The First of July (4 page)

The groom looked terrified, and the horse stood trembling in the far corner. It was only when two other men entered—Lucien Laporte and smelly Pinchon, the odd-job man—that the groom rose from behind the anvil. Pinchon had a gun under his arm and dead crows and a rabbit in his hand.

He looked puzzled, staring at the horse, and only then did he seem to see Godet on the floor and the fallen tools. The horse was sweating. It had cut its leg, Jean-Baptiste noticed, and its chest was moving in and out like bellows while it lifted its legs up almost daintily as if to avoid the debris all over the floor. All the while, it was making distressed noises and its nostrils flared. Pinchon lifted his gun, pushed in a cartridge. Jean-Baptiste saw a smile cross Laporte’s face.

“Don’t,” he said. Knowing it was all too late.

Pinchon got as close as he could to the bay and fired. The horse stopped, its restless front legs seemed to cross, and it fell to its knees with a crack. Its eyes were staring as it pitched sideways and lay twitching. Despite Godet sprawled on the cobbles, Jean-Baptiste felt sad. His ears were ringing; but as Pinchon walked up to the horse and reloaded, the groom was screaming “What the fuck have you done? What the fuck … ?” There was another shot and the horse stopped twitching and was still, a pool of blood growing underneath it.

Jean-Baptiste kneeled down, touched Godet. Stretched out his hand for a pulse in his neck and wasn’t sure there was one. Where did you feel? Godet’s wiry beard curled around his fingers. The man’s half-open eyes were still, his pupils tiny.

“I’ll get Dr. Vignon,” he said, hoping the doctor had not gone fishing yet. As he stood up, he noticed Laporte taking a thick hunting knife from his belt.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” the groom was almost crying. “He’s my horse. You’ll have lost me my job.”

Jean-Baptiste ran down the street. He ran until his chest hurt but then, at the far end of the village, he reached the doctor’s house, swung open the gate, ran up the path, and hammered on the door. For a minute there was nothing. He banged again with the side of his fist, moved back to peer at the windows. The door opened, but it was Vignon’s housekeeper who stood there, pale and unwelcoming.

“The doctor’s not here.”

“There’s been an accident.”

He could have sworn she shrugged. Didn’t she care?

“Where is he?”

This time she definitely shrugged. “Fishing,” she said.

He ran back down the path. He would fetch his mother to help with Godet, although in his heart he knew the old man was beyond helping.

He and his mother lived nearer the river. The house was always damp and the door was usually open in summer, so he was surprised to find it locked. He went around the back where the latch was broken and took off his filthy boots. As he went in, he heard a noise upstairs and, rather than embarrass his mother by calling out because sometimes, he knew, she still wept for his father in secret, he climbed the stairs quietly.

Halfway up, he smelled something unfamiliar, and it was only outside the door to her bedroom that he recognized it as pipe smoke and knew it was Vignon’s at the same moment that he recognized the doctor’s hairy backside. His mother was on all fours in the tangle of sheets, her hair loose and hiding her face, her breasts hanging downward into points, and Vignon, groaning, was over her, mounting her like a dog.

He went down the stairs even more quietly than he’d climbed them. By the stove was a tin can, where he kept his wages so his mother could use the money as she needed it. He opened it and took out half of what was inside. It was a meager amount. By the front door, Vignon’s linen jacket hung on a chair and beside it a pair of fine black boots, polished as if they had been varnished and on which none of the village dust seemed to have dared lie. Jean-Baptiste tiptoed into the scullery, fetched his own boots from the back: his own dirty, much-repaired boots. The boots that had been his father’s. He set them down, picked up Vignon’s pair, and went out into the street. Only when he was at some distance from the house did he sit on a bank and put them on. They fitted perfectly. It seemed a fair exchange: Vignon could have his mother and he’d have Vignon’s boots. Web-footed. Did he think no one had ever made that joke before?

Of course he would have to leave the village—not just because of the boots, but because he never wanted to see either his mother or the two-faced doctor again. He considered taking the boat now, but immediately remembered that it was lacking a rowlock. He could row for a short distance without one, but not as far as the sea.

He stood up—how comfortable the boots were!—and walked toward the school. At the back of the schoolhouse, the schoolmaster’s bicycle was propped up against the steps. He and Godet had repaired it only weeks back. He took out the money the groom had given him for the horse and left it on a big stone on the step.

He wheeled the bicycle away, praying that the schoolmaster had oiled it. When he was well clear of the school, on the track leading between the vegetable fields and the river, he got on and almost immediately fell off. He tried again and lasted for longer, but the front wheel began to wobble so wildly that it would inevitably fall over. All the time, he was moving away from town. He still burned from shame for his mother. She was no better than a whore—except much cheaper and older. Didn’t she know that Vignon didn’t care where he stuck it—or was she so stupid that she believed he’d marry her? He came to a bit of sloping ground and let the bicycle freewheel down it while he sat, his feet hanging down, not attempting to pedal, only steering to keep away from the river.

He was approaching the place where Vignon kept his boat. It was so well disguised under the low branches of a willow that you really had to know it was there to find it. He stopped, dismounted, pulled back the canvas, and stared at it. Vignon had been giving it a new coat of paint. The paint can was in the boat with the brushes. The name
Sans Souci
was newly picked out in blue. He wanted to kick it as hard as he could. Instead, he stepped inside, and the small boat rocked on the mud. He opened the little hatch where he knew Vignon kept his fishing rod, cigarettes, and a small flask of brandy. As the lid slid back, all he could see was a blanket. The blanket, of course—he felt another wave of anger, looking at the dry grass caught in it. He felt under it for the precious rod, intending to throw it in the river, but his finger found a package wrapped in oilcloth. He sat down and opened it: inside he found a small book and a few tightly rolled-up papers. They were yellowing and, even as he held them, the corners curled up over his hands.

The first two were indecipherable official papers with something like Vignon’s name on them, or at least his first name, Felix, which he already knew, then Johannes and something that looked like Vignon but wasn’t.
Felix Johannes Wiener
, it said, and a small picture of a youthful, beardless but recognizable doctor was stamped with the imprint of a two-headed eagle. The very last document, although still in an unfamiliar language, was, he was almost sure, a birth certificate. He had seen his own, and this one was laid out similarly. There was a birth date, July 1, 1875, a mother, Hilde, a general-surgeon father, Wilhelm-Markus. Then a single word:
Berlin
.

The fact that Godet had been right all along, that Vignon was not what he said he was, had probably never even been to Paris, filled Jean-Baptiste with bitter joy.

“Bastard,” he said, aloud. “German bastard.”

He glanced at the book. It was expensive-looking with a soft red-leather cover, though worn at the edges. Jean-Baptiste could read well, had been the ablest in his class at school, but he couldn’t read a word of the title. Not only the words but the typeface were unfamiliar to him, although
Felix Wiener
was written in brown ink inside the cover. He opened the pages at random, but the queer lettering, very dark and angular, continued.

He was ready to throw the entire contents of the package into the river, but suddenly felt nearer to tears than rage. It was a beautiful book, no less beautiful because it belonged to a shit, and after a short time he replaced it under the blanket. He got out of the boat, taking the can of paint with him, and prised up the lid with his small knife. It came up easily. He dipped a stick in it and, over the carefully painted
Sans Souci
, daubed
german arse
in large, dripping letters. As he did it, he was shaking, with hurt and with the desire to pass on that hurt. He looked down at his handiwork, let the branches enclose the boat again, and picked up the bicycle. He got on, wearily, and started down the track.

After three further tries, he found that he could balance. Slowly, tentatively, he began to pedal, carefully at first and then, as he realized that if he went faster the machine was more inclined to stay upright, he gathered speed. If he could get to Amiens by evening, then he might catch the last train to Paris.

Frank, London,
June 1914

I
’LL CERTAINLY NEVER FORGET JUNE
28, 1914. It was a triumph for Belgium. Their man, Philippe Thys, set out on his Peugeot-Wolber in the company of six fine French cyclists who had all won the Tour de France before: Lapize, Petit-Breton, Faber, Deffraye, Garrigou, and Trousellier. Heroes every one. I had a map of the course; it was a map of hell, and a burning fiery hell this year. They even stopped the race for a while for fear the heat would kill someone. Thys came through the ordeal a champion among bicyclists.

As they were setting off from Paris, the man who was the Austrian emperor’s son and heir was shot by some anarchist in the capital of a country even us Internationalists had to look up in an atlas. In the days that followed, there was practically nothing about the race as the papers were full of headlines hoping for war. Not that they
said
“hoping,” but hoping it was. A coming war’s as good as anything for selling papers.

It was all wrong.

We went to the peace meeting, though that set me back further by two shillings. Connie and Nancy sat either side of me. Nancy is inclined to lean on one, so it became very hot. Rays of dusty light shone down on Mr. Tudor Williams on the stage. Fate could not have dealt him a better card than the assassination three days earlier.

The Reverend Williams was an extraordinary man—huge and red in an old-fashioned sort of black suit and with prodigious whiskers. His great hands were scarred as if he had been a fighter. Connie was especially spellbound when he began to speak in the rich melodious tones of his native country.

“We stand on the brink,” Mr. Williams said loudly. Nodding in agreement with himself. “On the brink. A few days ago, we saw a young firebrand in Sarajevo murder the heir to a royal house. A decent man, with his wife, struck down in his prime while a visitor to a foreign country. The hot blood of our continental brothers is stirred.” He looked about him, to ensure that we were following.

“That lovely Welsh accent gives me the shivers,” Nancy whispered.

“We can understand that,” said Mr. Williams, all moderation. “Were it our Prince Edward slain, his blood running into the drains of our city, would our people wish to turn the other cheek as the Bible tells us?” He patted the great leather Bible on the lectern. “Would they wish to be called weak for not rising up to avenge their prince?” He looked around, mild-faced.

Suddenly he roared—a great Welsh roar:
following jesus christ is not easy
.

“We look to our leaders,” he went on in a more measured tone, “and we see the admirals and generals who have their ear, adorned in their gold and their feathers. We hear our politicians—some are men of peace, but others would send young men to die for their honor at the drop of a pin. We feel the ground slip under our feet as we start, slowly at first, to stumble toward the abyss.” His arms went out as if to steady himself. “There is no purchase on this trembling earth. Smell the sulfur.” His eyes widened under their sheltering brows. “See the haze of steam and smoke blurring your vision.

“Should war come, they will speak to you of patriotism, they will unfold the flag. But. I. Am. Second. To. No one.” Mr. Williams’s clenched fist banged on his chest. “To
no one
in my love for the King. I am shot through with loyalty. Drank it in at my mother’s breast.”

I could feel as much as see Nancy making a face.

“I would
die
for my King and my country.” The reverend paused, and his dark eyes searched the room as if to find a man there who thought he would not.

“But”—a longer pause—“I would not kill. I should not be
asked
to kill. It is against the scriptures.” He made far more of the syllables of the word than any Englishman would.

“Did Jesus Christ, our savior, know of frontiers? Of paltry man-made, not God-given, divisions between Austria-Hungary and Germany and Russia and Great Britain, Serbia and France? Are the men of Bavaria not the brothers of the men of Cumberland? Are not Viennese and Berliners and Londoners all one in the sight of the Lord? Do Cornishmen and Welshmen not descend to the mines just as the miners of Essen and the Ruhr? Are ships not built with the same knowledge God gave on the Elbe as on the Clyde?”

“No sisterhood for us girls then,” Nancy whispered across me to Connie—who ignored her, so rapt was she at Mr. Williams’s vision and, I dare say, his fine red Welsh whiskers.

“Do you want to kill these, your brothers?

“We are members of one great kingdom of God. His children. He gave us the great riches of the world: the mighty oceans teeming with fish, the orchards, the fruiting vine, the fields of wheat”—the reverend rose and walked agitatedly along the stage, then turned and stretched his arms toward us.

“Not in Rotherhithe, he didn’t,” Nancy said, very quiet, and yawned.

“Reach out to your brothers and sisters.”

At this point, Nancy seemed to be weary and had rested herself on my shoulder. I moved sharply to the side and her head bumped on my arm. She shot me a cross look.

“Reach out and grasp their hand. Reach out and embrace your fellow man whatever his nation, however outlandish his tongue.”

Nancy made a strange and not very womanly noise through her nose. The reverend’s voice was rising, the music of his homeland clear in his passion.

“Does not Isaiah say ‘They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war’?”

He stopped and looked around as if expecting an answer. Clearly it was yes, Isaiah did say that. But we stayed silent, as did he for many seconds.

“And Micah,” Connie whispered. “And the Psalms.”

And now Reverend Williams’s voice emerged from the silence, but very quietly so that every head moved forward and I had a chance to dislodge Nancy. We strained to hear him.

“You are the true army. The army of Love, of Right, of Brotherhood; the shield against those who lust,
lust
for war, who would gorge on blood. Who would let the fruit rot on the trees, the corn in the fields while they harvest corpses.” His voice was raised so suddenly, we jumped as one. “Who lay waste to the land, devour our youth, and would store up grief and poverty.” He looked almost excited; there was sweat on his brow and his eyes shone. He strode back behind the lectern and braced himself with both hands.

“I hear the thundering of hooves, ladies and gentlemen.”

His hand went up to his ear and he leaned a little into it. He stopped talking. The audience were leaning in the direction of his cupped ear, too. There was nothing but traffic outside and pigeons on the roof. You could have heard a pin drop as we listened. I wondered where Isaac was. I’d looked all around and I couldn’t see his face anywhere.

“Who are these riders?” the reverend said finally. “Are they heralds of peace? Do they bring news of God’s kingdom?
no
, they are the four horsemen of the apocalypse and, brothers and sisters, they draw perilously near. The white horse carries the Antichrist, the blood-red steed brings
war
. The black horse is
famine
, and with famine comes
pest-i-lence
.

“And then comes the pale horse: the corpse-green-white pale horse of
death
, its rider armed with a scythe.” Mr. Williams cut down a swath of invisible men with an outflung arm.

“Typical cavalry men,” said Nancy.

Connie was ignoring her, and I tried to do the same.

“And you—yes, you. You sitting before me are the only defense. You are God’s army. You must stand in the main squares, stand across the roads, hearing the thundering hooves, feeling the heat of the fires blister your skin and the clash of hammers on the plowshares, sharpening them into weapons, and you
must not move
. ‘No,’ you must say. ‘No.’ Clasp your foreign brothers to your hearts. For we are told in Kings: ‘And after the earthquake a fire; but the
lord
was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.’”

He stopped, his chest heaving. I could see it even through the ladies’ hats and from seven rows back.

Then, quietly, he said: “Yours is that still small voice. God’s plan for the world will unfold. Surrender to the warmongers and you fight God’s plan.”

“That’s a bit rich,” a man muttered behind us, “surrendering,” and Nancy turned and gave him one of her little smiles.

Perhaps Mr. Williams sensed a restlessness, because he returned again to the lectern and, speaking in a matter-of-fact way, said: “To conclude, let us pray for peace and I say to you, God save the King and his people. For now only God can.”

Then he said, mopping his mighty brow, “A collection will be taken at the door. Pennies for peace, but even halfpennies will help.”

I saw Connie put a sixpence into the bag. She was watching me and I only had a shilling. I tried not to think of my bicycle. Nancy said later she’d put a button in.

Connie and Nancy let me walk them home.

“Where do you think Isaac was?” I said, mostly to stay on safe territory.

Connie looked at me as if I were dull in the head. She did that sometimes when she sensed that we differed. “His kind, they don’t go to church.”

In fact Isaac had told me he mostly didn’t believe in God. It was not rational, he’d said.

“We’re supposed to embrace our foreign brothers.” Nancy gave what I think she thought was a tinkling laugh.

“He’s not foreign,” I said. “And he’s talking of joining up to fight for King and country—his country—if war comes.” Connie looked very put out, though still pretty, and I knew she’d never give Isaac the time of day again.

“And it wasn’t a church service,” I said, wanting to stand up for him. “It was just a talk.”

“My cousin’s all for fighting,” Nancy said. “He’s going for a soldier as soon as his birthday comes.”

Connie said in her usual gentle voice, but firmly, “You should tell him what Mr. Williams said.”

“There’s no telling Stanley anything,” Nancy answered. “He’s a law unto himself, Stanley Hutton, my ma says.”

“Well, then, you should refuse to speak to him. If we go to war, he’ll be killing people. You wouldn’t go to Wormwood Scrubs and tattle to murderers there, share your tea. It’s no different if he is your cousin.”

The sun was beating down as Connie looked at me, to see if we were still friends, given that Isaac was more my pal than hers, and Nancy more hers than mine, so we should be evens.

“I pray every night there won’t be war,” she said. “But if there is, I shall never hold conversation with a soldier—or a sailor, come to that.”

“My uncle says if there’s a war, our boys won’t have no choice.”

“There’s
always
a choice, Nancy,” Connie said. “Isn’t there, Frank?”

Even as I said yes, I thought with foreboding of Mr. Frederick Richmond. Mr. Richmond, the kindest, fairest man you could hope to meet, who brought his dog, Bosun, into the store, he loved him so much, Mr. Richmond was such a man for war that you could almost think he
wanted
it to come. He was friends with all the top admirals, the lads said. “Lance the boil” was Mr. Richmond’s cry every time some foreign country played up, while Bosun took tidbits from his hand. And there was the Reverend Williams, as fiery a bruiser as you might see in the streets around Seven Dials, and he was furious for peace.

Mr. Richmond addressed us male employees the next week. His subject: duty.

“We are not at war yet,” he said; “but mark my words, the clock is ticking. If war comes, I hope to see every one of you single men go forward to serve the King.” He looked around benevolently as if he was our father. “And for those who go, I shall, personally, give a parting gift of five guineas. When you return, you may be sure that there will be a place for you here. We shall use ladies to fill your places temporarily until you get back. If it comes to war, of course. Which we all sincerely hope it does not,” he added, not very convincingly. We all knew he had conceived a hatred for the German Kaiser, for all that the German monarch was our King’s cousin.

Five guineas. Five guineas was half a bicycle. With my savings already, I could have it in six weeks. But by then I would be away, marching up and down and polishing badges and learning how to shoot men, when I had only ever shot crows and rabbits for the pot, and that was back when I made coffins, and even that I’d never tell Connie. I could buy a bicycle, but what was the point if I was off marching?

Thinking of coffins made me think of Dad and how it was an ill wind that brought no good. War would mean dying, and a few extra deaths never came amiss for a coffin maker. Mind you, if it happened, would the Austrians and the Germans come and fight us here, or would we go there? How were such things agreed upon when it was disagreeing that caused war in the first place?