Shoulder the Sky (28 page)

Now, looking at him, seeing his eyes, his face, his hands on the table in front of him, she knew her anger was because she wanted to be wherever Cullingford was. She wanted to watch him as he talked with the men, see the hope rekindle in them as they listened to him, feel the shiver of pride because they believed in him. She had seen his unguarded moments; she had a close, painful idea of how much it sometimes cost him to maintain that facade when he knew numbers they did not, facts and figures that added up to something close to despair.

His odd, dry half-jokes made what he had to do bearable. The things he spoke of very seldom walking, his dogs, horses he had loved, quotations that pleased him made sense of the battle that cost so unbearably much.

Now he was waiting for her to explain herself, to tell him something about his family, the people he belonged to. Judith forced herself to meet his eyes and smile very slightly, as if she were simply a messenger and neither knew nor understood anything more than the facts of the errand. She was acutely aware of the new young driver sitting opposite.

"When I was in London I managed to call on Mrs. Prentice," she told him. "She wrote a letter and asked me if I would give it to you personally, sir. She was afraid it might take too long to get to you otherwise." She took the envelope from her pocket and held it out.

He reached up and took it. He did not mention the young man, or even glance at him. From the intensity of his gaze upon her it was as if he had forgotten the new driver's existence.

"Thank you, Miss Reavley. That is very good of you. Have you just returned?"

"Yes, sir. I went to Poperinge first, then to my ambulance unit." Would he understand from that that she had requested to resume her job? She heard the echo of accusation in her voice, and was embarrassed by it. She did not want him to know she minded. "Then I got ordered to drive a load of wounded men to Poperinge again," she added.

"Of course." There was every shade of expression in his voice, and she could not read any of it.

"Thank you for visiting Mrs. Prentice, and for bringing the letter," he repeated. He seemed to be about to add something, then changed his mind. It was pointless to ask how a bereaved woman was; she could only be racked with grief. The issue was only how openly she showed it, and that meant nothing. "You must be tired after your journey, and you have the care of your vehicle to attend to. Good night."

Was that as remote as it sounded? Or simply the necessity of the circumstances?

"Yes, sir." She stood to attention, then turned away immediately so he should not read in her anything more than a kindness accomplished, such as anyone might have performed.

Outside she found Wil waiting for her. She walked on, into the square towards the ambulance, furious with herself for the emotion boiling up inside her until she was choked with tears, and a rejection so agonizing it almost took her breath away.

Wil caught up with her, taking her arm.

"They're right," she said with an effort, keeping her face turned away from him, even in the dark. "He looks like a schoolboy."

"Then he shouldn't be too hard to get rid of," he retorted.

"General Cullingford may prefer to have a male driver," she said stiffly, opening the ambulance door and climbing in.

Wil went round to the front, cranked the engine to life, then got in on the driver's side and they moved off slowly. "My ma always reckoned my pa didn't know what was good for him, until she'd fixed it," he said casually, deliberately not looking at her, giving her the privacy of pretending she wasn't weeping. "Great woman, my ma." She could hear the warmth in his voice, the pride and gentleness, even though his face was hard to see in the sporadic light as they bumped over the cobbles and out of the square.

"Thank you, Wil," she said softly.

They were two miles down the road before he spoke again.

"I think I should make friends with him. In fact, we both should."

She had been lost in her own thoughts. "With whom?"

"I love the way you folks speak! With the general's new driver, of course."

"I don't particularly want to make friends with him."

"Oh, c'mon! Let's be nice to him. Take him out for a drink or several. Give him some good advice. After all, he's new to this. He needs to know a few of the tricks. Help him on his way."

"Wil?" Had she really understood him correctly?

He was grinning. She could see only the gleam of his teeth in the fitful light.

"C'mon, sugar, you got to fight for what you want! If you don't, that means you don't want it enough to rate getting it! I didn't have you pegged for a giver-upper!"

"How could we do that?" she said reasonably, but wild ideas surged up inside her. "He'd be with the general all the time. I know I was. If I wasn't driving him somewhere, I was waiting for him."

"That'll make him the easier to find," Wil responded. "Wherever the car is, he'll be close." He had already pulled into the side of the road, and was now busy manoeuvring the ambulance back and forth to turn it to face the way they had come.

"Now?" Judith said aghast. She was not ready yet, she had not thought it through, or considered all the possible consequences.

"Of course, now!" Wil reached for the accelerator and the ambulance lurched forward. "Tomorrow could be too late. We could be busy with army things. You gotta do things when you can!"

She drew in breath to argue, then had nothing to say. A couple of days at home in England and she had lost the urgency of the Front, the knowledge that there may be no tomorrow. The only question was, did she want to get back her job as Cullingford's driver or not? Yes, she did.

"How much money have you got?" he asked.

"About thirty francs. Why?"

"Thirty!" his voice lifted in amazement. "What d'you think I'm going to feed him, Napoleon brandy?"

The edge of his excitement begun to infect her. The ambulance was speeding along the road now, jolting over the potholes, lurching a little from left to right.

Twenty minutes later they were back in the square in Wulverghem, and they parked on the cobbles in the dark. Now the enormity of the plan struck her. She was a fool to go ahead with it! And a coward to back out. She wanted to drive Cullingford again. She would be more loyal to him than this new man could possibly be. She would see him more accurately, and believe in him more. She could feel the loneliness in him, the need to have one person to whom he could explain if he wanted, and yet to whom he did not need to.

She walked across the square after Wil. There were a few lights on in windows, a gleam here and there spilling out into the darkness. Someone else walked across the square, footsteps loud on the stones.

They were getting there much too quickly. And she was lying to herself. She wanted to be with Cullingford because she loved him. That was the first time she had admitted it. He was twice her age, and married. She was behaving like a complete fool. But what was sane in the world any more? Was it wrong to love, if you didn't ask for anything in return?

They were at the door of the Seven Piglets.

"Wait here," Wil ordered abruptly. "Don't want you seen yet." Then he pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

Ten minutes later half a dozen soldiers came out, joking with each other, one of them laughing and staggering a little. Judith moved back into the shadows. They walked away and she was left alone. An old man crossed the far side of the square, pushing a handcart with something bulky in it. He moved as if he were infinitely tired. She felt a wave of pity for him, and tried to imagine how it would be if armies were camped in St. Giles, if foreign soldiers marched in the streets she had grown up in, and the peace of her own fields was shattered by shellfire, her own trees smashed. How it would hurt her if the familiar earth were gouged up and poisoned, soaked in blood, if generations ahead of farmers would still plough the ground and find human bones.

Another half-hour passed slowly, then the door opened again and finally Cullingford came out. He was alone. She recognized him instantly, even though she saw only his silhouette against the light. The way he stood, the angle of his shoulders, was unlike anyone else.

She thought of speaking to him: she could now, alone. But it would be absurdly undignified, as if she were running after him. The thought made her cringe.

He walked away, unaware that anyone saw him, and the moment was past. When he was round the corner, presumably going to his lodging for the night, she went into the Seven Piglets again. It was far less crowded now and immediately she saw Wil sitting next to the new driver, both of them with glasses in their hands.

She hesitated, not knowing whether to interrupt them or not. Then Wil looked up and saw her. His face lit with pleasure and he waved enthusiastically. The driver turned to see who had drawn his attention.

Judith walked over.

"Of course she'll help you," Wil said encouragingly. "Judith, this is Corporal Stallabrass. He's an excellent driver. He knows everything there is to know about engines, but he doesn't know a damn thing about Flanders, at least not so far. Sit down." He pulled a chair out for her.

"I really don't expect Stallabrass began.

"We all help each other out here, Corporal," Judith told him, seeing from the corner of her eye, out of Stallabrass's sight, that Wil was topping up his glass with Pernod and very little water. It was lethal stuff. She had no idea what Wil was leading to, but she did her best to follow. "Share and share alike," she added.

"I could tell you stories .. ." Wil embarked on a long and rambling account of a journey to Armentieres. It was entirely fictitious, and incorporated just about everything that could go wrong with a vehicle, and several that couldn't.

"But Stallabrass started to argue several times, trying to assert his deeply studied knowledge. His face was earnest, and it apparently did not occur to him that Wil was deliberately embroidering the tale.

Judith got up quietly and went to the bar counter. She bought the rest of the bottle of Pernod and, with a jug of water, went back to the table. She would make her own mostly water, and surreptitiously refill Stallabrass's glass every time he was not looking.

Wil's account was growing wilder, and funnier every moment, and they were joined by a couple of other soldiers who were definitely a trifle happy for having imbibed generously most of the evening.

"I don't believe that!" Stallabrass said haltingly when Wil finished a particularly lurid tale of greasing an ambulance hubcap with ripe Brie cheese and ending up stuck in a field surrounded by a herd of cows.

One of the other soldiers, named Dick, tried to keep a straight face, but the tears were running down his cheeks.

"I like cows," his friend said sentimentally. "Beautiful eyes, cows have. Don't you think so, Corporal Stallabrass? Ever noticed the eyelashes they 'ave?"

But Stallabrass was staring into the distance, his mind locked in some dream of his own. "Beautiful," he repeated.

Wil glanced at Judith, then back at Stallabrass. "Is she?" he said with interest.

"Not everybody sees it," Stallabrass shook his head very slowly, as if he were nervous it might wobble and slide off. "They only see her as an ordinary woman, stamps and letters and money, and things." He sniffed and gave a genteel hiccup.

"Stamps and letters," Wil said, obviously no idea what he was talking about. "But she's not?"

"No," Stallabrass said with deep emotion. "She has ideas, dreams .. . she has passion!" He sighed. "She has the most beautiful.. ." He stopped, his hands clasping his Pernod glass, expression wistful.

Everyone waited with breath held for what he was going to say.

Judith was faintly embarrassed, in case it turned out to be too intimate.

Wil grinned. "Eyes?" he suggested to Stallabrass. "What about the letters? Does she write to you often?"

Stallabrass looked startled. "Oh, no! Letters are part of her profession!"

"What?" Wil was totally lost.

"Letters," Stallabrass said patiently. "Stamps. She's the post mistress That's what she does. It's very important. Where would we be without the Royal Mail? It holds the world together. King's head on every stamp. Do you know how serious it is to steal or damage the Royal Mail?"

"Oh yes," Wil agreed hastily. "Very important job for a young woman. She must be very special. What's her name?"

"Jeanette. She's forty-one .. ."

Wil gulped and started to cough. One of the other soldiers, partly to hide his own expression, patted him vigorously on the back.

"But she's beautiful?" Dick prompted gravely.

"Gorgeous," Stallabrass nodded, taking Dick's Pernod absently and drinking it. "Gilbert Darrow thinks he's going to marry her, just because he's got a uniform and he's in the navy. Well, I've got a uniform too!" He tried to square his shoulders, then changed his mind. "And I'm out here in France!"

"Flanders, actually," Wil corrected him. "But what's the difference, eh?"

"I'm here!" Stallabrass said carefully. "I shall see action! Front line with the general. I shall win medals, and then we'll see what Gilbert.. ." he hiccupped, '.. . Darrow has to show for himself." He blinked. "Say for himself," he corrected. "Nothing, that's what!"