We've Come to Take You Home (12 page)

TWENTY-NINE

D
RIVING ALONG IN HER
mother's car, looking out of the window at the old lady walking her little snub-nosed, black-faced, curly-tailed dog; the two mothers chatting over their coffee, both tenderly stroking their eight-months-pregnant stomachs; the boyfriend and girlfriend entwined around each other at the bus-stop. It was impossible to believe that the uncomplicated world beyond that pane of glass, with everyone going about their daily lives, actually existed. Everything was so normal. Everybody looked so happy.

‘There's no point you hanging around at home. There's nothing you can do. It will just make things worse. Dad's OK, he's stable, all we can do now is wait…'

That's what the young doctor with the stethoscope slung round his neck had said, standing by her father's bed, his arms neatly folded, in the intensive care unit. But there had been no smile on his face, nothing, not even a glimmer.

‘You'll be better off here, at your school, with your friends.'

Sam unclicked her seatbelt.

‘Keeping busy.'

Perhaps her mother was right. What would she do if she went back home? Go upstairs to her room, lie down on the bed, listen to her father's voicemail, cry herself to sleep, slip into another world, see and hear things that didn't exist, wake up, go downstairs to the kitchen and crack open and gulp down another bottle of wine? Then she'd go back upstairs and lie there all night too afraid to close her eyes, get up the next
morning, her hands shaking, head throbbing, her body aching, desperate to go back to bed. And on and on it would go, round and round. She had to break that circle.

‘I saw things, at the fair, and when Dad was driving away. But I'm not just seeing them, it's like I'm there, like I'm somebody else, living their life, walking down the street, wearing their –'

‘I shouldn't have left you alone, Sam. It was wrong of me. I was just so upset…'

‘Nothing happened last night. Not with the wine. It was before, when I woke up, in my room, and this morning, when I was with Dad and when Mac took me–'

‘Sam, you're tired, you're upset and you're hungover. Now go in and see your friends. I'll see you after school. I'll ring if I hear anything from the hospital.'

It had been stupid to even try. She got out of the car, threw her rucksack over her shoulder, walked through the gate and kept on going across the tarmac towards the main school building.

She turned and tried to wave a wave that said, ‘I'm fine, stop worrying, you can go now.' She expected, wanted, her mother to drive off but she didn't. Instead she waved back.

Sam waved again, turned, and continued towards the entrance and kept on walking until she'd reached the top of the steps. She stopped and turned. Her mother pulled out and drove away down the road.

She pushed the door open and walked through into the ground floor corridor of the main school building.

‘Do you remember the one with the dead girl crawling out of the television…'

And there they were, her gang, huddled together under the oak tree at the edge of the football field. In the summer they would lie on the grass, sipping cold drinks and nibbling on carrot sticks and lettuce leaves, Italian ‘designer' sunglasses,
bought from a stall in the market at a tenth of the price of the real thing, perched on the tips of their meticulously freckle-free noses. On a grey winter's day they would shuffle, shivering, from foot to booted foot, muffled up in their coats and scarves, sipping coffee and chewing on pizza.

‘And the one when the wife's trying to crawl through the bathroom window and her husband grabs hold of her legs and he tries to eat her. And when she gets out, through the window, there are all these dead people waiting. And she has to shoot them in the head because if she doesn't, and they bite her, then she'll turn into a zombie…'

Lou had seen them all – the originals and the re-makes. A red-eyed, hollow-cheeked, bloody-mouthed decomposing corpse, dragging its rotting limbs out of a coffin, was just about the only thing that could turn her on.

‘Sam, where've you been? Did you get my message?'

Katie, the organiser of all organisers, who hated being ignored, was eyeing her up and down.

‘Why didn't you phone me back?'

The last time she'd seen Katie, Lou and Shelly was at the fair on Saturday. It had been yesterday afternoon, Sunday, when she checked her messages.

‘My dad's in hospital. He had an accident in his car, on his way to work…'

It felt like thirty years.

‘He's in the intensive care unit, unconscious, hooked up to machines…'

Lou and Shelly were staring at her as if she, Sam, the best friend they went to school, out shopping and clubbing with, had just turned into one of the living dead.

‘It's the fireworks tonight. We've arranged to meet the guys down there.'

Hadn't Katie heard?

‘Not tonight.'

‘Leo will be there.'

Didn't she understand?

‘I've just said. Not tonight.'

‘He's a nice guy, Sam. Loads of girls think he's more than nice. You're going to have to try harder if you want to–'

She was standing under the oak tree, at the edge of the football field, a place where she should feel safe, with Katie, Lou and Shelly. But the friends that she loved, and had spent so much time with, were now like aliens from another planet.

‘My dad's in hospital, he's so sick he might even die, and the only thing you can talk about, only thing you can think about, is boys.'

She turned and ran across the playing field, along the ground floor corridor, through the entrance doors, down the steps, across the tarmac and out onto the street.

THIRTY

June 1917

S
HE
'
D SEEN AND HEARD
her mother cry and the other women in the village: when there was no money left to buy food, not even a farthing; when a son or daughter died; or when they opened the front door to find the post boy standing there holding out the letter every wife and mother dreaded. But the sound coming from the Major's son's bedroom was something much deeper, more painful, so filled with despair that it was impossible to believe any human bearing could survive such pain.

She was a maid-of-all-work. Whatever was going on behind that door was none of her business. She should just walk away. He was the Major's son; a soldier home from the front, he could look after himself.

But something had changed. The line had been crossed. Because now she wasn't just the maid-of-all-work and the boy behind that door wasn't just the Major's son. She was Jess and he was Tom, the same Tom who had looked after her, comforted her, shown her kindness after her mother had died. Who had told her she would always have a home, here in this house, as long as she wanted one.

Shouldn't she now show some kindness?

She knocked, a quick, double tap. She waited. She tapped again. Nothing. She turned and walked away. The young man's weeping followed her down the landing. She stopped at the top of the staircase.

He had said that night, down in the kitchen sitting together
at the table, that her mother had been a brave and generous woman. Jess knew exactly what such a woman would do now.

She walked back along the landing, knocked and, without waiting, opened the door, walked across the room, reached up and pulled down the window.

The Major's son was lying face down on the bed.

‘Sir?'

She placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Sir, it's me, Jess…'

His shirt was soaked through with sweat.

‘Do you want me to call out a doctor?'

The weeping stopped.

‘I don't need a doctor.'

‘Are you sure? I can easily–'

He sat up on the bed.

‘It's very kind of you but no, no thank you, I'm fine.'

‘Looking the way you do, doing what you're doing, isn't fine.'

She sat down beside him.

‘If my mother was here she'd want to know what was up, because something is for sure. But my mother's not here, you've just got me, so tell me, Tom.'

‘No, Jess, I can't, you think you want to know but you–'

‘Tell me.'

She said nothing, just waited, listening to the rain beating against the window.

‘William and Peter, my brothers, lasted six months. They were killed within just a few weeks of each other. Peter by a sniper, a bullet through his brain. William leading his men over the top. They were hit by machine-gun fire. His sergeant managed to drag him back to the trench but he died on his way to the dressing station. I've been out there over a year now, in France fighting on the front line. Junior officers don't usually last longer than three months, four if they're lucky, many of them less than six weeks…'

He closed his eyes.

‘At school, being part of the Officers' Training Corps had all been a jolly good game. And when the war broke out, joining up, serving your country and being a soldier was regarded as an extension of that game…'

She mustn't ask any questions. She mustn't say anything. She must just let him talk.

‘When I was old enough to fight, Father organised a commission for me in his old regiment. He'd done the same for my brothers, both still out in France, and it was accepted, and expected, that he would do the same for me. And I had no quarrel with that. It was a war that was justified, a battle that had to be fought. The evening before I was due to embark Father took me out to his club. We smoked too many cigars and drank too many brandies. He told me how very proud he was. In the morning both of them, Mother and Father, came to the station. The train pulled out, the military brass band played and handkerchiefs were waved. But nobody, nobody at all, not my father, not my brothers when they came home on leave, had ever talked about the fighting… what it would be like…'

He reached out and took her hand.

‘First time across no-man's-land, nothing big, no major push, a daylight raid, just myself and a handful of my men, checking out who was there, what they were doing. We cut the wire and crawled down into the enemy trench. I was expecting hell, machine-gun fire, bayonets, grenades, the full works, but there was nothing. It was empty. There was nobody there.

I sent my men ahead. I was about to follow, when there was this sound behind me. I don't know where he'd come from but there he was, this German, just a boy, standing rifle up, bayonet ready. He took a step forward and he stabbed at me. I fired my pistol but the wretched thing jammed. He stabbed again. I stepped aside, back against the trench wall,
kicked out, knocked him down onto the ground and twisted the rifle out of his hand. I stood over him, looking down at a boy just like me lying there, helpless. I jammed the bayonet down into stomach and turned it, just like I'd been taught. He reached out towards me, tried to say something and I jammed the bayonet in deeper…'

His hand tightened its grip on hers. He shuddered.

‘He was lying there, this enemy I had been told to hate, bleeding his guts out. And all I wanted was for him to push the bayonet aside, stand up, laugh, slap me on the back and tell me it was just a game, a fake, just like the ones we'd had at summer school. But no one was going to stand up because he was dead. The first man I'd killed was just a blonde, blue-eyed boy like me, who happened to be speaking the wrong language and wearing the wrong uniform. A boy who had a father and a mother and a brother and a sister, and all he wanted was to live, be happy, fall in love and one day marry and have a family. That's all my brothers ever wanted. And that's all I've ever wanted. To live and be happy and fall in love…'

He opened his eyes and turned and looked at her. And he was still looking as he untied her cap, unknotted her apron, unbuttoned her dress, unlaced her corset and removed, one by one, the pins from her hair.

THIRTY-ONE

S
HE BOBBED A CURTSEY
.

‘Ma'am.'

The Major's wife looked up from the letter she was writing.

‘Yes, Jess?'

‘Will that be all, ma'am?'

She put down her pen.

‘Jess, I know it's the second Wednesday of the month but are you sure you can't delay your afternoon off? It's very inconvenient with Tom being at home. There's so much to do…'

Jess kept her eyes fixed to the floor.

‘Ma'am, like I said yesterday, a friend's coming up from Sussex. We're having tea. I can't change it now, she'll already be on the train. The meat's done, ready to go on…'

Please don't let the Major's wife change her mind.

‘The potatoes are peeled and the carrots…'

The Major's wife picked up her pen.

‘Very well, you may go but make sure you're back by six o'clock. Not a minute later.'

She pulled off her uniform. She mopped herself all over with a damp cloth and slipped on the dress that Tom had smuggled into the house the day before. She brushed her hair, tied it back in a ribbon and then perched the straw hat, decorated with a bunch of roses, on top of her head.

She stepped out of the cool, dark kitchen into the baking
heat of the paved yard. She locked the door behind her. Up a flight of stone steps and she was in the main part of the garden.

The Major was at his club and his wife was resting upstairs, something she always did after lunch. The bedroom faced out onto the street, which was why she and Tom had agreed that Jess should leave through the back garden. If the Major's wife saw her wearing the dress questions would be asked. It was simple, pink roses on a white background but still beyond anything that Jess would ever be able to afford.

She ran across the lawn, unbolted the gate and slipped out into the alley, which ran along the back of the house. Two minutes later she turned left onto the main street. Forty minutes later she got off the bus at Kensington Gardens.

‘Jess…'

He pulled her close.

‘The shop assistant, she didn't believe me, not for a second, when I said I had to buy clothes for my sister…'

Two elderly ladies, tightly corseted in black from head to toe, swivelled their heads in Tom and Jess' direction.

‘Tom, don't…'

She pushed him away.

‘What's the matter?'

One old lady said something to the other old lady.

‘People are watching.'

They both shook their heads.

‘If they don't like it they can look the other way…'

The old ladies walked on, their backs straight, noses in the air.

‘Jess, we have so little time.'

He pulled her closer.

‘Promise me we'll be happy…'

You should never make a promise unless you could keep it.

‘I promise.'

Tom's face relaxed into a smile.

‘I thought we might go out on the lake. It will be cooler out there…'

He led her along a wooden pontoon lined on either side with rowing boats. Each had a number painted on its prow.

‘This is ours. Number seven…'

She hitched up the skirt of her dress and, taking hold of Tom's hand, stepped into the boat.

‘Sit yourself there, where I can see you.'

She did as she was told. He untied the boat.

‘I'll get us out and then you can have a go.'

He sat down facing her.

‘You have to keep the oars just above the water…'

He pushed off from the pontoon.

‘Now you reach all the way forward. Make sure the blades are flat. Twist your wrist towards you, lower the blades into the water, keeping them perpendicular…'

They were moving away from the shore, fast, towards the centre of the lake.

‘…Lift the oars, again keeping them flat, twist your wrists forward…'

There was a roar of laughter, followed by a loud bellow and a splash.

One young man was already in and the other three were stripping off their clothes. Another splash and two heads were bobbing in the water.

Tom pulled off his shoes, then his socks.

‘Tom, what you doing?'

‘What do you think…'

He stood up. He pulled off his shirt.

‘You can't.'

‘I can and I will.' He leant forward. ‘And nobody, least of all you, Jessica Brown,' he kissed her, ‘is going to stop me.'

He kicked off his trousers and dived in. Grinning, he swam
back to the boat, hauled himself up and hooked his elbows over the side.

‘Coming in?'

‘Don't be silly, you know I can't…'

‘Then you'll just have to get wet where you are.'

He pushed himself off. The boat rocked, violently, from side to side.

‘Tom Osborne, I'll have you.'

He turned on his back and kicked away.

‘Please do, Jessica Brown, be my guest, any time.'

Jess stood up. She sat down in the centre of the boat, where Tom had been sitting, and grabbed the oars.

‘Jess, what are you doing…'

She pulled, swiftly and strongly, away from Tom towards the shore.

‘What do you think I'm doing? I'm rowing. Like my father taught me…'

He was no longer grinning. He wasn't even smiling.

‘You can't…'

Another stroke. And another.

‘I can and I will. And nobody, least of all you, Tom Osborne, is going to stop me.'

He was swimming towards her, trying to catch up, but the stronger he swam the stronger she pulled. A crowd of people, mostly young, many in uniform, cheered as she pulled up against the pontoon. She tied up the boat. She picked up Tom's shoes and clothes, hitched up her skirt, stepped up onto the wooden decking and walked, without looking back, down the pontoon towards the promenade which ran around the edge of the lake.

‘Jess, please stop.'

She could hear his feet slapping down behind her on the decking.

‘I'm sorry, what I said, Jess…'

‘Tom, Tom Osborne, is that you?'

A thinner version of the Major was standing staring at them.

‘It is you, isn't it, Tom, your parents said you were home on leave.'

A tiny, grey-haired woman, carrying a parasol, her pale face flushed pink, peered out from behind him.

Tom grabbed his clothes. ‘Baking hot day – thought I'd go for a swim.' He pulled on his trousers and dragged on his shirt, ‘Not much chance of that on the front…bit muddy.'

He shoved his feet into his shoes, pushed his hair off his forehead and stepped forward. The two men shook hands. Tom turned towards Jess.

‘Mr and Mrs Hamilton, may I introduce you to Miss Emily Carrington. Mr and Mrs Hamilton are very old friends of my parents.'

‘Absolutely charming.'

Mr Hamilton took off his hat and bowed. His wife bobbed her head.

‘My dear, it's such a pleasure to meet you.'

She recognised them. The husband had ignored her when he blustered through the front door of Eaton Villa. But his wife had been polite, had even smiled, even insisted on looking her in the eye and said thank you, properly, when Jess had taken her coat.

‘Emily is the sister of Mathew Carrington, a brother officer. I promised Mathew I would drop in to see her when I was home on leave.'

Mrs Hamilton plucked at her sleeve.

‘Now, both of you, you must join us…'

Standing there, silent, blushing demurely, she could easily be mistaken for the perfect young lady. But her secret would be out as soon as she opened her mouth.

‘I'm so sorry, Mrs Hamilton, maybe another time. I promised Emily's mother that I would get her home before
six o'clock. If we don't go now we'll be late and I'll never be allowed to see her again.'

The Hamiltons went in one direction. Tom and Jess in another. They parted outside the main entrance to the gardens. Tom would go back in a cab. She would go back on the bus.

Hat and dress off, uniform on, the clocks were just starting to chime six o'clock when she walked into the drawing room.

‘Jess, how was your friend, the one from Sussex, the one you were having tea with…'

She bobbed a curtsey.

‘Very well, ma'am.'

‘And where did you go? You look as though you caught the sun…'

‘Marble Arch, ma'am, the Lyons Cornerhouse…'

‘How nice, you may go, dinner at eight.'

She bobbed another curtsey and headed for the door.

‘Tom, we had a telephone call, from the Hamiltons, just before you got back…'

Jess walked fast, eyes down, out of the drawing room into the hallway.

‘They said they met you in Kensington Gardens, something about you going swimming, and a girl…'

Had their secret been discovered?

‘Yes, Father, Emily Carrington, sister of Mathew Carrington. A fellow officer, educated at Eton.'

A very good family – even if they didn't exist.

‘And this Emily, will you be seeing her again?'

‘I very much hope so, Mother. Very often and very frequently.'

Jess stuffed her apron into her mouth. She was halfway down the stairs to the kitchen when the phone rang. Who else had seen them? Still laughing, she stumbled back up the stairs. A deep breath in, a deep breath out, one, two, three and she picked up the receiver.

‘The Osborne residence.'