White Feathers (32 page)

The next man to go up had a dreadfully burnt head and face.

To Tamar’s horror, Duncan piped up in his clear, loud, little boy’s voice, ‘Nan, why’s that man got no ears? Nan? He’s got no
ears
. Why not?’

Tamar grabbed him and hugged him against her side to shut him up. ‘Shush,’ she whispered, praying his voice hadn’t carried up to the stage. ‘He’s been in an accident, that’s all.’

Duncan’s muffled voice came from under her arm. ‘But he looks funny, Nan. He’s all
shiny
.’

Lucy scooped Duncan up and hurried him outside before he could say anything else.

The last man to be called was another amputee, whose artificial
leg thumped hollowly as he awkwardly mounted the steps. A wide and ragged scar ran all the way down one side of his face and twisted what had obviously once been very handsome features. He was also very drunk. At the top of the steps he swivelled clumsily and lurched over to the mayor, who was extending a congratulatory hand and smiling welcomingly.

‘Frank Wilson,’ he began, ‘in recognition of your service to King and country in France on the Western Front, we of the …’

He tailed off as Frank Wilson leant forward unsteadily and said something inaudible.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said the mayor, a deeply shocked expression on his face.

Reaching for the table to steady himself, Frank Wilson repeated, significantly louder this time, ‘I said, fuck the Western Front, and fuck the King.’

There was a gasp from the crowd, followed by a deep silence.

Frank Wilson then turned to face his audience and announced loudly, ‘And fuck all of you sitting at home on your fat arses thinking you had a hard war, because you fucking well didn’t.
We
had the hard war,’ he added, pointing at the other returned men dotted about the hall, ‘
we
had it, not you bastards moaning on about the price of fucking butter and how knackered you got doing all that fundraising. It’s
my
leg and balls that are still in the mud in France, so don’t tell me about how fucking hard
your
war was!’ His voice cracked on the last word, and he raised his hand slowly to his face as if to make sure it was still there. He stood for a moment like that, then mumbled, ‘And you can keep your wristwatch and your certificate, because it wasn’t worth it.’

James was on his feet and had moved across the floor towards the stage. When Frank Wilson swayed dangerously, he bounded up the steps and put his arm around him. ‘Come on, mate, let’s get you down, eh?’

Wilson looked at James blearily. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Captain Murdoch, 1st Brigade, 2nd Battalion. You’re all right now, come and sit down.’

Wilson nodded, then in a gesture that almost broke Tamar’s heart, he reached out and held James’s hand and allowed himself to be helped down the steps and over to the Kenmore table. He was stared at briefly, then everyone started talking at once, and up on the stage the chairs were hurriedly removed so the band could start up again.

Frank Wilson sat down heavily and put his face in his hands. Close up his scar was quite grotesque, and Tamar unconsciously fingered the very fine white line at her temple.

What occurred next happened so quickly she couldn’t initially comprehend what was going on.

Wilson looked up and suddenly spied Fred. ‘What the fuck are
you
doing here, you thieving little shit!’ he bellowed, and lunged across the table.

Fred scooted backwards and as Wilson lurched to his feet and grabbed at him his chair tipped over and he hit the floor. Wilson, his artificial leg conspiring with his inebriation to knock him off balance, followed, landing heavily on top of Fred and throwing wild punches as he went down. Everyone leapt back from the table and James reached to drag him off.

‘
No
!’ Wilson screamed, ‘this is the little bastard who was stealing off the
lads
!’

‘What?’ demanded Andrew, moving closer again.

James pulled Wilson upright as Fred scrabbled away on his hands and knees. Wilson howled, ‘He was thieving off everyone in camp, at Trentham. Got kicked out. Fucking good job too,’ he added, and took a wild swinging kick at Fred with his artificial leg.

Andrew asked quietly, ‘He was in France though, wasn’t he?’

Wilson spat in disgust. ‘France? He’s never been out of bloody
New Zealand. Goes around conning people, says he knew their dead sons. He’s wanted, he is.’

Andrew was rigid with shock until James shoved him out of the way in his hurry to get to Fred. He snatched the little man up by the collar and dragged him outside, knocking over chairs and a table as he went.

Tamar looked over to Joseph for help, but he just shook his head almost imperceptibly, righted his chair and calmly sat down again, indicating that everyone else should do the same. Tamar, her face white with shock and fury, sat down next to Andrew, and took his hand, stroking it gently and murmuring words to him that only he could hear.

Outside, while the band played a lively rendition of ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag’, James spun Fred around and punched him full in the mouth.

‘That’s for my mother and father,’ he grunted, then lashed out again. ‘And that’s for the rest of my family.’ Fred collapsed onto the ground but James pulled him up again and delivered one final blow. ‘And that’s for Ian. Now fuck off and never
ever
show your face around here again!’

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

April 1918

K
eely, wearing her gardening ensemble of an old pair of her father’s trousers, a baggy knitted jersey with holes in the elbows and a scarf covering her unwashed hair, was loitering in the hall one morning just in case the postman decided to bring the mail up to the house, when she was startled by the sharp rap of the door knocker. Oblivious to the fact that she had a smear of dirt on her chin and that there was a snail inching its way up her sleeve, she leapt to the door and yanked it open.

Standing there was a man in his late twenties wearing a modest suit — although his shirt was open at the neck and he was without a tie — and holding a brown felt trilby hat in one hand. The other was jammed into his trouser pocket.

‘Good morning,’ he said in a deep and rather pleasant voice. ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to speak to Mr and Mrs Andrew Murdoch. Do I have the correct address?’

Keely stared at him, her sense of disappointment written all over her face.

‘If I haven’t,’ he continued, less confidently now, ‘perhaps you could direct me to the right place? It’s about the Murdochs’ son, Ian. He and I served together in France.’ The features of the
stunning but rather sulky-looking young woman in the doorway immediately contorted into an expression of pure rage and he took a quick step back.

‘Oh, bugger
off
!’ she shouted at him. ‘Go on, get out of it. We’re sick of bloody shysters like you!’ And she slammed the door in his face.

‘Well,’ he said to himself, standing alone on the steps and thinking it was a good job he hadn’t taken the liberty of pointing out that there was a snail on her shoulder.

He took a measured breath and knocked again.

The girl opened the door a second time. The snail was on her collar now. ‘What!?’ she snapped.

‘Look,’ the man said reasonably, ‘if this is the Murdoch residence, could I please speak to either Mr or Mrs Murdoch? I don’t mind waiting.’

Keely shut the door again and went to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Da?’ she yelled crossly. ‘
Da
! There’s a man here saying he knew Ian. I’ve told him to go away but he won’t.’

When her father appeared, she stomped away down the hall, muttering to herself.

Andrew hesitated at the top of the stairs, a sick feeling of anxiety stirring in his belly. He wasn’t sure what to do: it would be rude to send a visitor away without even speaking to him, but he couldn’t face another impostor pretending to have known Ian. He descended the stairs slowly, getting a good grip on his thoughts and his fears, and opened the door.

‘Yes?’ he asked the personable-looking young man on the porch. ‘How can I help you?’ At least this one was clean, he noted.

‘Good morning, sir. Would you be Mr Andrew Murdoch?’

Andrew nodded curtly.

‘Oh, good.’ When the man removed his right hand from his pocket and offered it, Andrew saw that the last two fingers and
half of the middle finger were missing.

‘My name is Owen Morgan. I served with Ian in France. I was passing through so I thought I might stop in and, well, if there was anything you might like to know about Ian, perhaps …’

He stopped. Mr Murdoch had a look on his face that suggested he was struggling with immense anger or profound hurt. Or perhaps it was both. This wasn’t the reception he’d expected, but then grief did funny things to people.

‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time,’ he said. ‘If you’d rather, I could write to you in a few months. Or not at all, if you’d prefer.’

Andrew stared for a moment longer, then folded his arms defensively.

‘Don’t think me rude, please,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if you’ve got some sort of evidence. To, er, prove that you knew Ian, perhaps. We’ve had a spot of bother recently and, well, frankly we’re just not prepared to go through all that again.’

Owen Morgan looked surprised, and somewhat mystified. ‘Well, there’s this,’ he replied and reached into his jacket pocket, felt around for a second then handed Andrew a square of dog-eared card.

Glued to it was a rather curled-up and worn photograph of Owen and Ian standing together in uniform outside the
estaminet
in Étaples on the night of their leave there, with their arms around each other and silly, self-conscious grins on their faces.

Andrew gazed at it for almost a minute, then rubbed his thumb gently over the image of his dead son. He looked up.

‘Come in, Mr Morgan, please.’

He was asked to go into extraordinary detail, he felt, to prove he had indeed served with Ian, and that he’d been there when he’d
died. But, after hearing the story of Fred Wilkes, he wasn’t in the least surprised or resentful towards the Murdochs. They — in particular James and the dark chap called Joseph, the half-brother obviously, who was watching him like a hawk — asked him over and over again the dates of his service in France, exactly where his battalion had been and what they had done there, the names of other men in Ian’s company and on and on. He suspected his story wasn’t totally accepted, however, until Mrs Murdoch excused herself and came back with Liam.

Owen’s long face softened. ‘He’s the image of his father, isn’t he? I had no idea Ian was married, though,’ he said in genuine surprise as he watched the boy playing happily on the floor. ‘He certainly never mentioned a wife and child.’ He looked up at them all. ‘Why on earth not, I wonder?’

A look passed around the room and there was an almost palpable easing of tension, leaving Owen with the distinct impression he had just passed some sort of test.

Mrs Murdoch, an extremely handsome woman and exactly as Ian had described her, said, ‘He wasn’t married, Mr Morgan. Liam is his illegitimate son. Ian was never even aware of his existence, and neither were we until he was deposited here the day after we held a memorial service for his father.’

‘Do you know who the mother is?’ Owen asked her, then immediately wondered if the question was perhaps a little indiscreet.

‘No. She’s never contacted us, and I sincerely hope she never does. Well, at least not while Liam is so young any way. A child needs stability in his early years, and it wouldn’t be in his best interests for his mother to appear out of the blue and want him back.’

Owen recalled the story about Tamar Murdoch’s own illegitimate son, who was now sitting opposite her and smiling indulgently
down at the boy on the floor, and understood immediately the hint of sadness beneath her words.

‘Yes, I expect you’re right,’ he agreed.

‘And you’re a married man yourself, Mr Morgan?’ she asked politely.

‘Me? No, I’m afraid not,’ he replied, and his gaze slid towards the girl who had initially answered the door. She looked back at him rather disdainfully.

She had been introduced to him as Keely Murdoch, Ian’s sister. She had changed out of her tatty old pants, in which Owen thought she had looked very fetching, but surely this surly young woman couldn’t be the vivacious, fun-loving creature Ian had so fondly described? She was certainly her mother’s daughter in terms of looks, but there was a sense of such disillusionment about her. But then Owen remembered that she had served overseas as a nurse.

Tamar watched Owen watching Keely, and wondered. He clearly liked what he saw, although Keely just as blatantly didn’t. She had always attracted the admiring attentions of men, but since her return home she hadn’t shown the slightest interest in anyone. Tamar doubted that Owen Morgan would change all that. He was entirely unsuitable as a match for Keely, or at least he would be as far as her daughter was concerned. True, he was educated — he must be if he had been a schoolteacher before the war — and he really was rather attractive, but he obviously wasn’t a wealthy man. Above all he didn’t seem to be at all
outgoing
. Confident and self-assured, yes, but in a quiet and steady way, not at all the flashy and smooth type of man who normally appealed to Keely.

She told herself not to be such a silly interfering old mother, but heard herself saying, ‘Keely, offer Mr Morgan some more cake. Or perhaps you would prefer a pikelet, Mr Morgan?’

‘Both, please,’ he responded enthusiastically. ‘And please called
me Owen.’ Keely stood up and, with her fingers, plonked a piece of cake on a plate together with the most thinly buttered pikelet she could find and ungraciously thrust the lot at Owen.

Tamar drew in a quick breath, shocked and embarrassed by her daughter’s dreadful lack of manners. Lucy and Jeannie looked appalled, and so did Andrew.