The Gates of Rutherford (25 page)

John said nothing. Harry glanced at him. “How many do you suppose are here?”

“What, you mean the armies, the men?”

“Yes. How many?”

“I don't know. It looked like we passed a lot of billets and camps on the way in.”

“Quarter of a million,” Harry said. “All to be fed and watered. Imagine the logistics of it. You ought to write about that.”

“I have,” John replied. “One of the first articles five weeks ago, about the quartermaster's stores in Albert.”

“Hmm,” Harry mumbled. He inclined his head towards the town hall again. “Know what else is there?” he asked. “Execution cells. Have you written about those?”

“Military execution cells?”

“Too rich for your readers' blood, I should think. Guess you won't chance it. We had a man a year ago. Stories like these go through the place like wildfire. Been wounded. Was on his way back. Fight broke out in The Doll. Bloody idiot took out his pistol and shot someone. Local. Over the price of a bottle of champagne.”

“Good God! What happened to him?”

“Detained over there for a week. Medical assessment. Men with him said he was do-lally. Pretty shocked, you know. Had come down in his Strutter, the one with the backward-facing Lewis gun. Prized asset. His gunner bought it, the man fired through the propeller—you can, if you want, with a Strutter—and got himself in a complete fug. Plane came down much like my own, next to British lines. But they said that ever since he came back he was, you know, not right in the head.” He paused, staring across the square. “Just an argument about a bottle of champagne.”

“Did they execute him?”

“They did. Will you write about it?”

“Perhaps one day.”

“Not now?”

“Bad for morale. As you say, the average reader wouldn't stomach it. They want reassurance and glory. Nobility. Strength of purpose.”

“Not to hear of their bright knights breaking down.”

“No. Not that.”

Harry's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward a little. “But you will, one day? You'll say how it was? What happened here. What they all did. Heroes and madmen the same?”

“I will, Harry. Yes.”

“No banging of jingoistic drums?”

“No, Harry. Just how it was. I give you my word.”

Harry had been leaning against a wall; now he pushed himself away from it and sighed, straightening up. “Want to visit Petit Paris?” he asked abruptly. “They told me it's on the other side of the town. MPs and the provost marshall turn a blind eye to that.” He smiled sardonically. “Not to gambling, though. It's much worse to have a flutter on the dice than take advantage of some poor bloody girl whose misfortune it is to be a refugee.” He looked John up and down. “You in need of a girl?”

“No, no.”

Harry smiled. “Me neither. Let's have a drink, though. Coffee and a glass of wine. Too early for wine?”

John thought of the lad on the train and the grip of the yellow-tinged fingers. “No,” he said. “Not too early.”

•   •   •

T
hey passed café after café: places where French and Algerian and British and Sikh flocked together. John heard New Zealand voices; saw the unmistakable features of Maori faces among the crowds. New Zealand. Australian. Indian. Chinese. And soon the Americans would come. Very soon indeed. He wondered if the German army could resist it all; he doubted that it would. Privately, he
estimated that the war might be over by this Christmas. Christmas 1917. He imagined Poperinghe cleared of its troops, vehicles, mixed races, the rattle and drone of trains and aircraft.

They passed Cyril's, Skindles, and the Savoy restaurant. Harry smiled at him. “Not quite the Savoy we know,” he commented. There were fish and chips on the menu, written exactly like that. No “frites.” No “poisson.” Fish and chips and beer. Scrambled egg and tea. Now and again they would glimpse somewhere that was trying to be more homely, with cloths and bunches of flowers on the tables.
The irrepressibility of the human spirit
, John thought.

“Here it is,” Harry said. “Right where I was told it would be. La Poupée. The Doll.”

They entered a pretty little place, under an
OFFICERS ONLY
signboard hung over the doorway. There was a small garden at the rear, under a glass canopy. Harry pulled out a chair, seated himself, and propped his leg on the seat opposite.

“Hurting much?” John asked.

Harry waved the question away. A girl came out to serve them. They watched her wipe down the table, smile at them, take their order, and disappear back into the recesses of the kitchen.

“Red hair,” Harry murmured. “Like Caitlin.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

“Harry,” John said. “I shall be back in England in a week or so, like you. I expect they'll operate again pretty quick on that leg, so you'll be out of it for a while. Would you like me to try to find her?”

“You'd do that?”

“It'll be my pleasure.”

“She ought to be with the same setup. However . . .” Harry paused while their coffee was brought to them. “I don't know, truly. I don't know why she's cut herself off from me. I think she must be suffering.”

“I shall look for her, Harry. While you're in hospital.” He paused, looking at the young man in front of him. “You
will
be in England in hospital, Harry?”

“I might,” Harry agreed vaguely. John frowned. Wasn't it understood that Harry would cross the Channel very soon, as he was about to do? “Harry,” he said. “You are coming back to England, aren't you?”

“I have my orders,” Harry replied.

John knew that counted for nothing very much. Octavia had confided in him that she feared Harry didn't listen very much even to his commanding officers. He was still the devil-may-care boy deep in his heart. He would do a thing—including taking up an aircraft—if he felt it had to be done. “You aren't thinking of flying at Nieuwpoort?” he asked.

It looked as if he had hit a nerve. “I'd be a fool to do that,” Harry murmured, holding his gaze. “Wouldn't I?”

“New area. Very tempting. Just to reconnoiter?”

Harry at last gave him a grim smile. “What does ‘Operation Hush' mean to you?”

“Nothing. Why?”

Harry raised his eyebrows once, then glanced away. The girl was bringing their wine. “Doesn't matter,” he said. The carafe was placed in front of him, with two glasses. Harry lifted the carafe, sniffed at it, and called the girl back. “Do you have Burgundy?”

“We have a vintage, m'sieur. It is expensive.”

“Bring it, please. And take this away.” She did as she was told. Harry closed his eyes.

John leaned forward, pulling his chair close to Harry's so that there was no chance they would be overheard. “Is this operation what I've been sent here for?” he asked.

“If they haven't told you, it isn't my job to.”

“Come on, Harry.”

Harry opened his eyes. “I suppose you'll learn in twenty-four hours,” he said. “We'll be in Nieuwpoort by then.”

“I know that the area round there was flooded. Belgium opened the sluice gates, didn't they? The sea flooded in over the polder. Germans thought it was natural—some sort of tide coming in, some sort of spring flood or something. They fought till the water came up to their knees, then retreated.”

Harry nodded. “That's it.”

“And this is . . . We're pushing forward from Nieuwpoort,” John guessed. “Into Belgium.”

Harry smiled. “You didn't hear it from me.”

“That'll need a lot more men up here,” John mused. “Where are they coming from? Farther south?” He knew that, in February, the Germans had suddenly retreated back to what they called the Hindenburg line, giving up miles of the Western front that had cost so many lives. They had dug in there, built up huge defenses. But it released a lot of land and therefore, possibly, regiments that could be moved elsewhere for a while.

The Burgundy was brought to them. They filled their glasses, watched the girl go again. Outside, the sun was still streaming, the birds in the little garden gently singing. It was so hard it believe that they were discussing more bloodshed.

“We must be going all the way to the sea,” John considered, thinking aloud in little more than a whisper. “That'll mean the navy involved.”

Harry said nothing. It was evident that he felt he had said more than enough. He was staring out into the garden; his glass was already almost empty. “Mr. Gould,” he murmured. “What does my Mother expect of me?”

“In what way?”

Harry shifted, and looked up at him. Weariness was written all over him. “Does she expect me to go back to Rutherford?”

“I should think so. Isn't that what the only son and heir does, inherit?”

“Of course I inherit,” Harry retorted. “Whether I want to or not.”

“And you don't want to?” This was news to John, and no doubt would be to his parents.

Harry stared into space. “It isn't that I don't want to look after the place, or see that it is cared for,” he murmured. “But after this, I'd like to see something of the world. Like yourself.”

“And take Caitlin with you?”

“If I could.”

John paused. “Have you asked her?”

“No. How does one ask such a thing in a war like this?”

John topped up Harry's glass and his own. They gave each other a brief salute. “Your health, Harry.”

Harry shifted his leg, and bent down to rub at it, massaging his calf muscle with a wince of pain. “They've told me that there's to be a training camp for American pilots,” he said. “It was mentioned that I might like to go there.”

“Oh? Where is it?”

“Texas. Somewhere called Camp Taliaferro.”

John gave a low whistle. “Yes, I heard of that too, in London some time back. Pretty darn far.” He immediately thought how grateful Octavia would be that Harry was out of France, even if her son had to cross the Atlantic. And then he thought how much Harry could heal there and feel free. He smiled broadly.

“Good place, is it?” Harry asked.

“Different. Big open landscape. Plenty of room. Different to London. Different to Yorkshire as can be. I imagine that flying there would be pretty exciting. In a good way.”

“No clever fucking Hun on my tail,” Harry agreed. “Is Texas desert?”

“In parts.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I'd like to go somewhere where the sun burned down to my bones. Breathe empty clean air. A wide, wide country.”

“But what about home? England?”

“Oh, I suppose I would come back eventually. It's what I've been defending these last three years.”

“But not to Rutherford?”

“If Caitlin were with me, it would depend on what she wanted.”

“And you don't think she'd like to be chatelaine of Rutherford?”

“Did my mother?” Harry asked.

“Well, gosh . . .” John paused to consider. “If circumstances had been different.”

“You mean, if she'd been loved.” John didn't answer; he thought it was not his place. Harry tapped the table. “I don't want to fence her in,” he said. “Rutherford is a giant responsibility.” He paused. “I want peace.”

“Everyone wants peace,” John observed. “Rutherford is the place to get it.”

“Peace without worries. Without duty.”

“You mean that Rutherford would be a worry, perhaps a confine to Caitlin?”

“Maybe. I don't know, Mr. Gould. All I do know is that I want Caitlin more than I want Rutherford.” He slammed his glass back down on the table. “I wish to hell I knew what had happened to her. The last thing she wrote to me was that she was on a hospital ship.”

“Which ship?”

“She didn't say. But an RMC officer told me that his brother was on
HS Salta
, and saw a red-haired nurse there called Kate. It's a straw
in the wind. I know that. I thought she might be compulsorily rested, you know? But then, I wondered if . . . experienced nurses are gold dust . . . she wouldn't walk away.” He put his hands to his face, pressed them there, and then let them fall into his lap. “I can't think where she is. It won't leave my head.”

“Did Charlotte find out anything?”

“She hasn't said. I've only had a note or two from her. The last one was from her husband, saying she'd broken her wrist. A fall, he said.”

“So perhaps she hasn't been at the hospital.”

“All the same,” Harry replied savagely. “You'd think she'd make an effort for me.”

John could see his frustration boiling, however much Harry tried to disguise it. “I shall find Caitlin,” John said, adding it to other promises that he made that morning and intended to keep. He looked up through the glass cover of the little terrace and thought of the sun streaming through the glass roof of Rutherford's orangery. “Rutherford's a wonderful place,” he said finally. “You really think you might not take it on? You are the son.”

“I am the son,” Harry murmured. And then he laughed shortly. “But you know we have a habit of running away. Me, my mother, Louisa. I hear Louisa's back now, but for how long? And there's someone else to consider. My daughter, Sessy.”

John regarded him: saw the light of affection light up Harry's face. “Sweet child,” he murmured.

“And what's the future for her if I take Rutherford on?” Harry said. “It always used to smother me somewhat, you know. What if we never have another child? What if she's like Charlotte, fretting at its confines? Sessy will be twenty-one in 1936. Do I give her Rutherford then, or in 1940 when she's twenty-five? How will she get income, how will she run it? The world's falling apart. You can
hardly get servants now, or staff. Who wants to come back from a war like this and take orders?”