Live to Tell (22 page)

His hand trembled as he lifted it up. It’s private, you shouldn’t look at it, he reasoned with himself. He placed the envelope back in the box, and closed the lid, then pulled it out again. No-one will know, he thought and opened the flap. He began to pull the picture out, and first a bare foot and then the inside of her left leg was revealed.

“What’s this, Sir? Having a sneaky peak at the dead corporal’s wife, Sir? Here, let me have a butchers. The way he talked she sounded like a right bit of alright.”

Unbeknown to Ben, a bulky warrant officer had walked in behind him, and was leering over his shoulder at the photograph, emerging from the envelope. Angrily, Ben stuffed it back inside and jumped to his feet, knocking into the other man.

“Certainly not, Sergeant Major. It’s going in the stove.” He removed the lid from the pot-bellied stove that was used to heat the office, tore the envelope in half and fed it to the flames.

Later that evening, alone in his corner of the officers’ mess, Ben was still burning with embarrassment. He felt humiliated that the gobby man had jumped to what he thought was the worst possible conclusion, and had automatically assumed he had descended to his own level. He knew he hadn’t wanted a soft porn rush. God knows there’s plenty of that available even here, he thought, for guys tired of
Horse
and
Hound
and
Polo
Today
. He felt ashamed to realise that he had actually wanted to see for himself the young woman who coloured her hair purple and sprayed glitter on her face, even if she was married to someone else.

Perhaps I should write to her. Maybe she’d appreciate a letter from someone close to her husband before he died. I’ll ask the adjutant what he thinks. He’ll probably know what to do with the gear as well. He looked around the group of unfamiliar faces but the adjutant was not amongst them.

As he sipped his beer, there was something else nagging at him and he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Then in a flash it came to him. He hadn’t spoken to Sgt. Baker since they returned to base. He wasn’t sure where to find him but thought the Sergeants Mess was a good place to start. He knew he wasn’t allowed in there but he didn’t care. At least I can try, he thought.

Pushing open the door, all eyes were on him.

“Can I do something for you, Sir,” a man said, jumping in front of him, as if he had strayed in there by accident, and somehow posed a threat.

“Yes, I hope you can,” he replied quietly, trying to peer over the man’s shoulder. “I’m looking for Sgt. John Baker. Is he here?”

The man lowered his voice. “He’s there,” he said nodding in the direction of a table against the wall. “Shall I get him for you? He might not be able to stand up for much longer.”

“I know it’s highly irregular, but can I come in and have a quick word with him? It won’t take long, I promise.”

Sgt. Baker looked as if he had been drinking heavily and barely looked up as under close escort, Ben slid into the seat opposite. The other man melted into the background.

“How you doing,” asked Ben.

“How d’ya think, Sir? It’s my fault Danny Powell died. I was supposed to protect you both. That was my job. I failed.” He drained his glass.

Ben sighed and whispered, “You didn’t fucking fail, Sergeant. It’s thanks to you we weren’t killed the night before. You couldn’t have prevented what happened. It was a rocket attack a couple of miles away, wasn’t it for God’s sake? How could you have stopped that? If anything it was my fault. I told him to go.”

Baker nodded, his head lower than before. “Thanks, Sir, but it was me. It was my job to do it. I let everybody down.” He picked up his glass, as if forgetting it was empty and frowned at the dregs. “It must have been a bloody good shot to do for him, that’s for sure. Bloody good.”

It was lunch time on Monday. Dad had asked his boss if he could take a few days emergency leave from work so that he could take charge of arrangements for the funeral and he came quietly into the room, where Mum and I were.

He bent forward and kissed my forehead. “Hello, Dear,” he said. “I’ve been speaking to the vicar of St. Thomas’ church, up the road.” He pulled a chair up and sat down beside me. “He says that if we would like it, he can conduct the service and have Danny laid to rest in the churchyard. What do you think? Would you like that? They don’t usually bury people there anymore but he said they’ll make an exception in this case, if that’s what you wish.”

I just sniffed and nodded. I couldn’t think at all. Dad had brought me out of the nightmare of my home, but I had brought the nightmare with me. As the squadron leader promised, the Army had contacted us later in the day, but instead of saying there had been a stupid mistake, they confirmed everything he said. I still couldn’t accept that I would never see my beloved boy again.

My father hesitated. “Er, it’s been suggested that he should have a military funeral, if you were willing.”

I stared at him, uncomprehending. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it. What do you think? Is it the right thing to do? But would there be a lot of fuss?”

“Well, the way I look at it,” he said quietly. “It’s a question of what Danny would have wanted, really, isn’t it? You know, Dear, rather than any of us.” He stroked my hair.

“I don’t know. I can’t think straight anymore about anything. If you think it’s best, go ahead.”

Two days earlier had been my second wedding anniversary and my husband was dead. I turned my face away and buried it in one of Mum’s cushions. She leaned across and put her arms around me.

I knew that Mum and Dad were hurting from the bereavement almost as much as I was but were trying to be strong for me. Each day I followed Mum about like a zombie, sometimes even holding her hand.

After breakfast the next day, my father said someone ought to go back to my apartment to retrieve any waiting mail and pick up some clothes. Although he was willing to go alone, Mum thought it better that we all went. As I was used to living there on my own for most of the time, I didn’t think it would be too much more of an ordeal, although, in truth, I wasn’t able to think at all.

It was mid-morning when we arrived, but there was not much daylight outside, just grey clouds and a chill wind. Inside the gloomy rooms, now dusty and stale, I wandered about aimlessly while they did the practical things. Mum was gathering together some more clothes for me and Dad was putting Danny’s possessions into Aidan’s old room, so that they would not be continually on show. He seemed too quiet. I pushed open the door to check that he was alright. He stood alone, in the centre of the room with his back to me, his shoulders shaking. For a second, I thought that he was laughing. In his hands he held Danny’s tan army boots, the pair discarded, a month earlier, the morning he came home unexpectedly. I ran to my father and put my arms around him.

“Don’t cry, Dad,”

“We were going to sort out the greenhouse together. He offered to help me.”

“I’ll do it, Dad. I’ll do it,” I said, bursting into tears.

In the kitchen, Mum tried to look after us both and we all sat round the table clutching hot mugs of tea, but I couldn’t drink from mine.

“There’s something I wanted to bring up,” my father said, dabbing at his eyes and clearing his throat. “I really feel we must make sure that Danny’s other family are notified. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the falling out, his parents have the right to know that their son is… has passed away. I would want to know.”

Mum nodded. “Yes, Dear,” she said to me. “Dad’s right. We must tell them. Do you have their phone number?”

I shook my head.

“Their address then, where do they live?” When I shook my head again she pursed her lips. “OK, which school did he go to? The head master may be able to help us with an address, assuming they haven’t moved in the mean time.”

“I don’t know Mum. We never talked about his school.”

She sighed and looked quite cross. “You didn’t talk about where he lived or his school, or his family. Whatever did you find to talk about?”

I didn’t realise that she was merely passing comment on my reply and tried to answer her. “We talked about where we wanted to live next, houses, and stuff. And how many children we were going to have.” I paused. “We talked about having a little girl. And we wanted to go on holiday and talked about where we could go, how much time we would have.” The significance of my words hit me and I gasped and bit my lip.

“It’s alright, it’s alright. Of course you did,” my father interrupted. “Don’t get upset. Sandra,
please;
I know you’re upset too. This is such a difficult time for all of us but can’t you see how distressed you’re making her? Anyway, I know a way around this problem. The Army will know. They will have the address, I’m sure. I’ll ring that squadron leader, Barry. I’m sure he will be able to take care of it. It’ll be better coming from someone in authority, anyway, rather than our trying to deal with it. They’ll know the best way to sort it all out.”

I nodded again. I knew I couldn’t face Danny’s parents and tell them my angel was dead. I just couldn’t do it.

Corporal Daniel John Powell, Royal Signals

(Danny)

13th May 1966-20th October 1990

The day of the funeral had arrived. Mum, Dad, Aunt Jess and I sat in the front pew of the Church of St. Thomas, while the organist was quietly playing a fugue. An hour earlier, Dad had given me a glass of vodka not realising that Mum had already provided a Valium tablet, but I didn’t care and I didn’t tell him. I just wanted the oblivion that any combination of drugs and alcohol could provide, and now that we were here, with my father sitting next to the aisle, me beside him, then my mother and my aunt, I felt a numbness pervading my body.

A lot of people, mostly men were sitting behind and to the side of us and I wondered who they were and if they had somehow come in by accident. But of course, I reasoned, most of them are probably soldiers or even school friends of Danny. I felt sure that Joe was not among them but I didn’t feel the need to turn round to check. I think I’d know, I thought, if he were here.

Reverend Jackman, the kindly middle aged vicar of St. Thomas, emerged silently from the transept and smiled at me. He had visited our house twice this week to talk to us about Danny and the funeral arrangements and seemed very concerned. He had had very few young, sudden deaths to deal with, which meant that ours presented him with a challenge and he was determined to meet it with special care. As he entered, the organ music seemed to grow more sombre but he lingered a moment and put his hand on my shoulder. Then he turned to face his audience and quietly said, “Please rise.”

From behind us, my beloved’s coffin was being carried slowly by six men in army uniform. The casket was tightly wrapped in the garish colours of red, white and blue of the union flag. Not the “union Jack,” my father said, the day before. That’s not right. It’s called the union flag. As if I cared! I didn’t want a coffin. I didn’t want a flag. I just wanted my Danny back and the nightmare to end.

The coffin was placed in front of us and I could feel, rather than hear, Mum and Aunt Jess weeping, but I had no tears to shed and stood stoically beside my father. He put his arm around me and I tightly clutched the hem of his jacket. All around us bowls of white lilies and dark blue irises were placed, in keeping with the architecture of the old church, and as we sat down again their perfume was almost overwhelming. For a second the scraping of boots, pews creaking, and coughing from the people behind threatened to engulf me but silence quickly returned.