The Absolutist (21 page)

“Sadler,” snaps Sergeant Clayton, looking at me with contempt, “what in hell do you want?”

“Corporal Moody sent me over, sir,” I tell him. “He said you might need a hand with the trucks.”

“Of course we do,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What’s keeping them, anyway?” He looks down the rough path that has been carved into the terrain and shakes his head, then glances at his watch. “I’ll be at supervision,” he
mutters, turning away from us. “Bancroft, make sure you come and find me when they get here, all right?”

“Sir,” says Will, a brief acknowledgement before he turns away and looks down the road himself. I want to talk to him but it’s awkward here, with Turner and the unknown redhead standing between us.

“I’m Rigby,” announces the stranger, nodding in my direction but not extending his hand.

“Sadler,” I say. “Where have you sprung from, then?”

“Rigby’s a feather man,” says Turner but without any aggression in his tone. Indeed, he says it as if it’s a perfectly natural thing.

“Really?” I say. “And yet here you are all the same.”

“GHQ keep moving me around,” he tells me. “I expect they’re hoping I’ll get picked off one of these days. A German bullet rather than a British one, to save them the cost of the gunpowder. I’ve done six nights of stretcher-duty in a row, if you can believe it, and I’m still alive, which I suspect is something of a record. Unless I’m dead and so are you and this is hell.” He sounds remarkably cheerful about the whole thing and is, I assume, therefore, completely mad.

I look down at the ground as the three men continue talking, tipping the toe of my boot hard against the earth, separating dirt from stone, and watching as some of the dried mud flakes off into the ground. There’s no aggression towards the objectors any more, at least not towards those who have agreed to serve but not to fight. There would probably be a lot less sympathy towards those on the farms or in prison except, of course, we never see any of them. The fact is that everyone who is over here is at risk. It was different back at Aldershot. There we could play politics and stir ourselves up into fits of outraged patriotism. We could make Wolf’s life a bloody hell and never feel the worse for it. We could drag him from his bed in the
middle of the night and cave his head in with a rock. None of us will survive here anyway, that’s the general belief.

Will is walking around in circles, keeping a fine distance from me, and it’s all that I can do not to run towards him, shake him by the shoulders and tell him to stop all this nonsense.

“Rigby’s a Londoner, like you,” says Turner, and I look up to see that he’s addressing me; I get the impression that Rigby’s already said this and Turner’s been forced to repeat it as all three of them are staring at me now.

“Oh yes?” I reply. “Where from?”

“Brentford,” he tells me. “Do you know it?”

“Yes, of course. My family lives not far from there.”

“Really? Anyone I might know?”

“Sadler’s Butchers,” I say. “Chiswick High Street.”

He looks at me in surprise. “Are you serious?” he asks, and I frown, wondering why on earth I wouldn’t be. I notice Will turning around now at the unexpected question and drifting carefully back towards our company.

“Of course I am,” I tell him.

“You’re not Catherine Sadler’s son, are you?” he asks me then, and I feel a little light-headed to hear her name. All the way over here. In a field in France. With the bodies of Rich and Parks and Denchley decomposing a few hundred feet from where I stand.

“That’s right,” I say carefully, trying hard to maintain my composure. “How do you know my mother?”

“Well, I don’t know her, not really,” he says. “No, it’s my own mother who’s friends with her. Alison Rigby. You must have heard your mother talk of her?”

I think about it and shrug my shoulders. It rings a bell somewhere but then my mother has a network of female friends around the town and I have never taken the slightest interest in any of them.

“Yes, I think so,” I say. “I’ve heard the name, anyway.”

“What a piece of luck! What about Margaret Hadley? You must know Margaret.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Should I?”

“Works in Croft’s Café?”

“I know Croft’s. But it’s been a few years. Why? Who is she?”

“She’s my girl,” he replies, smiling brightly. “Thought you might have run into her, that’s all. You see, her mother, Mrs. Hadley, who I expect will be my mother-in-law one day, runs fund-raisers for the war effort with my mother and yours. They’re thick as thieves these days, the three of them. I can’t believe you don’t know Margaret. Pretty girl, dark hair. Your mother thinks very highly of her, I know that for a fact.”

“I haven’t been back in a while,” I tell him. “I don’t … well, my family and I, we’re not close.”

“Oh,” he says, sensing perhaps that he might have fallen into difficult territory. “I’m sorry to hear that. Gosh, Sadler, I was terribly sorry to hear about your—”

“It’s quite all right,” I say, unsure how best to pursue this conversation but I don’t need to, because Will is beside us now, separated from me only by Turner, and I’m surprised to see him there, surprised to realize that he is taking such an interest.

“She’s all right, is she, Mrs. Sadler?” asks Will, and Rigby turns and nods at him.

“Last I heard she was,” he replies. “Why? Do you know her, too?”

“No,” says Will, shaking his head. “Only I suppose Tristan would like to hear that his mother’s doing well, that’s all.”

“Pink of health, as far as I know,” he says, turning back to me. “Margaret, my girl, well, she writes to me fairly often. Tells me all the news from home.”

“That must be nice,” I say, glancing across at Will, grateful for his intervention.

“It’s been bloody awful for them, of course,” he continues. “Margaret’s brothers were both lost early on, in the first few weeks, in fact. Their mother was a wreck over it, still is really, and she’s a wonderful lady. Of course, none of them were happy when I lodged my objections to the MTB but I had to stick to my principles, that’s the truth of it.”

“Wasn’t it hard, though?” asks Will, leaning forward, taking a keen interest now. “Making your mind up to go ahead with it after all that?”

“Damned hard,” he says through gritted teeth. “Still don’t know if I’ve done the right thing, if I’m honest. All I know is that it makes sense to me somehow. I know I’d feel as if I was letting the side down if I stayed at home or whiled the years away in prison. At least here, bearing stretchers and doing whatever is asked of me, I feel I’m of some use. Even if I’m not willing to pick up a gun.”

All three of us nod but make no comment. In a larger gathering, this man might feel more awkward telling us these things, but here, in such an intimate group, it isn’t so difficult. We have no intention of arguing with him about it.

“They’ve had a hard run of it all the same back home,” he continues, turning to me. “I expect your mother has told you all about it.”

“Not much,” I reply.

“Yes, hundreds of boys from home have fallen. Did you know Edward Mullins?”

I nod. A boy from the year ahead of mine in school. “Yes,” I say, recalling a rather plump chap with bad skin. “Yes, I remember him.”

“Festubert,” says Rigby. “Gassed to death. And Sebastian Carter?”

“Yes,” I say.

“He was done for at Verdun,” says Rigby. “And what about Alex Mortimer? Did you know him?”

I consider the name for a moment and then shake my head. “No,” I say. “No, I don’t think so. Are you sure he was from my neck of the woods?”

“He was a blow-in. Originally from Newcastle, I think. Moved to London about three years ago with his family. Knocked about with Peter Wallis all the time.”

“Peter?” I say, looking up in surprise. “I know Peter.”

“Battle of Jutland,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as if this is just another casualty, nothing significant, nothing to write home about. “Went down with the
Nestor
. Mortimer, on the other hand, survived it out there but the last I heard he was holed up in an army hospital somewhere outside Sussex. Lost both his legs, the poor bastard. Got his balls blown off, too, so that’s him singing soprano in the church choir ever after.”

I stare at him. “Peter Wallis,” I say, careful to control the tremor in my voice. “What exactly happened to him?”

“Well, I’m not sure I remember all the details,” he says, scratching his chin. “Didn’t the
Nestor
get hit by the German cruisers? Yes, that’s it. They got the
Nomad
first, then the
Nestor
. Bang, bang, sunk, one after the other. Not everyone was killed, thankfully. Mortimer survived it, as I say. But Wallis was one of the unlucky ones. Sorry, Sadler. Was he a friend of yours, then?”

I look away and feel as if I might collapse with grief. So we are never to be reconciled. I am never to be forgiven. “Yes,” I say quietly. “Yes, he was.”

“At long bloody last,” says Turner suddenly, pointing ahead. “Here’s the trucks. Want me to go and get the old man for you, Bancroft?”

“Please,” says Will, and I can feel his eyes on me now as I turn to him. “A good friend?” he asks me.

“Once,” I say, unsure how to describe him, unwilling to dishonour him in death. “We grew up together. Knew each other from the crib. We were neighbours, you see. He was the only … well, the best friend I had, I suppose.”

“Rigby,” says Will, “why don’t you run over and ask the driver how much timber there is? Then at least we can tell Sergeant Clayton when he gets here. We’ll have a better idea of how long it will take to unload.”

Rigby looks at both of us and then, sensing the awkwardness of the moment, nods and moves away. Only when he’s out of sight does Will step closer to me, and by now I am trembling, wanting to run away, wanting to be anywhere but here.

“Keep it together, Tristan,” he tells me quietly, placing a hand on my shoulder as his eyes search to make and hold a connection with my own, his fingers pressing tightly around my flesh, sending a current of electricity through me despite my grief; it’s only the second time he’s touched me since England—the first was when he helped to lift me off the floor of the deluged trench—and the only time he’s spoken to me since the boat. “Keep it together, yes? For all our sakes.”

I step closer to him and he pats my arm in consolation, leaving his hand there longer than is necessary.

“What did Rigby mean when he said he was sorry to hear about … well, he didn’t finish his sentence.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, moving forward in my grief to put my head on his shoulder, and he pulls me to him for a moment, his hand at the back of my head, and I am almost certain that his lips brush the top of my hair, but then Turner and Sergeant Clayton come into sight, the loud voice of the latter complaining about some new disaster, and we separate once again. I wipe the tears from my eyes and look at him but he’s turned away and my thoughts return to my oldest friend, dead like so many others. I wonder why in God’s name I ever
went to look at Rich, Parks and Denchley’s bodies when I could have been in my foxhole all this time, grabbing a few minutes’ sleep, and knowing nothing about any of this, nothing about home or Chiswick High Street, my mother, my father, Peter or the whole bloody lot of them.

We advance further north, taking a long, narrow row of German trenches with minimal casualties—on our side at least—and news of our success prompts a visit from General Fielding.

Sergeant Clayton is beside himself with anxiety all morning and insists on personal inspections of all the men to ensure that we strike the right balance between the cleanliness that hygiene regulations demand and the filth that confirms we are doing our jobs. He tells Wells and Moody to follow him as he works his way down the line, one with a bucket of water, the other with a bucket of mud, and personally scrubs or soils the face of any man he thinks does not reach his exacting standards. It is the most extraordinary scene. Of course he shouts and screams as he goes, a litany of abuse or exaggerated praise, and I fear for his sanity. Williams has told me that Clayton is one of triplets and that both his brothers were killed in the opening weeks of the war by hand grenades that exploded too soon as the pins were pulled out. I don’t know if this is true or not but it certainly adds to the mythology of the man.

Later, when the general arrives, more than two hours late, the sergeant cannot be found and it turns out that he’s in the latrine. His timing is almost comical. Robinson is sent to look for him and it’s another ten minutes before Clayton reappears, red-faced and furious, staring at every soldier he passes as if somehow it is our fault that he chose that moment to take a shit. It’s difficult not to laugh but somehow we control ourselves;
the punishment would be membership of an after-dark wiring party.

Unlike Clayton, General Fielding seems a pleasant enough fellow, even rational, and shows concern for the welfare of the troops under his command, an interest in our continued survival. He makes an inspection of the trenches and the foxholes, speaking to men along the way. We line up as if he’s visiting royalty, which he is in a way, and he pauses at every third or fourth man with a “Treating you all right, are they?” or a “Giving it your best foot forward, I hear” but when he reaches me he merely smiles a little and nods. He talks to Henley, who’s from the same neck of the woods as he is, and within a minute or two they’re exchanging gossip about the glories of the First XI cricket team from some public house in Elephant & Castle. Sergeant Clayton, hovering by Fielding’s right shoulder, listens on and appears rather jumpy, as if he would prefer to control everything that is said to the general.

Later that night, after General Fielding has left us for the safety of GHQ, there comes the brittle sound of sustained shelling from about thirty or forty miles to the south-west of us. I break with my orders for a moment and turn my box-periscope towards the sky, watching as the sudden bursts of electric sparks signify the dropping of bombs on the heads of German or English or French soldiers—it scarcely matters who. The sooner everyone’s killed, the sooner it’s all over.