just try and relax, don’t try to speak, that’s it, stay calm.’

Struggling to come round, assailed by the smell of ether, Etta saw that she was in a tent, the faces around her all male. Still trying to grope her way back to consciousness, she felt herself being hefted onto a stretcher, trundled away, and someone calling in a harassed voice, ‘Nelson, you speak the language, come and calm this trachie down. She keeps trying to pull out her tube.’

And, still being jolted on the stretcher, Etta’s blurred eyes saw a face loom into hers and heard words she could not grasp. Then it occurred to her that they too assumed her to be local, and she tried to speak but still could not. She must have passed out at that point.

When she regained her faculties it was to find herself in some sort of outbuilding along with other casualties, her bodice spattered with dried blood, and, from the mere fact
that she still could not speak, she deduced that it must be her own. When in panic she tried to rise, someone pressed her shoulders down.

‘Why didn’t I learn this blinkin’ lingo before I came here,’ sighed the one who held her captive, then mouthed loudly to Etta, ‘Keep still, I need to check your tube! Do you understand English?’

Her eyes opening wide to project fear, Etta gave a quick nod.

‘Oh, right…’ Having considered her exotic with her dark hair and eyes, the old orderly was momentarily disconcerted, then spoke again, still exaggerating the formation of his words. ‘You can’t speak because they had to cut your windpipe, you were choking. Your hands are only tied down so you didn’t try to pull out your tube when you woke up. If you promise not to do it now I’ll untie them.’ At the signal that she had understood he released her. ‘I know it takes some getting used to but you won’t need it in for very long.’ Impatient and frustrated, her throat feeling raw, Etta performed a scribbling movement with her hand. Understanding this gesture, the orderly reached into his pocket for a stub of pencil and a notebook, upon which the patient scrawled frantically, ‘
I’m English. Need to find my husband.
’

The man expressed surprise on reading the first part. ‘Oh? You don’t look it.’ Then he scolded her over the second, ‘Just you worry about yourself.’

But Etta wrote feverishly, ‘
Urgent! How long was I unconscious?
’

‘Not long.’ He took the notebook away. ‘I don’t know how on earth you managed it, not even nurses are allowed this close to the line. Now, I’ll be back to check your tube again in a while, I’ve others to see to you know.’

And, too shaken and feeble to object, Etta was left to lie there, fuming and worrying amidst the mayhem.

The orderly did come back seemingly ages later to clean
her tube, and also to say that she was to be moved to a safer place, which did not meet with her approval.

I can’t go! Etta raged wordlessly, trying to drag at the other’s sleeve. Don’t you understand? I have to get to Marty! She gestured for his notebook but was ignored. Then, despite all grimacing protest, she was lifted up and loaded into an ambulance and, along with a groaning selection of bloodied soldiers, packed into its dark interior and driven away.

Hot tears of helpless rage welled in her eyes, spilled onto her cheeks and trickled down her neck into her hair as she was packed off like a parcel. Marty, oh Marty!

Stacked like sardines, Etta and her fellow patients were taken far behind the lines, back to where she’d been, from where she had fought so hard to come. Separated from the rest now and also from her suitcase, which had been lost, though her rolled-up cape travelled with her, she was handed over to a company of nuns who, using their own stretcher, toted her towards a waiting cart. Made giddy by the countless faces that flashed past her horizontal form, Etta thought at first she was mistaken, thought in her delirious state that he was some mirage. But it
was
him – and the stretcher was carrying her away.

She groped for the nearest arm, tugged and tried to gain their attention, and when they would not heed she attempted to raise herself precariously, jabbing and pointing frantically so that the stretcher was in danger of being tipped up, until those who transported her guessed that she wanted them to stop. Still gesturing, she directed her hand in his direction, whence they called to the one in civilian clothes who turned at their summons and was now frowning at their patient.

‘Monsieur, do you know this lady?’ one of them asked the portly gentleman with the greying beard.

And, still frowning, Pybus Ibbetson strolled up to her stretcher, looked down at his daughter and said without emotion, ‘Yes, I know her.’

Their eyes locked. In the intensity of his gaze she read the thought that was going through his brain: why wasn’t it you who died, and not my son?

‘The lady cannot speak, monsieur,’ said one of the nuns, and quickly explained what had happened and where they were taking her. ‘Do you wish to accompany her?’

Totally at his mercy, for he might be the only one who could find out what was happening to Marty, Etta’s dark eyes begged with all their might for him not to abandon her as he had done before.

After a tense moment, he said curtly that he would follow in his own transport.

It was not a large town but the slowness of the journey was agonising. Upon being put to bed in a celllike room at the convent, Etta’s first action was to indicate frantically that she needed a pencil and paper in order to communicate. However, this had already been thought of, and as her father was shown in they were handed to her. Immediately she scribbled the rumour of Marty’s arrest and asked if her father would find anything out for her.

‘Don’t you even want to know what I’m doing in Flanders?’ he demanded in a low, incredulous tone.

Trying to convey with tear-filled eyes that she already knew, she wrote one word:
‘John.’
Ibbetson tried to appear stalwart, though his own eyes gave him away and his voice, when he managed to respond, was hollow with grief. ‘I came to see the place where he died.’

There was a short silence whilst both composed themselves. Then Ibbetson changed the subject. ‘So what is this about that ne’er do well husband of yours? He’s been arrested, you say? I’m hardly surprised.’

Trying to contain her feeling of outrage at this slur, Etta scribbled anxiously: ‘
Only rumour. Not heard from him in weeks. Can you find out? Please.
’ And under this she pencilled Marty’s regimental number before presenting it for his gaze.

Ibbetson looked without compassion at her scrawlings, stared for so long and so detachedly that Etta feared he was going to refuse. She reached out to clasp his arm but he was not near enough, nor did he move any closer to oblige. But at least he said eventually, ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ before abruptly he left.

Unable to call out and ask when he would be back, left to wait and to wonder in these austere surroundings, a frantic Etta could scarcely believe it when he returned that same afternoon with news of Marty’s whereabouts.

‘It’s not good,’ he told her unblinkingly. ‘You were correct in being told that he has been arrested. In fact he’s already been tried and found guilty of desertion.’

Devastated, Etta seized her pad and scribbled: ‘
Is he in prison?
’

‘It’s worse than that,’ said her father. ‘He’s been sentenced to death.’

When the hysteria had died, when the silent scream no longer distorted her face, she had solicited the concerned nun at her bedside to go and search for her father and fetch him back, for she had omitted to ask where he was staying and feared he would be gone before she could enlist his help, which was now vital. But the sister had smiled benignly and said he was only waiting outside.

Why he was still there, Etta did not know, but she was grateful for the fact that he continued to visit her during the days it took for her to learn how to speak again, even though neither of them were to issue apology for past deeds, and interacted as strangers. In this time she was to discover that a man under sentence of execution was not immediately put to death but was entitled to have the proceedings reviewed at each higher level, and that pleas could be entered at any stage all the way up the chain of command, before the Commander in Chief gave final authorisation for the penalty to be carried out. She begged and pleaded with
her father to help her save Marty, desperately wishing that she could shout her point of view instead of this pathetic, croaking whisper. ‘What can be done?’ he asked uninterestedly, having found out the details of the trial and relayed these to her. ‘The facts cannot be argued with, your husband deserted.’

‘No, I don’t believe it, there must be some compelling reason!’ Seated on a chair now, her tube removed but her wound still tender, Etta pressed her hand to her bandaged throat in order to hiss a painful defence, having to make up for the weakness of her vocal cords by injecting forcefulness with her eyes. ‘And even if he did, then should the rest of his family be punished for his misdeed? Please, please, can you not use your influence to save him?’

‘Had I the power of life and death would I not have used it to save my own son?’ he demanded gruffly. ‘He who died so valiantly defending his country and his comrades, whilst that…feckless oaf you married ran away?’

‘For the love of God!’ Her distorted voice beseeched him. ‘How can you remain so cold and unloving in the face of your child’s anguish?’

‘And where are your own children?’ he accused with a theatrical look around the bare white cell.

‘It’s only out of love for their father that I left them!’ hissed Etta. ‘And they’re not alone, they’re with affectionate grandparents.’ Then, still clutching her throat, her breast rising and falling with the effort, she frowned at him. ‘How did you know –’

‘That you have children? I made it a point to find out. Do you not think I know what goes on in my own house?’

From this she guessed, ‘So you are aware of our meetings with Mother? And of her assistance in my coming here? I’m surprised you allowed it.’

His aloof shrug indicated that this was of no account.

Her cavernous eyes observed him with disdain. ‘You never did set very much store by females, did you, Father?
I doubt you’d still be here now if you hadn’t lost your son and heir and see that I’m the only one left.’

At last she had managed to provoke some sort of feeling from him. His eyes blazed at her. ‘Oh, how right I was about you! How bitter and spiteful you are.’

‘Spiteful?’ Her throat chafed as she hissed back at him, ‘No, I speak only the truth! You’re the one displaying the ultimate spite – refusing to save my husband from death! Because now you’ve got what you always wanted!’

He poured scorn on this. ‘You imagine I’ve made it my life’s ambition to wreak vengeance? I gave him not a second’s thought since that day, nor you neither.’

‘Then if it no longer matters to you one way or another, I beg you to err on the side of compassion! You know so many powerful men. You might not care for me, but do it for Celia and Edward and Alexandra and William.’ Naming them deliberately, she fixed her dark eyes to his, trying to solicit mercy. ‘You knew about Mother meeting her grandchildren, yet you never saw fit to make yourself known to them. Perhaps you will now that they’re the only ones you’ll ever have, much as you’d prefer them to be those of your beloved son.’

He was so furious she thought he was going to hit her, but she did not care – cared only that she might goad him into helping Marty.

‘Why are you so hurtful to them? To little children, your flesh and blood.’ Her fingers were aching from the act of clutching her throat in order to provide a voice, but her heart suffered more. She shook her head to convey utter disbelief. ‘Why must you allow their father to be killed?’

‘Because I have no say!’ came his virulent response. ‘Because he’s useless to them, useless as a man. My greatest service to them is to restore their rightful heritage.’

Etta’s expression changed. She formed a bitter laugh with her eyes. ‘Oh, how stupid, I see it all now! It isn’t me who’ll take John’s place as your heir, but my son.’

‘You could never take his place.’ He beheld her as if she were raving. ‘And neither could your brats…but they must suffice and I shall not let them down.’

She was expert at concealing her hurt, demanding in a tone as cold as her father’s, ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? My children’s name is not Ibbetson but Lanegan.’

‘And imagine the shame they’ll suffer to learn that the name which they hold has become synonymous with cowardice! Never could there be a greater burden.’ He almost shuddered with disgust. ‘Yet it does not have to be so. I can have them become Ibbetsons in the stroke of a pen.’

Etta could hardly believe he had reached such callous depths. ‘And what of their mother? Shall she revert to being called Miss Ibbetson too? Be spurned for having borne illegitimate children, for that’s what you conspire to make them by robbing them of their father’s name.’

‘I want you to come home too.’ Despite the hint of pardon in his eyes, it was a command.

‘And if I demur shall I be whipped into submission?’ Her own much darker eyes seethed with loathing for him. ‘You cannot treat me in such a manner any more, Father. Women have attained certain rights.’

‘Then you will not need my help,’ said Ibbetson bluntly, and without further ado, he left for good.

In the old days she would have screamed and wept and stamped her foot in order for him to take notice, but now, even if she could have managed it, there was no time for childish histrionics. In the deathly silence that followed his exit, knowing from reality that he would not repent, and that Marty could have only a few weeks or even days left, she was faced with the stark truth that she was alone in her fight to save him. And thus, even though she felt like sobbing, Etta reserved her emotional outpouring for a greater purpose. Instead she quickly sought practical assistance
from the nuns, asked for pen and ink and stationery, the only weapons at her disposal. And thereto, she used the information her father had provided, wrote to Marty’s battalion commander, pleaded for her husband’s life, told of the four children who waited at home, of his parents who would die of shame if this sentence were carried out, of his greatuncle who had given his best years to the British Army, begged for a reprieve so that her husband might redeem himself. She used every grovelling tactic at her disposal, even resorted to falsehood and said that she herself was helping the war effort through her work with Lady Fenton, the scratching of pen on paper the only sound in this quiet place, finally coming to a halt with the request for him to forward this emotive plea to the Commander in Chief.