Keepsake (47 page)

Satisfied to have done her best, she took up a fresh piece of paper, dipped her pen in the inkwell and wrote to her beloved husband, telling him to have strength for she was here, would not let him down, would fight to her last breath…

After this there remained only enough energy to scratch out a few words to her mother, to inform her what had occurred, and to tell her that Etta would never forgive her father for this ultimate cruelty.

Then, after making sure all three envelopes were immediately delivered, emotionally drained, she sat back to prepare herself for the worst, staring at the crucifix on an otherwise bare wall. And only then, in that quiet contemplation, did she perhaps begin to understand the true extent of her love for Marty: that she could never be whole without him; that his death was her death.

Sometimes, as a child, after he had come to understand by means of his grandmother’s demise that he himself was mortal, Marty had wondered what it would be like to die. He had envisaged himself going under a train, or in a blazing
house, or tumbling off a cliff, or cascading down a waterfall to rocks below. In his boyhood fantasies he had even imagined what it would be like to be shot – had imagined it so much more clearly during his twelve months at war – but not once had it occurred to him that he would know the exact date and time of his expiry. Oh, he had not officially been appraised of this yet nor even of the verdict of his court martial, but he might as well have been, for, if acquitted, he would have been released there and then; hence without a word being uttered he knew himself to be damned, that he was most probably to be executed by his own compatriots for a crime he had not committed. This latter aspect was the worst thing of all – except, of course, death itself – the injustice of it, the way no one would listen, the way it had all been decided in twenty minutes, the way his emotively written defence, which had taken him ages to compose, had been ignored, the way all his brave deeds of the past year had been disregarded, the way he was referred to as the prisoner, sneered upon by his captors, reviled. When all he had done was snatch a few illicit hours’ sleep. Faced with eternal rest, to sleep was the hardest thing of all now, would have been impossible had he not been detailed for hard physical labour. Never sloth, he embraced wholeheartedly every exertion now, desperate for any chance to be outside, under sun or rain, would have braved snow and ice if it meant escape from these dreaded four walls that so concentrated the mind. Thus confined again following another day of transient liberty, his energy might be spent but his senses were in no way dulled. With light beginning to fade, every sound became heightened. He flinched at every clink of key or exclamation, both feared and valued each approaching footstep, wondering, was it someone come to kill him or to save him.

But who would be his saviour? His friends’ attempts had been cackhanded. When he had failed to respond to his name at roll they had apparently told the officer that on
the route march ‘someone’ had seen Lanegan gashed by shrapnel and that he had taken himself off to hospital, all in the hope that this would lend their pal time to catch up. Exposed as liars by the investigation, they too had been punished – Marty had felt guilty about that, learning of it from a sympathiser’s whispered divulgence through the bars – though their punishment was not half so severe as his. Despite all the trouble he had caused his battalion commander, the major had spoken up for him at the court martial, given evidence of Lanegan’s previous good character, recognised that he had still been in possession of his rifle when arrested, added that he did not feel this man should be made an example of simply to act as a deterrent to others, and had recommended mercy. But his adjudicators had preferred to unearth the disciplinary notes in Marty’s conduct sheet; the ones that told of the seven days’ imprisonment for his misdemeanour long before the war. They had pointed out that when found he had been many miles from where he should have been, which quite clearly indicated his intention to desert the battlefront. If the major could not save him, who would?

Through the bars in an outer wall of the civic centre his bleak eyes gazed through the dying light upon the market square of this small hop town, now a bustling garrison, and he gave thanks that his cell did not overlook the inner courtyard where the killingpost stood. But for all he tried to put this from his mind, it remained crammed with such thoughts. He thought of the poor sod whose execution he had bungled. He thought of his children, and, overcome by deep sadness, wept.

There was no sign of tears when the guard came to check on him. He even made a weak attempt at humour as he asked for permission to correspond with his wife. ‘I’d better let her know about that money I hid under the floorboards, seeing as I won’t be going home.’

But when he did sit down to write, it was not to appraise
her of his impending slaughter – he could not bear the shame, and nor would she – but to take this chance, perhaps his final chance, to express his adoration. These carefully chosen words of love were sent home, their author little knowing that Etta was barely ten miles away.

One of her letters met with swift response. The major was extremely moved by her distress – he knew that Private Lanegan was a fool but no coward and would assist in any way possible, but feared that this would be of little substance as his recommendations for mercy had so far carried no weight. Nevertheless, he had instructed that her letter be forwarded to Brigade Headquarters, whence it would be attached to the file of proceedings which would then be passed on to Divisional HQ and along the chain of command, eventually to reach the Adjutant General’s department at GHQ where the Judge Advocate would instruct on the legality of the case. It was he who decreed whether or not the conviction should be quashed.

With this her only shred of hope, not knowing how long the outcome would take or even if they would let her know at all when they were going to kill her husband, Etta was to extend her stay in the convent for another week. At first, swaddled in a deathly silence broken only by the occasion clanking of a bucket and the swish of a nun’s habit, upon recuperation and in need of more useful existence, she took to sitting with the sick and elderly who occupied a larger dormitory, to try and meet their physical needs without speaking their language, to stroke their hands in a universal gesture of support, and at other times to scrub floors and to hoe the vegetables in the highwalled garden, all the while yearning to receive personal news from Marty and racking her brain over what else could be done, other than to bombard the army with letters, which she continued to do.

‘A lawyer!’ she announced suddenly to the one who had come to check on her wound and had just given pronouncement that it was nicely healed. ‘I must have a lawyer – this can’t possibly be right. Do you know where I might find one, Sister?’

There was a faint whiff of carbolic as Sister Cecile withdrew, looked dubious and said, ‘There used to be one in the town, but he was killed when his house was bombed.’

Etta simmered with frustration. ‘I shouldn’t think I could afford the fees anyway.’ It was little comfort to know that what money she did have was still tucked safely behind the pistol in the leather holster, the latter having come through all the various traumas undetected until she herself had removed it in order to bathe. The nuns had expressed mild alarm until she had shown it wasn’t loaded and was merely a cosmetic means of protection. However, she had thought it advisable to keep the weapon hidden on her person in case someone from the army came to see her and confiscated it. It might yet be needed.

Many more precious hours were fretted away, nothing being delivered to her room save a waft of boiled cabbage. Then, at last a letter arrived from Marty. It had reverted to its old disjointed style, in fact was much, much worse as he groped for words to describe the horror of his situation. He apologised for rambling, it was simply the shock of knowing that she was aware of his dilemma – but not totally appraised of the facts, he hastened to add, for he must state here and now that he had
not
deserted, had merely been unable to find his way back to his unit who, unknown to him, had been ordered elsewhere to stem a breach in the line whilst he had been asleep. That had been his only crime, he could not emphasise this strongly enough. He hated to have her think him a coward, begged her not to tell his parents or his children, but to say that he had died bravely, as he hoped he would when his time came…

Dashing away the mist of tears, Etta read on, coming
to understand now why she had received the telegram to say he was missing; how his unit had been shelled whilst on the march and how his friends had lied about seeing him wounded, how he had stumbled around for almost a week in his search for them, until finally he had been picked up by the provost and accused of that most heinous offence.

In closing lines he told her how good his commanding officer had been in making sure this letter would reach her as quickly as possible, and expressed again his astonishment that his dear, dear wife was so much nearer than he could ever have imagined. He praised her attempts to free him, said how much it gave him strength, even though the Major had warned him to prepare for the worst. They must both be prepared. If that happened, if he never got to see her again, he hoped that she would find it in her heart to forgive all the hurt he had caused her. He concluded with his undying love.

Dealing her eyes and nose an angry swipe of a handkerchief, she took up her pen and scratched out a fevered response immediately, ordering him to keep faith, for there was higher authority than his battalion commander and she was yet to hear from that quarter. Meanwhile, she would organise the correct paperwork that would enable her to visit him. He must not allow himself even to entertain the idea that all was lost, for she intended to save him, at whatever price. She was certain the news would be good, for no one could take a man’s life for so trivial an offence.

But as another two days crept by, Etta became increasingly perturbed that she had had no response from anyone other than the major. This could only spell the worst. Yet, however fearful, whatever the amount of dread that weighed upon her heart, she had not truly believed it would happen until the reality finally dawned in the shape of a terse letter with an official stamp, which informed her that having
reviewed all the evidence, the Judge Advocate ruled that all statutory requirements had been met. There was therefore no reason why sentence should not be carried out.

They really did intend to kill Marty.

Whilst Etta attempted to battle her way through the stultifying shock that followed, the nuns administered infinite succour, telling her of their prayers for Marty’s soul, to which she finally managed to retort bitterly that he was not dead yet, the warrant had still to be signed by the Commander in Chief and whilst Marty remained alive there was hope. And it was in this last desperate spirit of hope that she seized up her pen and wrote to the battalion commander again, demanding to be allowed to visit her husband in his hour of crisis, hoping that once face to face with her, the major would be unable to resist her plea for compassion.

But the only compassion he showed was to have his reply delivered swiftly by despatch rider, telling her that in his humble opinion it would not be advisable for her to visit her husband, but to remember him as he had been in happier times. And this was to be endorsed by the sisters, who sought to prise her from the grip of spiritual despair, telling her that she was not alone, that their prayers for Marty would continue, and urging her to join them on their knees before the bluemantled Virgin.

But Etta had not the time to waste on plaster saints; she could just as easily pray whilst on the move. ‘I don’t care what they say – they won’t keep me from him!’

‘But it is in the war zone!’ protested Sister Bernadette, acquainted with the location of Marty’s prison. ‘You cannot go without a permit. You may be shot.’

Undaunted, Etta demanded, ‘Then where do I apply?’

Sister Cecile spoke dubiously of all the form-filling that would be required before the civil authorities would grant it. ‘I have known it take ten days…’

‘Then I’ll go without one!’ declared Etta, before seeing
how futile this would be and, grasping the nun’s arm, beseeched her, ‘Please, please help me – they know you! If you intervene they might expedite matters…’

Looking at each other, the sisters agreed, saying it might also help if they were to write her a letter of introduction to the nuns at the local convent, and whilst Sister Cecile went off to seek leave from the Mother Superior, Etta pressed Sister Bernadette for as much information as she had on the town where Marty was being held.

Whilst Sister Cecile’s pessimistic view was not upheld, it took Etta another whole precious day to cut through all the rigmarole and for the permit to be granted. Issuing effusive thanks to the sisters for their help with this and for their care, she appealed for one last favour: that they allow her to buy one of their large white pinafores that might keep her newly laundered dress a little cleaner.

Equipped with this and the precious documentation she departed next morning, stepping warily from the cloistered world of the convent into the military bustle of the old grey town. Her figure caped against the chilly but bright late-summer morn, she had no time to wait for a train. With only a brief diversion to obtain some necessary items, she struck out along the main road, bound for Marty’s prison.

In his stark little cell, with its cool floor of bricks, its barred windows and planks for a bed, its only piece of furniture a bucket, Marty had read Etta’s most recent letter many times in the last few days. He knew most of it off by heart. He had told her that knowing of her attempt to save him lent him strength, but it didn’t, for he had come to understand that all raised hopes of an appeal were academic. His fate had been decided from the start. Deep down he had always known that.

Now, perhaps only hours of life remained. He should
have been preparing to meet his Maker. Instead, he was plotting his escape.