‘I know my duty. At least, I thought I did. Why is Gallagher so interested in my drawing?’ I ask, again hoping to divert his interest from Danny. ‘Has it got anything to do with the build-up? If I’m to be involved in any specific way, then I ought to—’
He crosses the space between us and bumps that silver-topped stick against my shoulder. ‘Listen to me, Wraxall: you might have that silly little bauble of a Military Cross to hang off your tunic, but memories tend to fade rather quickly these days. I wouldn’t count on it to save your hide if you get into trouble. And this inquisitiveness of yours is the sort of thing to do just that.’ He leans in and whispers: ‘Inquisitiveness and other failings, perhaps. I know very well what you public schoolboys get up to. Now, I should get on with those letters, if I were you.’
I sit alone at the table for several minutes after he leaves, tapping my pencil against the woodwork. Those innuendos and sly comments. Beddowes isn’t stupid. He senses there’s a connection between me and Danny. A connection I’m not entirely sure either of us understand ourselves just yet. Yes, I am attracted to him, and not only physically. He is clever and kind, empathetic and generous. I really don’t know if Danny has any similar feelings for me. From little words and gestures, I think it’s possible. But it is always dangerous to make assumptions, and I remind myself that we have only known each other a couple of days.
Still, it’s Danny’s face that continues to haunt my thoughts as I work through the letters and field postcards. Danny’s smile, his cheeky grin, the little looks that set my heart racing at the memory of them. I try to focus on my task. I score out passages and tear away pages – soldiers accidentally referring to troop movements or criticising their superiors – anything that could affect morale back home or give away vital information if it fell into enemy hands. But all the while, as my eyes skate over expressions of love and good cheer, homesickness and bravado, I think of the boy with the chestnut curls and clear blue eyes. In many ways, he is very different to Michael. In many ways, he is the same.
I glance up only to greet Captains Loreburn and McCallister, my bunkmates for the night. Trudging into the villa, they toe off their boots, collapse onto the cots and are soon snoring. I think about how I snapped at Danny when he mentioned the spare bed. What was I thinking?
My lamp starts to sputter, spilling trembly shadows across the remaining letters. I shake the thing. Empty. I suppose I’ll have to search the place for more oil. Yawning, I pull out Grandpa’s watch – almost twenty to ten – and glance into the inky darkness of the hall.
‘To hell with it.’
I need to be near him. And so I turn off the lamp and head as quietly as I can out of the house. The late summer sun is finally setting and now only a thin rind of failing light illuminates the cobbles. Still, I have a good memory for streets and landmarks and it doesn’t take long to find my way back to the square. As I walk, I notice the overgrown gardens, the weeds breaking through pavements, young trees sprouting from sewers. Nature is resurgent here, as if by breaking apart the brick and concrete of this insignificant village, she is taking revenge on a war that has obliterated so many of her fields and pastures.
I arrive in the square breathless, my heart racing. I told Danny to make sure everyone was in bed by ten. What if I’ve missed him? I scan the darkened buildings before catching a glint of light seeping through a crack in a doorway. The tavern is tiny, little more than a shack, an unreadable sign creaking above the entrance. As I approach, I can hear the sound of men singing along to the jangled tune of an old piano. I open the door, ready to step inside, when over a sea of heads, I catch sight of him. He stands with one arm draped lazily across the top of the piano, his face more alive than I’ve ever seen it.
‘There I was, waiting at the church,
Waiting at the church, waiting at the church,
When I found he’d left me in the lurch
Lor’, how it did upset me.
All at once, he sent me round a note
Here’s the very note, this is what he wrote...’
The whole host of men – maybe forty of them packed in that cramped saloon – join in with the chorus:
‘Can’t get away to marry you today,
My wife won’t let me!’
Laughter erupts and I quickly step back into the square. My heart is hammering. Something about how Danny performed the number – the breezy femininity of it, the womanly attitude as he threw out his arms to the audience. His voice sounded just as captivating as it did earlier today when he calmed Ollie with his song, but the sight of him like this has unsettled me. The door creaks shut. I don’t think anyone noticed my presence. They were all too caught up in the show.
It’s as I’m turning away from the tavern, my hands trembling a little, that I notice three men standing in the shadows of an alleyway. The last defiant glare of the sunset falls upon them and I recognise the baker. He seems to be negotiating some kind of deal with two British soldiers – Privates Percy Stanhope and Robert Billings. Cash is handed over and the soldiers reach for a small square package held by the baker. Probably cigarettes, chocolate, or some other contraband. Only the baker seems dissatisfied with the money offered and they begin to haggle. I lower my head and move on. I don’t have the energy for an interrogation; let the poor sods enjoy their little luxury while they can. All I feel in this moment is the need to be as far away from Danny as possible.
13
10th June
‘This could be England,’ says Private Murray in an awed voice.
Danny and I turn away from the mule cart, where the boy sits like a vagabond prince, and follow his gaze across the rolling landscape. Ollie is right. The country of the Somme might be a foreign field, but to tired men already homesick it strikes a chord. Long folds of gentle chalkland, well-groomed woods, streams burrowing through valleys, meandering country lanes. But there are differences here too: the fields are larger, the churches gaunter, while every few miles along the dusty road hangs a crucified Christ, His wooden eyes turned heavenward, as if to ignore the parade of doomed humanity marching by.
‘Beautiful enough to draw,’ Danny murmurs, and gives me a smile. ‘If only a poor squire knew an artist good enough for the job.’
I summon my own smile. ‘A decent squire might leave off with the nonsense and go and find his superior officer a bite to eat.’
This receives a dutiful salute before Danny strides away in search of the nearest field kitchen. I watch him go, a powerful figure moving through the mass of troops that block the road. It’s now late afternoon and, although the sun is less fierce today, the miles of hard slog have taken their toll. Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher has just called a ten-minute halt and men are standing propped against their rifles or else sitting in the scrub either side of the track. Stunned with exhaustion, hardly a word passes between them.
‘Hey, that man!’ I call out. ‘Don’t touch your boots!’
From the roadside, a wiry soldier with a sun-baked face looks up at me, a sort of pleading in his gaze. ‘Please, sir, but my feet.My feet.’
‘I know.’ Though my back screams with the effort, I drop to my knees so that we’re eye-level. ‘If you don’t rip off those boots right now, you’ll lose your mind. That’s how it feels, doesn’t it?’ He nods, despairing but grateful that someone understands. ‘Only listen to me, Private. We’ve still another couple of hours to go until we make camp for the night. If you take off your boots now, your feet will swell and you’ll never get them back on again.’
