The Absolutist (11 page)

“My neck hurts,” says Will, pulling the shirt away from his skin. “It’s a bloody rough material, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But we’ll get used to it, I dare say.”

“After it’s left a permanent ring around our necks. We’ll have to imagine that we’re aristocrats in the French Revolution and are giving Madame la Guillotine a clue for where to slice our heads off.”

I laugh a little, seeing my breath appear before me. “Still, they’re warmer than what we had before,” I say after a moment. “I was dreading another night on guard duty in my civvies.”

“Me, too. What about poor Wolf, though? Did you ever see anything as disgusting as that in all your life?”

I think about it before replying. Earlier in the day, when Wells and Moody were distributing the uniforms, Wolf found himself with a shirt that was too large and a pair of trousers that were too tight. He looked rather like a clown and the entire troop, save Will, was reduced to tears of laughter when he put them on and displayed himself for our merriment. I only stopped myself from joining in the hysteria through my desire not to have Will think badly of me.

“He brings it on himself,” I say, frustrated by my friend’s constant need to stand up for Wolf. “I mean, really, Will, why do you always take his side?”

“I take his side because he’s in the regiment with us,” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, what was it that Sergeant Clayton spoke to us about the other day?
Espert
 … what was it?
Espert
something?”

“Esprit de corps,”
I remind him.

“Yes, that. The notion that a regiment is a regiment, a singular object, a unit, not a collection of mismatched men all
vying for different levels of attention. Wolf may be unpopular among the men but that’s no reason to treat him as if he were a monster of some sort. I mean he’s here, isn’t he? He hasn’t run off to some hideaway in, I don’t know, the Scottish Highlands or some godforsaken place. He might have run off up there and laid low till the war was over.”

“If he’s unpopular it’s because he makes himself so,” I explain. “You’re not trying to tell me that you agree with the things he says, are you? The things he stands for?”

“The man talks a lot of sense,” replies Will quietly. “Oh, I’m not saying that I think we should all hold our hands up and call ourselves conscientious objectors and head off home to bed. I’m not stupid enough to think that that would be a good idea. The whole country would be in a terrible mess. But damn it all, he has a right to his opinion, doesn’t he? He has a right to be heard. There are some chaps who would have just scarpered and he didn’t and I admire him for that. He has the guts to be here, to train with the rest of us while he waits to hear what the result of his case will be. If they ever get round to telling him. And the result of that is that he’s subject to the bullying and despicable behaviour of a bunch of clots who don’t have the sense to think that actually killing another human being is not something we should simply do on a whim, but is a most serious offence against the natural order of things.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a Utopian, Will,” I say, a tone of mockery in my voice.

“Don’t patronize me, Tristan,” he snaps back. “I just don’t like the way he’s treated, that’s all. And I’ll say it again if I have to. The man talks a lot of sense.”

I say nothing now, simply stare ahead and narrow my eyes, peering forward as if I’ve noticed something moving on the horizon when, of course, we both know full well that I haven’t. I don’t want to pursue this conversation any further, that’s all.
I don’t want to argue. The truth is, I actually agree with what Will is saying; I only hate the fact that he sees in Wolf a chap whom he respects and even looks up to, when I am no more to him than a friend to pal around with, someone he can talk to while he’s going to sleep and double up with when it comes to joint activities, for we are each other’s match in terms of speed, strength and skill, the three factors, according to Sergeant Clayton, which separate British soldiers from their German equivalents.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say after a long silence. “I quite like Wolf, if I’m honest. I just wish he wouldn’t make such a song and dance about things, that’s all.”

“Let’s not talk about it any more,” says Will, blowing into his hands noisily, but I’m pleased to note that he doesn’t say this in an aggressive tone. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Well, I don’t want to argue with you, either,” I say. “You know how much your friendship means to me.” He turns to look at me and I can hear him breathe heavily. He bites his lip, looks as if he’s about to say something, then changes his mind and turns away.

“Here, Tristan,” he says after a moment, conspicuously changing the subject, “you’ll never guess what today is.”

I think about it for a moment and know immediately. “Your birthday,” I say.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

“What did you get me, then?” he asks, his face bursting into that cheeky smile that has the power to dissolve all other thoughts from my mind. I lean forward and punch him on the upper arm.

“That,” I say as he cries out in mock pain and rubs the injured area, and I grin back at him for a moment before looking away.

“Well, happy fucking birthday,” I say, imitating our beloved Corporal Moody.

“Thanks very fucking much,” he replies, laughing.

“How old are you, then?”

“You know full well, Tristan,” he replies. “I’m only a few months older than you, after all. Nineteen today.”

“Nineteen years old and never been kissed,” I say, without really thinking about the words and ignoring the fact that he is not in fact a few months older than me but nearly a year and a half. It was a phrase my mother always used whenever anyone declared themselves to be a particular age. I don’t mean anything by it.

“Steady on, old man,” he says quickly, looking at me with a mixture of a smile and a hint of offence in his tone. “I’ve been kissed all right. Why, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” I say. Sylvia Carter had kissed me, after all. And there had been one other. Both utter disasters.

“Now if I was at home,” says Will then, stringing out the words for a long time, playing a game that we always indulge ourselves with when we’re on guard duty together, “I expect my parents would be throwing some sort of dinner party for me tonight and inviting all the neighbours in to throw presents at me.”

“Sounds very posh,” I say. “Would I be invited?”

“Certainly not. We only allow the upper echelons of society into our house. As you know, my father is a vicar, he has a certain position to uphold. We can’t just let any old so-and-so through the door.”

“Well, then, I should wait outside the house,” I announce. “And stand guard, like we’re doing here. It would remind us of this rotten place. I’d keep everyone out.”

He laughs but says nothing and I wonder whether my suggestion has seemed a little overwrought to him.

“There is one you’d have to let through,” he says after a moment.

“Oh yes? Who’s that?”

“Why, Eleanor, of course.”

“I thought you said your sister’s name was Marian.”

“It is,” he says. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“No, I only meant …” I begin, confused. “Well, who’s Eleanor, then, if she’s not your sister? The family Labrador or something?” I ask with a laugh.

“No, Tristan,” he says, sniggering. “Nothing of the sort. Eleanor’s my fiancée. I’ve told you about her, haven’t I?”

I turn and stare at him. I know full well that he has never once told me about her and can see from the expression on his face that he knows the same thing. He seems to be making a point of saying it.

“Your fiancée?” I ask. “You’re to be married?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” he says, and I think I can hear a note of embarrassment, even regret, in his voice, but I’m not sure whether it’s really there or whether I’m just imagining it. “I mean, we’ve been sweethearts for ever so long. And we’ve talked about marriage. Her family are well in with mine, you see, and I suppose it’s just always been on the cards. She’s a terrific girl. And not at all conventional, if you know what I mean. I can’t stand conventional girls, Tristan, can you?”

“No,” I say, digging the toe of my boot into the dirt and twisting it around, imagining for a moment that the soil is Eleanor’s head. “No, they make me want to throw up.”

I’m not entirely sure I know what he means when he says that she is not conventional, it seems an unusual turn of phrase, but then I remember him telling me he has been told that he snores something terrible and the phrase attacks me like a viper as I realize exactly what it is that he is saying.

“When this is all over, I’ll introduce you to her,” he says a few moments later. “I’m sure you’d like her.”

“I’m sure I would,” I say, blowing into my own hands now. “I’m sure she’s an absolute fucking delight.”

He hesitates for a moment before turning to me. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks quickly.

“What?”

“What you just said: ‘I’m sure she’s an absolute fucking delight.’ ”

“Don’t mind me,” I say, shaking my head angrily. “I’m just bloody cold, that’s all. Aren’t you freezing, Bancroft? I don’t think these new uniforms are all they’re cracked up to be.”

“I’ve told you not to call me that, haven’t I?” he snaps. “I don’t like it.”

“Sorry. Will,” I say, correcting myself.

An unpleasant tension settles over us then and we don’t speak for five, perhaps ten more minutes. I rack my brain for words but can think of nothing to say. The idea that Will and this miserable Eleanor tramp are somehow involved, have been for who knows how long, tortures me and I want nothing more than to be back in my bunk with my head buried in my pillow, hoping for the quick arrival of sleep. I can’t imagine what Will is thinking but he is so silent now that I imagine he feels awkward, too, and I simultaneously try to analyse the reason why and try not to.

“Don’t you have a sweetheart at home, then?” he asks me finally, the words sounding as if they are meant in a kindly way but coming out anything but.

“You know I don’t,” I say coldly.

“Well, how would I know that? You’ve never said one way or the other.”

“Because I would have told you if I had.”

“I didn’t tell you about Eleanor,” he counters. “Or so you claim.”

“You didn’t.”

“It’s just that I don’t like to think about her up there in Norwich all on her own, pining away for me.” He means it as a joke, something to soften the nasty atmosphere of the moment, but it does no good. It just makes him appear smug and arrogant, which is the opposite of his intention. “You know one or two of the chaps are married,” he says now and I turn to look at him, interested at least in this.

“Really? I hadn’t heard. Which ones?”

“Shields for one. And Attling. Taylor, too.”

“Taylor?” I cry. “Who the hell would marry Taylor? He looks like Unevolved Man.”

“Someone did apparently. It all took place last summer, he told me.”

I shrug and act as if none of this is of any interest to me whatsoever.

“It must be awfully nice to be married,” he says then, his voice becoming dreamlike. “Can you imagine coming home every night to find your slippers toasting beside a warm fire and a hot dinner waiting for you?”

“It’s every man’s dream,” I say acidly.

“And the rest of it,” he adds. “Whenever you want it. You can’t deny that that doesn’t sound like it’s worth all the trouble.”

“The rest of it?” I ask, playing stupid.

“You know what I mean.”

I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I know what you mean. You mean sex.”

He laughs and nods. “Of course sex,” he replies. “But you say it like it’s a terrible thing. Like you want to spit the word out in horror.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t mean to,” I say haughtily. “It’s just that I think there are some matters that are not fit for conversation, that’s all.”

“In the middle of my father’s sermons, perhaps,” he says. “Or in front of my mother and her chums during their Tuesday-night whist drives. But here? Come on, Tristan. Don’t be such a prude.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say, turning on him. “I won’t be called names.”

“Well, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says defensively. “What has you all twisted up in knots, anyway?”

“Do you really want to know?” I ask. “Because I’ll tell you if you do.”

“Of course I want to know,” he says. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“All right, then,” I say. “Only we’ve been here for almost six weeks, haven’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And I thought we were friends, you and I.”

“But we are friends, Tristan,” he says, laughing nervously, although there is no humour to be found here. “Why ever would you think we’re not?”

“Perhaps because in the course of those six weeks you’ve never once mentioned to me that you had a fiancée waiting for you at home.”

“Well, you’ve never mentioned whether … whether …” He struggles to finish his sentence. “I don’t know. Whether you prefer trains to boats. It’s just never come up, that’s all.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” I say. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do trust you. Why, you’re the finest fellow here.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course I do. A chap needs a friend in a place like this. Not to mention in the place we’re going next. And you’re my friend, Tristan. The best I have. You’re not jealous, are you?” he adds, laughing at the absurdity of it. “You sound just like
Eleanor, you know. She’s forever goading me about this other girl, Rebecca, who she swears is sweet on me.”

“Of course I’m not jealous,” I say, spitting a little on the ground in frustration. For Christ’s sake, now there’s a Rebecca to be thrown into the pot. “Why would I be jealous of her, Will? It makes no sense.” I want to say more. I’m desperate to say more. But I know that I can’t. I feel as if we are at a precipice here. And when he turns to look at me, and swallows as our eyes meet, I’m sure that he can feel it, too. I can walk out over the ledge and see whether he’ll reach out to catch me or I can take a step back. “Oh, just forget I said anything,” I say eventually, shaking my head quickly as if to dismiss every unworthy thought from it. “I was just hurt that you didn’t tell me about her, that’s all. I don’t like secrets.”