A Whispered Name (33 page)

‘I’d
have sworn you were the same vintage.’

‘No,
Sir.’

‘You
know …’ The General’s face coloured with emotion, but his features remained
in place. ‘Bernard won’t be coming home either.’

Footsteps in the Oostbeke
school playground sounded behind the cellar door. Boots struck the steps. The
lock turned. Scrambling to his feet, Herbert put both hands against the door,
as if to stop its swing. Weak and powerless, he moved aside at the first
sensation of pressure. He turned to face the man he’d condemned. Flanagan was
on his knees with the hands of the priest upon his head. The prisoner rose,
holding his trousers, and he spoke calmly in Gaelic. While Herbert couldn’t
understand a word, the sound was majestic. A thump struck his heart with
longing: to understand so very foreign a man … his way of talking, his way of
seeing
the world: the rain gathering off the sea; the veins in the clay
He moaned as the NCO said, ‘Come on, now, lad.’

As
Flanagan came level with Herbert he said, ‘Goodbye, Sir.’

Herbert
nodded.

‘I
never did quite work out the rules of football, did I, Sir?’

‘No, Private,
you didn’t.’

‘Sir —’
Flanagan came up short and the NCO’s hand appeared on his shoulder forcing him
forward — ‘This was my choice, Sir; there’s meaning to it, Sir … for me …’

Herbert
stared, as though for the first time, into Flanagan’s face. His eyes were a
sharp blue, his skin pale with faint freckles of bleached orange congregating
on the nose; the forehead clear, as if a careless hand had just pushed back the
hair. He did not blink; there was no fear behind the iris, no storm upon the
distant sea. Herbert dropped his gaze.

‘I’m
sorry Sir,’ said the NCO. Herbert saw the two stripes on the sleeve, but couldn’t
look any higher. ‘Can’t linger, Sir, you appreciate that, Sir. Can’t have a
hitch, can we now’ He shadowed Flanagan up the steps and Herbert followed. ‘Whoaaa,
steady you go, lad.’

The sky
was clean of all other lights save the rinse of morning. Another of those
unpredictable pauses in the bombardment had taken place. And instead a strange
rush of sound came from the woods over a mile away … birds were singing. The
firing party organised by Major Ashcroft at Brigade would be standing nearby
thought Herbert, his eyes smarting; they’d be gathered somewhere out of view to
the road and the path that led to the post and the chair. Tindall, who should
have been a vet, was among them. They were all smoking in silence, listening to
this din rising from the trees.

The
escort formed up: Flanagan flanked by two guards; ahead the Corporal; behind
Father Maguire. Boots rang out on the flags and the walk began. Unthinking,
Herbert tracked them: across the yard, to the gate, on to the road, and then a
right turn, on towards the low shoulder of trees. The road was perfectly
straight, heading away from the camp. Against the low skyline Herbert saw the
rifles at the shoulders, the barrels black against the early morning light.
Overcome with unhappiness, remorse and protest, Herbert’s eyes blurred. In the
fields on either side, larks had joined the song. He tore at his battle dress,
wanting to get at his chest, to bring out the pain. All he could do was listen
to this fresh sound, so much worse than shellfire, and follow the steady march
towards the break of day.

And
between the guards shuffled Flanagan, one arm swinging free, the other raised
as he clutched his trousers.

Chapter Forty.

The Walk to the Slip

Flanagan stared ahead at
the low line of trees. Larks were singing at his side, and ahead in the woods.
Far off the guns thundered beyond Ypres. A sliver of bright light beckoned
above the wheat field. It was like the blade of morning, seen on the sea from
Inisdúr. Flanagan walked down to the slip once more, summoning the faces of his
island people. The blue woven cloth on the men; the brown shawls on the women.
Róisín was standing at the window, fiery and proud of her boy’s rebellion;
Muiris was alone, facing the fields of lush barley He wouldn’t let his eyes see
a mast or sail on the hooker. Brendan was hiding somewhere, crying.

The
birds’ singing grew louder than the guns. The woods grew taller. The sliver of
light lost its sharpness. On they marched. Panic lay crouching in the remaining
darkness, but he was not frightened.

Meg’s
voice was weak now
If you leave the land, Seosamh, death will claim you.
Sure,
it had been a bad dream, that’s all. It was a gorgeous cove, where she lived: a
beach of small stones and shells swung beneath the cliffs, and birds floated
high, circling her cottage. She threw them scraps when they swooped low, their
beaks open, their eyes bright. She lived off fish and bread baked beneath peat.

At the
entrance to the woods, the escort slowed. The guard on Flanagan’s left leaned
into him, forcing a right turn towards a path. Small flowers, their colour
indistinct, speckled the entrance. Branches hung low like rafters in the
cottages back home. Muiris had used spars from boats wrecked upon the rocks.
Sailors had cut names into the timber, along with dates. As a boy Flanagan had
stood on a chair and followed the scored letters with his finger, wondering who
they all might be, and where they’d lived their days. They were all women.

A
hundred yards ahead was a clearing. The green of the leaves was brighter, the
grass thick and trampled. All Flanagan’s senses seemed to flare with violent
activity. All at once he suffered a kind of attack: from the scent of bruised
ferns and nettles; the taste of the dew on the air; the crazed, hidden
chattering of the birds; the colours bleeding into one another. He moaned and
almost recoiled from this sudden, glorious opening out of the world. It was
like a first and final disclosure: a showing of something that had always been
there to be taken away within an instant.

I’ll
drink this one now,
said Mr Drennan.
The other I
shall save for your homecoming, however bitter the grape might turn.

Upon
entering the trodden space, Flanagan saw to his right a section of men with
their backs turned, lined up in two ranks of six. They faced the woods, heads
down, hands by their sides. Laid on the ground behind them in a neat line were
their rifles, breeches closed. An officer stood at attention, a swagger stick
under his arm. His boots were shining. All at once Flanagan felt the presence
of panic, but it kept still, rounded its shoulders like a cat watching its prey
Flanagan’s muscles tensed, his teeth bared and he began to wheeze. Hands
grabbed each elbow and brought him stumbling to a chair before a pale wooden
post. Straw had been laid on the ground.

‘Sit
down, mate,’ said a Sergeant.

Flanagan
obeyed. Immediately Father Maguire blocked his view of the firing party. The
priest placed a strong hand on Flanagan’s neck and drew him hard into his
shoulder. Other hands gripped Flanagan’s wrists and forced them behind the
chair. Rope burned his skin. A voice muttered something about the knot being
loose.

‘This
day you enter the kingdom prepared for the just,’ whispered the priest
ferociously as he was drawn away His eyes were ablaze with passion and faith
and rage.

When
Flanagan had reached the crowd at the slip, he’d turned to see Brendan … he’d
come out of hiding to follow him. He’d come to handle the currach that would
take Flanagan to the hooker at anchor. They’d hardly spoken as he pulled the
oars. At the boat’s side, they’d shaken hands like men.

‘God, I
never knew my own brother,’ moaned Flanagan, remembering those blue-green
eyes, and the boy’s tears. He’d never made the field. He’d left no message with
Father Maguire for Brendan … it was too late … the priest was out of reach …

‘Sit
right up, lad,’ said the Sergeant. He had a thick moustache that covered his
top lip. His rough hands pushed Flanagan’s head against the post. ‘There you
are, now’ Dangling off one arm was an old gas mask, the round eyepieces large
and black. The rope tightened on Flanagan’s wrists and there was more
whispering about the knot. The same hands tied his feet to the chair.

The
only soldier Flanagan recognised was the RMO, Mr Tindall. He was beside Father
Maguire, his face twitching. Abruptly he marched to the officer with the
swagger stick and began a hushed conversation. After a moment, the officer
shook his head and patted his jacket pockets. He then strode among the ranks
asking a question. Most shook their heads. One nodded and produced an envelope
from his battledress. He handed it to the officer and promptly vomited. All the
while, the sergeant stood close to the chair, one hand on Flanagan’s shoulder.
The gas mask swung off his arm, the round black eyes staring at the hay.

Had the
grape turned bitter? Flanagan asked himself.

The
vomiting soldier leaned forward, one hand on a knee. He coughed and spat and
wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Panic crouched lower in Flanagan’s guts, ready
to pounce. To one side, he glimpsed four men and a stretcher. They too, had
their faces turned away The only person who looked at him was Father Maguire.

I left
the slip for this. Hysteria shook Flanagan’s limbs and his hair went stiff:
everything he’d said to Mr Moore — the journey from the spring burials to this
chair — was an islander’s tale. It was a mist over the shells on Meg’s cove.

Chapter Forty-One

Tracking down Harold Shaw
proved a complicated affair for reasons Anselm could not have foreseen. An
enquiry placed with the Royal British Legion brought him into contact with a
Mrs Watson. A week later she rang Larkwood to say that Mr Shaw was indeed a
member, and had been active in the Legion all his life. He was now in a
retirement home and she proposed to visit him to canvass the possibility of an
interview with Anselm. Four days later another call came through. It transpired
that Mr Shaw had never spoken about ‘the incident’ to his family He had no
intention of doing so now, but would speak to a monk in private on the
understanding that the discussion remained a secret.

The
incident.
The phrase carried the heavy weight of
understatement. It reminded Anselm of all those other English garden remarks,
all neat and trimmed, a way of keeping an appearance for the greater good. With
growing apprehension, Anselm drove through the crowded streets of Tooting Bec,
South London, and parked in the forecourt of the Birches Nursing Home. At Mr
Shaw’s insistence, the interview was to take place in his bedroom.

The old
soldier wore a suit and all his medals for the occasion. From his chair, he
bowed with his head, as if Anselm were a dignitary, and then patted the seat
beside him. The room was brightly coloured and all the furnishings were new
Photographs of children in silver frames crowded a model of the
Mayflower
on
a dresser.

‘You
have the envelope?’ he asked.

Anselm
nodded.

‘May I
see it?’

His
face was milk—white. All his hair had gone, save for a few strands tinged with
copper. He held his head back as if he was trying to read a page held up to
him. Large glasses magnified watery blue eyes. With a shaking hand he took the
envelope from Anselm and stared at it.

‘This
is between us, then, Father?’

‘It is,’
said Anselm.

‘You
want to know what this means?’ He held up the envelope, his eyes vivid with emotion.

‘Yes,
if I may’ Anselm felt very much out of his depth, but that this was a
conversation Mr Shaw had wanted all his life.

The
order came through late on the 14th September 1917, he explained. He was a
private aged eighteen in The Lambeth Rifles. His Company Sergeant Major came
into his billet and read out four names. Shaw’s was one of them. Special
detail, he said. He didn’t look very happy so everyone thought it must be a
trip back to the front to carry ammunition. The four men joined eight others in
the village square where a bus rolled up and took them a mile or so down the
road to Oostbeke, right by the Division HQ. They were driven another mile out
of the camp, past an abbey to some woods, and housed in a nearby barn. The
animals had been put into a field and clean straw laid on the floor.

‘This
staff officer turns up,’ said Mr Shaw ‘And he says he’s very sorry but we’ve
been picked for a nasty job. Orders is orders, for him and for us, he said. We
were going to shoot a deserter at first light. Well, we almost fell over. I
mean, we’d just come out of the line. Half our mates were dead. The last thing
we felt like was a “special duty” … that’s what the Brass Hats called
anything that was especially unpleasant. Now let me tell you something, Father —’
the old man took Anselm’s wrist and squeezed it, but the strength had gone — ‘before
that night, if you’d asked me would I pull the trigger, I’d have said, “Yes.”
We was all volunteers, we had our pride, we wouldn’t stop the fight and we
wouldn’t give in. And when I heard of these others who’d hopped it and got
shot, well, frankly I felt nothing. It was war. And there had to be discipline.
But that night, when the officer told me I’d be in the front line of six … well,
I wasn’t so sure any more.