1915 (37 page)

“
Wally!
Up here, quick!”

The Australian machine gun started again, only this time it sprayed around the mouth of the Gun Pits as well.

“
Wal-lee!
” Billy shouted with his mouth almost touching the ground. Bullets whipped the low shrubbery along the skyline, which was inches from his scalp; it was machine gun fire from the opposite direction, from the Turkish lines. They must have heard Billy shouting, or else seen Walter's run: or both.

It was hopeless.

But the calm deep within Billy spread until it
controlled his physical being as well. It was within his power to do something for Walter, but he hesitated.

There was a pattern to the Australian shooting. As long as the machine gun fired it was safe for Billy to raise his head. These were the very moments, though, when Walter was unable to raise his. This see-saw of opportunity seemed endless; ten minutes or half an hour passed: every now and again Billy shouted, but with little hope of being heard because no answering call came from the trench. Only once did Billy dare to raise the telescope, and saw Walter again, full face, staring straight at him like a blind man.

Billy remembered how Walter had crept up on him in their childhood games. But they had never been games to Billy. Never quite. Why had Billy never been able to understand, no matter how many times Walter explained, how it was that his name, printed BILLY on a slate, became YLLIB when held up to a mirror? Nor why the surface of water curved instead of lying flat in a full glass, nor how a piece of wire attached to a dynamo could cause a salty agitation on his tongue without any change occurring in the wire. The terrified face how held in his telescope had laughed at him for not comprehending such everyday laboratory tricks. The terrified face had once reacted just as dumbly when Billy talked about his straightforward acceptance of heaven, hell, and an invisible God that could be spoken to.

I am invisible now, thought Billy with elation. Each time the Australian guns pinned Walter down he raised his head and assessed the situation. He was able to see as far as a bend in the wall past the position where Walter cowered, his shoulders white from the storm of pulverized masonry. Billy's duty was plain, should he
choose to obey it. He could easily pot any Turk who dropped into the far end of the Gun Pits, and even if he missed he would be able to pin them down for long enough for Walter to take a chance, scramble out, and sprint for his life up the slope to safety.

But having made this plan Billy worked out a good reason for not following it. He could fire only when the Australian machine guns were firing, but the chances were bad for Walter in that case.

So, whichever way he thought of it, Walter ended a dead man. When this idea was clear in his mind Billy made an astonishing discovery. The mental agitation that had plagued him all night and throughout the morning had completely disappeared. It was as if his rage had mounted to its unbearable point of pressure and resolved itself at some moment of fury without his knowing.

When he looked at Walter again he saw a trapped hand patting the bricks. What was going on? Nothing but Walter's hand feebly wandering, reaching high up the wall without seeing anything, just touching, smoothing the rough age-old blocks with his palm and feeling the bumps with his fingers, almost wonderingly. Billy had no time to reflect on what it was in the gesture that alerted him, that woke him up. But suddenly he knew that someone else was in the trench, and that Walter had no idea.

“
Walter, Wally run!
” For a second Walter dropped from sight. The firing came from everywhere but Billy ignored it. “
Wally, where are you?
” His voice dragged at the dry walls of his throat.

Then Billy saw them, two Turks and a German sergeant bent double moving along the trench at a speed that astonished him. By the time his sights were
aligned the first man was springing at Walter with a curiously gentle leap. Billy fired — Walter rising into his sights like a runner from the blocks, like a startled kangaroo from grass — reloaded and fired again, then dropped the rifle and heedlessly consulted the telescope while Turkish marksmen sought him out. He found himself again looking into Walter's eyes, but they were blood-soaked now and sightless. The biggest Turk abruptly slung him over his shoulder like a carcase, Walter's arms drunkenly loose but swinging in time to the lurch of his captors as they lugged him away.

With their departure calm descended on the Balkan Gun Pits. Both sides seemed to abandon their interest in the place, and Billy, scooping up rifle and telescope, also wanted to be free of it.

The morning after receiving Ollie Melrose's letter Frances played the piano for the first time in six months. Ugly scales echoed through the house until the keys ran slippery with sweat. In the darkened living room, where drapes were drawn against the heat, she at last felt ready to do away with the humble being she had become. And all because of a letter! She was prepared now to play something serious. But first she stepped to the window and peered into the mid-morning glare, nervous that the piece she wished to attempt — something by Mozart — was beyond her, knowing that her mother would be listening and wondering about the transformation thus signalled. She was nervous too that the mood suddenly filling her might be only a whim, and that at any moment she would find herself plunged back into the unfeeling gloom that had possessed her since Diana's death, that had darkened even more two weeks later when Walter's disappearance was announced in a small item at the foot of the
Herald's
twenty-eighth casualty list.

Where had he gone? He was not reported dead or alive, wounded or dying, but “missing” in peculiar circumstances. Though she had stopped caring about Walter, Frances became obsessed by the spectral quality that seemed to surround his fate, as if he had been made quite special at last — uniquely beyond her
grasp. Then a few weeks later his name appeared again, this time in a list of prisoners supplied through the American consul in Constantinople, and her mother had urged her to write. But instead she had dashed off a note to one of Walter's friends, and must have said more than she intended for the reply peered straight into her soul:

“A bad conscience makes a bad friend. Send him socks and chocolate but do it under any name but your own. It's lonely enough in Turkey at the best of times, take it from one who knows. For a man on his own, letters from a girl who ‘don't mean it' would be a siren call with nothing but the abyss between.”

It seemed to Frances that Ollie Melrose, who signed himself ornately as “Oliver”, whom she had never met, whose reply came from Egypt where he was convalescing from wounds, understood her better than anyone at home. Besides, he had asked her to send a photo of herself: “Just look in the right-hand drawer, in the left corner, under those gloves and handkerchiefs, etc., and you will find one.” Frances was cheered most of all by his daring to express a mixed opinion of her while still showing liking and curiosity.

But his advice went against the view of her mother, who was still urging Frances to “write and show friendship”. She could not understand how Frances was able to throw herself into Red Cross work yet ignore the plight of the one man who was not a stranger. Just yesterday she had greeted a hundred returning soldiers at Woolloomooloo and won their devotion.

“I'm giving it up,” said Frances when her mother entered the room and asked why she was not in uniform:

“I don't understand. Mrs Brewer's taking us in the car. Sidney will be driving.”

“I've finished with war work. Honestly, I've done my share.”

An astonished Mrs Reilly sent Helen to make tea. “I won't talk about it,” she resolved. “I can't!” But a moment later she said: “
You
were the one who took the lead. It was your enthusiasm!”

How could Frances explain that almost at the instant of Walter's disappearance she had elected to disappear herself? But now she had been sighted, a stranger had seen her as she truly was. How remarkable! She felt alive again. “There are hordes doing it. I'm not needed. Besides, hardly anything we've done has reached the soldiers. It's all piled up somewhere.”

“Is that the real reason?”

“I don't know.”

“Then what is?”

“I can't say. I don't even know what got me started.” But at this Mrs Reilly shook her head, because both knew how things had been in the weeks following Diana's death, when Frances had come downstairs after days of staring at the ceiling and immersed herself in Red Cross work. Mrs Reilly had suspected all along — Harry's notion, really — that her daughter's energetic devotion to the cause sprang from uneasiness at her part in Diana's fate.

“What does Harry say? ‘Quod omnia something', we're all touched by the war.”

“Quod omnes tangit,” Frances recited, “ab omnibus approbetur.”

“You can't just let it drop.”

“No-one will notice.”

“They've just made me secretary,” Mrs Reilly
complained. At this her daughter giggled, whereas only yesterday she had stood soulfully on the wharf holding a basket of wilting flowers.

“That saying of Harry's is ridiculous,” said Frances. “Why should we
approve
of something just because it affects our lives?”

“He's coming this afternoon. Please don't start an argument.”

Frances had changed her mind about Harry, and was glad she had never been bold enough to repeat Sharon's scandalous accusations to her mother. They were true without doubt, but under Harry's fuzziness and querulous deceit she had found something to respect. On her arrival home after the drowning he was the only one who refused to pretend that nothing had changed. So they went on disliking each other, but with respect instead of disdain for the battle each needed to fight in silence. In that way dislike turned into something else. Frances tolerated and began to enjoy his “helping out” with the heavier Red Cross loads whenever he had the opportunity — almost continuously these past two weeks of his annual holidays.

“Do you know who Harry thinks he saw at the ship yesterday? Billy Mackenzie.”

“But we met them all.”

“Not the ones at the other end. The cases for the hospital were seen by the ladies from Vaucluse. Harry was very sure, except that Billy's hair was close cropped and bristly. He looked like a German.”

“Wouldn't we have heard? Why didn't you say so before? Couldn't you have spoken to him ?” Her mother leaned forward: “We should have sought him out.”

Frances chose this moment to break finally clear of the shell of grief that had enclosed her since June.

“He blames me for Diana,” she said firmly. “I know that he thinks nothing would have happened if it hadn't been for my … my …” Frances took a sip of tea, then nibbled a biscuit, leaving her mother an awkward witness to the confirmation of her own suspicions.

“Who would think such a thing!”

“He must,” said Frances quietly, “I think it myself.”

“You shouldn't.”

“I left the door open and Diana caught cold. She would not have got pneumonia otherwise. The holiday was spoiled and I insisted on going home. But worse than that.”

“Worse?” Mrs Reilly was alarmed. All this she had thought herself, and had discussed her feelings many times with Harry. Now it seemed there was to be another revelation.

“It's the way I am. I drew her into it.”

“Into what, for God's sake,” breathed Mrs Reilly.

“Into life. My life. I feel as if Diana was forced to make amends because I'll never be able to.”

“I won't listen to —”
this madness
, she wanted to say.

“It's all right, mother. I know I'm to blame, but I've finished worrying. I really have finished.”

“Something Oliver Melrose said made the difference, didn't it. May I read the letter? Or was it catching sight of Billy? We'll have to go and see him, you know.”

“I can't change,” said Frances, raising her head in decisive resignation, “I can't.”

Her mother took her daughter's hand. “You've
changed already. Today is the first time in months I've heard you play the piano. You've recovered your old self.”

“That's what I mean.”

There they sat without talking until the doorbell clanged and Mrs Reilly leapt up in alarm because she had not yet tidied herself.

Helen ushered in Mrs Brewer. She was a large puffed woman with a heaving red cross fixed almost horizontally to her starched bosom. Recently a photograph of four of her sons, all in uniform and overseas, had appeared in the
Herald
under the heading “The Brewer Brothers of Balmoral”.

“Won't Sidney come in for a cup?” asked Frances. She rather liked the languid fifth son whose weak lungs made him a prisoner to his mother's national spirit.

“He's keeping the engine running,” replied Mrs Brewer, glancing at her watch.

“Mother won't be long.”

“What about you, my dear? The troops must be properly kitted.”

“I'm not … well today. Do you mind?”

“Sometimes,” said Mrs Brewer sharply, “I'm unwell myself.”

Then the doorbell rang and Helen announced a second caller, grasping Frances's sleeve and dropping her voice to a hoarse whisper while Mrs Brewer looked on: “She won't come in, nor would she give her name. She looks like a domestic. Should I send her away?”

Frances went to the door to find a thin girl her own age wearing a ridiculously smart hat and a white muslin blouse with grubby cuffs.

“Are you Miss Reilly? I couldn't ring. I've never used a telephone before. I've come down to find Billy,
but I can't find him nowhere,” and as she spoke she stood on her toes and peered over Frances's shoulder into the dark hall as if someone might be lurking there. “I'm Ethel Mackenzie,” she continued, extending her hand, “Billy's cousin.”

 

When the others had gone, leaving them alone, Frances commented on the heat, but Ethel, after unpinning her hat and running a finger along its dyed blue hen's feather, said it was not too bad — compared, that is, with home, where the New Year was always a scorcher. As the Brewers' car noisily departed up the road Ethel cocked her head quizzically and after a moment announced: “I thought it was a calf or something.”

Helen brought a glass of lemon cordial which Ethel downed without a pause, then she twisted around to admire the room while gripping the empty glass in both hands.

“Do you work for the Red Cross too?”

“Whenever I can,” said Frances.

Helen waited to be handed the glass.

Ethel laughed: “As if we'd have time for it up home. The war's for those with nothing to do.”

Frances wanted to object, and suggest all those tasks towards which her life had once seemed to be serenly tending — the labour of music, which that very morning she had taken up again; the timeless effort of art. But she was irritated to find that Billy's cousin forced her to be plain: “To tell you the truth I'm about to give up the Red Cross work altogether.”

But if she disliked Ethel, as she decided she did the
moment she set eyes on her, why should she seek her approval?

When Helen left for the kitchen Ethel changed seats. Frances found her hand suddenly in the grip of one that was chafed and red, though the fingernails were surprisingly well kept — better than her own.

“I didn't come looking for Billy,” Ethel confessed, “I know where he is. I've come to warn you about him. He's not the same. I saw him this morning at the hospital where he's kept. They've shaved his hair off, you can see the scar plain as daylight.”

“I don't know anything. What happened?”

“He said he'd written.”

“No.”

“He swore.” Ethel sucked in her upper lip and stared thoughtfully at her hat which was occupying a chair all to itself. “Then perhaps it's all right. Gosh, what a lovely piano!”

“The wounded men don't shock me. I've visited the worst cases.” Frances stood and searched for a box of cigarettes, holding them out to Ethel who shook her head.

“I'm at sixes and sevens. He told me he'd written to you with a — he started blaming people — he used words I can't repeat.”

Frances now found herself in the chair previously occupied by Ethel: “I know what he's thinking. He blames me for Diana. Isn't that true?”

Ethel hung her head and wiped dust from her toecaps with the side of a finger.

“Isn't it?”

“Not you — everyone.”

“But he mentioned my name particularly,” Frances stated with force: “Didn't he?”

“Yes.”

“You don't have to pretend — I'm strong, you know.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Ethel, at last looking up. “You're much stronger than me. I've always envied you, ever since I saw you once at the station. I told Walter about knowing you by sight. Did he ever say anything?” When Frances nodded Ethel smiled and said: “Girls aren't the only tittle-tats.”

Frances blew smoke in a narrow firm stream, adopting the manner of Sharon Keeley: “I believe we're better at keeping secrets than men.”

“Yes, we are!” said Ethel excitedly. She accepted a cigarette after all. Her entire life, she said, had been spent in the company of males. They carried on about their own trustworthiness only because so little mattered to them, and talked their heads off without realizing it.

“What did Billy really say?”

“That he was going to make you pay. He said he'd written you a letter, some kind of threat, but if he didn't then what is there to worry about? He rambles on with whatever comes into his head, and does an awful lot of staring.”

“I've already paid — if only you knew.” But to herself Frances sounded false, and saw that Ethel thought the same. Her blue eyes were hooded in a family likeness to Billy's, but with a penetrating instead of sullen gaze that unsettled Frances and drove her to the truth: “No, I'll never pay I suppose. How could I?”

“That's supposing you've got something to pay for. I've heard the story,” Ethel reached across and touched Frances briefly on the forearm, “and if anyone's to blame it's not you.”

“Thanks, but you don't know the half of it.”

“I don't need to,” said Ethel.

“What's Billy's wound? Someone saw him walking. It can't be bad.”