Armistice (30 page)

“I have to go.” Suddenly he was on his feet, making his way out of the kitchen. In the doorway he stumbled slightly.

Jonathan looked to Philomena and silently mouthed, “What?”

“We will pursue the truth,” she called stridently after Judge Dore. “We promise not to spread gossip, but we will still try to establish the facts surrounding the death of Daniel Case.”

Judge Dore walked on.

“We're going to Germany to look for witnesses from their side.”

Jonathan stared at her, frowning. She urged him toward the judge, who was now fumbling with the lock on the apartment door. Jonathan went to help him, solicitously, as one might an invalid. Philomena felt a tilt in the world and put a hand up to the wall to steady herself. She had some pity for Judge Dore. His lips were parted, his forehead shone with sweat, and his energy—that in its intensity had threatened to conquer her and Jonathan—was now disordered, chaotic.
He was at bay—no; he had the air of a man who couldn't wait to be alone.

“I set a trap, twice, just now, didn't I, Judge? I said I wanted the return of my letter from Dan but I never mentioned Dan when I was at your house. I just asked for my letter back. So just now you should have said something like, ‘Is that what the missing letter is?' But you didn't, because I think you know what the letter is. Your son does possess it; you've seen it, even read it. And if your son's guilty over my letter, that very strange theft, what else could he be guilty of?”

Judge Dore didn't turn around. He waited, rigid, as if for more. Jonathan looked to Philomena and she nodded, and he opened the door for the judge. Without speaking again, he left. Jonathan shut the door behind him.

Philomena and he fell silent for a very long time, either end of the hallway of Jonathan's apartment.

“There it is,” she said. “I think we've got all we're going to get. For now. It's our own armistice.”

“Yes,” said Jonathan, “that's exactly what it is.”

“And we'll get Anthony. One day,” she said.

A pause. They filed back into the kitchen, each in their own thoughts, both wondering what would happen next. There was still an atmosphere in the room. Jonathan opened a window.

“Did you mean that about traveling to Germany?”

“I don't know. But there is somewhere I would like to travel to. I'd like to visit Dan's grave.”

Anthony's train was for Liverpool and the Atlantic passage. He'd looked out on the silhouetted London skyline, wondering if he'd ever see it again. He fretted about money. His father hadn't referred to the subject beyond begrudgingly shoving an envelope of cash into his hand. Would he ever be allowed to return? Would his father reply if he wrote? Would they ever speak again? Nothing could be counted upon anymore. His head throbbed from where his father had gripped it and he sported mottled purple marks. He had managed one case of clothes and meager personal possessions. His father had made him carry the damned bible. Fuck the bible. He yanked the carriage windows apart, took aim and threw it out through the gap. The opening was narrow and his aim poor; the heavy bible bounced back and caught him on his tender bruises, further infuriating him. He snatched the book up and stuffed it through, ramming it out, tattering it.

Anthony felt aggrieved at his treatment, even though he was guilty. He still felt angry with Daniel Case, but he was mad with rage at Jonathan Priest, and with Philomena Bligh, too, and with his father. With some ease he pictured shooting
Jonathan Priest, and Philomena Bligh, in the presence of each other. Which one first? Ideally, both ways: kill him in front of her followed by her in front of him.

Canada, what was he going to do in Canada? It was a cold, uncivilized place, wasn't it? How was he going to survive? What were his talents? He had none. Everything that had come to him had been due to his birth. That was all he had, his family. Would he kill again? He'd done it that time to protect what was his but now he had nothing, relatively. He was damned if he was going to be poor, though, the poor penitent his father seemed to have in mind. Mentally he prepared himself to lie more, cheat, and if necessary kill someone who had something he wanted.

Also, he began to plot how to convince his father that he was redeemable. From across the ocean he'd work on his paternal affections. Yes, that could succeed! He would come across better on paper than he did in the flesh. He might even send a short message from England's edge: “Dear Father” he began in his mind … but he quickly became lost for what to say next, as the enormity of it all struck him a hammer blow. He cursed the war. He would never have met Daniel Case if it weren't for the damned war. Fuck the war. Tears of self-pity threatened to well. He dug his nails into the palm of his hand, a habit from schooldays, to distract himself with pain.

He'd loathed the wet in his father's eyes as he'd said, in a voice thick with emotion, “Goodbye, Anthony.” His father—would he change his will? Everything should have been
coming to him! That was the good thing about his brothers' dying. The bad thing was that without them to hide behind he was exposed as himself. Was his father going to disinherit him? Was he even now at his solicitor's? Oh my God, should he return to London immediately and kill his father before he had a chance to change his will? Where was the train now? Nowhere. Fields. If he stopped the train by pulling the emergency handle how long would it take him to return to London by foot and taxi if any existed in this godforsaken place? Would that be quicker than waiting to get off at the next station, traveling back up the line?

And so on, and so on, thought Anthony Dore.

Philomena sent another apologetic telegram home to Jo, her business partner, before she and Jonathan took the boat train to Calais, where they hired a motor and its driver, purchased provisions—wine, water, pâté, cheese, baguette—and set off toward Dan's grave. Jonathan guided the driver along the straight, flat roads. They motored the late afternoon and some of the early evening before he was able to inform Philomena: “We're in the area.”

A phosphorescent moon hung in the sky. In the metallic light the eerie, disturbed landscape was revealed; unnatural-looking shapes and undulations in the ground. The car's headlights illuminated gashes and pits in the earth covered by a thin dressing of grass and early wild flowers. Hard evidence of the war emerged from the earth—the barrel of a gun, a tank track—Jonathan hadn't thought before just how much
clearing up there would have to be. Ah, there; a low, broken wall off to the left. A turning came up, an unmetaled road heading south-east. Jonathan commanded the driver to stop the vehicle and got out. He sniffed the air. Philomena began to make moves to join him.

“Not quite there yet.”

He got back in, consulted the map.

“That's not our farmhouse. It's all looking quite different from what I remember. Of course. I hope I haven't led you on a wild goose chase.”

“We'll find it,” she reassured, trying to take the onus off him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Jonathan told the driver to
allez
, at walking pace. The motor bobbled over the uneven terrain. Ghostly was a word for the place. How many men had perished here? Soldiers, airmen, tunnelers; all races, all nationalities; and the civilians, the animals, and birds—death had been plentiful, hounding life with varying degrees of insane ingenuity on, above and below this ground. What had thrived? The rat, possibly, the worm and insect and the carrion crow. They shall inherit the earth.

“I was wondering about Felicity,” he said, switching his mind to a more pleasant subject. “What are you going to do with her?”

“I returned her to the shop,” said Philomena. “But I could always get her out again. I might be her sometimes.”

Jonathan smiled, wondering if that meant Philomena was to spend more time in London.

“That's a hell-hole,” he said. “Did I say hell? I meant shell.
I feel that we're in the vicinity.” Another low wall. “That could be it. And over there; that could be the remains of the tank.”

He was out of the motor car while it still moved, more alive to the search now the scent was stronger. Like an alert dog he took a few paces one way, a few another. The driver stopped and idled the engine. Philomena alighted. Jonathan reconstructed the geography. He rotated a full circle, mentally filling in what was missing, straightened his arm.

“Over there.”

He set off, casting a long shadow as he crossed the motor car's headlights. Philomena followed, picking up her feet to avoid tripping. He waited for her at the edge of what appeared to be a ragged picket fence. Nearing, she realized it was wooden crosses, irregular rows of them. Her heart went in her mouth.

At the outset of their search she read each internee's name and took a few moments to think about the person buried beneath. But there were scores of them, so as time went on her eyes slid over names in her search for Dan's. She heard Jonathan call her name and hurried over to him. He silently indicated a cross, roughly engraved. Daniel Case. Second Lieutenant. Killed in action November 11, 1918. Scratched over the
killed
, weathered, faint even after this relatively short time, was the word
murdered
. Jonathan must be responsible for that. So here lay Dan.

She reached up to Jonathan at her side and kissed him on the cheek. Then she focused on Dan's grave. Jonathan felt he was intruding, so he retreated a little way and waited. In the
moonlight he tried to more fully recreate where everything had been just a few months ago. A flickering light over by the ruined farmhouse caught his eye.

At the grave Philomena went through some preliminaries. She told Dan that she believed that he had been murdered by Anthony Dore in a most cowardly fashion. “It's not over, yet,” she told him. “Don't know what the outcome will be. We're not giving up. I'm going to fight as hard as ever I can, and let Jonathan fight, without it destroying either of us. That's fair, isn't it? That's all you can ask for.”

She shared her memories of their last day together. “Bicycles. You laughed at me straining uphill. I thought you looked too thin. I could have raced you, I think, if I'd put my mind to it. How bony you were when we got in that pond—how cold was that!? When we made love I was trying to fill you up, inflate you with spirit. I thought if I achieved that you might become buoyant, able to float out of harm's way.”

After her last words had faded she began the funeral ceremony, one she was making up on the spot. She took the photo of herself that Jonathan had returned to her, found a flat stone and scratched a hollow in the earth. Into this she placed the image.

“You can have one letter back,” she told Dan.

To choose which, she held each in turn and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to receive a telepathic instruction. That didn't work. She'd have to decide.

“I'll tell you what,” she said, “I'll hang onto them.” She pushed earth over the photo. “You came home with different eyes.
Death. We never spoke of it. There it was, always, though. On the table between us … I've seen other women deal with it. You look at them and you think: ‘She should do that; that'd be a good thing to do now he's gone.' Or you think: ‘Poor girl, look what she's at, mad with grief; judgment's shot—should I intervene?' But you never do; you let them get on with it hoping they'll emerge without too much damage.”

Over near the ruined farm Jonathan was silently watching a woman, a man with one leg, and a little boy intently conduct a fingertip search for weeds in their patch of earth. The cultivated area was small. It looked as if it had been prepared to a fine tilth. The boundaries were marked by a makeshift fence; posts of salvaged weaponry stuck vertically into the ground, connected by recycled barbed wire. There were walkways that all three were fastidious in observing. The man had developed a method of leaning at a precipitous angle on his crutches, as if hanging off them, in order to reach and work the ground. The woman, then the man, noticed Jonathan and stopped working. He raised his hand. The man and woman spoke to each other, and the man hobbled nearer, taking in Jonathan's clothes, face.

“Hello,” the man tried, in a local accent.

“Hello,” replied Jonathan.

The man turned to the woman and nodded. Jonathan saw lines running front to back of his face, the side that had been away from him, that of the man's lost leg. He took them to be streaks of dirt. The man shifted. The moon lit that part of his face more clearly, showing a sheen of sweat. The man took
out a rag and mopped his head. The streaks of dirt didn't leave his skin or smear. They were in the skin. Jonathan guessed they were tattoos, dark matter explosively driven into the man, etched into his epidermis, forever recording the direction of travel of the blast that took his limb. It was a miracle he'd kept his eye. Jonathan and the man watched the woman and the boy continue working.

Jonathan tried some French. “Ju swee eesee don la gare.”

The man nodded, as if he had thought that that might be the case. They both looked off into the distance for a few moments. A dog barked, setting off another, a second, a third, in a chain reaction. In a similar fashion, the dogs progressively fell silent. Jonathan could hear little clicks from the tools the woman and boy employed, and the rustle of their clothing. A horse or donkey snorted from behind the ruined farm.

“
Nous sommes fermiers
,” said the man, speaking a little too quickly for Jonathan to immediately comprehend.

He stared blankly, then understood: “Ah—wee, wee. Ju com pron. Fermiay.”

The man called softly to the boy and he came running with a metal bottle of water. A reclaimed army flask. The man took it from him and offered it to Jonathan. He took a swig.

“Bon. Mersee,” he said, giving the flask back. He looked over to where Philomena now knelt by Dan's grave.