The Red Door (73 page)

However as the years went by fewer and fewer people went to visit her. The reason for this was that her health was rapidly failing. I used to watch her bending over a sheaf of corn and remain
motionless in the act like a moon in water. Latterly she began to take more and more to her bed. I don’t know exactly what was wrong with her, possibly some form of rheumatism. She seemed to
grow smaller and smaller and blacker and blacker. My mother and I used to visit her sometimes, my mother tall and slim, Minnie small and black. She would often go to bed in the middle of the day
and call us feebly to her bedroom where she sat humped among tumbled blankets and an old overcoat with bright buttons. I assumed it belonged to her husband. She would sometimes stroke it absently
while talking to us.

At this time Minnie began to pretend that she could tell fortunes. She would put my hand between her dry palms, fondle it as if extracting all its warmth from it, and eventually turn it face
upwards.

‘A fine boy you have here,’ she would say to my mother, looking at me with her scattered eyes.

‘A fine boy’ she would repeat to herself.

‘Yes they are all fine boys,’ she would add, stroking the old overcoat. Then she would look at my hand. I don’t think she even saw the lines but she would invent.

‘A clever boy. He will grow up to be a credit to you. He will earn a lot of money. He will be a model son . . . a model son.’

One day, after such endangering flattery, my mother snatched me out of the house as if to protect me from some evil influence.

So, fewer and fewer people visited her or if they did it was only to give her spasmodic help, as if she was something to which they had an obligation. None of the older boys went there in the
evening: there was no accordion, no jokes, no swearing, no love-making. The house was dead.

Clocky and I, however, used to go to her house though not often. Clocky was smaller than me with smooth black hair and a tanned polished face. His eyes were cunning and alert.
During the summer months we would raise a tent and build a fire inside till the smoke forced us out into the hot air. A favourite sport of his was to throw stones at horses as they stood
statuesquely in the brittle sunlight, till he drove them into a disjointed panicky motion. Between us there was a curious unspoken antagonism. Nevertheless he was the only boy of my own age: he was
inventive and fearless. For instance he was not afraid of ghosts nor did he believe in fairies or goblins. He liked to feel things in his hands, usually stones. He would steal and lie his way out
of situations without the slightest compunction. For example we would all steal turnips, carrots from the small gardens but if caught would usually confess under strenuous examination. Often it was
even heroic to confess. Clocky would never confess. I once saw him swearing on the Bible that he hadn’t stolen some jam though I knew perfectly well he had. However I would never dream of
telling on him.

One August day, tired of tent-living, of running, of playing, we were walking drearily along the road not knowing what we would do next when one of us (I can’t remember
who) took a notion to visit Minnie. Together we walked in the roaring heat up to her house. We knew she would be in bed exhausted, breathing like an old yellow fish that had been thrown twitching
on humped rocks. The door was open and we crept in. We hadn’t spoken to each other. We quietly entered the kitchen which was large and cool like an inverted pail. The long wooden bench ran
along one side of it. The floor was hollowed and pitted. There was a dresser on the side farthest from the door. We opened its door and helped ourselves to blackcurrant jam which lay at the bottom
of the paper lidded jar. On the paper was a picture of a footballer and studying it abstractedly we heard the voice going on and on:

‘I can’t help it. I can’t stand you. Go out to your women, then. Do you think I don’t know? They all come to hint it to me. Hit me: yes go on hit me. You can’t hurt
me. I’ll see you dead yet. Don’t think I’ll die so that you can marry your women.’

There was a silence, then the voice began again, this time with a fiercer, more reckless, intonation:

‘I hate you. Why are you keeping me here when I could have been married? You’re afraid. That’s what it is. You’re afraid of getting old and dying. I don’t care
whether you die or not.’ (Here her voice rose to a scream.) ‘I don’t. I don’t. I want to get married. Weren’t you married? You think that I won’t leave you. But
I will, I will, I will. You’re mad. Everybody says you’re mad. You should never have married. You can’t look after your own children properly. Why did you marry then? I hope you
die.’

The voice continued as we ate the jam. Then Clocky going down on his hands and knees crawled up to the room where the old woman was speaking and crying. I followed him. We could see blankets
hanging untidily over the foot of the bed. Wasps buzzed in the window panes, but this room too was frighteningly cool.

We crawled under the blankets like Red Indians. But the old woman seemed to hear the rustling, for she suddenly shouted:

‘Who’s there?’

We said nothing. My body grew cold.

‘Who’s there?’ she screamed, like a child. We heard her scrambling about as we lay there and thought she was about to leave her bed. But no we heard a whisper of leaves. She
must have opened her huge black Bible. There was a petrified silence. The wasps were like aeroplanes. Then she began to speak again:

‘I didn’t mean it. Why don’t you let me be? I didn’t mean it. It was all my fault.’ Her voice expired: ‘All my fault.’ Her voice drooled.

I could hear our hearts beating.

Suddenly Clocky catapulted outwards from below the bed. In the centre of the scream I followed him head bent for the door. The scream uptore roots. Back in the tent I heard it, till in my mind
it died away into an exhausted whimper. When it stopped I went out of the tent. Clocky shouted after me, but I turned away. He stood in the tent like a witch doctor shouting after me while thin
wisps of smoke curled about him. But I didn’t turn back nor did I stop running till I reached home.

1

. . . and I don’t know if it was in the papers over there, dad, though you see some of their reporters now and again hopping about, trying to keep their shoes from
getting muddy: it was in the early morning it happened, you could look across the mud for a little way and see everything flattened and all mixed-up together. Do you know what I saw? It was a
helmet half-buried in the mud and a bird standing on it, jumping about, with its head a little to one side, just like in the garden at home: this little bird, I watched it for a long time and it
stayed there without flying away. You don’t see birds around here often, they’ve been scared off: but this one was quite happy, just as if it was at home, I remember it very clearly.
And the sun seemed to come up, very bright, and this bird was basking in the sun, shaking its wings now and again, as if there was dew on them: I don’t understand where it came from at all:
and all the time the sun was coming up, bright and hot. At least that’s how I think it was.

I was watching that bird and thinking how it was hopping about there without a care in the world, and I was wondering about your last letter and how mad you were about me deciding to become a
lay preacher – just because Mum died, you said – throwing away my training, you said – and you know how it is in the army, I’m trying to describe it, you get feelings things
are going to happen or they’re not going to happen as if all of you are together, even though you’re alone, like when you listen to the Last Post and you hear all these voices and all
these people speaking. Well it was just like that. Some people said we were going over the top and it was only three in the morning but I don’t remember it like that at all. What I remember
is that bird hopping about on the helmet and the sun coming up very very hot and I was thinking about that telegram I got about Mum’s death – and anyway you know perfectly well that
I’d decided to become a lay preacher even before she died. It was nothing to do with you really, dad, and I know it must have been awful for you all these years, with her in bed and me
working for my apprenticeship. It was just that I couldn’t bear it any more, what was any apprenticeship worth anyway? And you say that the worst thing of all is me wanting to leave home, but
I can’t help that either, dad, I’ve got to get away just for a while. So there it is, there’s not really any point talking about it, I can’t help being what I am and you
being what you are. And I do wish, dad, you would stop talking about money, I’m not interested in money. You know I send you most of my money home and anyway since I came here I’ve
decided to become a lay preacher more than ever. You say it’s all nonsense, you’re entitled to your own opinion, dad, and that’s a fact, but I wish you didn’t talk like
that. I don’t mind you going to the pub, as I said mother being an invalid must have been a great strain on you all these years, but you shouldn’t be bitter. What do you have to thank
God for you say, well, you can go out now and take your dog for a walk, that’s one thing, and you can sit down and read a book can’t you. It’s no good being bitter and anyway
I’ve made up my mind and I won’t change it no matter what happens. But I must get back to what I was saying.

Well there was the sun coming up bright and hot – so hot that it almost hurt your eyes – and there was this bird hopping about on the helmet – I was afraid it would fall off
and be sucked down into the mud, the mud here is very thick and heavy and I didn’t want it to be lying there all the time till it died, it would be a very slow death – and looking up
then – my eyes were hurting me a little at first – I saw it in the sky perfectly plainly. I don’t suppose you’ll believe it but it was there as clear as anything you ever
saw, a great white angel with wings and a beautiful, beautiful gentle face, that’s what it was, gentle, it was so great and kind so that the light no longer blinded your eyes but you could
look at it without being hurt. I can’t describe it to you but you’d have to see it yourself its face was so gentle. And I think I went and told the others and they saw it too. Their
faces became gentle as they looked, it was a miracle, dad, the way their faces seemed to become gentle like water, all these men.

There’s no reason to doubt it now . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .CENSORED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Cheerio for now, dad,

Your loving son,

D
ANIEL
.

2

. . . you were asking me about this Angel of Mons, and saying that the Vicar preached that this meant God was on our side. And I should think he is right too. Give him my
regards. It’s good to know there are people like him still about with faith in his country, not like some of these long-haired fellows, Germans in disguise I’d say.

Well, this Angel of Mons was quite extraordinary. It was about four in the morning and we were just about to go over the top. You know the sort of thing, we set up a creeping barrage, and there
was an unholy racket – flashes of guns and everything. I really hate the Boche then when it’s cold and you feel tired and you’ve got to go in there and everything looks so
messed-up. I get flaming mad when I think I could be back in Blighty still in my bed and just because of these little rats I’ve got to be in the trenches here. I get mad when I think of
it.

As I said it was about four and we were all shivering. Picture me standing there with my watch in my hand – waiting for zero hour you know. You always say I’m a glutton for being
punctual: well, you have to be, here, there’s nothing else for it. Otherwise the Old Man will be on top of you and that’s not all. God, how I hated these Germans.

Anyway there we were. Almost zero hour and this infernal racket going on pounding the Boche lines. Sometimes it gives you a sense of power too, thinking how your shells are pounding in there and
they’re crawling about for a change.

My sergeant-major was just beside me. I’ve told you about him – or have I? His name’s Musgrave, a big red-faced chap. Very dependable. He always stands up straight when
he’s walking wherever he is.

All this time there were terrific flashes in the sky. I couldn’t describe it to you not if I was Shakespeare himself. Do you remember that week we were on holiday in Cornwall and we ran
into the storm on the moor? Remember there was thunder and lightning and the moor was flat and bare. And there wasn’t any shelter anywhere till eventually we found this abandoned hut with the
rain lashing in through the windows. Well, think of that multiplied a thousand times. That’s how it was.

I was looking round at my men – quite good, too, most of them. You could see the light hitting their faces. And I was saying to myself repeating it over and over:

‘You German —— ’

‘You German ——. ’

That’s what I do before a battle. I just keep repeating that. It makes me feel better.

And quite suddenly I heard some of them shouting. They’re not supposed to shout you know; it’s bad for discipline. I turned round. Musgrave had turned round already and was laying
into them – and I saw that they were all pointing to the east. Their faces seemed to be shining but there were a few who were asking:

‘What is it? What is it?’

I remember one of them especially, he was looking very anxious and asking people:

‘What is it? I can’t see anything. What is it?’

And none of them answered him, except that they were all looking towards the east, and I heard someone saying:

‘An angel.’

And another saying: ‘Look at its face!’

And all this time this little man was bouncing up and down saying:

‘What is it? I can’t see it. What is it?’

And Musgrave was shouting: ‘You . . . what the . . . are you looking at? There’s a war on you know.’ But no one listened to him, that was the amazing thing.