The Soldier's Song (30 page)

‘I didn’t think so,’ Billy said complacently. ‘That girl is clearly quite mad about you.’

‘It’s not her, it’s me,’ Stephen said glumly. ‘I mean, she’s wonderful but, God, I don’t know. I get the feeling there’s something I’m not saying or doing. But on the other hand . . .’ he broke off, not sure how to say it.

Billy glared at him through his cigarette smoke. ‘But? But what? Are you mad about her or not? You just said you were.’

‘I am. But it’s not fair on her, is what I’m trying to say.’

‘Stephen, Stephen . . .’

‘It’s not fair. I don’t want to burden her.’

‘You mean if you get killed?’

Well, there it was in so many words. Stephen had already opened his mouth to explain, but he caught himself. Billy knew more than he thought.

‘Yes. Precisely.’

‘You said that before.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t you remember? It was in the Empire that morning before the Rising. I asked you why you hadn’t written to her and you said you didn’t want to burden her. I must say, I thought it was utter tosh then, and it’s utter tosh now.’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Understand what? Understand what it’s like over there? Of course I don’t. But I can see the effect it’s had on you and I can read the newspapers. I also know you’ve been fighting for three years now, and you haven’t been killed yet. That’s got to mean something, hasn’t it?’

Stephen swallowed some brandy, wincing as it burned his throat. ‘I wish it did, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that skill or talent has very little to do with it. It’s all a matter of luck – and what worries me more than anything is that in three years I’ve used up more than my fair share.’

Billy measured his next words carefully. This conversation had become very unreal and he couldn’t quite believe that they were discussing his friend’s life with such complete detachment.

‘So you think your luck’s going to run out?’

‘I’m sure of it.’ He allowed himself a bitter smile. ‘Do you want me to do the maths for you? It can all be worked out quite accurately, I assure you. But there’s a simpler proof,’ he held up his sleeve so Billy could see the three crowns, ‘I’m a captain with three years’ service. It used to take a man ten years to reach that rank. Why do you think I got there so quickly? Is it because I’m such a good soldier, or is it because most of the men I joined up with are already dead or wounded? Even bloody Devereux, for God’s sake. Christ knows what sort of state he’s in.’

Billy watched him steadily, nodding slowly to himself as he prepared his reply. ‘Let us leave aside for the moment that, from what you told me, Devereux was a liability to himself and others. Let us assume that you were promoted at least in part because you’re good at your job, and not just because they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. So, all that being said, you have discovered you are mortal. Well, which of us isn’t? Which of us isn’t afraid of dying?’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about, Billy.’

‘No, you’re talking about not wishing to burden Lillian with your death. You don’t want her to mourn for you.’

‘That’s right, I don’t.’

‘Well, while I admire the sentiment, I’m sorry to have to tell you that it’s still utter tosh. You’re only codding yourself.’

‘Billy . . .’

‘What? Do you think it wouldn’t break her heart now if something happened to you? The fact is, the girl is mad about you, and you’re mad about her, so why don’t you just bloody well get on with it.’

Despite the gravity, Stephen laughed and shook his head. ‘You once said you were the last person who should be giving me advice about women.’

‘Well, more fool you for listening to me. But while we’re throwing one another’s words back in our faces, let me remind you of something you said to me just after you joined the army. You said you wanted to live before you die.’ Billy drained his glass and ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray before pushing himself up out of his chair. ‘We all die sooner or later, old man. Personally, if I thought it was going to be sooner rather than later, then I’d damn well make the most of what I had left.’ He clapped a friendly hand on Stephen’s shoulder. ‘Goodnight to you, now. I’ll see you in the morning.’

He had some time in hand so he sat on the bench and read his newspaper. The window above was open, and now and then snatches of conversation drifted down to him, but no voice he recognized. He concentrated on his newspaper: the new Russian government was standing firm with the Allies, but there were reports of mutinies in half a dozen Russian regiments. They’d be in a right fix if the Russians packed it in. On the other hand, the Americans were starting to arrive. General Pershing had landed in Liverpool and would be received by the King. Maybe they would turn the tide. Maybe even the sight of them would push the Germans to sue for peace. It couldn’t go on like this forever. Somebody had to get an advantage sometime, and when that happened the whole bloody thing would crumble. If the Russians went first, the Germans would have it. If they held on and the Americans came in, then it would be the Allies. It was all about holding on. But the French had already had a mutiny. How long before the British army had one too? How long before somebody decided enough was bloody well enough?

He took a breath and carefully folded the paper and set it down beside him. This wasn’t the time to be getting worked up about it. He slit his eyes against the sun and watched the swifts whirling around the sky for a few moments, and then the door to No. 39 opened and a tide of students flowed down the steps.

The ones who recognized him from last week nodded their acknowledgement. A few moments later a solitary figure came out; there was mutual recognition, but no polite nods. MacIntyre loped down the steps two at a time, pulling his jacket on and scowling at Stephen as he tramped past him on his long, bony shanks.

Then Lillian came out, pinning her hat and smiling as she came down the steps. Her face darkened as she caught sight of MacIntyre’s retreating back. ‘Sorry I kept you. I had to have a word with Mr MacIntyre.’

Stephen stood up and watched him walk out of the square. ‘Is he still smarting from the other day?’

‘He’s threatening to complain to the dean.’

‘Oh? I’m sorry if I got you into trouble.’

‘Oh, not at all.’ She took his arm and they started to walk across the square, ‘If it wasn’t you it’d be something else. His real problem is that he doesn’t like being taught by a woman. But I wouldn’t worry about it. Professor Barrett already has the measure of him. If he’s going to start raising ructions he’ll find himself out on his backside soon enough.’

They walked out of the college and past the provost’s house to Nassau Street. As they reached the Empire Café he had a rather queer feeling when he looked in the window and remembered sitting in there with Billy on Easter Monday.
I don’t want to burden her
came ringing back to him. Then they were inside, amidst a hubbub of voices and clattering crockery.

‘I’m afraid this won’t be quite what you remember,’ Lillian warned him, as they found a table near the window. A waitress passed bearing plates with translucent rashers of bacon and yellowish pats of potato. ‘You need to have relatives in the country to get any decent food these days. I don’t know how Billy managed such a fine dinner the other night.’

‘Some of his clients are farmers,’ Stephen explained. ‘He says he’s not above taking payment in kind.’

Lillian smiled, but then her eyes widened and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Oh my goodness. Isn’t that Alfred Devereux?’

The name hit him like a blow and his mouth went dry. Slowly turning in his chair, he followed her gaze towards the back of the café. Devereux was in a wheelchair, hunched and slumped sideways, but there was no mistaking his powerful frame and his uniform. He was facing them – his head tilted to one side as if he had fallen asleep – but his eyes were open and his lips were moving in an irregular pursing motion, as if he was trying to whistle.

‘Christ Almighty,’ Stephen muttered under his breath. He didn’t know which was more shocking: the mere sight of him or the frightful scar that cleaved his forehead. He remembered the last time he had seen him – jolting down the trench on a stretcher, his head a lumpy mass of field dressings, and he himself still with the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, his knees trembling. In the light of a dying flare the doctor’s hands were black with blood, as if he was wearing gloves. He was wiping them on a rag like a butcher would.

He felt the blood drain from his face as Devereux’s eyes rolled lazily around and met his. The scar had puckered the skin of his forehead, twisting his face into an unwholesome leer, with a flat, glabrous cast to it. The flesh seemed pale and lifeless, but the eyes were strangely alive, darting up and down as if they were trapped in a dead face. Stephen met them as best he could, but then a woman moved between them, crouching down with her back to him and offering a spoon to Devereux’s moving lips. She was wearing white kid gloves and her lustrous black hair was coiled up under a dainty hat.

‘The poor man,’ Lillian whispered, ‘you said he was wounded, but I never pictured him in a wheelchair. God love him. He was always so athletic, so fit, but look at him now.’

Stephen turned back to face her, glad she had spoken. He could feel the cold sweat rolling down the small of his back and his throat was dry. Suddenly the café seemed very loud, the clatter and noise beating on his ears and the sun glaring in the window at him. It was very warm, and yet he felt a shiver shake his spine. His trembling hand found a glass of water and he gulped half of it down.

Lillian was frowning at him. ‘Stephen, are you all right? You look very pale.’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He set the glass down and clamped both his hands around it to keep them from shaking.

‘Are you sure? Do you want to get some—?’

‘It’ll pass.’ He tried to grin but it came out more like a grimace. He could feel the sweat on his forehead now. He was trying to breathe normally, but his chest felt constricted.
Talk, you fool.

‘Is that . . . ?’ he began, then coughed as the words caught in his throat. ‘Is that Mary D’Arcy with him?’

‘Oh no! That’s his sister – I think her name is Susan. She looks after him now. They must be staying at their town house up on Earlsfort Terrace. Did you not hear about Mary? She took off to London when she broke off the engagement.’

‘She broke it off?’ He laughed giddily. Should have guessed. Mary was hardly the type to be pushing a wheelchair and spoonfeeding. ‘When did that happen?’

‘A few months after the rebellion. She— Stephen, are you sure you’re all right? You’re as white as a sheet.’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling the metallic taste rising in his throat. His mind was racing, seeing flares screeching up, shells thumping into earth and snow, and bits of brick blown into dust. Some small part of him managed to latch onto what she had said.

‘You mean last year? Before he was wounded?’

‘Yes. September or October, I think. Didn’t you hear about it?’

He tried to think back to that time. Christ, it seemed a lifetime ago! September or October? That would have been about the time Devereux transferred to the front.

‘No, not a word. What happened?’

Lillian was still looking at him warily, but she explained: ‘There was a dreadful scandal. She had an affair with a major who was charged with committing atrocities during the rebellion – an older man with a wife,’ she broke off and looked around, as if she was embarrassed to be gossiping. ‘I’m telling you, Stephen, you wouldn’t see the likes of it in a penny dreadful. God knows how she got involved with him. He was a very good-looking man, by all accounts, but quite mad. After the rebellion he was charged with murdering some prisoners, but his defence claimed he was shell-shocked and he had a good war record, so they reduced the charges to brutality and conduct unbecoming. Nobody knew a thing about him and Mary until she turned up at his trial and got into a fight with his wife. After that her father stepped in and packed her off to London as quickly as he could. I imagine her poor fiancé only found out about it in a letter.’

Stephen followed all this as best he could while casting glances over his shoulder and at the same time trying to calm himself. Poor bastard. No bloody doubt he got a letter, and no bloody doubt that was what made him give up his cushy berth on the staff. He hadn’t been lying after all, when he said he volunteered.

‘Was he injured in the same raid where you got your medal?’ Lillian asked.

‘I beg your pardon?’ He’d been looking towards Devereux, watching his sister stand up and hand her bowl to the waitress with a grateful smile. She was a young girl, quite good-looking. Was this her life now? Wheeling her crippled brother around and feeding him soup? Looking into that dreadful face and trying to brighten it with a smile?

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.’ He sighed as he turned back. It was passing. His mind was calmer, though the metallic tang was still in his mouth and there was a mild throbbing in his head.

‘Was it the same raid where you got your medal?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact it was.’

How much more could he tell her? Did she really want to know that Devereux was the one who went looking for a medal, but he was the one who got it? That Devereux had ended up lying on the firing step with his brains hanging out, twitching like a dying fish. What would she think if he told her? But maybe if he did it would be easier. Maybe then he wouldn’t hear Devereux’s breathing snorting in his ears, loud and wet as if he was drowning. ‘He wasn’t supposed to be—’ he began, but stopped as a waitress appeared beside the table.