Small Wars Page 24

  Yes. Hal knew. The schoolchildren were rioting. Clara, with the long cut in her abdomen, their baby dead, could cadge a lift back to England on a Valetta.

  ‘I can promise you I’ll do my best to make sure your wife is given every care, every consideration. We’ll see her safely home, Major. Normally we’d be dealing with this sort of thing at battalion level, of course, but in view of the circumstances, we’d like to give you a few extra days. I can extend your leave until next weekend. Your 2i/c is a Captain Innes, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mark Innes. He’s very capable.’

  ‘Jolly good. I’m sure they’ll get along without you for another week.’

  Hal looked at the brigadier across the desk, knowing he was to be thanked.

  He watched the people on the sunny pavements from the car.

  The inside of the hospital was familiar to him, too, and like a homecoming. The reflections on the shiny floors, the echoing sounds – metal bowls being stacked, trolleys pushed through swinging doors – the sight of Clara’s door as he approached, the weak sick fear he felt on opening it: all were known to him.

  He went inside. Clara was sitting up in bed in Evelyn’s bed-jacket. Hal felt absurd surprise at her being there; it washed through him. He wanted to say – to say something, to say –

  ‘Hello. Feeling better?’

  ‘A bit,’ she said.

  ‘You fell asleep. I was worried.’

  ‘How were the girls?’

  He had a picture of himself manhandling them into the car. ‘Fine,’ he said.

  He went over to her, but didn’t sit down. Inside this limiting white room he ought to be able to find words to say to her. ‘They’ve given me extra leave. Until next Saturday.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Well, I’ll go back to Episkopi.’

  He looked down, tried not to look at the blankets where they covered her bandages. ‘I thought you might want to go back to England,’ he said.

  ‘Without you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh.’

  Her blue look flickered towards him, and then, as if seeing something harmful, glanced away. ‘I do want to go home,’ she said.

  As he was leaving, she said, ‘Hal, would you go to the funeral? Gracie’s funeral?’

  ‘Yes, if you want me to.’

  ‘Please.’

  Chapter Six

  Gracie might have been a general for all the soldiers there, mixing with the civilians amongst the gravestones. Major David Bundle stood at the graveside. His younger sons were not present, just the two older ones – little boys still – in dark suits, and next to them Gracie’s mother, a wider version of Gracie, holding their hands.

  Kirby drove him to the British cemetery outside the city. The watered grass grew neatly around the edges of the gravestones laid out in long rows. Hal was standing away from the family, with people he did not know. Soldiers carried the small coffin. The Cyprus sun shone onto them: their buttons, medals and buckles. It spread the smell of the grass and the flowers through the people.

  There was silence as the coffin was lowered. The graveyard was very exposed, on flat ground in the glaring sun. A hot wind came sideways through the crowd, blowing the pages of the Bible the chaplain was holding.

  Hal stood upright, following the coffin with his eyes as it went slowly down into the deep grave. He had not known her.

  The coffin settled and was left alone in the ground. The chaplain began to read. ‘“I am the resurrection and the life,” saith the Lord; “he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live…”’

  Hal looked from soldiers, to mourners, to chaplain; and at David Bundle, whose face had the same blank broken shock he felt himself, and thought what a helpless scrabbling for dignity it was, to put Gracie’s small body amongst those of fighting men. Would it help her husband to have her grave amongst the noble, not the commonplace, dead? Gracie hadn’t known she was bravely risking her life. She hadn’t known she would be honoured for it. He thought of his letter to Jenson’s parents, his search for heroism in the man’s life or death, his failure in finding it. Jenson had been good with horses. Gracie had been kind to Hal’s wife.

  ‘“I know that my Redeemer liveth…”’

  Afterwards, as the people moved away, Hal, aware of his duty, spoke briefly to David Bundle. He was repelled by him, as if by the brief contact they could be magically reversed, and it would be he whose wife was dead, not the other man.

  David was fired up with the energy of his grief, wishing Hal well and telling him how often Gracie had written to him about Clara. ‘Thank God she was spared,’ he said, with apparent joy, grasping Hal’s hand in both of his. ‘Thank God.’

  Hal let the family leave, and those who knew them well, too.

  He walked slowly across the huge cemetery, past the rows of graves until, stopping, he read:

  Capt. Thomas S. Thurlough

  1888–1917

  A gallant soldier, and a very perfect gentleman

  He stood looking at the headstone for some minutes. He gave a short nod towards that favoured soldier, in envy and regret, and walked on.

  Far in the distance he could see the mountains beautifully encircling them all.

  The entrance to the cemetery was a tall iron gate set in a long black railing, like a garden square in London. Hal walked through it as light dust floated round the feet of the people getting into their various vehicles to drive back to the city. He had left Kirby there, a few hundred yards along the road, but he saw Captain Wallace, going against the crowd, approaching him.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s important you come with me, sir. I’m terribly sorry to bother you again.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Let’s talk about it at HQ. The brigadier is waiting.’

  Brigadier Bryce-Stephens met him at the door to his office this time and closed it, shaking his hand very firmly. ‘Hal, there’s been a change of plan. I’ve spoken to Colonel Burroughs, the situation in Limassol requires your presence. Luckily, this has coincided with my happening to procure a place for your wife on a plane. It’s a Foreign Office plane – a lot more comfortable than she might have been – landing here at RAF Nicosia this afternoon. She can be at home or in hospital by this evening.’

  His urgency and sureness were infectious and Hal, adjusting, felt the pull of unseen mechanisms. ‘Just a moment,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry to spring this on you. Do sit down.’

  ‘I’ll stand. What situation in Limassol, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know the details. My office had a communication from your CO – I’m sure he’ll fill you in on your return. The point is there’s a change of plan. How is your wife?’

  ‘To travel?’

  ‘Is she well enough?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’d have to –’

  ‘The hospital had been planning to discharge her in a few days anyway. I believe she’s anxious to be reunited with your daughters.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘My office have spoken to a Dr…’ he went to his desk, glancing down ‘…Antoniadis there.’ He glanced up at Hal. ‘There’s a degree of urgency about this. Of course you wouldn’t know all these things, being so much at the hospital, but I can assure you you’re needed.’

  It was resolved then. Hal said, ‘What time will the plane be ready, sir?’

  ‘Around eighteen hundred hours.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave straight after I’ve seen them off.’

  Hal had Kirby drop him at the hospital, then dispatched him to the hotel to see about the packing. He didn’t go to Clara immediately; first he found Dr Antoniadis.

  ‘Yes, we were visited by two men, soldiers. I don’t remember the names. It is very important for Mrs Treherne to go back to England, I understand this.’

  ‘But is she all right to travel?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Treherne, if she must.’
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br />   ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘There is no danger.’

  ‘No danger?’

  ‘No big danger, sir, of infection or haemorrhage, if she is sensible. But she is very weak. She needs to rest now as much as she can.’

  So it was done. Clara and the girls would go back to England, and Hal would resume his duty.

  Chapter Seven

  They drove to RAF Nicosia as the sun went down. The sky was flame-filled and violent.

  Clara and Hal sat in the car with the girls between them, the luggage piled next to Kirby and behind the back seat. Hal had his arm round both girls to stop them climbing on Clara. Dressing and the walk to the car had been very slow. She was leaning back now, as if she had no muscles at all in her body, and her hands were held over herself for protection, but when he had told her she was to leave that day, she had looked at him, alive suddenly and lit up, and said, ‘Going home today?’

  The bright colours in the enormous sunset faded slowly. They drove into the airfield, stopping for the sentry guards and checkpoints.

  The car turned slowly past concrete buildings that had corrugated curved tops and breeze-block hangars divided by thin roads. The runways tapered into far straight distance, spotted with lights just showing, and black mountains behind.

  The car stopped. Hal went round and opened Clara’s door so that she could hold on to him getting out.

  They were met by a flight lieutenant and a man from the Foreign Office, who had flown in earlier that day with a minister on the plane that would take Clara home. They all stood in a tight group, lit by the big low sun, the half-disc slowly sinking.

  Kirby was fumbling with luggage and pieces of paper as an RAF corporal tried to organise them. Clara was standing as if in a daze, her hands hanging by her sides, gazing at the plane – not a Valetta after all, but a twin-engined Hastings, with blocks under its wheels – waiting five hundred yards away from them. The girls were clinging to her skirts, motionless too. Hal looked at them, and then back over his shoulder towards the exit road to the gate and the sentries standing at it.

  The luggage was in two piles now, his one or two things and his family’s. Kirby had started to put Hal’s back into the car, sighing at the effort.

  Clara turned to him. ‘Hal?’ she said.

  The man from the Foreign Office was handing over some papers to the flight lieutenant, neither of them paying his wife or himself any attention.

  ‘What are you doing, Kirby?’ said Hal.

  ‘Sir?’ Kirby paused in his labours, perplexed.

  ‘All of those things are going on the plane.’

  ‘No, sir, these ones are yours.’

  ‘No. All of them on the plane, please.’

  ‘Sir…’

  ‘Just a moment.’ Hal turned to the flight lieutenant. ‘I hope there hasn’t been another mess made over these arrangements. Would you check your manifest? The four of us are travelling. I’m sure it was made clear.’

  The flight lieutenant blinked.

  ‘No, sir. I understood Mrs Treherne would be travelling with the children alone.’

  ‘You understood wrong. Does it seem likely to you that an ill woman would make the journey alone, with two children to look after?’

  ‘The manifest –’

  ‘See to it, then, please,’ said Hal. Then, ‘Kirby, look sharp,’ and ‘Clara, you ought to be sitting down. Lieutenant, when are we scheduled to leave?’

  ‘Eighteen thirty, sir.’

  ‘Can’t you make it any sooner?’

  ‘No, sir. They’re refuelling now, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Lieutenant, get on with it. My wife needs to sit down. Where?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Of course. Follow me, sir.’

  Hal supported Clara as they walked. She held his arm, looking up at him. As they followed the lieutenant, she said, ‘Hal?’ but Hal was turned away from her, collecting up the girls, and ignored her.

  As he straightened, with Lottie in his arms, Kirby caught up with him. ‘Sir – sir?’

  Hal stopped. He turned slowly. Kirby’s face, pale, for all its hours in the sun, was damp and pasty; his eyebrows were knitted together. ‘Sir. You’re not going, sir.’

  ‘Would you get those things loaded? Thanks very much.’ Kirby didn’t move. Hal waited, looking him in the eye. ‘That’s all, thank you, Kirby,’ he said.

  Kirby turned, and did as he was told.

  They were put into a hot little office where an RAF corporal was typing up letters with two fingers. They sat on a very narrow wooden bench. The girls were clambering everywhere, trying to get on Clara’s lap and being deflected by Hal. She had her eyes half shut, leaning back, but then she lowered her head and looked at him: ‘Hal, what’s happening?’

  He didn’t answer. She was breathing lightly through her mouth. She rested her head again. The corporal was trying to align the forms he was typing. He was fiddling with the carriage release, exasperated, tugging at the paper. Every now and then one of the metal arms would stick, pointing upwards, and he would free it, irritable, then bash away at the keys again.

  Hal waited for the phone to ring. They had the manifest, no doubt in triplicate. The lieutenant wouldn’t take long to get through to somebody at HQ. This was madness. The phone would ring – but the phone sat silently next to the typewriter, as the corporal bashed away at the keys with his two flat-ended fingers.

  Hal watched the seconds going by on the clock above his head. The thin second hand sticking, moving, sticking. It was eleven minutes past six. It was eleven and a half minutes past six. It was twelve minutes past six –

  The door opened. ‘Sir?’ The lieutenant looked concerned. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand. Hal’s mind was numb. ‘They’re about ready for you to board,’ he said.

  Then the telephone rang. ‘Sir?’ said the lieutenant, over the loud ringing.

  The corporal picked up the phone, ‘Corporal Billings…In hangar five? You must be joking. Nobody told me about it.’

  ‘Sir?’ said the lieutenant again.

  Hal stood up. ‘Girls,’ he said, ‘come along. Clara?’

  He held out his hand to her, and she took it.

  The inside of the plane had been modified from military to government use. There were double rows of seats facing front, instead of benches, but the rest of it was untouched. The walls were bolted metal and very noisy when the engines started their raw deep sound.

  Clara was pale, uncomfortable against the steep back of her seat. She had her feet up on a trunk that was lashed to the plane floor, as close to curled up as she could be. Hal had rolled up his jacket for her head and put it between her shoulder and the window; he sat behind her with the girls so that he could hold on to them.

  Lottie put her hands over her ears and Meg reached forwards, trying to stretch her fingers between the seats to touch her mother. Hal patted the small of her back, but she pulled away from him, and went forward, to climb onto the seat in front. Hal stopped her, put her under his arm, and went forward to sit next to Clara.

  ‘There,’ he said, pulling Lottie up too, so that they were both on his lap. ‘Be careful of Mummy,’ he said, holding them. ‘Sit still.’ He glanced at Clara, who was resting her head on the rolled-up jacket. Her lashes fluttered closed.

  Through the thick dirty glass he watched the flight lieutenant running back towards the hangar, and the short canvas straps of the rolled-up shades swung as the plane began to move. They made a wide, slowly rocking arc across the tarmac, then paused at the head of the runway.

  ‘Are you frightened?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m not frightened,’ Clara said, as the engines reached a pitch.

  He looked ahead again. Past the pilot’s shoulder, through the glass of the cockpit, he could see the gently bobbing nose of the aircraft. Lights shone a straight path. They started along it.

  As the plane lurched into its steep take-off, Hal held both girls firmly. Lottie cried out, once, at the noise, but then was quiet.
The plane rose and soared. He felt the high beauty of flight mix with the sharp falling realisation of what he had done.

  He looked down: no jeeps fanning out over the tarmac, no signallers spelling out his crime, nothing but the fast-rising plane and the air, bigger and bigger, around it. He looked over his shoulder, behind, to see the buildings of the airfield slanted, diminishing, the wide evening all around and beneath them. Cyprus dipped, tilted, and went away from him.

  Outside the aeroplane it was quite dark; there was no sense of height, or even of speed, and inside, the main part of the plane was unlit. In the cockpit ahead of him he could see the instruments, and the pilot silhouetted. Even the radio had fallen silent, so that just the sound of the engines, soon familiar, wrapped around them.

  His daughters, surrendered and delivered to him by sleep, were heavy in his arms. Clara opened her eyes. ‘I’m cold.’

  It was cold, up in the sky, with just metal between them and the air.

  ‘Jacket,’ he said, and she took his jacket from under her head, and shifted over so that she was resting on his shoulder. She opened the stiff green wool jacket, with weak hands, and he laid it over them.

  She went back to sleep, under it, almost immediately, and Hal, with the warmth of all three of them touching him, turned his eyes to the window, where nothing could be seen at all. He would not move, he must not wake them; he would have hours of night-time with them, over the sea.

  PART FOUR

  England, October

  Chapter One

  They came down the metal steps of the plane at RAF Boscombe Down, after midnight. There was a breeze, a little chilly, smelling of petrol and cut grass. The sky above was a deep, quiet dark. Everything around them – aeroplane hangars, RAF vehicles – lay in darkness too, a variety of shadows, or lone caged bulbs to light the way, and occasional night-time voices, or boots on the tarmac muffled in the late-shift feeling of the deep night.