The Heart's War (17 page)

It wasn't until I got back to my room, nightgown and housecoat bundled in my arms with a fresh clear skirt and blouse on my body, that I saw the note under the door.

Fingers seemed to squeeze my heart and throat, and I swallowed heavily as I sat on my bed and looked down at the little piece of folded paper.

It had to be word from Second Leftenant Cross. My letter could not have reached Marie so quickly, and no one else knew I was staying there.

I couldn't make my hands reach out for it. Inside, the truth waited. Again, I found myself wallowing in the bliss of ignorance. So long as I didn't peek inside that bit of paper, I could believe whatever I wanted about Jeff's whereabouts. I had the comfort of him being possibly within arm's reach, as well as the worry that he was already gone.

And I didn't want to leave the warmth of that comfort. My stomach tightened, and a sick feeling travelled up my throat. I ran my fingers through the tight strands of hair running towards the back of my head, carelessly pulling them free in my anxiety.

It's
okay, I thought, trying to steel myself, whatever it says in there, the truth is better than any lie. It was the truth that set you free, wasn't it? Lies could bind you in chains of gold and silver, but in the end they still trapped you.

But some people are content with entrapment, preferring a gilded prison to whatever unknown lay beyond their bindings.

I rubbed my hands together, flexing and stretching my fingers.

The note fluttered as someone passed by in the hall, the wind of their movement sliding under the doorjamb to catch it.

I flung myself down and grabbed the note before it could be carried under my door. A few black letters were visible, but I willed myself not to read.

But now I had it in my hand. The bare floorboards hurt my knees, and I knew that my skirt would pick up any dust, pressed down so hard. But I couldn't make myself stand.

I prayed that the note held good news. But even as I whispered my desire to the ceiling, I knew that whatever Second Leftenant Cross had sent me couldn't be changed no matter how I willed it.

Still looking up at the ceiling, I unfolded the note. My breath caught in my lungs as I forced my eyes down, revealing more and more of the chipped finish on the door.

Trying to buy myself a few more moments, I brought my hands (clutching the note) in against my stomach. I could see my knees now, and the stretched fabric of the skirt.

Then my fingers.
I let my eyes unfocus, blurring the black letters.

Unable to stall any longer, I took a breath, blinked, and looked down.

"Miss Eleanor Winters,

I have made enquiries into the whereabouts of Private Jeffrey Beech. As promised, I've sent you this telegram with my findings.

Private Beech, along with the rest of his battalion, reported to their field commander in Belgium this morning, directly after leaving their transport.

All the best,

2nd Lt. Cross"

I read it again, then a third time. When the words didn't change, I wiped at my eyes with the heels of my palms. No change.

With my remaining energy, I scooted back on the floor until I could lean against the footboard.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. A hole had opened up inside me, sucking away almost all feeling and leaving me numb.

Jeff had reported today. While I slept, he'd been crossing the Channel. Yesterday, while I was here in Liverpool, so was he.

The army's lack of record keeping had kept us apart. I had travelled all the way to Halifax by train. By some miracle, I landed a berth on the Olympic (and nearly died for my troubles). I made it all the way to Liverpool, in England. We had been in the same city for hours.

For all I know, Jeff took the same trolley as me at a different point in the day. Our paths may have intersected, however many moments apart, God knew how many times.

I wished then that I could take back my letter to Marie. If I could I'd redraft it. It would say something along the lines of "Jeff is gone.
Catching the ship back home as soon as possible."

Crawling up onto my small bed, I pulled the covers over myself to blot out the light. Some still made its way through the thin fabric, but if I closed my eyes I could pretend that I floated in a black nothing.

My breathing made the air grow stale quickly, and in all my clothes the heat made me nauseous.

But I couldn't bring myself to pull the covers off. I writhed beneath them, tangling myself. For a second, I wished they'd just wrap around my neck and choke me.

They'd managed to snatch him away from me again.

Why couldn't I just open my eyes, pull down the covers, and find myself back at
home to find that all this was just some vivid nightmare?

I squeezed my eyelids shut even harder and tried to bring his face to my mind. His features appeared easily enough, and I had a moment of lightness as I imagined him smiling at me.

I wanted him to tell me everything would be okay. That he'd be here any time now.

But I had forgotten his voice. My heart raced as my forehead scrunched. I tried to force the memory, to pull up the sound of his voice from some recent event.

He spoke, telling me the words I wanted to hear. But it still wasn't his voice.

After some unknown amount of time, I sat up. The covers were knotted about me, and my hair stood out at odd angles from all the rubbing against the pillow. I wiped at my eyes, but found them dry still.

My little room seemed so drab, so drained of color. That awful note leeched all the vibrancy from life.

Pulling my shoes out from the mess of sheets, I put them back on.

The first order of business was to write Marie a letter explaining everything. I went back down to the bar.

"Oh,
dearie, what's wrong? Was it something in that note? You weren't there when I knocked, so I slid it under your door," Jill said.

Her forehead creased, and she wrung the rag in her hands as she leaned against the bar. I couldn't bring myself to share the news yet. Some part of me still held out hope that by not giving voice to it, it wouldn't be true.

"It's nothing," I said, forcing my lips into something like a smile, "I hate to bother you, but could I get more writing supplies again? I need to send another letter."

And after that, I thought, I need to get back on a ship to Canada. I wanted to laugh as a thought occurred to me. What if I got on the Mauretania and took it back? What if I ended up in the same bunk or room Jeff had used about that liner?

It was like we were out of sync.

Jill Milton took one of my hands in one of hers and gave it a few consoling pats. She made vague cooing, conciliatory noises. I could tell that she badly wanted to know what the note had said, and why I found it so upsetting. She seemed like such a nice woman.

I wrote my second letter at the bar. The whole time, all I could think was how badly I wanted a drink. Sat right near the taps, the aromas of barley and hop hung thick in the air.

I stopped, my pen leaving a little blob of black, shiny ink on the paper. Was this why my father drank?
To forget? Had it helped him at all? In my state of mind at that moment, I couldn't determine whether it had or not. His drunkenness hadn't stopped his nightmares or his breakdowns. The more alcohol he forced down his throat, the worse things got.

Blotting at the blob of ink with the corner of the paper, I continued. I sealed it up in an envelope and addressed it by rote.

Then I found myself at the post office again with only vague memories of how I arrived.

The clerk behind the desk straightened his dark vest and then squinted down at the letter I placed in front of him. He was an old man with large ears and a neat white beard.

"How soon will the mail get to Canada?" I asked. For all I knew it also went across on the Mauretania or the Olympic, and would arrive at Marie's doorstep at the same time as myself. If that were the case, I thought I might at least save the postage.

"Well, with the war and what all, it could be a month or more. Your first letter went off, though," he said.

"What do you mean?"

He spun on his stool and put my letter on top of a pile. Then he grabbed up that pile and straightened them up by banging them on the desk. I flinched, but he didn't stop. Taking his time, he straightened out the envelopes and put them back on the sorting table.

"What do you mean?" I said again, my voice taking on an edge.

The postal worker looked at me, his eyes widening as though he forgot I was there.

"Oh! Well, what I mean... That is to say... The ship’s already left, them what were moored in the harbor."

"The Olympic?"
I asked as my stomach filled with ice water.

"And
th'other big one, Cunard's boat," he said.

"But why?"
I asked, not really meaning to say it out loud. I had only been in the city a day and a night. Didn't they need more time for fuelling and cleaning? Why would they both go?

"Well, we need more 'o them Canadian boys. Probably went back to fetch a couple more boatloads of '
em."

I leaned over the counter, my hips pressed against the edge. He nearly toppled back off his stool.

"Are there any others? Any other ships that go back to Canada?"

He looked up at the ceiling and scratched at the grey hairs covering his neck.

"None as carries the mail, or the soldiers. Papers say there are Germans all over the sea, just waiting for a nice, big ship to come on by. Might I help you with anything else, dear?"

"No...
no, I don't think so," my voice said. I had retreated back into that safe spot at the back of my mind. It was like watching events through a tunnel as my body turned, pushed open the door, and started back up for Ranelagh Street and the Milton boarding house.

I was stuck in England. Jeff was gone. He could be fighting right at that moment, I knew.

Dimly, I could hear the trolley bells and the bluster of engines, and the shock of each step as I put one foot in front of the other. But all I could really hear was my fervent whisper that Jeff would be all right. That he'd come back to England and rescue me, then take me home.

I didn't care about Paris anymore, no matter how large or expensive the ring. Jeff was enough. That wasn't so much to ask, was it?

Chapter 16

As if to spite the daylight shining down on the Belgian countryside, thunder split the air. The artillery shells smashed into the earth, throwing great clods of dirt and mud into the sky.

Jeff poked his head out over the top of the trench, screening his face with his hand.

The artillery blasts left enormous pockmarks on the face of the field. Water from all the fog and rain leaked into the holes, turning them into muddy deathtraps.

"Beech! Get your head down!" Sergeant Foxwood said, "Unless you want to end up like White."

Jeff flinched as a shell exploded close to the Canadian line. Everyone behind him ducked, covering their helmets with their arms as hot mud splattered them.

He jumped down off the little bench that had been hewn from the side of the trench.

White had poked his head up for a look two days ago. He'd caught the German sniper's round right in the teeth. Just thinking about it left an uncomfortable stirring sensation in Jeff's stomach.

"All right, boys! Get your rifles ready! We go over when the artillery stops!" Foxwood shouted, trying to be heard over the near-constant roar of the guns.

Jeff hefted the Enfield battle rifle, pulling back the bolt slightly to check the action. It was a better weapon than the hunting rifle the Canadian Corps provided. He'd had to take it off the body of a dead Brit. He'd also taken a pair of boots. The first pair he'd been given had rotted around his feet in the muck at the bottom of the trenches.

Jeff took his position at the wall along with the thirty other remaining members of his squad. The wall of the trench was cold and wet. The mud stank, too. Gunpowder lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of human waste and rotting bodies.

Jeff closed his eyes. He prayed then that the artillery would never stop. If it didn't,
Foxwood would never call out the order to go over and charge those machineguns.

It had been a mistake to bombard the Germans first, he knew. Everyone knew that. There was no surprise, now. As soon as the bombs stopped falling, the Germans would set up those chattering guns that could spit out hundreds of bullets a minute.

His fingers dug deeper into the muck. Some of it trickled down under his sleeve, leaving a cool, slimy trail. He didn't care.

Had the guns slowed? There seemed to be a heartbeat's space between the droning rounds of manmade thunder.

"Check your actions!" Foxwood called. He'd taken position to Jeff's right. His voice was high and strident, his lips pulled back in a snarl as he tried to order his men.