‘Stephen,’ I’d smiled. ‘We’re neither us in the army any more.’
‘True enough. Still, old habits die hard.’
He told me that he had paid a visit to Percy’s sweetheart, Edith, and that the pair had connected over memories of the man they’d lost. After a few letters, the connection deepened and they were now stepping out together. He asked if I thought Percy would have minded and I said I didn’t think so and that anyway, life was for the living.
‘That it is,’ Robert agreed. ‘That it is.’
A brief silence followed while I tried to summon the courage to ask the question that burned inside me. It was fear of his possible answer that kept me silent.
Eventually Robert stirred. ‘If I can speak openly, sir? I just... Well, I don’t understand it.’
‘Understand what?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘You and Danny. Oh, don’t look so worried. After your court-martial, me and the other boys guessed all right, though we never said a word to no one. We wouldn’t betray you like that. And I don’t think none us treated Danny any different after you left. He’s a good lad, all told. But still, you must know that what the two of you got up to ain’t normal. Not natural, anyway. Not what God intended. You were a good officer, sir, looked out for us as best you could, but I have to speak my mind.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Robert,’ I said. ‘Truly.’
I didn’t blame him for his words. It was the world he’d been born into, the society that had shaped him. His opinion was that of most men and women in this land. Still, it made my heart ache.
Just as he rose to leave, I finally took the plunge and asked my question. I could feel my heart in my mouth as I forced out the words: ‘Is he all right? Please, Robert, can you tell me – is he alive?’
Robert gripped my shoulder, just for a moment. ‘Last I heard, he was in the land of the living. Soon after your trial, Captain Jackson had him transferred to another company. For his own good. A fresh start, you see? No gossip following him around.’
I closed my eyes, grasping this sliver of hope as hard as I could. When I opened them again, Robert had left the room.
Private Billings wasn’t my only visitor. My mother paid her call in the rains of that first autumn, shaking out her brolly and avoiding my gaze. We sat in silence for a long time.
‘Your father wants you to have this,’ she said at last, pushing my medal across the table. ‘He said he didn’t want it in the house and that...’ Tears flashed into her eyes, pity for herself and anger for me. ‘Said he doesn’t wantyouin the house either. Never again. I suppose you know what you’ve done to him? To us? The whole village gossips about nothing else. The vicar’s son thrown out of the army for being a... I can’t even say it.’ Her lip curled in disgust. ‘I always defended you, Stephen. After that incident with the Greaves’ boy—’
‘Michael,’ I insisted. ‘He died for his country. You can at least do him the courtesy of using his name.’
‘Oh, I know his name,’ she spat. ‘I had his mother at the door only last week.’
I stared at her. ‘What did she want?’
My mother bristled. ‘Wanted to give her opinion, that’s what.’
I had shivered at those words. Did Michael’s mother think I had forgotten him or betrayed his memory by finding someone else to love?
‘She said that you were my son and that she’d give anything to have her boy back again. The woman had the temerity to stand there and tell me that you’d done nothing wrong and that we should love you, just the way you are.’
‘And what did you say?’
My mother didn’t answer. She just snatched up her umbrella and made her exit. It was the last I ever saw of her.
Now I begin to climb slowly up the steps towards the grand building that dominates Trafalgar Square. It’s hard-going. On cold days like this my old wound still aches, and two years’ hard labour hasn’t helped. Crossing from the Strand, I’d caught my reflection in the window of an omnibus idling at the pavement. I’m only twenty-one, but the man staring back at me looked nearer fifty. My back is bowed, my skin is grey, my bones ache from an eternity of splitting stone and shovelling dirt. When I walk, I shuffle like an old man. But there are those worse-off.
Under the soaring columns of the National Gallery, I pause for a moment to drop a penny into a tramp’s tin mug. Another man aged before his time, he grins up at me, his mouth practically toothless. He starts to offer his thanks, then seems to catch something in my eye.
‘What was your regiment?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t care to remember.’
‘Memories are all I have,’ he says, looking down at his ragged clothes and the stump where his right leg used to be. ‘Royal Ulster Rifles, for what it’s worth.’
‘It’s worth a lot.’ I grip his arm and move on.
Beyond the imposing portico, I step into the great gallery’s entrance hall with its red columns and domed glass ceiling. Then on past the German and Dutch galleries and into the British School with its collection of English masters. As I walk, I check my grandfather’s watch. It was Captain Jackson who had the timepiece repaired for me after the glass was broken at the Somme. His brother, who lives in Greenwich, was another of my visitors at the Glasshouse. A friendly one this time.
