The Storms of War (22 page)

Wheeler was standing straight, looking outwards at the dark mass of nothing. ‘Psst!’ He did not turn around. ‘Psst!’

He turned. ‘Sir?’

‘Thought I would come and see you,’ said Michael, feeling shy. ‘To find out how you are.’

‘Not bad, thank you, sir. It seems rather quiet out there.’

‘Michael.’

‘Michael, then. I can’t really see much, to be honest. A few of our officers walked past and that was it.’

‘I am very glad to hear it is quiet. I brought you some chocolate.’

‘Did Princess Mary send us some after all?’

‘Sadly not. Cheap stuff I bought in the shop here.’ Michael sat on the fire step. The cool air, the stars, the lack of people felt like a kind of freedom – the first he had really felt since that night at Stoneythorpe when he and Tom had discussed leaving. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, holding out the meagre bar.

‘Thanks, sir. I was almost dropping off out here. Not that you heard me say that, of course.’ Wheeler’s breath came out frosty, little clouds in the darkness. Michael wanted to reach out and capture them in his hands.

‘Of course.’

‘Do you have a cigarette?’

‘For you, of course.’
Anything,
Michael wanted to add, but just at the moment of speaking, he felt too shy. He took a cigarette
from his packet and passed it up to Wheeler.
Stuart,
he wanted to say.
Can I – may I – call you Stuart?

‘Could you light it for me?’

Michael had to breathe in to feel the weight of what Stuart had asked.
Light it.
‘Of course!’ he said, too brightly. The match flickered in the darkness. Stuart leaned in, sucked.
Oh God.
‘Let’s try and ignite some German shells,’ Michael said, too quickly, stumbling over the words as he took his fingers away.

Stuart blew out smoke and laughed a little. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Michael. Please.’ He could hear the begging note in his voice as he said the words.

‘Michael. Michael and Stuart. Has quite a good sound to it, don’t you think?’ Wheeler blew out a smoke ring.

‘Come and sit by me?’ The words hung in the air.

‘That would be breaking the rules. They could court-martial me.’

‘I’m your officer. I’ll tell them not to.’

That laugh again.
Oh God.
‘Well, if you say so. Michael.’

Stuart sat down beside him, not half a foot away, but
right beside him.
Michael could almost feel his flesh through his coat. He couldn’t speak. His hands were sweating, even though the air was freezing. Tiny flares sparked up over the land in front. He stared at them, trying to see them and nothing else.

‘You know, I quite like the army, never thought I would.’

‘Oh?’

‘The other fellows are good sorts. Beldon, in my last company, was telling me that the food is better than he can afford at home. Says that often he and his wife give their little boy the meat and they have the water it’s cooked in.’

Michael looked at the chocolate in his hand. ‘There is certainly food, that’s true.’

‘Honestly, I think it’s the first place I have ever really fitted in. I wouldn’t say boo to a goose as a kid. I wasn’t much of a teacher. My mother wanted me to do it but the older ones ran rings around me, girls as well as boys.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

‘Oh no, don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t want to be one of them,
working and the pub and then marrying some poor girl round the corner and giving her six kids. I like being different.’ He blew out smoke and turned to look at Michael. His eyes shone in the gloom. A flare shot up nearer to them. ‘Like you, sir. Don’t you like being different too?’

Michael felt himself go scarlet. Thank God it was so dark. He started to speak but it came out as a stammer.
Breathe,
he told himself.

‘I’m not wrong, am I? You are?’

Michael coughed, tried to speak. Then tried again. ‘I don’t know,’ he managed, his voice strangled.

‘I knew from when I was very small. But I had to find the right person. I did – for a while. An older fellow, new to the village. We used to meet near the canal boats, hide in the trees. Stan, his name was. Then his parents came to visit, he got scared and before you could say lickety-split, he was back in his old town and married to a cousin. I was pretty angry, you can imagine. But I think now he must be more unhappy than me.’

‘Did you ever hear from him?’

‘Oh, I had two letters. One telling me the news and thanking me for my friendship and telling me to be happy as a friend. Then a year or so later he wrote again, just pally, asked how I was. I wasn’t going to answer. I didn’t.’

‘No. I can – er – see that.’

‘It only makes you unhappy if you don’t live for what you really want, I think, sir,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree?’ He blew out another smoke ring. Michael stared at it, floating up to the sky. A flare rose beyond it.

Michael felt something. It was … it was Stuart’s hand on his knee.
Put yours over it,
he willed himself. It was down by his side.
Do it.
He couldn’t.
Oh God.

‘You know, sir,’ Wheeler’s voice was soft, his mouth very close to Michael’s ear, ‘if there is something you want to try, you should. Life’s too short.
Our
life is too short.’

Michael edged his own hand on to the outside of his leg. That
was all he could do. The land ahead of him had blurred, as if he had put on a short-sighted man’s glasses.

‘Anything you might like to try.’ Wheeler’s voice was still close to his ear. Michael closed his eyes. He could feel the other man’s breath on his skin. His hand on his leg. He opened his eyes, turned his head. The space glittered in between them. And then Stuart moved his face closer and the shock ran through Michael as he felt the chapped patches on the soft wetness of the other man’s lips, the coolness of his cheeks. He opened his mouth and let Wheeler in.

London, February 1916

‘Well come on!’ said Emmeline. ‘I don’t have all day!’ She pushed Celia forward, towards a group of women in bright dresses holding up signs and placards wishing goodbye to the Westminster Fusiliers. Celia stared at them waving out, dabbing their eyes.

‘Don’t feel sorry for those girls,’ Emmeline snapped. ‘They think sending men off to fight is the most heroic thing that anyone could do.’

‘Well, isn’t it?’ But Emmeline was charging ahead like a navy-coated comet and Celia had to break into an ungainly run, bumping along with her bags, to try to catch up. The platform was thronged with soldiers, all wearing khaki, clapping each other on the back and shouting to one another. One threw Celia a wink.

‘Come
on,
Celia!’ Emmeline pulled her past the lady ticket inspector into the concourse under the light of the glass roof. The walls of the station were plastered in posters calling for soldiers. One showed a sad-looking man in a brown suit sitting on a chair. A little girl with a bow in her hair perched on his lap with a history book; a small boy at his feet played with toy soldiers.
Daddy, what did YOU do in the Great War?
was the caption underneath. Celia stared at the man’s face, etched with pain. Who sat down and drew these things? she wondered. What person in charge said,
Actually, make sure he looks really miserable otherwise the poster won’t work.

‘I’ll go without you!’

Celia hurried after Emmeline’s hat and through the great entrance of Waterloo station. A team of women in long skirts carrying mops walked past her – train cleaners, she supposed. The dirty cold air hit her hard. ‘Shall we look for a cab?’ There
was double, triple the number of people there had been last time she’d been to London, nothing but great groups of them, hurrying towards her like shoals of fish, ready to gobble her up.

‘A cab!’ Emmeline threw back her head. ‘Things have changed now, little sister. We will get the bus. That is, unless you have come equipped with hundreds of pounds?’

Celia shook her head.

‘Thought not. Come on – there it is!’ She hurried towards a small crowd of people. Celia picked up her skirts and dashed after her. The bus bore a great picture of Lord Kitchener.

They clambered to the top. ‘More room up here,’ said Emmeline. ‘Sometimes it gets so busy with all the rich people who aren’t using their cars.’ She settled herself into a seat and Celia balanced her feet on her case, tucking her legs under her skirts to keep warm.

‘Was London really always like this?’ she asked, staring out of the window at the giant buildings and the throngs of people. ‘I don’t remember it so busy.’ She hadn’t really looked at the city when they’d come to see Rudolf, she’d been so busy reading to Verena, quelling her nerves.

‘Yes, well you were a child when we lived here,’ snorted Emmeline. ‘Not that you look like one any more.’ She gave her an appraising look. ‘You have certainly changed, and for the better. Your face has filled out and your hair is looking handsome. I suppose you didn’t have food shortages in the country.’

‘Not really.’ Celia blushed at the thought of their groaning Christmas table. Emmeline hadn’t changed, she thought, though she looked even more beautiful, more like a delicate fairy than ever.

‘You are much improved. Although I really thought it was impossible that you could grow any taller. You’re a great height, quite a giant. I suppose you are still always tripping over your feet.’

It was February 1916. Celia could hardly think where the last year had gone – a whole year frittered, she supposed, reading to Verena and hoping for letters from Rudolf, Michael, Emmeline,
Tom – even Arthur. After the most dismal Christmas she could imagine, when even Mrs Rolls cried, she had decided she should do something. If she’d been just three or four years older, she could have gone off and lived anywhere she liked. But she was too young, she was at home, she could think of nothing to do. Earlier in the month she had dreaded turning seventeen, in case nobody remembered, but in the morning there’d been a letter from Michael – and one from Emmeline. Jennie held them out to her, her face pink with pleasure. ‘I kept them back so you’d have them today,’ she said. Celia held them, chastised herself for still longing to ask if there had been one from Tom, then sat down, read them in order. Michael was busy with work, a lot of new trenches to be dug and organised. It was Emmeline’s letter that flung the surprise at her. Celia had expected the usual words:
I am enjoying myself, I will not give you my address.
This one was different. Emmeline wished her a happy birthday – then asked her to come and visit for a few days. ‘I would like to see you, sister.’

Jennie had told Verena about the letter, and when Celia went up to read to her, she asked to see it.

‘She is inviting you to visit?’ asked Verena, staring at it.

‘It’s a surprise to me.’ Suddenly Celia wanted nothing more than to go to London and see her sister. ‘I think that if I go to see her, I might be able to persuade her to come back.’

Verena sank back against her pillows. ‘How can none of my children want to be with me? I carried you all. I bore you. And all of you want to leave me.’

‘I’ll ask her to come back.’

‘Will you? Will you not want to stay there with her? In London, away from me?’

‘I promise.’

‘You cannot go alone. I shall come too.’

Celia’s heart sank. ‘Let’s ask Emmeline first.’

A tear rolled down Verena’s cheek. ‘Emmeline wants you, not me.’

‘I don’t think it’s that, Mama. Look, she says the place is very small, see. Perhaps they only have enough guest rooms for one.’

‘No one wants me.’

‘Oh, Mama. It’s the war! If it wasn’t for that, Michael would be here. Look, even if he hadn’t already gone to fight, the government would force him now, with that new law. Papa too, if he wasn’t in prison.’

‘Celia, your father is almost fifty!’

‘How old do you have to be before you’re safe? Arthur should stay away, in case he gets called up. Maybe Mr Janus is going into the army and that’s why she wants to see me.’

Verena nodded. ‘That is a good point.’ Celia could see she was coming round. ‘But you can’t go alone. Lady Redroad’s man goes to London once a week to collect her gowns. He shall escort you. If you are so ashamed of your mother.’

‘I am not!’ Celia said. But there was no way to make it hurt Verena less.

After that came discussions by letter about when Celia might or might not go. Certain dates simply did not work, Emmeline said. When she finally wrote that a week on Tuesday would be perfect, in fact that was the
only
time she could come, Celia rushed to tell Verena. Her mother sat up.

‘Celia, I have something to tell you. You know … well … when people are married, they have babies. Well, sometimes, people … er … have babies anyway. If there is one, you must not be surprised.’

Celia was blushing terribly. The words whispered to her in the dorm by Gwendolyn and the others came back: ‘Men might kiss you and then you get a
baby
.’

‘I won’t, Mama.’ Even though Emmeline with a baby seemed the strangest thing she could imagine.

Just before she left, Verena gave her a fistful of money. ‘Some of this is for your expenses,’ she said. ‘The rest is to persuade your sister to come home.’

‘I’m seventeen now! You would expect me to be taller.’

‘Indeed. Still a child. But a huge height. You must stop growing.’

Emmeline adjusted her hat. It was a new one, dark blue with paler flowers, Celia noticed, and then reminded herself that of
course it was new. Her sister had left nearly all of her clothes behind. Celia supposed she must have sold her jewellery to buy new things. She stole a look at her sister’s stomach. It didn’t look bigger – and surely if Emmeline had a baby, she would have mentioned it by now. Her mind struggled. What did you do with babies?

‘We’ve been sad without you,’ she said. ‘Mother has been sad. I wish you would come back. I promised her I would ask you.’

‘Oh Celia, you know I cannot go back now,’ said Emmeline. ‘Not after this.’

‘Mama says that we all leave her.’

‘You haven’t. And Arthur and Michael will come back.’

‘Do you write to Michael?’

Emmeline drew her legs under herself. ‘This bus is freezing. He says France is muddy. That’s about it.’

‘I know. Can I see his letters?’

‘Of course you can. If I can see yours.’

A lady ticket collector came to punch holes in their tickets. ‘Imagine if they wore trousers,’ whispered Emmeline. ‘Too far, don’t you think?’

‘Things aren’t so good at home.’ Celia looked quickly at the old woman perched on the seat next to them and lowered her voice. ‘You’re not married?’

‘No.’ Emmeline stared resolutely out of the window. The houses they passed had crumbling roofs, fronts that looked as if they had lost their paint years ago. Some were boarded and covered up. They were plastered in posters.

‘Is Mr Janus going to go?’

‘No. His lungs are not good enough.’

Four men in uniform mounted the bus. ‘Poor him. But Emmy, why won’t he marry you?’

Emmeline tossed her head. ‘You are so old-fashioned, Celia. Maybe
I
don’t want to marry
him.’

‘Emmeline!’ she cried. The old woman coughed and Celia dropped her voice. ‘But what can you mean?’ They turned into Trafalgar Square. Even the base of Nelson’s Column was covered
in posters. A fat man in a Union Jack with a stick, a line of soldiers behind him, pointed his finger:
Who’s absent? Is it you?

Her sister looked the same, spoke in the same voice – but nothing was like the old Emmeline. Every word coming from her mouth was unfamiliar: not marrying, living in London, buses, Mr Janus. Celia felt as if she was all at sea. Had this new Emmeline been there all along and Celia just had not seen her?

‘Shouldn’t all ladies be married? You have changed so much!’

‘Celia, I feel like I am a different person to the one who wanted to marry Sir Hugh. I think, in the end, I could never be a lady of the manor. Papa always thinks so much of us all. But I’m not up to it.’

‘But to go from that – to this. You could have not married Sir Hugh. You didn’t need to run away with Mr Janus. I cannot understand it.’

‘Well, I loved him. I love him.’ Celia reddened at her words. ‘It is because you thought you were the only one who wanted to have adventures. Don’t lie. I heard you playing games with Tom. And now I have gone to do something different and you’re jealous.’

‘I’m not jealous! I just mean—’

The bus lurched and Emmeline jumped up. ‘This is our stop. Come on.’ Celia clambered down the steps after her sister. They walked along a road filled with shops and turned into a square of houses that must once have been handsome Georgian buildings, arranged around a threadbare garden with broken railings. Now most looked like they were uncared for: splintered window frames, doors with peeling paint.

‘Where are we? Has it been bombed here?’

‘Of course not. This is Bloomsbury. Very near the British Museum. Welcome to Bedford Square. Now come along in.’ Emmeline unlocked a dirty black door and led her into a dingy hall.

‘This is a nice house,’ said Celia, looking at the damp on the walls. A bicycle was leaning against one, along with a collection of sweeping brushes. The maid must be occupied upstairs, she supposed, rather than ushering them in.

‘I dare say, but we only have a flat. We are on the top floor.’

‘A flat?’ Celia had never met anyone who lived in a flat. ‘What, you mean that there are
other people
in this house?’

‘That’s right. A flat. We are not in Hampstead or Stoneythorpe any more, Celia. Do close your mouth, and come upstairs.’

Celia climbed after her sister, still humping her case. The wood of the stairs was dirty and worn. A forlorn picture of Venice in an old frame hung on the first landing.

At the top, Emmeline put her key in a wooden door that hadn’t even been painted. ‘Here we are. Home, sweet home.’

Celia pushed in behind her, through a tiny hall and into a shabby parlour. There was a sunken-looking red sofa, a battered table and a chair. A bunch of pink flowers sat in a green bottle on the table. The walls were covered in shelves of books. Racks of canvases leant against the wall, covered in brightly coloured paint, multicoloured swirls against a yellow background, patterns of squares on rectangles, curves and lines and spots. It wasn’t much warmer than outside.

She collapsed into the sofa. ‘This is nice, Emmeline.’ She blushed for the lie. Her sister, fair hair gathered around her face, the prettiest ballerina in the ballet, looked ludicrous surrounded by such shabbiness, standing on bare floorboards that even Celia could see were missing some of their nails.

There were three doors off the parlour. The only one ajar had white tiles and what looked like a large white bath – was it a
bathroom
? Rudolf had always talked of putting one into their house, but Verena had refused – she said that they had enough servants to carry hot water up the stairs, so there was no need for such a new-fangled thing. Celia supposed the other rooms were bedrooms. And the kitchen, she thought, that was probably down in the basement and the cook there served them all. She stole careful looks for any baby things, decided there were none.

‘It is, isn’t it? I did it up myself. Quite well done, Samuel says.’ She shook off her coat. Celia knew she should do the same but the place was so cold without a fire.

‘You mean Mr Janus?’

‘Call him Samuel now.’

Celia rubbed her eyes. Her head was swimming, words crashing against each other in her mind. ‘You are awfully changed, sister. You are …’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you live here,’ she finished, lamely. She was feeling terribly thirsty. She wondered when the maid would come with tea.

Emmeline shrugged. ‘It’s very cheap; places are a good price around here. Samuel says it’s because all the students who were at the university have gone to fight.’

‘Like Michael.’ Tears pricked in Celia’s eyes – and then she could not stop crying. The tears were pouring out now, faster, dropping down on to her blouse, dampening her face. Michael fighting, Tom there too, Emmeline living with a tutor in a flat.