The Absolutist (6 page)

“Is it a young man?” asked the sacristan in a flippant voice, and the look that he received in response put a stop to any further enquiries of that sort.

“It won’t matter too much if I’m late,” said the reverend, his tone betraying deep uncertainty. “Our meeting is far more important. Anyway, I haven’t quite decided on the wisdom of my daughter’s plans yet. She gets notions, you see. And not always very sensible ones.”

They turned to start walking again and at that moment, the reverend caught my eye and smiled. “Good morning, young man,” he said, and I stared at him, my heart beating faster inside my chest. “Good morning,” he repeated, stepping towards me, smiling in an avuncular fashion and then seeming to think better of it, as if he could sense the potential of a
threat, and moved back again. “Are you quite all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

I opened my mouth, unsure how to reply, and I believe that I must have shocked the two of them entirely as I spun around, turned on my heels and ran back in the direction of the gate through which I had entered, almost tripping over a raised hedge to my left, a small child to my right and a series of paving stones in front of me, before finding myself inside the cathedral once again, which seemed monstrous now but also claustrophobic, ready to take me within its grasp and hold me there forever. I looked around the confusing space, desperate for a way out, and when I found it, I ran through the nave of the church, my boots sounding heavily on the tiles and sending their drumlike rhythms echoing into every corner of the building as I made for the doors, aware that the heads of the faithful were turning in my direction now with a mixture of alarm and disapproval.

Outside I breathed quickly, desperate to fill my lungs, and felt a horrible clamminess begin to seep through my skin, covering my body, my earlier relaxed state replaced by one of terror and remorse. The serenity imparted by the cathedral had left me and I was a man alone again; here in the unfamiliar surroundings of Norwich, with a task to complete.

But how could I have been so stupid? How could I not have remembered? It was all so unexpected though; the name—Reverend Bancroft—and then the expression on his face. The likeness was uncanny. I might have been back on the training grounds of Aldershot, or the trenches of Picardy. It might have been that dreadful morning when I ascended from the holding cells in a terrible, vengeful fury.

By now it was time to start making my way back towards the boarding house in order to freshen up before my appointment.
I walked away from the cathedral and took a different route, turning left and right on the criss-crossing streets.

It was I who had initiated the correspondence with Marian Bancroft. Although we had never met, Will had spoken of her often and I envied their extraordinary closeness. I had a sister myself, of course, but she had been only eleven when I left home, and even though I had written to her shortly after, my letters never received any reply; I suspected that they were intercepted by my father before they could reach her. But did he read them himself, I often wondered? Did he steal them away and tear open the envelopes, scanning my scrawling handwriting for news of where I was and how I was scraping a living together? Was there even a part of him that wondered whether one day my letters might stop, not because I had given up writing, but because I was no longer alive, the streets of London having swallowed me whole? It was impossible to know.

The war had been over for almost nine months by the time I finally plucked up the courage to write to Marian. It had been on my mind for a long time, a sense of responsibility that had kept me awake night after night as I tried to decide what to do for the best. A part of me wanted to dismiss her from my thoughts entirely, to pretend that she and her family did not exist. What help could I be to them, after all? What possible comfort could I offer? But the idea lingered and one day, tortured by guilt, I purchased what I considered to be an elegant packet of notepapers and a new fountain pen—for I wanted her to think well of me—and composed a letter.

Without realizing it, I had walked directly past my turning for Recorder Road and found myself standing on the Riverside, staring across from where the stone pillars of Thorpe rose up to greet me. I found that my feet were taking me across the river and inside the station and I stood quietly, watching the people as they purchased their tickets and made their way towards the platforms. It was five minutes past twelve and there in front of me was the London train, set to go in another five minutes’ time. A conductor was walking up and down crying, “All aboard!” and I put my hand in my pocket for my wallet, looking at the ticket that I was carrying for my return journey later that evening. My heart raced when I saw that it was valid all day. I could simply climb on board and go home, put the whole wretched business behind me. I would have lost my holdall, of course, but there was not much in it, just yesterday’s clothes and the Jack London book. I could forward Mrs. Cantwell what I owed her and apologize for leaving without a word.

As I hesitated, a man approached me, hand extended, and asked whether I had any spare change. I shook my head, stepping back a little as he reeked of stale sweat and cheap
alcohol; he walked on crutches for his left leg was missing, while his right eye was sealed over as if he had recently been in a fight. He wasn’t a day over twenty-five.

“A few pennies, that’s all,” he said, growling at me. “Fought for my country, didn’t I, and look how they left me. You can spare some change, can’t you? Come on, you fucking bastard!” he cried, raising his voice now and shocking me with the unexpected vulgarity. “You can spare a few pennies for them what gave you freedom.”

A lady who was passing by with a small boy immediately covered his ears and I noticed him staring at the man in rapt fascination. Before I could say anything to the man he lunged at me and I stepped back again at the very moment that a constable appeared and took a hold of him—gently, as it turned out—and said, “Come along, that’s not going to solve anything, now is it?” And with that platitude, the man seemed to crumple inside himself and moved away, hobbling back towards the wall and returning to a seated position on the ground, where he became almost catatonic, holding his hand out in the air, not even expecting anyone to help him.

“Sorry about that, sir,” said the constable. “He’s not usually much trouble so we let him stay there as he gets a few shillings most days. Ex-army, like myself. Had rather a rough time of it, though.”

“It’s quite all right,” I muttered, leaving the station, any thought of heading back to London quite gone now. I had come to do a job, it was important that I completed it. And it had nothing to do with the return of a packet of letters.

It was almost two weeks before I received a reply from Marian Bancroft and in the intervening time I had thought of little else. Her silence made me question whether she had received my note, whether her family had been forced to move to
another part of the country, whether she simply wanted nothing to do with me. It was impossible to know and I was torn between regret at having written to her at all and a sense that I was being punished by her refusal to reply.

And then one evening, returning home late from a day of reading dreary, unsolicited manuscripts at the Whisby Press, I discovered a letter waiting for me under the door of my flat. I lifted it in amazement—I never received any post—and stared at the elegant handwriting, knowing immediately who it must be from, and went inside to make a cup of tea, staring at the envelope nervously as I did so and imagining the possible traumas that it might contain. Finally settled, I opened it carefully, removed the single sheet of paper, and was struck immediately by the faint smell of lavender that accompanied it. I wondered whether this was her particular perfume or whether she was a girl who stuck to the old-fashioned ways and put a drop of scent in her envelopes, regardless of whether she was writing a love letter, paying a bill or answering an unexpected correspondence such as my own.

I hoped that I would have a free run of it when I stepped inside the boarding house but David Cantwell was there, placing fresh flowers in two vases that stood on side tables. He flushed a little when he saw me and I could tell that he was embarrassed.

“My mother’s gone out,” he explained. “So I’m left with this job. Woman’s work, isn’t it? Flowers. Makes me look like a pansy.”

He smiled at me and tried to make me complicit in the pun but I ignored his feeble attempt at humour and told him of my intentions.

“I’m just going up to my room,” I said. “Would you rather I left my holdall in your office or can I leave it up there?”

“The office is probably best, sir,” he replied, a little archly now, perhaps disappointed by my unwillingness to treat him as if he were a friend of long standing. “We do have another guest booked in for the room and they’re due in around two o’clock. At what time do you think you’ll be back for it?”

“Not till much later than that,” I said, although why I thought that I did not know. It was possible that my appointment would not last for anything more than ten minutes. “I’ll stop in for it before I catch my train.”

“Very good, sir,” he said, going back to his flowers. I noticed that he was not quite as forthcoming as he had been the night before and, despite the fact that I was not looking for conversation, I couldn’t help but wonder about the reason for it. Perhaps his mother had spoken to him and explained that talking about what had happened out there to someone who had experienced it might not be the kindest thing. Some servicemen lived off their stories, of course, as if they had actually enjoyed the war, but others, myself included, didn’t.