Keepsake (48 page)

By means of a generous tip to an ambulance driver, Etta was now within reach of the town that served both as a rest camp and a centre for casualties. On the outskirts, small shacks came into view, built of biscuit tins and packing cases, straw, and anything that might house a refugee. Her nerves on edge, she paid them little heed; nor would she have remarked upon the large black dog harnessed to a cart had it not been blocking the way ahead, but she shared the driver’s irritation until the dog’s owner led it aside allowing the ambulance to sweep past.

Finally set down some streets away from her goal, she held her breath as she mingled with the crowd of army personnel, waiting for someone to demand her permit. The sun was out now and she held her cape rolled into a bundle. She had toyed briefly with the idea of pinning a cross of red material to the breast of her pinafore to make herself appear more official, but then this might leave her open to the attentions of some bossy matron, so she had decided to leave things as they were, relying on the introductory letter to the local nuns as reason enough for her to be here. The ambulance driver hadn’t been concerned enough to interrogate her, just happy for her company and her money. Clutching the bundle under her arm, she followed his directions to the market square, praying that she was taking the right path. A young girl walked briskly ahead of her, the clickety-clack of her wooden clogs coinciding with the rapid beat of Etta’s pulse. The noise in her own head was so deafening that she was barely aware of the distant explosions in the background. She had been told that Poperinghe was relatively safe from bombardment, and indeed it appeared to be so with its civilian population intact and its shops still doing business, though this made no difference to her
state of apprehension. She needed desperately to visit the lavatory but tried to ignore the spasms in her gut by concentrating on her mission. One of the nuns knew this town well and had been good enough to tell her where the military prison, formerly the town hall, was situated, totally innocent that Etta was not merely going there to share a last kiss with her husband but to rescue him. Limbs like jelly, she tried to prevent her hand from constantly checking that the pistol was still beneath her skirt. Fully recognising that the consequence of wielding an unloaded weapon against an experienced soldier might be her own death, she just as soon dismissed it. She would never forgive herself if she did not try everything in her power to save her husband.

Her heart leapt; she could see the prison now; or at least she could the neo-Gothic spires of the town hall that the sister had described. She headed along the narrow cobbled street, not too slowly, not too quickly, every nerve on edge, every hair on end. Soldiers nodded to the attractive nurse as she passed, some respectful, others with an impudence born of living in constant threat of death. She responded to all with as steady a smile as she could muster, hoping they would not see the nervous twitch about her lips, moving ever nearer to her goal.

Another soldier sauntered towards her. She glanced at him, smiled and glanced away, when suddenly he grasped her free arm and turned her about.

‘Don’t say a word!’

At first, shock at the painful nip of her flesh, then a cry of recognition. ‘Mar—’

‘Ssh!’ he told her, and, still gripping her arm he tucked it under his and steered her back the way she had come, ‘Just try to look as if you’re enjoying yourself.’

Overwhelmed by the joy of having Marty at her side, Etta’s eyes held a lustre that had long been absent. She yearned to embrace him, but did as he ordered and said
not another word as they walked as nonchalantly as they could through the human traffic.

‘Where shall we go?’ Heart racing, Etta told herself to be calm, and threw smiling glances at passers-by.

‘Station,’ came the succinct response, Marty grinning as if he were merely enjoying an excursion in the sunshine with a pretty nurse.

‘Is it far?’ She could scarcely breathe for excitement.

‘I don’t know.’ He held on tightly to her arm. ‘I just hope it’s this way.’

After what seemed hundreds and hundreds of yards, the railway station finally came into view. But, ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Etta, ‘look at all those people!’ A fleet of ambulances had just arrived from the direction of Ypres and a squad of stretcher-bearers were busily transferring patients to a waiting train, whilst black-clad peasants stood patiently by, waiting to be allowed entry to the platform.

Some of the not too badly wounded were staggering unattended into the station. Stating that this might just help their cause, Marty pressed her onwards, and, as they drew nearer he affected to lean against her and to hobble, she supporting him as they made their way through the wicket and onto the platform. A steaming train awaited. It was useless to try and gain access to one of the carriages, for these were all fitted with white hospital beds. Instead, Marty and Etta hobbled their way to the end of the platform, to the station yard, where another train stood. Though its engine was dormant and it seemed to be going nowhere, in the hope that it eventually would they looked sharply about them before leaping into one of its carriages.

Here, at last, they were able to fling their arms round each other, pressing their bodies tightly together. They kissed and cried for joy – and in pity too, Etta unable to believe how Marty had changed, his poor, dear face stripped of youth.

Briefly tearing himself away to examine her, an elated Marty immediately noticed the scar. ‘What’s that on your throat?’ His eyes flashed from green to grey in concern.

‘I was stung by a wasp – they had to cut my windpipe.’ Continually, between words, she pressed her lips to his face, hugged him and cuddled him to her breast.

‘God! I thought you sounded husky.’ He returned her fervent embrace, both of them crooning how wonderful it was, squeezing so tightly they could hardly breathe.

He pulled away to marvel again, breathing into her joyous visage, ‘Well…fancy seeing you here! I almost didn’t recognise ye.’

Etta laughed aloud, her eyes shining with the brightness of delirium. ‘I know, I look a mess, don’t I?’

‘I don’t give a monkey’s what ye look like – you’re here!’

‘I was just coming to free you!’ she told him. ‘How did you manage to escape?’

‘Just walked out!’ Marty sounded equally amazed. ‘The guards got used to chatting with me, knew I could be trusted to behave meself.’ He laughed. ‘When one of them left my door open while he went to fetch something I took me chance. There’s usually a sentry, I don’t know where the hell he’d gone, but God bless the bugger. Christ, I still can’t believe you’re here!’ He hugged her again, rocked her to and fro, this way and that, both ecstatic.

‘Thank
goodness
we met!’ Warm face pressed to warm neck, her voice was feverishly shrill on his ear. ‘I would have looked very foolish holding up the guard with my pistol for a man who’d already escaped!’

‘You’ve got a gun?’ Incredulous, he pushed her away again.

‘It isn’t loaded, more’s the pity!’ Proudly, she revealed the weapon through a slit in her skirt.

‘I wondered what that hard thing was!’ He hauled her back to him.

‘Your father gave it to me,’ she told him, laughing like a maniac.

‘The ould bugger,’ breathed Marty into her neck. ‘God bless him.’

‘Oh God, Marty, what are we to do now?’ Even during the breathless conversation they refused to let each other go. ‘Where were you bound for when we met?’

‘To see you, or at least try.’ Suddenly plunged back to awful reality, his arms grappled to hold her ever closer. ‘I hadn’t planned any further than that.’

‘I have.’ Etta lifted her face from his shoulder, but only to rub her cheek against his as she outlined her strategy. ‘Those civilian clothes are for you.’ She referred to the bundle that was now on the floor. It had been the very devil to obtain them, her inability to speak the language causing a great deal of frustration, until the universal language of paying double what they were worth had solved her problem.

‘Oh God, Etta, do you realise how much trouble you’ll be in by providing them?’

‘I don’t care! You’d better change into them now. Then the main thing is to reach the coast as swiftly as possible. Once there we stow away on a ship – not to England, we’d probably be apprehended on landing, but if we could reach Ireland that would make it harder for them. Then we could get word to your parents and have them bring the children across, and we could all go to America.’

‘And have us live as fugitives?’ His voice held dismay. ‘To be forever on the move?’

‘I don’t know what else to do! I can’t lose you, I can’t!’ Her tears were not of joy but of desperation now.

‘I’m not so keen on dying meself,’ came Marty’s grave response as he rested his chin on her head and gazed into a bleak future. ‘I just keep asking meself if there’s any point in running. Should I be a man, go back and face what’s coming?’

‘No! It’s nothing to do with being a man, it’s just not right that you should die for something you haven’t done! How could they reach such a conclusion?’

Mystified, he shook his head. ‘There’s no rhyme or reason, darlin’. I knew a man who deliberately went AWOL and they only gave him twenty-eight days.’

This only served to increase her anger and desperation. She clung to him. ‘Please, please come with me!’

‘They’ll get me in the end.’ He looked down into her crazed eyes, then administered tender kisses. ‘They always do.’ He had heard of men on the run for a year only to be captured and shot.

‘Is that any reason not to try?’ Etta shook him violently. ‘Don’t leave me, Marty! I won’t let you!’

‘All right.’ He gave a quick decisive nod, dashed a last kiss to her face and began ripping off his army clothes. ‘But, one thing: if we don’t make it, will ye let Ma and Da know I’m not a coward?’

‘Yes! But we will make it!’ Shaking out the civilian jacket she grasped his arm and helped to direct it into a sleeve, urging him to hurry.

The carriage door was suddenly wrenched open, causing both to exclaim and to behold the provost in dismay. For one split second Marty was poised to leap out of the other door and onto the track, but when a revolver was levelled at him his arms immediately shot upwards in surrender. His face robbed of all hope, he turned again to his wife, his dear beloved wife, looked deeply, longingly into her face, then gave in to the inevitable.

But Etta fought on as the redcap and another hauled Marty off the train, yelled her protest and grabbed at the arm of one of them, trying to drag him off. And when this failed she pulled out her pistol and in the moment of uncertainty that followed screamed at him, ‘Run, Marty, run!’

But to her anguish all he did was to stand there in horror.
‘Ett, don’t be – she doesn’t mean it!’ he cried swiftly, urging his captors not to shoot. ‘It’s not loaded!’

At which she was roughly disarmed and placed under arrest too.

Then they were parted, Marty to his prison cell to await certain death; Etta keening her eternal love for him as she was taken from the town under guard to be shipped back to Blighty.

Come finally to accept his fate, Marty knew he should be preparing to face his Creator, should more closely attend the comforting words of the padre who, along with many a slug of rum, would see him through the ordeal; but for now, in these few last rays of sunlight, he could concentrate on naught except Etta and his children. And it was in writing to each of them, and to his mother and father, that he spent his time until darkness reigned.

Trying to think of words to say, he meditated on the path that had led him to this state. Had he been satisfied with his lot, accepted Etta as the brave and warm and wonderful if scatterbrained woman she was, instead of stupidly quibbling over her laziness around the house and trying to mould her into something she was not, then he would never have run away and joined the army. Maybe, yes maybe, he would still be in a similar position – there were plans to conscript those reluctant to fight – but left to chance, as a married man he might just have escaped the net. As it was, by his own vanity and discontent, he was the master of his own fate.

Filling his chest with air, he listened to the crump and rumble of artillery. This town was reasonably safe but, whilst he had been here it had received the occasional shell from long range to much devastation. Regarding it as merely disconcerting before, now he prayed that such a shell might come and flatten him and rescue him from a more ignoble death.

How much more acute his senses now, so acute that at the merest thought of what lay ahead he felt the pencil in his hand start to tremble, the tremors creeping up his arm into every limb and the panic start to prickle his scalp and to rise in a hot tide to engulf his entire being, and though he gripped his fists and raged and swore at himself to prevent it spilling over, it boiled and surged within his skull, making his feet tap uncontrollably, urging him to run…

A jangle of keys, a steadying voice, a cup of rum pressed into quaking hands.

His letter-writing postponed, Marty gulped great mouthfuls, felt the heat invade his gullet then his gut, drained the whole cup and held it out for more, swallowed some of this too, until the panic was eventually tamed. Then, resuming his epistle, he rushed to add a few final words, so that the recipient might be sure they were his and not the befuddled rantings of a drunkard. And after this, the crutch of alcohol forever by, he sat and prayed for God to lend him strength. He was to need every ounce of this when the key turned in his cell door and the guard admitted two staff officers.

Dawn. The mundane sounds of breakfast being prepared, the clank of dixies, the rumble of gunfire, the clip-clop of hoofs, the crunching of gears as a procession of ambulances arrived with more wounded from the battlefield, the shuffle and tramp of thousands of boots…

In the camp on the outskirts of town, the battalion to which Marty had once belonged was assembled to hear his sentence promulgated. Many of them wept, for they held him dear.

Seated on the edge of his bed of planks, waiting for breakfast, Marty heard a cheer go up and wondered if it was for him. Even now, hours after he himself had heard the incredible news, he was still reeling, unable to fathom how it had happened, nor who had gained his reprieve. It
might still be only a fleeting reprieve, for instead of killing him today, the Commander in Chief had decreed that Private Lanegan’s sentence be suspended and that he rejoin the lines for the duration of the war. Who knew how long that would be, nor if he might be hit tomorrow by a German bullet. But for today, thank God, he was alive. He was alive.