Rain (29 page)

Frenchie stopped reading and said nothing more. The seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. Then the vicar dragged the congregation out of their thoughts, and they stood up to sing the next hymn, ‘Lord of the Dance’. Cassie was now feeling terrible. Memories came whirling around her, and the organ music drummed inside her head. She felt dizzy and nauseous, and she wanted a drink of water. Somehow she kept standing. Some of the soldiers were crying. Even the
man next to her seemed to be choking back tears as he sang. They came to the penultimate verse.

Cassie swallowed down some bile that had risen from her stomach. She felt feverish and at the end of the hymn sat down exhausted. The service passed in a blur, and she was carried along in a kind of trance for the rest of the morning. Someone else seemed to be operating her limbs and directing her like a puppet on a stage. She walked out of the church behind the coffin; she walked to the grave, into which Tom was lowered by six soldiers, and then she was walking along the road to Tom’s house for the wake.

None of it she could remember later in any detail. Tiny fragments of the morning stayed with her, but nothing else. She remembered very clearly Constance’s hands when the first shovel of earth was thrown down on to Tom’s coffin, snug in its grave, tighten and whiten around Frenchie’s arm. She remembered a group of soldiers take themselves away from the graveside and stand in a circle, where they were led in prayer by the oldest-looking, who stood taller than the others. She was escorted to the wake by one of them, who introduced himself as Lance Corporal Miller. He dragged her towards reality, and she stepped out of her funk as she talked to him.

They didn’t talk about Tom but concentrated on the weather and what Miller was going to do for his leave. He told her about a tattoo he was going to have, of a crusader knight, on his shoulder blade. When they got to the Old Mill a marquee had been put up in front of it, and there were waiters
serving wine and plates of sandwiches. Cassie and Dusty gratefully fell upon them, and each drained a glass of wine in one without anyone else noticing. Then Cassie started to see things more clearly and was able to start remembering things. They were joined by another soldier, who introduced himself as Trooper Davenport. As they talked she realized these were the boys she had heard so much about, who had shared Tom’s wagon with him. They didn’t seem anything like Tom had painted them; they looked as though they couldn’t hurt a fly. Both were so young.

The sandwiches did her good, although she continued to feel a deep sickness that she couldn’t escape. All around were little groups like theirs, talking politely and, if they laughed, doing so in a qualified manner and quietly. She thought about how funny Tom would have found it, this peculiar study of manners. She saw a steady flow of people coming up to Constance. The bald man, Adrian, who had supported her through the church service, was talking to Constance and making her laugh. Cassie smiled. She went over and joined them, and she and Constance talked for ages.

The time came, and all the guests realized that they had better be on their way. As Cassie prepared to go she remembered the rose bush at the bottom of the garden which Tom would take her to when they visited his home from Cambridge. It was his favourite place in the garden, and she felt that she should see it once more. She walked out of the marquee and through the garden, and there, at the foot of a weeping willow hanging over a stream, was the rose bush. A soldier was there, and he looked up, startled that he had been discovered. He was not crying, but she could tell that she had disturbed him. He looked tough, this one, and had a wild, angry look in his eyes.

‘Hello, sorry to disturb. It’s just that Tom always liked this spot, and I thought I should come here.’

The soldier replied gruffly, as though unaccustomed to talking about his feelings: ‘Yeah. He mentioned this place a lot when we were away. I thought I might be able to remember him better down here. His mum pointed the way.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Ten minutes or so, I think. Could have been an hour, I suppose. I simply don’t know. Are you Miss Foskett?’

She was surprised. ‘Yes. Yes, I am. How did you know? How did you know my name?’

‘Tom – I mean Mr Chamberlain – used to talk about you a lot when we were away. Said you were beautiful, so it wasn’t hard to spot you when you came into the church.’

She blushed and didn’t know how to answer. They stood there, looking at the rose bush, neither of them knowing what to say next. He broke the deadlock. ‘Sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name’s—’

‘Sergeant Trueman?’

Now he was surprised. ‘Yeah. How d’you know that?’

She smiled. ‘Tom used to talk about you a lot too. Said you were the rock that his troop was built on. So it wasn’t that hard to guess when I saw you leading that group away after the burial.’

Now he blushed. ‘What kind of stuff did he tell you about me? All the bad stuff, I suppose.’

‘No. He didn’t.’

‘What did he say then?’

She didn’t answer immediately. She looked again at the rose bush. The buds were thick now, just days away from bursting into flower. She saw their thick resin reflect the sun in tiny pinpricks. At the foot of the bush a few daffodils
sagged down to the earth with drooping necks as if grazed by a plough. Almost silently she spoke. She still felt sick, and she felt her eyes welling up. ‘He said that he couldn’t have got through it without you. He said …’

‘What?’

‘He said you were like his older brother.’

They stood together as the stream behind the bush darted flashes of gold through its leaves.

The sun was out, and the last traces of spring had made way for summer. The leaves had settled into their greenness, less violent now than a few weeks ago and less fragile, and the Old Mill had eased into long days and warm, still Kent nights. Constance was downstairs in the kitchen. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, catching dust floating in its shafts. A vase of flowers was on the oak table, roses and lilies, and next to them was a bunch of wild flowers picked from the garden.

A photo of Tom stood on a side table as though it had always been there, in a tarnished silver frame. It was not a new frame; behind Tom’s photo was a picture of Leonard as a young man. The photo was from just before Tom had come home on leave, taken of him as he sat on the front of his Scimitar eating a boil-in-the-bag. His hair was thick with dust; he was looking cheerfully at the camera, and his eyes sparkled. It had been taken by Dusty at the end of a long day’s patrolling. The picture was in black and white, but somehow the brown and yellow tan on his skin from the sand still shone through.

Constance was humming to herself and brushing her hair when the phone rang. She hesitated for a moment and let it ring four or five times as though scared to pick it up and receive more bad news, even though she knew that no news
now could ever really be terrible. She felt sometimes that there was nothing left to live for. Her hair, all her life a golden blonde, had lately started its descent into grey around her temples and at the top of her scalp. She was very thin, and her clothes seemed to hang off her. She picked the phone up. ‘Hello?’

‘Constance, hi. It’s Frenchie,’ came the reply, friendly and lively.

‘Frenchie!’ She perked up immediately. Ever since the funeral he had been a rock. ‘How are you?’

‘Well, very well indeed. In the big smoke, actually. I’m with Alex, off to watch the Test match. First day of the Lord’s Test in an Ashes series. Can’t get better than that. I just wanted to ring to say that I am, as ever, thinking of you, and Tom.’

Already her eyes were filmed with tears, and he could tell by her silence that she wanted him to continue. ‘It’s just that, back in December, Tom and I chatted about daydreams and how we passed the time. About what we used to think of to get through the day. I told him that for me all I could ever think about was this day, taking Alex to the cricket. I remember laughing with Tom that I thought it would probably be rained off.’

‘And? It’s a lovely day here.’

Frenchie chuckled. ‘Here too. It’s glorious.’

‘How’s Alex?’

‘Hyperactive. I’ve shunted him off into a queue to get a book signed. I just wanted to ring you to let you know I’m thinking of you, and to say how lucky I feel to be with Alex.’ He paused. ‘And this makes me realize more than ever how lucky I am. How I don’t want anything to happen to him.’ He paused again. ‘I’m sorry, Constance; you don’t want to be hearing this.’

‘No, no, Frenchie. No. It’s great to hear. It’s what I need to hear. Are you going to spoil him today? Please say yes.’

‘Ha! I think so. We’ve got these great tickets, and we’re going to this burger joint for lunch that’s basically his favourite place in the world. But he doesn’t know it yet. The thing is, Constance, when I talked to Tom about all this, I remember saying to him that this would signal the end of tour proper for me – when I would be able to draw a line under the whole thing. But the problem is, at that point we hadn’t had anyone killed or really seriously injured yet. And when Tom was gone I realized that actually, try as I might, the tour will never go away. I’ll always be stuck there, part of me.’

Frenchie now had tears in his own eyes and was willing Alex’s queue to move slowly. He didn’t want to be seen crying. Alex, inevitably, then chose that moment to turn round to look at him, excited about getting his book signed. Frenchie waved at him, somehow managing to blink away his tears and summon up an encouraging smile.

Constance’s voice came back, calm and firm. ‘No, Frenchie. You cannot think like this. What’s done is done. You cannot chain yourself to the past. Of course you will remember Tom, but I promise you the pain will one day numb into a dull ache, and then might even go away entirely. Just look back and see a tiny bit of him in Alex, and he’ll live on somehow.’

‘And you?’

‘Don’t you worry about me. I always knew when we only had one child that I was going to be vulnerable to something like this. And now it’s happened. I look to the future and, you know, I don’t know what I see. Most of the time I think about how lonely I’m going to be.’

‘But people will always be there.’

‘I know, I know. But they’re not there in the nights. They’re
not there in the early morning when even if he was still asleep I knew that the house was alive, waiting to hear him stumble down the stairs into the kitchen. No one’s ever there when you’re doing nothing; that’s when you need them. But as I said, don’t worry about me. Just look to your own.’

‘You know I’ll never forget you, Constance. Oh my God. Action stations. Alex has got his book signed. He’s about to come back. I’d better go.’

‘Go, go! Frenchie, go and have a great day, OK?’

‘I will.’

‘Just look to the sun, remember him and just carry on.’

‘I will. I will.’

‘Oh, one thing.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much. More than you could ever know.’

‘No problem. My pleasure. No problem at all.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

Constance put the phone down and finished brushing her hair. She picked up the bunch of flowers from the table and left the house. In the garden she found Lee, a local man who helped her with the garden once a week. He was almost hidden in a flower bed as he knelt down to mulch some roses.

‘Lee, that’s me off. Shouldn’t be long.’

‘Where you goin’, Mrs Chamberlain?’

‘Just to the churchyard.’ She nodded down at the flowers. ‘To give these to Tom.’

‘Oh. Yeah, no probs. I’m here for another two hours at least so no hurry. Say hi to him for me, will ya?’

Constance smiled sadly. ‘Of course, Lee. I shall do that.
Thank you. See you in a bit.’ She turned to walk down the drive and on to the road towards the village, small and alone, moving with girlish sparrow-like steps.

The taxi pulled in at the top of the drive, and Cassie got out and paid the driver.

‘Thanks. I’ll ring you when I know when I want to go. I don’t know when that’ll be though.’

‘No probs. Just buzz the office. Might be me that comes to get ya, might be one of the others.’

‘Thanks.’

He drove off. Through the leaves and shrubs she could just see the house. She took some deep breaths and walked towards it. She came closer and remembered all the people crowding around outside after the funeral. There had been so much chatter then, so much forced cheerfulness, which had shrouded the house in a false veil of good feelings. Now it looked alone and vulnerable. She went up to the front door and again hesitated. She didn’t know what on earth she was going to say.

A voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Morning. Can I help?’ It was polite but had an undercurrent to it. She looked round and saw a young man standing in the middle of a flower bed. He was big and burly, and had a crew cut. He was quite intimidating, and Cassie didn’t know how to reply at first. ‘Um … er … I’m here to see Mrs Chamberlain.’

‘Not in.’ He knelt down, getting back to his work. He wasn’t giving anything away.

‘Do you think you might be able to tell me when she’ll be back?’

He looked at her suspiciously, stood up and walked over to her slowly and deliberately. ‘I might do. Depends who’s asking.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ She was offended.

‘Well, I mean just that. Depends who you are. If you’re from the press, then you can jog on.’

She snapped back in a flash of anger, ‘I’m not from the press. I’m not a journalist. I’m not here to terrorize Mrs Chamberlain. I have a very important message for her and I need to see her. I was a great friend of her son and I resent being spoken to like a bloody liar.’

He softened and looked embarrassed. ‘Don’t I recognize you? Weren’t you at the funeral?’

‘Yes. Yes, I was. I was Tom’s girlfriend.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ He looked genuinely contrite. ‘It’s just that, you know, we all want to protect Mrs Chamberlain now she’s on her own. Been a few reporters around lately, that kind of thing. Want to talk to her about some kind of documentary about Afghanistan. Vultures. She doesn’t want any part of it, but still they keep pestering her. It’s just, well, you look a bit like they do. City girl and all.’