The Shifting Fog (25 page)

DAVID: Come on, Fred. Quick game before you turn in?

FRED: Never could say no to a game. Keeps a fellow’s mind off things.

DAVID hands the deck to FRED. Indicates his own bandaged hand.

DAVID: Deal us up then.

FRED: What about him?

DAVID: Robbie doesn’t play. Doesn’t want to land the ace of spades.

FRED: What’s he got against the ace of spades?

DAVID (plainly): Death card.

FRED begins to laugh, the trauma of the past weeks manifesting as a sort of hysteria.

FRED: Superstitious bastard! What’s he got against death? All the world’s dead. God’s dead. Only him below left now. And the three of us.

ROBBIE is sitting in the doorway, looking out toward the front. The dog has crept over to lie by him.

ROBBIE (to himself, quoting William Blake): We’re of the Devil’s party without knowing it.

FRED (overhearing): We know it all right! A fellow only need set foot on this Godforsaken land to know the Devil’s running the show.

As DAVID and FRED continue to play cards, ROBBIE lights another cigarette and pulls a small notebook and pen from his pocket. As he writes, we see his memories of battle.

ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER):The world has gone mad. Horror has become ordinary. Men, women, children daily slaughtered. Left where they remain, or vaporised so that nothing remains. Not a hair, or a bone, or the button from a shirt. . . Civilisation is surely dead. For how can it now exist?

The sound of snoring. ROBBIE stops writing. The dog has moved his head onto ROBBIE’S leg and is fast asleep, eyelids quivering as he dreams.

We see ROBBIE’S face, lit by candle, as he watches the dog. Slowly, cautiously, ROBBIE extends a hand, lays it gently on the dog’s side. ROBBIE’S hand is trembling. He smiles faintly.

ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER): And yet, amid the horror, the innocent still find solace in sleep.

EXT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE—MORNING

It is morning. Weak sunlight breaks through the clouds. The night’s rain clings in drops to the surrounding trees and the ground is thick with new mud. The birds have emerged from hiding and call to one another. The three SOLDIERS stand outside the farmhouse, kits on their backs.

DAVID holds a compass in the hand that is not bandaged. He looks up, points in the direction of the shellfire from the night before.

DAVID: Due east. Must be Passchendaele.

ROBBIE nods grimly. Squints toward the horizon.

ROBBIE: Then we head east.

They set off. The dog hurries after them.

Full Report of the Tragic Death of Capt. David Hartford

O C T O B E R 1 9 1 7

Dear Lord Ashbury,

It is my dreadful duty to inform you of the sad news of the
death of your son, David. I understand that in such circumstances
words do little to temper your sorrow and grief, but as your
son’s immediate superior officer, and as one who knew and
admired him, I want to extend to you my sincere sympathy for
your tremendous loss.

I thought, also, to inform you of the brave circumstances
of your son’s death, in the hopes that it might bring you and
your family some consolation to know that he lived and died
like a gentleman and a soldier. On the night he was killed, he
commanded a group of men on a particularly vital piece of
reconnaissance to locate the enemy.

I have been informed by the men who accompanied your
son that between three and four o’clock, on the morning of
12 October, as they were returning from their mission, they came
under heavy fire. It was during this attack that they were shocked
by the sudden taking away of Capt. David Hartford. He was
killed instantly by gunfire, and our only consolation is that he
suffered absolutely no pain.

He was buried at first light in the northern part of the
village of Passchendaele, a name, Lord Ashbury, that will long
be remembered in the glorious history of our British armies. It
will gladden you to know that through the excellent leadership
of your son on his final mission, we were able to complete a
critical objective.

If there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate
to ask me.

I have the honour to remain, yours very sincerely,
Lieutenant Colonel Lloyd Auden Thomas.

The Photograph

It is a beautiful March morning. The pink gillyflowers beneath my window are in bloom, filling the room with their sweet and heady scent. If I lean close to the windowsill and peer down at the garden bed, I can see the outermost petals, bright with sun. The peach blossom will be next, then the jasmine. Each year it is the same; will continue to be the same for years to come. Long after I am here to enjoy them. Eternally fresh, eternally hopeful, always ingenuous.

I have been thinking about Mother. About the photograph in Lady Violet’s scrapbook. For I saw it, you know. A few months after Hannah first mentioned it, that summer’s day by the fountain. It was September of 1916. Mr Frederick had inherited his father’s estate, Lady Violet (in an impeccable show of etiquette, said Myra) had vacated Riverton and taken up residence in the London townhouse, and the Hartford girls had been dispatched indefinitely to help her settle.

We were a tiny staff at that time—Myra was busier than ever in the village and Alfred, whose leave I’d so anticipated, had been unable at the last to return. It confused us at the time: he was in Britain, sure enough, his letters assured us he wasn’t injured, yet he was to spend his leave at a military hospital. Even Mr Hamilton was unsure what to make of this. He thought long and hard, sat in his pantry pondering Alfred’s letter, until one night he emerged, rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and made his announcement. The only explanation was Alfred’s involvement in a secret war mission of which he was unable to speak. It seemed a reasonable suggestion; for what else explained the hospital accommodation of a man with no injuries?

And so the matter was closed. Little more was said about it, and in the early autumn of 1916, as leaves dropped and the ground outside began to harden, steeling itself for the freeze to come, I found myself alone in the Riverton drawing room. I had cleaned and reset the fire and was finishing up dusting. I ran the cloth across the top of the writing desk, traced its rim, then started on the drawer handles, bringing the brass to a gleam. It was a regular duty, performed each second morning as sure as day followed night, and I cannot say what set that day apart. Why that morning as my fingers reached the left-hand drawer they slowed, stopped, refused to recommence their cleaning. As if they glimpsed before I did the furtive purpose that fluttered on the edges of my thoughts.

I sat a moment, perplexed, unable to move. And I became aware of the sounds around me. The wind outside, leaves hitting the windowpanes. The mantle clock ticking insistently, counting away the seconds. My breaths, grown quick with expectation. Fingers trembling, I began to slide it open. Only then did I realise what it was I intended to do. Slowly, carefully, acting and observing myself in equal measure. The drawer reached halfway and tilted on its tracks, the contents sliding to the front.

I paused. Listened. Satisfied myself I was still alone. Then I peered inside.

There beneath a pen set and a pair of gloves: Lady Violet’s scrapbook.

No time for hesitation, the incriminating drawer already open, heartbeat pulsing against the bones of my inner ears, I slid the book from the drawer and laid it on the floor.

Flicked through the pages—photographs, invitations, menus, diary entries—scanning for dates. 1896, 1897, 1898 . . .

There it was: the household photograph of 1899, its shape familiar but its proportions different. Two long rows of straightfaced servants complementing the front line of family. Lord and Lady Ashbury, the Major in his uniform, Mr Frederick—all so much younger and less tattered—Jemima, and an unknown woman I took to be Penelope, Mr Frederick’s late wife, both with swollen stomachs. One of those bulges was Hannah, I realised; the other, an ill-fated boy whose blood would one day fail him. A lone child stood at the end of the row near Nanny (ancient even then). A small blond boy: David. Full of life and light; blissfully unaware of all the future had in store.

I let my gaze shift from his face and onto the rows of staff behind. Mr Hamilton, Mrs Townsend, Myra . . . My breath caught. I stared into the gaze of a young serving maid. There was no mistaking her. Not because she resembled Mother—far from it. Rather, she resembled me. The hair and eyes were darker, but the likeness was uncanny. The same long neck, chin tapered to a dimpled point, brows curved to give a permanent impression of deliberation.

Most surprising of all though, far more so than our resemblance: Mother was smiling. Oh, not so as you’d realise unless you knew her well. It wasn’t a smile of mirth or social greeting. It was slight, little more than a muscular tremor, easily excused as a trick of the light by those who didn’t know her. But I could see. Mother was smiling to herself. Smiling like someone with a secret—

—I apologise, Marcus, for the interruption, but I have had an unexpected caller. I was sitting here, admiring the gillyflowers, telling you of Mother, when a knock came at the door. I expected Sylvia, come to tell me about her male friend, or complain about one of the other residents, but it wasn’t. Rather it was Ursula, the film-maker. I’ve mentioned her before, surely?

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said.

‘No,’ I said, setting aside my walkman.

‘I won’t stay long. I was in the neighbourhood and it seemed silly to head back to London without popping in.’

‘You’ve been at the house.’

She nodded. ‘We were shooting a scene in the gardens, the light was just perfect.’

I asked her about the scene, curious as to which part of their story had been reconstructed today.

‘It was a scene of courtship,’ she said, ‘a romantic scene. It’s actually one of my favourites.’ She blushed, shook her head so that her fringe swung like a curtain. ‘It’s silly. I wrote the lines, I knew them when they were mere black marks on white paper—scratched them out and rewrote them a hundred times—yet I was still so moved to hear them spoken today.’

‘You’re a romantic,’ I said.

‘I suppose I am.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it. I didn’t know the real Robbie Hunter at all; I’ve created a version of him from his poetry, from what other people wrote about him. Yet I find . . .’ She paused, raised her eyebrows self-deprecatingly. ‘I fear I’m in love with a figure of my own creation.’

‘And what is your Robbie like?’

‘He’s passionate. Creative. Devoted.’ She leaned her chin on her hand as she considered. ‘But I think what I admire most about him is his hope. Such brittle hope. People say he was a poet of disillusionment, but I’m not so sure. I’ve always found something positive in his poems. The way he found possibility amid the horrors he experienced.’ She shook her head, empathy narrowed her eyes.

‘It must have been unspeakably difficult. A sensitive young man thrust into such a devastating conflict. It’s a wonder any of them were ever able to resume their lives, pick up where they left off. Love again.’

‘I was once loved by a young man like that,’ I said. ‘He went to war and we exchanged letters. It was through those letters I realised how I felt about him. And he about me.’

‘Was he changed when he came back?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said softly. ‘There were none that came back unchanged.’

Her voice was gentle. ‘When did you lose him? Your husband?’

It took me a moment to realise what she meant. ‘Oh no,’ I said.

‘He wasn’t my husband. Alfred and I were never married.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought . . .’ She motioned toward the wedding picture on my dressing table.

I shook my head. ‘That’s not Alfred, that’s John: Ruth’s father. He and I were married sure enough. Lord knows we shouldn’t have been.’

She raised her eyebrows in query.

‘John was a terrific waltzer and a terrific lover, but not much of a husband. I dare say I wasn’t much of a wife either. I’d never intended to marry, you see. I wasn’t at all prepared.’

Ursula stood, picked up the photograph. Traced her thumb absently along the top. ‘He was handsome.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That was the attraction, I expect.’

‘Was he an archaeologist too?’

‘Heavens, no. John was a public servant.’

‘Oh,’ she set the photograph down. Turned to me. ‘I thought you might have met through work. Or at university.’

I shook my head. In 1938, when John and I met, I’d have called a doctor for anyone who suggested I might some day attend university. Become an archaeologist. I was working in a restaurant—the Lyons’

Corner House in the Strand—serving unending fried fish to the unending dining public. Mrs Havers, who ran the place, liked the idea of someone who’d been in service. She was fond of telling anyone who’d listen there was none knew how to polish cutlery quite like the girls from service.

‘John and I met quite by accident,’ I said. ‘At a dance club.’

I had agreed, grudgingly, to meet a girl from work. Another waitress. Nancy Everidge: a name I’ve never forgotten. Strange. She was nothing to me. Someone I worked with, avoided where I could, though that was easier said than done. She was one of those women who couldn’t let well enough alone. A busybody, I suppose. Had to know everyone else’s business. Was only too ready to interfere. Nancy must’ve taken it into her head I didn’t socialise enough, didn’t join in with the other girls on Monday mornings when they cackled about the weekend, for she started on at me about coming dancing, wouldn’t let up until I’d agreed to meet her at Marshall’s Club on Friday night.

I sighed. ‘The girl I was supposed to meet didn’t show up.’

‘But John did?’ Ursula said.

‘Yes,’ I said, remembering the smoky air, the stool in the corner where I perched uncomfortably, scanning the crowd for Nancy. Oh,she was full of excuses and apologies when I saw her next, but it was too late then. What was done was done. ‘I met John instead.’