The Steady Running of the Hour: A Novel (42 page)

—Stop it.

—It’s true enough. But what I want to know is, if you’re the gifted one, why am I painting all day in that bloody barn while you do nothing but stare at the ceiling or knit a bloody afghan? Is that your great dream for your life—to be twice as clever as everyone, then throw it all away to be melancholy, and raise a melancholy child? As if you could manage even that. Imogen, it isn’t my fault if you walk out of your exams and spend a useless year in London. It isn’t my fault if we’re having a row at one in the morning. And it isn’t my fault if we’re in Sweden because you couldn’t stand to wait for Ashley—

—Don’t you dare.

—Am I wrong? Two months ago you told me Ashley wished to marry. It seemed to amuse you as rather quaint. But now that you’re expecting, you tell Papa he won’t marry. And yet he seems to send whole mailbags of letters.

Imogen gasps. —You read them?

—I don’t need to. It’s already clear enough to me why we’re here. Because you couldn’t stand to do what every grown woman in England does every day, and simply support the man she loves.

—Support him to certain death?

—He’s a soldier, Imogen. He was a soldier when you met him, you simply ignored that as long as you could. When you finally realized what that meant, you decided you’d scorn everyone and raise a child on your own. Only when Papa tells you it’s impossible and proposes Sweden
instead, you’ll go along with it for so long. You’ll sit quietly while we tell the Graftons and half of London that I’m expecting. You’ll say nothing while Charles and I move heaven and earth to prepare for a child, to prepare this house, and you’ll come all the way here without so much as a word. But once we get to Sweden—once you know it’s too late for us to turn back—now you say you can’t do it, for if someone expects something from you, you can’t bear to give it to them—

—I never chose this. Papa forced it on me.

—Because you’d turned away from ordinary choices. You wanted only the impossible. Can’t you see that? If all the world wants one thing, you shall have to have the other, if only for that reason. If Ashley loves you, that’s fine with you, because he’s only in England for a week, and after that you’ll write every day and say all kinds of things to him, so that he thinks of you the whole time he’s in France. You’ll sleep with him right away—

—Stop it.

—You did, didn’t you? But you couldn’t stand beside him, because it was too hard.

—You don’t understand. I only wanted to save him, for the two of us to make our own way.

Eleanor scoffs. —I understand more than you know. Didn’t I read the same books as you, years before you took them from my shelf? Do you imagine that Charles wished to be in the army, or that I wanted him away in Palestine? I didn’t. But part of growing older is caring about other people enough to accept their responsibilities. Even when things are not quite perfect. Especially then. It’s fine to have high ideas about the world, but Imogen, you find fault with everything. Ashley couldn’t satisfy you, and Papa drives you mad, and now I can’t please you. And I don’t deny this has become a trap for us both, but hating each other won’t bring us out of it. You think it’s no good if you can’t do it all yourself, but there are limits—

—It’s my life. I can’t give it over to other people.

—You can. You must, to some degree. A woman can’t live only for herself. They may say she can, but she can’t. Not even a man can do it and have much of a happy life, but a woman even less.

—How do you know? How long did you live for yourself, before giving in to the first decent man who proposed?

Eleanor narrows her eyes at Imogen.

—You’re a child. An utter child about to have a child of her own, and it makes me fearful. You haven’t a clue what you speak of, or I couldn’t forgive you for it. You imagine you’re cleverer than all of us, and perhaps so, but I think you’re only more stubborn.

Imogen shakes her head.

—Then tell me what to do. If you’re so clever, tell me what I can do, what will fix it all and make everyone happy.

—For God’s sake, that’s exactly the point. You’ll have to give up something. You can’t please everyone, but you want to please no one. Choose your family, or choose Ashley, or even choose your own bloody self over everyone, as you wanted all along. But don’t change your mind every hour. And don’t blame your troubles on me.

Imogen looks into the door of the stove. They have not put a fresh log on for hours and they sit in the cold with their arms crossed. Suddenly Imogen stands.

—Then I’ve made my choice. I’m leaving.

She goes upstairs and packs the large Gladstone, tossing in skirts and tunics at random. Eleanor comes into the bedroom, pleading for her to stop, saying Imogen will wake Mrs. Hasslo and if this goes much longer the housekeeper is certain to give notice.

—Let her give notice, Imogen says. You won’t need her when I’m gone.

Imogen pulls on her overcoat, tugging fur-topped boots onto her feet with difficulty, Eleanor watching and wishing to help yet feeling that she must not help. Imogen dashes down the steps and out the front door, hatless with her coat buttoned halfway to her neck.

It is frighteningly cold. In the darkness Imogen stumbles down the twisting path to the pier, trying to follow a faint set of footprints covered with fresh snow. Eleanor shuffles a few paces behind, buttoning her own coat, a candle in her hand.

—Come inside, we’ll freeze out here. Think of the baby, you might be damaging—

—All you care for is the bloody baby.

—You’re hysterical. We must go back—

—I’ll never go back in there. Never.

Imogen staggers through the powdery shadows. She veers from the path by accident, stepping in heaps of soft snow that come to her knees. Eleanor grasps at her sister’s shoulders but Imogen pulls away and goes on downhill, zigzagging through the trees, the Gladstone swinging in her hand. She falls down twice and her back is covered in snow as she nears the lakeshore, hobbling among the stones.

Imogen finally reaches the pier. She runs down its length until she stands on the final rickety plank, the vast frozen lake spread before her. It looks as empty as anything she has ever seen, obscene in its bare white solitude. Eleanor catches up and tries to pull her own fur hat over Imogen’s head, but Imogen struggles away. Eleanor’s candle goes out. Their faces are in darkness.

—Just let me go. I can’t do it. I know I said I could, but I can’t. We’re allowed some mistakes, aren’t we? Our lives can’t end because of one mistake—

—I’m not keeping you here.

—There’s no one else.

—Then go on. Run away from here, see if it solves everything. I shan’t stop you.

Imogen is shivering. Her coat is still unbuttoned at the neck but she holds the collar together with her bare hands. She has forgotten her gloves and her hands are shaking.

—I don’t want to live without him.

Eleanor watches her sister shivering before the lake. Finally she pulls her hat on Imogen and puts her arm around her. Slowly they begin to climb the path back to the house.

—I can’t live without him, Ellie. I thought I could, but I can’t—

—I know. Hush, darling. I know.

—Can you hear it? Mireille whispers. It’s the train.

Her voice is so low that I barely catch it. We stand ten feet apart on the station platform under an iron-gray sky, both of us looking down the tracks. No one else is here. The wind whips our hair and lifts the refuse of departed travelers, empty paper cups and plastic wrappers writhing and coasting along the platform. Down the road at the railway crossing, the ruby lights blink in turn as the striped barrier lurches down.

I swing on my backpack. Mireille reaches into her bag and hands me a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

—
Un petit cadeau
, she says.
Ça ne coûte rien.

—I didn’t get you anything.

Mireille smiles. —I know. How many times do you change trains?

—Three. It was the cheapest way. Lille, Brussels and Düsseldorf.

—We don’t make it easy for you to get there.

The train appears now, a distant point on the tracks ahead. The loudspeaker chimes twice and a recorded voice announces the arrival.

—Mireille, listen. I’m sorry I’m leaving like this. I’ll call you from Berlin—

—
Au revoir
.

She touches my hand and starts off down the platform. I run after her, but before I reach her she stops and turns to me.

—Everyone said you were using me for a place to stay. They told me not to get too close to you, because sooner or later you’d just go. But I didn’t listen to them. Was I wrong? Were you just using me?

—Of course not—

—How do I know that?

—Because I’ll come back.

Mireille shakes her head.

—Tristan, I want to believe that. But I don’t even know if you do.

For a moment we only look at each other. I run my hand over my face, wondering if I should get on the train. Mireille comes closer and touches my shoulder, forcing a smile.

—I hope you find what you’re looking for.

She turns and walks off down the platform. The conductor is waving at me and calling for boarding, so I get on the train and take a seat beside the window. I unfold my tray table and set the parcel down.

As the train pulls away from the station, I tear away the brown paper to find a square metal case, dented and rusted, small but with a solid heft. It opens on hinges, revealing a brass disk in its fitted leather setting. I snap open the disk’s cover. An antiqued white face indicating the four cardinal directions, with every degree of variation demarcated on the ivory dial. A compass. There is an engraving on the reverse:
Cruchon & Emons London 1917
.

There is handwriting on the scraps of brown paper. I piece together the fragments on my tray table to read the message. It is in French and it takes me a moment to understand it.

Dear Tristan,

I found this in an antique shop in Abbeville. The dealer swore it was English, from the war, pulled out of a field by some farmer.
I don’t believe it, and I don’t think it works. But if anyone could find out, it would be you.

Mireille

I put the scraps in a plastic bag, hiding them deep in the lining of my backpack against the packframe. It’s over now and there’s nothing I can do. Unless I forget about Berlin and get off at the next stop.

—You can’t do it, I whisper. Not now.

The train is gathering speed. Through the window I see the other cars curving ahead as the tracks gradually change direction. I look down at the compass. The instrument has been disturbed from too much movement, the needle swinging wildly in every direction. I hold the compass level and watch the dial. Slowly the needle swings to fifty degrees, north by northeast. The compass still works.

2 January 1917

La Calotterie

Pas-de-Calais, France

Private Mayhew knocks twice on the door and enters the bedroom. Ashley lies in bed, the feather duvet drawn tight against his chin. His eyes are open. He is looking at the ceiling.

—Morning, sir, Mayhew says. Six o’clock.

Mayhew lights the fireplace and stokes the flames until he is confident the fire is sufficient. He puts a pitcher of steaming water on the dresser and prepares a bowl of shaving cream, foaming the lather in a porcelain bowl with a horsehair brush. He brings in Ashley’s uniform on a pair of hangers, the tunic’s brass buttons freshly polished. Since Ashley’s injury Mayhew has been a better servant, and Ashley does not know if this is because Mayhew respects him more now, or simply because the battalion has been at rest these two weeks.

—Anything else, sir?

—No, that’s fine.

Ashley takes
Le Journal d’Amiens
from the nightstand and pages through it for a few minutes, intermittently glancing at the gray morning outside. He wishes he could finish the newspaper, but he wants to shave while the water is still hot.

He rises from bed and props the newspaper against the mirror on the dresser. He swings the blade of the razor from its black celluloid handle, swirling it in the pitcher until the metal is warm to the touch. Ashley wets his face and brushes on the lather, then draws the blade carefully across his cheek, pausing at times to consider the newspaper’s headlines.