We've Come to Take You Home (2 page)

THREE

A
YOUNG MAN WAS
struggling to sit up. Or what was left of a young man. Where there should have been an arm and a hand with five fingers there was splintered bone. Where there should have been a leg and a foot with five toes there was a stump. On the right side of his head, instead of an ear and eye, there was a gaping hole.

‘Sam, Sam, can you hear me? Are you OK?'

She opened her eyes. No station, no platform, no young man with a hole for a face.

‘You went all cold, like ice, and then you started screaming, really screaming…'

She was at the fairground, sitting beside Leo in the cab of the ghost train.

‘I saw…'

She didn't want to go there.

‘Nothing. It was nothing…'

‘Nothing? You must have seen something to make you scream that loud.'

‘It was the body, the one in the cage…'

The siren began to wail.

‘You're lying, Sam Foster.'

The cab juddered.

‘It wasn't that lump of old plastic with the rolling eyes that spooked you…'

Leo took her hand.

‘So what now, the Superbowl? Or the Sky Dancer?'

Katie was still entwined around the boy in the Hawaiian shirt. Lou was nibbling at the neck of the boy in the dark glasses. And somewhere, on the other side of the fairground, Shelly was screaming.

‘I'm sorry, Leo…'

It wasn't the freckles.

‘Sorry?'

It wasn't the red hair.

‘You're really nice…'

He let go of her hand.

‘But?'

Better to tell the truth.

‘I want to go home.'

He stared at her long and hard.

‘Is it because of what happened?'

‘I've told you, nothing happened.'

The train with red crosses painted along its side, the young soldier with a hole for a face, had all been as real as sitting next to Leo in the cab on the ghost train.

‘Something did happen, Sam, when we were in that tunnel.'

He stepped towards her.

‘I couldn't see it, couldn't hear it, but if one day you want to tell someone–'

She pushed him away.

‘Leo. I'm fine. Stop worrying about me, go and join the others. Have some fun…'

‘At least let me walk you home. We could stop off and–'

‘No, please, I'll be fine.'

‘You're sure?'

‘I'm sure.'

‘Really sure?'

‘Really, really sure.'

‘OK.'

He still didn't move.

‘What shall I tell them? The others?'

‘The usual, anything – that I saw a ghost and got freaked out – now go on, please.'

She walked away from the noise of the fairground, following the lights twinkling along the seafront. A few hours ago, she'd been standing at her bedroom window watching as the waves hurled themselves up against the promenade wall. The battering went on and on, each surge stronger than the last, but the concrete slabs of the wall had held and the sea had been contained. Now the tide was turning and the sea was retreating but it was going reluctantly, sucking in, dragging down, everything in its path.

Rain, first one spot, then another, spat down from above. A young man, dressed in military uniform, khaki tunic and breeches, knee-high leather boots, a wide belt with a strap going over his right shoulder, turned and smiled as she passed the angel statue.

There had been a photograph on the front page of the newspaper a couple of days ago. It was of four soldiers, standing together in a group, dressed in full combat gear, looking directly at the camera. She couldn't remember where the photograph had been taken, whether it was somewhere in the Middle East, in the Far East or in Africa. But she would never forget those faces looking out at her. Minutes later one of those soldiers was dead, shot through the head by an enemy sniper. This young man could so easily have been that young man.

She crossed the main road and turned left, then right, through the tangle of narrow alleyways leading away from the seafront. At the fork, just after the church, she started the short but steep climb out of town. Normally, even in winter, as she approached the top of the hill, she would be sweating. But tonight she was shivering.

‘They wouldn't change it. It was too late.'

She pulled off her coat.

‘That's what you said last year.'

Her parents were in the sitting room.

‘I talked to everyone there was to talk to, pulled every string, there was nothing–'

‘You treat this place like a hotel.'

The door was closed.

‘It wouldn't be so bad if you were on short haul. At least you'd be at home more…'

There was something about her mother's voice, the cold, quiet, steely flatness of it.

‘At least when I'm away, I'm away. Not coming and going, in and out of the house at all hours of the day and night. And you try flying backwards and forwards to Manchester three times in one day, via Dublin and Madrid and Helsinki…'

‘At least I bother to remember my daughter's birthday–'

It had hurt when she was a kid, her father not being there for her birthday or for Christmas, but she'd got used to it.

‘Rachel, please, don't, you know–'

‘Don't what? Please don't forget who pays for all this? Was that what you were going to say?'

‘No, but–'

‘Well, I pay for it too, OK, not as much as you, but I work, full-time, remember, and I do all the crap stuff, the cleaning, the washing, the shopping, the cooking, the paying the bills, the going to parent-teacher meetings, that you, Mr Lord Almighty in your High And Mighty Cockpit, find too boring–'

‘So, if you hate me so much what do you want me to do? Leave?'

‘What an excellent idea.'

‘Because if that's what you–'

‘Go upstairs and pack your bags and when you go to the airport…'

The door slammed open.

‘Don't come back.'

Her father strode out into the hallway.

‘Dad?'

‘Not now, Sam.'

Her father raced up the stairs two at a time. Sam peered round the sitting room door. ‘Mum?'

Her mother glanced up.

‘Yes?'

Sam took a step back.

‘Nothing.'

The central heating was on full; her bedroom wasn't just warm, it was boiling, but she was still freezing cold. She crawled under the duvet, wearing all her clothes, her jeans, her jumper, everything, but she still couldn't stop the shivering. She stayed there for the rest of the evening, listening to the slamming of doors; her father in the main bedroom, her mother in the kitchen.

Just before ten o'clock the slamming stopped. Sam waited for a knock on the door. Her mother would come in, she would smile, even look a bit embarrassed, and say, ‘Sorry about tonight, nothing to worry about, Dad's going nowhere. Now go to sleep. Everything will be fine in the morning.' There was no knock. Her mother walked straight across the landing and into the main bedroom.

That's when the talking started. Sam lay there, for two hours, listening to the rise and fall of her parents' voices. And then the talking stopped and there was silence. She pulled the duvet up over her head and closed her eyes.

There was a loud crash. Footsteps, her father's, walked down the landing and into the spare room. Something heavy was dropped on the floor. The footsteps went back along the landing and into the main bedroom.

‘Don't bother coming back.'

‘Don't worry I won't be.'

The door slammed shut and her father's footsteps returned along the landing, past Sam's door, into the spare room. Something else heavy was dropped on the floor.

There were more footsteps, the creak of a floorboard, and then a sound which Sam had never heard before – and which she never wanted to hear again.

She eased herself out from under the duvet, crept out of the bedroom and along the landing towards the spare room. Her father was sitting on the bed. He was crying.

‘Dad…'

He wiped his eyes.

‘Sam?'

He turned towards her.

‘What are you doing here? Why aren't you asleep?'

‘I couldn't…'

Two suitcases, large ones, were lined up just inside the open door. When her father went away flying he only ever took one.

‘I've got to do what your mum's asked, Sam.'

He patted the bed. She sat down beside him.

‘I don't have any choice…'

His smile was sad.

‘If I refuse it will only make things worse.'

If he left, he may never come back. She had to stop him leaving.

‘Mum's always saying things… getting all angry… she didn't mean–'

He raised his hand.

‘She did mean it, Sam. And, I can understand why. I'm never here, always away, always flying…'

He put his arm round her.

‘Whatever happens, Sam, if your mum changes her mind, even if she doesn't, you'll always have a dad, I'll always
be there for you whenever you need me, we'll still see each other…'

He hugged her tight.

‘OK?'

No, it wasn't, not at all, but she couldn't say it. Not here, not now.

‘Now go and try and get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning.'

Lying there in her bed, her eyes wide open, Sam listened to the wind howling, the rain hammering, and the roar of the waves hurling themselves up against the beach. But the one sound she most wanted and hoped to hear was her father walking up the landing to the main bedroom, or her mother walking down the landing to the spare bedroom.

Two o'clock, three o'clock; it must have been just after four o'clock, when she finally fell asleep.

FOUR

April 1916

A
BOWED FIGURE, WEARING
dressing gown and pyjamas, his eyes fixed to the ground, was shambling, barefoot, towards them.

He slid his right foot forward. He tapped his toes, once, twice, at the surface of the ground. He hesitated, tapped twice again and then laid his foot down flat. He shifted his weight onto this foot and slid his left foot forward. He tapped, once, twice, at the ground and, once again, shifted his weight. He repeated this a third and fourth time and then, feet and knees together, leant over to examine the ground to his left and right. Feet still together, he examined the ground behind. He twisted back round. Back stooped, hands clenched tight, his eyes widened.

‘Jess, is that…?'

His mouth opened in a silent scream.

‘It can't be…'

Her mother grabbed at her arm.

‘The poor boy…'

The vicar and his wife were running out of their house and down the street. The young man who had knelt down beside her, who had promised her that her mother would recover, that everything would be all right, screamed and struggled. And the more his parents fought, pulling, pushing and dragging the bent and twisted remains of their son back down the path into their house, the more he fought back.

The Battles of Le Cateau, Tannenberg, Marne, Aisne and
Ypres: the war had continued on through a second Christmas. And now, twenty months later, it was April; the military campaign, which everyone said would last for just three months, was now well into its second spring. Of the boys she had watched being cheered out of the village only a handful had returned.

The first, Dick Butler, the son of the grocer, had arrived home minus an arm and the second, Norman Smith, who used to be able to shoot a goal from any angle, minus a leg. The third, Stan Booth, whose family owned the farm where Jess' father worked as a labourer, arrived home with all his limbs but never able to walk again; a bullet in the back had left him paralysed from his waist down. The fourth, Arthur Crow, the only son of the local doctor, had been so badly burned that his own mother failed to recognise him. The trickle of wounded and disabled men had continued on and on.

Worst of all, though, was Robert Tucker, the son of the local vicar; he had been returned back to his family with all his arms and legs, completely unscarred, but his mind was gone.

‘Jess, Jess, come now, there's nothing we can do. We must go home. Your father will be wanting his tea…'

Washing fluttered on the line. Daffodils nodded beside the gate. Smoke curled up out of the chimney into the sky. Her father's boots were propped up, in their usual place, on the doorstep.

‘Look, Mother, your favourites. Found them down in the wood. First of the season…'

Her father placed a glass jar, crammed full with yellow primroses, down on the table. Years of working outside, hedging, ditching, mowing, ploughing, pruning, reaping and weeding, day after day, month after month, in sun, rain, wind and snow, had taken its toll.

His hands were cut and bruised. Dirt was so engrained under the broken nails that it was impossible to remove,
however long and hard he scrubbed. But these hands had also gently held her hand and stroked her forehead, willing her to fight, willing her to live, when she lay, burning up with fever as a little girl, just four years old, not expected to live.

Her father took the blue and white china jug off the mantelpiece over the fireplace. There was a chink, chink, chink as he dropped in his weekly wage, coin by coin.

‘Jess, what about if the two of us go and catch ourselves a couple of rabbits. Down in that dip below Horsebrook Farm beside the–'

There was a knock.

‘Mr Brown?'

A boy, dressed in general post office uniform, was standing just inside the doorway.

‘William Brown? William John Brown?'

‘Yes.'

‘For you, sir.'

The boy held out a buff-coloured envelope.

‘Thank you, lad.'

The boy turned and walked away down the garden path.

‘Jess, you'd best…'

She took the envelope from her father. She tore it open and unfolded the letter. She read the words, each one, slowly, to herself. Once. Twice. Her body clenched. Her mind went blank. There must be some mistake. There must be.

‘Jess?'

She looked up at her father. He nodded. She swallowed. What came out was barely a whisper.

‘Notice to join… the army for… permanent service…'

Her father sank down onto his chair.

‘You are hereby required… to join the Training Depot…'

What had happened to Dick, Norman, Stan, Arthur and Robert, was now happening to her father.

‘At Winchester on Tuesday, 7
^th
April…'

He'd come home with no arms or legs. Or if he had legs he wouldn't be able to walk on them.

‘Should you not present yourself on that day you will be liable to be proceeded against.'

Or he'd be so badly burned she wouldn't recognise him.

‘It's a mistake. It must be. Happens all the time…'

Her mother grabbed the letter.

‘It's not you they want. It's another John Brown. There's enough of them…'

Her father buried his head in his hands.

‘I registered as a volunteer, a year ago. Men with children, married men, I didn't think they'd…'

His mind so blown to bits all he would want to do is kill himself.

‘I was wrong.'

If he ever came home at all.