1914: Golgotha
by
Howard Webster
Published
by Factory Publishing Ltd at
Smashwords
www.factory-publishing.com
All
rights reserved
Copyright 2012 Howard Webster
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DEDICATION
To my oldest friend, Mark Jones.
We’re still planning that trip to Northern France. I just have to
buy my old jeep back. And Tim ‘Bloke’ Haughton for his unwavering
support.
And not
forgetting Mum & Dad. This is what I did with my time in Aldbury
when I came home in 2000.
REMEMBERANCE
Aided by the glimmer of a final star shell spitting its chemical light down onto the earth below Fulham raised the trench scope. His view lasted only a few seconds before the bespectacled officer began to heave uncontrollably. Dropping the scope onto the floor, he leant against the trench wall gasping vomit from his mouth. Something out there - in no man’s land - had terrified him.
“Mr Fulham?”
“Sir, the...the field. S...sir...they’re rising up, Sir. They’re r...r...rising....”
Not understanding, Luke grabbed the scope up from the floor and stared out over the trench wall into no man’s land. The star shell’s light had nearly died - but he could see them all - clearly. Everywhere rotting corpses and half revealed skeletons, still wearing their tattered uniforms, and in some cases helmets; the massed dead of two years of attack and counter attack, were rising out of the mud, being brought to the surface by the heavy rain.
REGRET
“All my life I pondered a single question. Whether I was a good or a bad man. Now, at the end of it all, I would have settled for being a brave one. But it wasn’t to be. I’m sorry, Petra. To be so….”
Laurens held Petra’s hand and led her to his study. As he sat behind his desk he swept the collecting dust from adzed wood with his hand.
“Work, in the final analysis, Miss George. That is all a fraudulent heart has left. Cowardice’s single consolation.”
Laurens Stevens d. March 8th 1965
Chapter 1 - Laurens
Sardinia, 8th March 1965
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Petra as the Taxi sped past a pair of open, half collapsed, rusted gates and rattled towards a sprawling Mediterranean villa. Two stories high with a network of steps and patios on its roof leading to a small astronomical tower; the house was close to being a ruin. From the sun-broken, blood coloured tiles ready to resign their hold on the roof and drop gracefully into a red dust death below: to the desiccated remnants of skeletal shrubs waiting in huge clay urns ready for burial: to the weeds that grew up between the stone slabs of the driveway reclaiming the earth upon which the villa had been built. There seemed no part of its landscape and structure that hadn’t been abused by time.
Shortly after the taxi had stopped, Petra nursed her aching limbs into some kind of co-ordinated action. Clambering unsteadily out of the car, she found that her small overnight bag had already been dumped down in the dirt of the villa’s driveway. A short while later the half-wrecked Fiat was gone leaving on a residue of garlic, bottled beer and burning brake pads behind. Petra breathed deeply then sniffed cautiously at her clothes.
Wearily picking up her overnight bag she trudged her way towards the villa’s big, iron studded front doors. Curiously there was no sign of life behind the random mismatch of darkened, cobwebbed windows that peppered the flaking walls of the white-washed villa.
Half expecting to be greeted at any second by a housemaid or butler Petra stood staring at the blackened wood grain of the doors. The colossal, back firing noise that the Fiat’s engine had made coming up the driveway must have alerted someone.
Searching around the two, imposing wooden front doors Petra unearthed a rusted pull bell lurking carefully camouflaged beneath the swathes of creeping vegetation. From the intricacy and amount of growth enveloping the bell it clearly hadn’t been used in years. Carefully, Petra gave it a tug and was rewarded by a throaty, clanging boom echoing deep inside the writer’s house. Five minutes more passed and two more hopeful tugs at the rusted bell pull failed to elicit any response.
After lighting up a fresh cigarette Petra decided to look about to see if there was another way into the house. Maybe there was a garden entrance? About fifty yards to the left of the front door she found what she was looking for. A twisting pathway that led around the side of the villa through a pleasant grove of ancient olive trees towards a large wooden gate built into the high, stone walls that ringed the house’s extensive grounds.
Approaching the gate Petra saw that it was flanked by two large, square columns. Each about two foot thick, both finely cracked and weathered by the intense heat. On each column there were rows of chiselled, orderly inscriptions.
MARNE
YPRES
SOMME
ANCRE
ARRAS
CAMBRAI
PASSCHENDAELE
AMIENS
A roll call of first world war battles.
Lazily blowing a puff of smoke at Passchendaele Petra pushed at the gate with her hand, found it unlocked and made her way through. If the front of the villa was in desperate need of restoration, then the chaotic, unkempt garden she discovered at the back was beyond redemption. A junkyard of Grecian friezes, statues and vegetation gone native. Each plant and tumbling, twisting vine emancipated from any kind of order or human constraint.
Following the flower covered pathway beneath a swaying canopy of hanging vines Petra finally came upon one end of an elegantly curved, brilliantly gleaming, white marble terrace that appeared to surround the entire sea facing side of the villa. There were no low walls hemming the terrace in from the sheer cliff face below. Only a long line of jagged marble slabs along the terrace’s edge. Whatever had once been built there, to keep you from plunging some one hundred and fifty yards down into the azure sea below, had long since resigned its career. A fall from grace that had created an imperfect, half-moon of glowing, but flawed, stone.
Following the terrace’s wide curve around the villa Petra was afforded her first perspective of Laurens Stevens. On a circular, raised promontory, jutting finger like out above the sea, was a lithe figure in a large straw hat, elegantly sprawled out on a lounger enjoying the afternoon sun. A table had been set down next to him and a small wicker chair next to that. Whilst on the table a bottle of labelless local wine sat in an earthenware cooler and two large crystal wine glasses set next to that.
“Hello! I’m...” she said as the old man turned in his chair to see who was coming.
It was Laurens Stevens’ eyes that stood out most beneath the brim of his hat. Dazzling blue. Deeply set under a patrician brow. Tanned skin with long white hair and a rakish goatee beard and moustache. His visage of seriousness and gravity evaporated the moment he smiled.
“I know. Miss George, isn’t it? The telegram from dear, old Patrick warned of your arrival. His health has improved I hope? He should have retired long ago. I hear he has more liver spots than clients these days. Why he works at all? He must have enough saved in his piggy bank? Literary agency is a young person’s business. Too much…well too much of whatever it is you youngsters do these days. Would you mind awfully if we could pretend to be grown ups tomorrow? It is a habit of mine to get completely drunk whilst watching the Sun God disappear over the horizon and fantasise that I am someone of consequence.”
“Youngsters, Mr Stevens? I’m flattered. And I’ve been helping Patrick with his list for nearly five years now. Although we’ve never spoken before. I’ve heard all about you. This is such an honour.”
He took a slow sip of his wine.
“Five years? And heard all about me? An honour? Poor, dear. Is your life really that dull? Oh, well. Everything is as ready as it ever will be. Although I must warn you that my housekeeper died on the job some twenty years ago now and I haven’t got around to finding a suitable replacement. Marvellous woman - she detested me. Won’t find someone like that again in a hurry. Ah, well,” sighed the old man as he poured Petra some wine and politely offered her a glass.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage, Mr Stevens. It’s only a short stay. I’m sure.”
“Good, then I needn’t worry. You’ll have to locate a bedroom that appeals and camp out amidst the carnage of wanton neglect. My life here is a very modest one, Miss George. And dusty.”
<><><>
Half an hour later Petra discovered that her accommodation was far less disagreeable than she’d anticipated. The bedroom itself wasn’t big, a humble twenty feet by fifteen, but it had the benefit of two warped shuttered French doors that led out directly onto a balcony which in turn led to a private sun terrace laid with terracotta tiles. Better still the shower in her small ensuite bathroom worked and in a dresser drawer she’d located some new towels, bed linen and pillow cases - all still wrapped in the manufacturer’s cream tissue paper and protected by wheel shaped mothballs.
Later with the smell of the taxi evaporated by soap and water, Petra sat back on her bed wrapped only in a bath towel and lit up another cigarette. As she raised the cigarette to her lips she examined her wrists. The tiny white, streaking traces of scar tissue on her wrists and forearms were barely visible now.
<><><>
Before dinner Petra went looking for Laurens Stevens and found him pottering happily in his vast garden with a pair of rusty, old pruning cutters, snipping aimlessly here and there.
“I’ll miss my garden, Miss George,” the old man confided. “I was always feeble minded when it came to horticulture. But now, in my waning years, I find great comfort in the certain knowledge that I am utterly devoid of influence in this walled domain. Creepers don’t give a turtle’s toupee whether my pompous scribbles have been translated into twenty two languages. They clamber on regardless. Most comforting.”
“Mr Stevens, your book? Golgotha. Patrick hasn’t heard a word from you in six months, not since you submitted the first few chapters? Publishers, as I’m only too sure you are aware, are always anxious to have a finished manuscript. Particularly when their advances have been drawn upon and the delivery date has long expired.”
Ignoring Petra completely Stevens ran his fingers through his long white hair.
“Do you know, that for all my so called literary success. I think that cocking up this garden was quite the best and most enjoyable thing I have done in my life. I think it lovely. Rather me? Don’t you agree?” asked the writer, his eyes twinkling as he gazed around the chaos and began snipping away again completely ineffectually.
“The book, Mr Stevens. Please. I’ll be out of a job if I haven’t got the completed manuscript from you by the time I go back to New York. Not to mention that Patrick’s reputation as an agent will suffer and that you’ll be sued for breach of contract”
Pausing from his clipping the elderly gardener stared at Petra disapprovingly. A look that caused her cheeks to redden up. Soon though, the look was gone and was once again been replaced by the gentle, if enigmatic, one his old face preferred to wear.
“True stories, like mine, don’t ever really have final chapters or even endings, Miss George. They merely have consequences. Big ones and little ones,” he remarked as he decapitated a small purple flower and put it rakishly in the brim of his hat.
“It’s a true story, Mr Stevens?” Petra replied.
There was no immediate response from the old man.
“Mr Stevens?” Petra asked again after a further minute of silence had elapsed.
Humming thoughtfully, and tugging at a particularly obstinate vine strand, the old man’s eyes widened, somewhat delighted, as the head of a cracked, weather beaten statue of Achilles suddenly revealed itself from beneath the all consuming foliage. Plainly he had just met an old friend not seen in many years.
“Almost true, Miss George. The characters who created my tale are all long dead now. My memory of what they once said and wrote is all that remains. Unfortunately my mind, like all pensionable relics, has rather toyed with the missing pieces. And filled in the cracks somewhat with fanciful notions - it is up to the reader to decide what they chose to believe - or not.”
“It’s true - are you absolutely sure?” replied Petra, somewhat amazed at the notion.
“Oh, dear. I hope your entire stay isn’t going to be punctuated with objectionable wonderment? I really can’t cope. I’ve found that advanced years give one a great advantage over the young. Ask me ‘to be or not to be’ and I’ll reply as Moliere did ‘Je vis de bonne soupe, et non de beau language’.”
“I’m sorry, but my French is...” Petra said quickly and, she hoped, apologetically enough.
He smiled and patted her arm affectionately.
“‘I live on good soup, not on fine words’!” the writer replied using a tone of voice that implied Petra had only needed a tiny bit of prompting and that the correct translation had been on the tip of her tongue the whole time.
They lapsed into silence again and the writer continued snipping contentedly at a few more leaves with his clippers. None of which seemed in the slightest bit interested in being removed from their life source that day and remained impertinently attached to bush and shrub alike.
“Unfortunately, Mr Stevens,” Petra said as charmingly as she could. “My ability to pay bills and rent currently depends on extracting from you - a few chapters of missing ‘fine’ words’. Once I have them - you can eat as much soup as you want. I’ll even offer to make it.”
Pausing again from his deliberations the old man gazed intently at Petra, then nodded with some private approval, smiled and spoke.
“Then we must travel back to fifty odd summers ago, Miss George. Forgive me if you’ve already read some of what I am to talk about - but I think you’ll find my method has an effective, peculiar madness to it. All of my own.”
Petra was quick off the mark.
“If I come away with a finished book - you can be as mad as you want, Mr Stevens!”
“Good, I am pleased to have your consent, Miss George.”
Then linking his arm through Petra’s the old writer sedately led her back towards the terrace and the two wicker chairs.
“Luke, Miss George, is always with me. An acquaintance whom I shall not forget. An individual never so brilliant - as when he was in love or when he had decided to lose…triumphantly. On the occasion I first recall - he was magnificently engaged in the execution of both.”
<><><>
Chapter 2 - Luke
Oxford, Trinity Term - 1914
The warmth of the day fuelled the impatience of the youthful faces crowding the river banks, who had been, up until now, jostling each other good naturedly for the best views of a special ‘eliminator’ sculling race. The eliminator had been something of a novelty for the regatta that year. Most people agreed that the usual bumping races on the river seemed rather old hat and dull by comparison. Regrettably the excitement caused, combined with heady sunshine and alcoholic picnic baskets, had already proved too much for some.
With the race already delayed by a shamefully tight undergraduate attempting to re-enact the New Testament miracle of walking on water, and having to be rescued before he drowned, the Official Starter was anxious to proceed.
“Gentlemen, please,” called the official through his crackling megaphone.
One of the two finalists, Luke Gard, a nineteen year old American rower, stifled a yawn and lowered his freshly painted blue oars into the water. It was as he chose his cutting angle, that Luke glanced up at the landing stage on the far river bank. Instantly the young undergraduate’s gaze fell on an extremely pretty blonde haired girl of about eighteen years old wearing a simple cornflower blue cotton dress and clutching a wide brimmed summer hat in her hands. Their eyes met and locked for one brief second. Then, embarrassed by this intimate and unexpected exchange, the young woman quickly turned away into the crowd as a young army Captain appeared at her side.
“Luke, I hope it’s your oar that your planning on rowing with today and nothing that would upset the ladies?” inquired Luke’s Scottish rival for the title of champion sculler, Lawrence Grant. Luke didn’t even need to check where his friend was. One swift, deftly slapped paddle soon erupted into a vigorous water fight between the finalists at the start line.
<><><>
Watching the race from the convenience of a raised memorial bench high on the river bank Dr Hawtrey, the corpulent, pipe smoking Master of Luke and Lawrence’s college, sat impassively with Dr Cholmondley, their tall, gangling, personal tutor and moral guardian. Both of the college grandees were staring somewhat impassively at the unfolding excitement before them.
“Two of our chaps in the final, Doctor Hawtrey. A good show,” Cholmondley commented almost without moving his lips.
“Isn’t that, that Gard fellow racing? The American?” Hawtrey grumbled as he tried in vain to re-light the pipe tobacco that had for some reason decided to fail him.
“Rich as Croesus. So I hear. The money was his mother’s. An Australian – mining family. Father was the late Connecticut poet, Darius Gard. The one everybody was so madly keen on for about five minutes. Their affair was a scandal, as I recall. One of those doomed romances the masses like to read about over their soft boiled eggs each morning in the popular press. Beautiful debutante elopes with rugged, salt of the earth, arty type. He never really recovered from her death so they say. Became a recluse. Famous as a champion of the common man. Who’d also made ample financial provision from his deceased bride’s estate for his boy to attend Eton and Oxford - without one iota of irony.”
“Quite,” grunted Hawtrey through teeth clenched tightly around his pipe stem as Cholmondley continued.
“Went quite insane at the end, I gather. Raving doom laden prophecies of world calamity and rivers of blood. Thought he could see angels of death charging hither and thither or something equally preposterous. Too many poetic predilections floating about I suppose,” Cholmondley replied, and raised his eyebrows with a great display of ham theatrical emphasis.
“Patronising the poor with absurdity is the latest pastime of idle, moneyed aesthetes,” Hawtrey commented, still having no luck with his pipe. “I would wish to deny them all access to their plenteous, private accumulations. See how much they identify with the masses when they’re forced to live on a shilling a week. Damn and blast this tobacco!”
Cholmondley chose not to offer assistance.
A man and his tobacco were sacred.
“Nevertheless,” Cholmondley iterated even handedly. “Despite the hindrances of considerable personal fortune, young Mr Gard has recently had another poem published in the Achillean. As verse - a little raw and muscular. But commendable.”
Finally with a sigh of obvious relief the tobacco smouldered with sufficient combustible enthusiasm to allow Hawtrey a long, welcome suck on the pipe stem that had given so much difficulty.
“I dare say, Dr Cholmondley. He’s undeniably vigorous in all manner of mortal pursuits. A striking specimen. Quite the David. Now the other fellow. I don’t recognise him?” Dr Hawtrey asked, as he pointed out at Luke’s competitor with his tongue wettened pipe stem.
“Lawrence Grant. No reason you should, Dr Hawtrey. Keeps to himself around college. State scholar,” Cholmondley replied, using a suitably pained tone.
“Our Mr Gard has deemed to patronise him with his moneyed acquaintance. The two are inseparable, I’m told. Even in a rowing final - or so it seems.”
Drawing on his pipe once more, this time with an air of studied deliberation Dr Hawtrey glanced back and forth between Luke and Lawrence fighting it out on the river.
“Two warriors in gladiatorial combat. The ideal love of antiquity, Dr Cholmondley. Doomed to end in the destruction of one or both. Most Aeschylean. Ah, the bitter fruits of youth.”
<><><>
By the time two thirds of the distance had been covered Lawrence was nearly a length ahead. An unfavourable current had hit Luke and had almost put him out of the race. With the finish line almost in sight Luke knew what he had to do. Up the stroke rate and defeat both the river and Lawrence with pure, undiluted aggression. His arms, legs, weight and mind went immediately on the attack.
....One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four strokes....
The result was a powerful surge, cutting the water and narrowing the distance between the two boats. Five strokes, then six strokes later Luke had gained all of the ground lost. It was a magnificent effort. They were now both head to head. Both oblivious to the fact that twenty yards ahead a piece of half submerged wood, covered in fishing tackle, was floating unseen. A stroke later, when they were nearly upon it, shifting currents suddenly sent the piece of bobbing wood towards Luke, but as his oar came down a sudden eddy pushed the obstacle directly into Lawrence’s path.
The devastation was immediate.
Lawrence’s oar smashed down on the floating piece of wood and became instantly caught up in the tangled strands of fishing line. The oar was ripped from his hands, putting Lawrence firmly out of the race. Unaware of the disaster that had struck his friend, Luke rowed on, with his sweat filled eyes fixed on the rhythms of his hands and legs, unchallenged towards the finish line.
<><><>
Hawtrey’s face, gazing down upon the scene, wore a suitably wearied expression. Having viewed enough water filled drama for one day he stood up and prepared to leave; but not before he had made one of his grandly stated pronouncements. His tone was one of studied reluctance.
“You see, Cholmondley - that renowned sense of new world propriety on display again. They must win at everything.”
“Quite, quite so, Dr Hawtrey,” replied Cholmondley in full agreement, as he quickly stooped to recover a bent penny that someone had lost on the pathway.
“Sadly, one may have the visage of a angel, Dr Cholmondley - but not the soul.”
<><><>
With victory only a few strokes away Luke noticed how silent the crowd had become. A snatched glance down the river soon revealed the reason. Lawrence was floating some way back with a broken oar bobbing disconsolately in the river nearby. Only an act of God could stop Luke from victory but what God hadn’t counted on was Luke. To the amazement of the spectators, and obvious fury of the officials at the finish line, the American slowed down and came to a halt some five yards from home. Then, carefully he swung his boat around and lazily rowed his way back down towards the start line and a bewildered, young Scotsman.
Pulling up alongside Lawrence’s gleaming boat Luke paused, leant on his oars and gave his friend a happily anarchic smile.
“Are you completely insane, man? You’ll be disqualified!”
Then, without any hint of an explanation regarding his intentions, Luke expertly half circled about in the water and promptly chucked his nearside oar away into the water to join the one Lawrence had lost.
“Are we going to win this race or not, Lawrence?” Luke asked, then grabbed Lawrence’s boat with his right hand and drew it up - tight - to his. Soon they were both rowing - one oar each - like a peculiar two man catamaran up over the finish line to the ecstatic cheers of the crowd. The subsequent ban from next year’s regatta didn’t bother Luke in the slightest.
<><><>
“Luke! I’ve got something to tell you. Something important,” Lawrence exclaimed excitedly as he barged into his friend’s rooms clutching a newly purchased bottle of champagne. Unable to concentrate on his essay, and thankful for any kind of interruption, Luke paused from his work.
“So what are we toasting, Lawrence?” asked Luke as he grabbed two champagne flutes from the drinks’ tray sitting upon a stately pile of overdue library books beside his fireplace.
Dramatically waiting his moment, Lawrence popped the cork and insisted on pouring their champagne before he explained any further. Finally, with the froth spilling down the sides of the two flutes, he was ready.
“This!” replied Lawrence, as grabbed a small, well read letter from his pocket and stuck it under Luke’s nose.
“My goodness, Lawrence – an envelope – with writing in it too, I guess - most definitely a cause for celebration. I’ve had over a dozen this week. Mainly in complaint about your appalling conduct at the Union debate. Does that mean I should order in a case?”
“Luke she’s accepted! Helen and I are formally engaged!”
Expressionless and controlled Luke sipped his champagne.
“Ach, Luke, what’s the matter?” Lawrence asked, confused.
“Oh, it’s just so...well...rather sudden. Rather a shock, that’s all. Of course, I’m thrilled for you both; and I’m forgetting my manners. A toast to you and Helen. She’s a lucky girl to find someone as boring as you, Lawrence. I know. Solid, dependable, eternally dull.”
“Ach, Luke, if I didn’t know you better, you sound as though you’re in competition with Helen. I’m sure you will be the best of friends. Like we are. I just know it,” said Lawrence with a grin.
“Don’t be utterly ridiculous, Lawrence. Now you are being the ass,” Luke replied, then burst out laughing when he saw Lawrence’s appalled reaction. “Of course Helen and I shall be friends,” confirmed Luke. “We shall form a coalition to safeguard you from all your worst and most irritating habits. I shall start on a list tonight. Alphabetically, of course. That poor girl needs to know what horrors she’s taking on.”
Lawrence joined in the laughter.
“Good. I was worried for a moment. Now listen, Luke. There’s even more news. I’ve been accepted - the teaching job in Girvan. Once I’ve graduated, of course. We both thought - why wait?”
Settling himself down into an armchair Lawrence let Luke carefully pour him some more champagne. This done Luke then went over to his desk and pretended to be sorting out some urgent papers on his desk.
“But you’ve still a year to go, Lawrence? Don’t you think this is all little premature?” Luke asked, his expression carefully obscured from his friend’s gaze.
“Ach man, what can happen in a year? Luke, say you’ll be my best man. And a Godfather to at least ten of my children?”
Luke drew in a deep breath and forced a smile onto his lips, aware of how dry they had become.
“Of course, Lawrence. I’d love to. And who knows? I may even father a couple of them?”
<><><>
Chapter 3 - Petra
Petra had gone to bed wearily.
The flight to London from New York followed by the flight to Marseilles and then a small charter to Sardinia had exhausted her. Kicking off the bed covers and opening the French doors to try and cool the room she’d finally fallen asleep. It was a deep slumber unaffected by dreams or uneasy thoughts. As she slept a figure watched her from the chair in the corner of her room. Silently examining the rhythm of her breathing and the flicker of her eyelids.
A blurred outline of a tall man.
Waking up Petra licked her lips. She was thirsty. She shivered as she reached for her spectacles that sat on the bedside table. The room was cold. Freezing almost. Sliding her round lensed glasses onto her nose she squinted. At the far end of her bed the air appeared to be hazed and blurred. The entire far wall split into subtle fractions of half light. Sitting up Petra stared at the space this phenomena occupied, not sure what to make of it. As she watched the haze remained static for a few moments then slowly dispersed and moved silently away towards the open French doors. The warmth slowly returned to the room.
Getting out of bed Petra went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Jet lagged and now completely awake she walked out onto the balcony and gazed across the rambling garden towards the expanse of sea beyond. In the moonlight everything was a variation of blue. A separate world woken from slumber. Troubled Petra climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over her body for warmth.
The chill had returned to her room.
<><><>
Chapter 4 - War
War had been declared and the German advance had been halted by British and French troops outside of Paris. The battles of the Marne and the Aisne had been fought and the first battle of Ypres was about to begin.
On the day Luke and Lawrence’s college received a visit from the recruiting officers someone had hired the local fire brigade’s brass band to play in the quad creating the sense of a carnival.
“Ach, will you look at them, Luke? Not one of them have a thought in their heads. If they did...”
Realising that Lawrence was going to grumble and stomp around his study until he got some kind of a reaction finally forced Luke to lift his eyes from a review of Spinoza’s Ethics and provided his friend with what he hoped was a sympathetic expression.
“Lawrence aren’t all you Brits supposed to be thanking God for matching you with His hour? That’s what that Cambridge fellow, Brooke, wrote - wasn’t it?”
“An hour that’s only meant to last until the Christmas holidays,” snapped Lawrence. “So they cheerfully predict! They’re all deluded!“
Luke shook his head.
“Anyway, I don’t know what you can do about it, everyone here, and in Germany no doubt, is very keen on having their moment of glory...”
“Mary Mother of God, will you just listen to yourself. Mr Intemperate himself giving me advice?” interjected the fulminating Scot.
“Just don’t rock the boat. That’s all I’m saying. Particularly...”
Lawrence cut in - his frustrations aimed directly at Luke.
“....as I’m a bloody State Scholar. And there’s a lot hanging on me graduating. That I should put up and shut up? Not have opinions on anything? Ach, is that what you are bloody trying to say, Luke? Is it?”
Luke, knowing Lawrence didn’t really mean what he was saying, shook his head silently and then went back to his criticism; refusing to continue the discussion until his friend had calmed down. After a few uninspirational lines though, Luke found he couldn’t concentrate wholly on the task. Something was troubling him greatly. Putting the journal down, he glanced up to discover Lawrence, once again, staring out of his study window, anxiously scrutinising the recruiting drive.
<><><>
Turning into a narrow passageway Luke pedalled up to his favourite bookshop. Leaning his bike up against a nearby pillar Luke quickly reordered the books in his hand. Straightening a bent cover on one of them as best he could, he then walked purposefully into the small, Victorian shop. The tinkling bell attached to the door frame heralded his entrance. There was always a certain smell about the place Luke liked.
A stale, musty odour.
The scent of words.
“Hello! Hello! Service please. Mr Samuels?”
Moments later a rotund, bald man sporting chalk stripe trousers with razor blade creases and a carefully buttoned up, matching waistcoat, emerged as if by magic from beneath the polished teak counter. The bookshop owner’s pleasant greeting froze on his lips the very second his bespectacled, heavily lensed eyes came to rest on the collection of battered, second hand books cradled in Luke’s arms.
“Sale or return, Mr Gard?” asked the bookshop owner, in a manner suggesting that he already knew the answer and didn’t altogether care for it.
Undaunted, Luke carefully placed the scuffed books upon the counter and gave Mr Samuels his most engaging smile.
“Mr Samuels. Remember those copies of Virgil’s Georgics you sold me?”
“Yes, Mr Gard. In pristine condition,” replied the bookshop owner now recognising the well thumbed, creased books perched on his counter as one and the same said articles.
“I wondered if I might exchange them....” inquired Luke as innocently as he could muster, “...for something else...entirely different?”
The tough bookshop owner was not impressed.
“Mr Gard. Commercial transactions require two parties. A customer. That is you, Mr Gard. And a vendor. That is me. Our relationship is clearly defined by common practice. Much as I like you Mr Gard, I find myself continually placed in the unenviable position of an unwitting lending library.”
His last words were, however, lost on Luke, who had become distracted by an object given pride of place in a smart, glass cabinet on the wall.
“Is that what I think it is, Mr Samuels?”
Nodding a reluctant ‘yes’ the bookshop owner sighed as Luke provided him with his very best ‘hard-done-by’ expression.
“I’ll give you all these for the Milton! Now that’s a bargain. What do you say?” Luke offered, pushing the pile of second hand books across the counter to Mr Samuels.
Exasperated, the bookshop owner could only manage a strained, hunted look.
Fortunately for Mr Samuels the bell on his door rang.
“Lady Fane-Sutton!” the bookshop owner exclaimed breathlessly. Realising that negotiations were now temporarily suspended, Luke glanced over his shoulder, in order to discover who had stimulated such a profound state of excitement in Mr Samuels, and found himself once more face to face with the attractive young woman he’d unwittingly embarrassed at the regatta. This time without her proprietary Captain in tow.
“Ah, Lady Fane-Sutton. What a pleasure,” intimated a puppy like Mr Samuels.
With a discrete expression of acknowledgement Lady Fane-Sutton offered the bookshop owner what she felt was an appropriate greeting given her natural station in life, “Mr Samuels. Good day to you. Have you managed to get that special edition of the ‘Well at the World’s End’ I ordered?”
The bookshop owner patted his order book and cast a defiantly smug glance in Luke’s direction.
“Excuse me one moment, Mr Gard. A customer!” Samuels attention swiftly turned. “Lady Fane-Sutton. The Well at The World’s End by Mr William Morris! A first edition! The trouble I had tracking this down, Lady Fane- Sutton!”
Unmoved, the young woman ran her finger down the book’s spine, nodded with satisfaction then placed it rather carelessly on the counter next to Luke’s pile of scuffed, second hand books.
“You are something of a life saver, Mr Samuels. Thank you, so much. Quite the best book seller in Oxford.”
“A life saver! Oh, my! Shall I wrap your volume, Lady Fane-Sutton? I do hope your…..”
“No thank you, Mr Samuels. Good-day to you.”
Mr Samuels looked somewhat downcast at Lady Fane-Sutton’s swift side stepping of further conversation. Then, without glancing over at Luke once, she paid her money, collected her book from the counter and exited the shop as promptly and efficiently as she had come in.
After the imperious young woman had gone, Mr Samuels leant on his counter and wafted an over-heated, flushed face with his hand.
“Oh, Mr Gard. Lady Fane-Sutton. Such an admirable young lady. Following the announcement of her engagement in The Times – I sent a card from my humble shop and received a letter of thanks - in her own hand!”
Politely acknowledging the bookshop owners excitement, Luke shook his head in mock admiration.
“Now Mr Gard. What was it we were discussing? Milton, I believe. In bartered exchange with Virgil?”
“Milton yes, uhm,” replied Luke, as his eyes amusedly fixed on one of the books sitting overlooked on Mr Samuels’ teak counter. Finally, Luke couldn’t resist the temptation and tapped the offending item with his forefinger.
“The ‘Well at the Worlds End’ I believe, Mr Samuels. Why the man didn’t stick to wallpaper, I have no idea!”
Once the horrified bookshop owner realised that Lady Fane-Sutton had mistakenly made off with one of Mr Gard’s appallingly thumbed, second hand books of Latin verse instead of the pristine collector’s volume she had ordered - he gasped aloud. Helplessly he turned to Luke - his eyes wide with alarm.
“Leave it to me, Mr Samuels. I will make a swift and extremely polite errand boy. The epicentre of Oxford society shall not go without her William Morris. And your reputation as the most discerning bookseller in the city shall remain intact.”
“Oh, that would be so kind, Mr Gard. I’ll have the Milton ready on your return,” sighed a relieved Samuels by way of gratitude.
Grabbing the over-looked item Luke rushed out into the alleyway and then up towards the busy thoroughfare. Staring this way and that - the lady in question was no where to be seen. Then, moving swiftly through the crowds and standing half in the roadway, Luke spotted her.
Within thirty seconds of athletic weaving through horn honking automobiles, pedestrians and horse drawn carts, he was finally within hailing range.
“Lady Fane-Sutton!”
Annoyed at the inappropriateness of having her name yelled, in such a vulgar manner, up and down an Oxford street she abruptly stopped and glared. A brisk, bounding step later Luke was waving the mislaid book an inch from her nose.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. Rather. You swiped my book and I am making a citizen’s arrest,” said Luke, enormously enjoying the opportunity to have some fun at the grand young woman’s expense.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Excuse me.”
As she tried to move past him Luke pointed down triumphantly at the volume she was holding.
“Virgil!”
Reluctantly, she looked - it was true.
“Oh, bother.”
Whilst Antonia irritably exchanged books with Luke, her highly tutored sense of what was seen as proper and correct took over.
“You enjoy poetry?” she enquired of Luke, referring to the volume of Virgil recently in her possession, as if she was handing out an end of term prize at a local prep school.
“Yes, I even write a little. Been lucky enough to have a few odds and ends published.”
“Oh, how dreadful for you. I simply can’t abide the stuff. Such a lot of nonsense.”
“Well, what’s that s’posed to be?” he said nodding towards her volume of William Morris verse.
“But you’re mistaken. This particular volume of Mr Morris’ work is not for me. It’s a birthday present for my father. He has an unfathomable fondness for sentimental verse. Still he’s in uniform. Like my fiancé. A Captain in France. Where all right thinking young men of your age should be. Not mooning over bilious diversions.”
Luke lost his temper.
“But I’m an American – and last time I looked we’re not actually at war with anybody!”
“Clearly....it is so comforting to know that fighting for freedom from evil and aggression isn’t something that interests Americans. Only street corner poetry discussions? How nice for you all,” replied Antonia icily.
Luke searched for some suitable reply and failed.
“Tell me, what do you write your verse about, Mr....?”
“Gard,” replied Luke uneasily and not entirely sure himself exactly what it was he actually wrote poetry about. “Oh, anything...you know...this and that.”
“How comforting. Well, here’s a little something to inspire you - and maybe include in your next, no doubt, inspirational literary attempt where ‘this and that’ are explored in the fullest possible sense,” sniped Antonia as she swiftly opened her purse and pushed something into Luke’s hand.
<><><>
“White feathers. Ach, man! For God’s sake! Still, you’re not the only one, Luke. Stupid, brainless, doxies like her are dishing them out all over Britain. Christ! Do you know what a white feather means?
If Luke knew he wasn’t saying – instead grabbed a decanter and slumped further down in his armchair.
“It’s old, Luke. From cockfighting. She’s calling you a coward. I blame that fool Mason and his idiotic boys-own adventure novel. I’ll tell you who the bloody hysterical fuzzy wuzzies are and they don’t live in Africa!”
Luke put the decanter back and nursed a large tumbler of malt whisky.
“Lawrence, I was slaughtered. Left for dead on an Oxford street by a plaid tweed tyrant. I’m so embarrassed. I was only trying to be pleasant.”
Lawrence viciously slapped the newspaper he was holding against his leg and accidentally tore the leader pages.
“Feathers! Ach, what a prig? You should’ve stuffed it up her nose. We’re not living in some penny dreadful melodrama. It’s going to be a slaughter in France and for what? Look at this?”
Reluctantly Luke put down his whisky and took the part shredded newspaper from Lawrence.
“The line of trenches now stretches from the sea to the Swiss border. It’s a stalemate? Any fool can see what’s happening,” Lawrence said angrily.
Luke sniffed his whisky’s comforting, oaky vapours.
“Everybody’ll soon get bored of it. You’ll see.”
“Luke, it’s time you grew up. That feather is only the start of this madness. When they’ve killed off everybody who’s currently out there playing at soldiers - they’ll be looking for some more fools to take their place! And they won’t ask nicely. It’ll be - be a good chap and stand over there - so Fritz can blow your brains out.”
All Luke could do was take out a matchbox, drop the feather in an ash tray and attempt to burn it. He failed.
“Someone will call a halt. There’s nothing to gain through a protracted war. And there’s nothing you nor I can do about it until then - regretably that’s all rather the way it is.”
Lawrence couldn’t disagree more.
“Luke, I know what I’m going to do. Write a letter as a free thinking student of this great institution. Argue my case in open forum.”
This got Luke’s attention.
“A letter. Who the hell to? Who’ll give a damn what you’ve got to say about anything, Lawrence?
Lawrence held up the national newspaper he had been abusing so aggressively.
“They won’t publish it. You’re nuts. Lawrence, this is not only rash. It is near idiotic. And it is hardly likely to endear you to the very people who have made it possible for you to study here. For God’s sake, Lawrence, take some advice. Drop the idea and concentrate on graduating.”
<><><>
Dr Hawtrey, stood officiously up and tapped a tablespoon gingerly against a crystal glass to get everyone’s compliant attention. The hubble of voices and laughter slowly died down. Rows upon rows of black tie and gown clad young men sat waiting for the master’s introduction. From where Lawrence and Luke were sitting they had a fairly good view of the top table.
“Gentlemen. We are honoured to have a very special guest with us this evening,” Dr Hawtrey called out proudly as he gesticulated flamboyantly towards a very distinguished looking, grey haired man in his late fifties wearing a dress uniform that bore a marked array of ribbons and weighty medals.
“A former prize winning graduate of this college, history scholar and rowing blue. General Sir William Fane-Sutton. May I ask you all to welcome him warmly.”
As the applause erupted Lawrence nudged Luke and whispered under his breath.
“General Fane-Sutton! Perhaps I should inquire about his daughter’s health on your behalf, Luke. I hear there’s a touch of bubonic plague running around one of His Majesty’s further flung colonies. If you’re quick you could have a lethal dose despatched to her by carrier rat. Sent with love, kisses and no antidote, of course. It should get there by her twentieth birthday if it swims fast enough.”
With difficulty Luke managed to stifle a laugh.
The General was about to speak.
“Thank you Dr Hawtrey for that kind introduction. You failed to mention, in your most flattering of introductions, however, my gloriously short and doomed career in this college’s famed Amateur dramatic society. During the enactment of a climatic sword fight, in which I, of course, was cast as a dashing knight fighting………..”
<><><>
The moment her father’s Butler had left the room she eagerly snatched up the telegram from the silver tray it had been brought in on and ripped it open. Reading the telegram the girl’s hands shook a little, but her face showed no change of expression. Slowly, still holding the communication in her hands, she lowered herself down into her father’s favourite armchair. The one that, as a child, she had fallen asleep in so often whilst watching him work at his desk safe in the knowledge that he would always be there to protect her. All she had ever been taught was proper, right and decent - everything she had believed in so unquestioningly - were condensed and destroyed by this one solitary moment of disbelief. Somehow none of it could fully explain the handful of hastily typed words on a plain looking, official telegram personally addressed to her.
<><><>
“…..the men of this college have helped to shape England’s past - now, in this time of sacrifice, it is for them to once again shape her future. Thank you,” concluded the General.
Immediately the noise of spoons being rapped against table tops drowned the room in a clattering, eager endorsement of the General’s patriotic sentiments. It was a feeling of special and divinely inspired purpose that resonated throughout the entire country.
“Let’s grab a bottle and get out of here, Luke,” Lawrence whispered under his breath. Gratefully Luke agreed. But, their attempt at silently slipping out of a side door amidst the clamour did not go unnoticed. At the top table Dr Hawtrey watched their exit. His expression, calculating.
On a bench in the darkness besides Luke’s favourite bridge it was cold and quiet. Both Luke and Lawrence had taken the precaution of overcoats and gloves as they drank, alternately, straight from the neck of a bottle of brandy. It had been a relief to leave the tiresome facade of bonhomie and predictable small talk of the dinner table behind and escape to the peace of the river. Half an hour had gone by and Lawrence was drunk. He was always more eager with the brandy bottle than Luke and now the visible side-effects of the alcohol were beginning to show in the Scotsman’s face. Indeed, his heavily lidded eyes indicated that he was now having some difficulty in staying awake.
“Luke, you think that literature and art make life on earth - somehow grander and bigger. Somehow more bearable and - more noble? Don’t you?”
Luke, not being as brandy whelped as Lawrence, responded with the glibbest answer he could think of - hoping it would shut his friend up. A vaguely annoying quote of Ruskin’s sprung conveniently to mind. He refashioned it for Lawrence.
“I believe someone once said that the ultimate endeavour of all art is to reveal the intention of the human soul. So in a way it does make everything - bigger and grander. I suppose.”
Lawrence’s drooping lids momentarily flickered up.
“Mr Lucius Gard?”
“Mr Lawrence Grant?” Luke replied as Lawrence sat up.
“Lucius, you’re an irrelevant, privileged bollocks who doesn’t know bugger all about anything,” Lawrence muttered, then keeled slowly over into Luke’s lap. Holding Lawrence’s drunken form in his arms, he fondly patted his friend’s head. That feeling of quiet despair at his inability to discover any ease within himself was now utterly overwhelming. He threw the Brandy bottle away into the water.
The roar of a car’s screaming engine across the river broke the silence. Glancing in its direction Luke watched the heart-stopping sight of a car hit a lamp post and spin out of control down the opposite river bank and smash, head on, with a terrific grinding and tearing collision of glass and metal, into one of the bridge’s stone supports.
Not pausing at the twenty foot drop from the bridge’s parapet down onto the grassy embankment below Luke vaulted over the stone wall and landed with a thump and a roll close to the half-submerged wreck. Assessing the situation he noted that the front of the car was almost destroyed by the force of the collision. Half in the river water and half still on the bank, the shattered vehicle sat at such a canted angle it was close to toppling over onto its roof. Wading towards the driver’s door waste-deep in oil layered water, Luke could see that the hinges and metal frame had buckled. Worringly he could also make out the shape of a passenger slumped unconscious against the wheel.
Desperately trying prevent the car from rolling over onto him with one hand - Luke tried to get to the injured woman. But the twisted, stressed bolts wouldn’t give. The door was stuck fast. Realising he couldn’t force the hinges with just one hand and that he needed both of them to do it - Luke released his hold on the buckled frame and, using his feet as leverage against the footplate, wrenched savagely at the twisted door with all his strength.
Instantly the car slipped down the bank and with its entire weight bearing down on him began to push Luke under the water. But his gamble worked. One of the impact fatigued door hinges snapped on the metal frame, allowing Luke to haul the driver from the shattered car as the wreck finally tipped over onto its roof into the river.
Carrying the injured driver from the car over to the damp grass of the river bank, Luke detected a low groaning. Still alive, at least, thought Luke, as he pulled off his overcoat and laid it over the woman’s body for warmth. Her eyes opened uncomprehendingly then shut again. Gently, Luke wiped some of the blood from her forehead with his hand and wondered where to go for help. It was then he saw Lawrence picking and sliding his way drunkenly down the bank towards him.
“Is she all right, Luke?”
Shrugging and smelling the alcohol on her breath, Luke found that a flustered Policeman, swinging a flickering lamp, had arrived on the scene.
“I’ll take it from here, sonny,” ordered the officious Policeman as the young woman’s eyelids flickered open.
“There isn’t a body to bring home. Not even a body. Not even a body.”
<><><>
Two days after the coincidence at the bridge Luke was back sitting at his desk trying to edit the selection of new poems he had considered offering to the Achillean. The critical success of his first published verses in the highly respected Bloomsbury journal had meant a pressing demand for more from the editor. Now though, after everything that had taken place, they felt lacking somehow. When Luke had written them at the beginning of term, and put them away in a drawer for later consideration, they had appeared rather clever and witty. Everyone he’d let read them, by way of a preview, had assured him of certain success. Sadly though, on a second reading they appeared, at best, devoid of tangible emotion and, at worst, totally pointless. Luke was not greatly pleased with his new perspective, particularly as his latest efforts were due at his publisher’s within the week.
“Damn, damn, damn!” he shouted as he flung a particularly irritating stanza into the fire-red coal bucket. Lawrence, who had been amusedly noting his friend’s growing frustration from the comfort of an armchair and Hall Caine’s biography of Rossetti, was not at all surprised.
“The poet doth struggle so much in vain. Because his couplets all sound the same.”
Furiously, Luke tore up all of the poems he had once thought so brilliant, and hurled the whole offensive lot into the air like confetti. Wisely Lawrence decided to keep quiet and simply sat there smirking, rather irritatingly, in an infuriating ‘I told you so’ kind of a way. This lack of sympathy from the Scot was typical where Luke’s poetry was concerned. He was the only person in Luke’s acquaintance who refused to lavish praise upon the son of Darius Gard’s pen.
Ignoring this jibe Luke decided that the only course of action was to ignore Lawrence completely and make a great point of starting again from scratch; but a problem struck almost as soon as he had begun. With a look of consternation on his face, Luke paused and examined his fountain pen closely. It wasn’t working. Wondering whether there was something jammed in the nib, he unscrewed its casing, peered at it, and then, perplexed, got up and took it over to Lawrence for a second opinion.
“Funny, can you see a blockage, Lawrence? Damned thing won’t work”
Squinting Lawrence stared at the nib from a distance of only three inches. If he hadn’t been peering so closely he might have spotted Luke’s fingers squeezing down, sudden and hard, on the ink cartridge. Almost instantly a small, well aimed geyser of jet black ink shot out of the fountain pen and connected with an intimate, splattering effect on Lawrence’s nose and forehead.
“You complete bastard, Luke!”
“No, it seems to be working just fine now. Must be out of ink. That’s all. Thank you for your assistance, Lawrence.”
Lawrence’s attack caught Luke off guard. Leaping at his friend, the infuriated Scotsman knocked Luke from his desk chair and pinned him to the carpet - where he planned to exact a terrible revenge with the entire contents of the ink pot. Soon they were both wrestling on the floor yelling and laughing at the top of their lungs.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important, gentlemen?”
Awkwardly, as Luke glanced up from under Lawrence’s armpit, he found himself face to face with the imperious Dr Cholmondley glowering in the doorway, with his hands behind his back, his neck and head craned down like a vulture fixing them with a disapproving stare.
“Dr Cholmondley? What can I...” spluttered Luke as both he and Lawrence leapt to their feet.
“Spare the formalities, Mr Gard. Ah, I see Mr Grant. If that is Mr Grant?”
“Yes, Sir. Had a wee accident with an ink pen.”
“How unfortunate for you, Mr Grant. Fortuitously as you’re both here - that will save me some trouble. The Master has asked for you both to appear at his study at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning, precisely. And, I warn you now, it is in relation to a matter of utmost gravity. Good day to you both, gentlemen.”
Without waiting for a reply Dr Cholmondley cast a final withering glance at Lawrence’s ink stained visage and exited the study. After he had gone Luke found himself staring, confused, at the firmly closed door.
“What the hell was that all about?” he asked.
<><><>
The next morning as Luke and Lawrence made their heavy stepped way around the medieval quadrangle, wearing full academic dress, Luke’s mood was sombre. Beneath their footfall last night’s rain had rendered college’s grey stone granite paving slabs black and the moss that made its home in the cracks slippy. Around them each storm touched wall, exposed column and ornate stone decoration was cloaked in a grey membrane sheen of English weather. The college was constructed from an ancient, unyielding stone, cold to touch yet potent with tradition and expectation.
“Don’t worry. Whatever it is we’ll sort it out. Somehow. This is supposed to be a democratic country after all. People are supposed to be able to express their views freely.”
“Ach Luke, tell that to Hawtrey. He still thinks they behead people on Tower Hill.”
<><><>
When the command came for them to enter the master’s study, Luke and Lawrence were as prepared as they could ever be, both ready to hear the worst: but on entering, they found, much to their surprise, no immediate histrionics from Dr Hawtrey. On the contrary he appeared very much relaxed, almost casual, lounging behind his scuffed, leather inlaid desk examining a letter. The only indication that something might be wrong was that he didn’t immediately look up when the two undergraduates came through the door.
Acknowledging Luke and Lawrence’s presence was an honour left to Dr Cholmondley leaning against the black lacquered panelling that lined the study walls and looking all too much like a carrion crow spying out for infirm lambs. Left to their own devices and not quite sure what to do next, the two young men nervously took the seats that they assumed had been arranged for them in front of Hawtrey’s desk.
Without glancing up from his letter the master provided an sharp rebuke.
“No one invited you gentlemen to sit.”
Their reaction was instantaneous. Molten lead could have been poured on the seats of their two chairs. Satisfied with their reaction, Hawtrey then smoothed the creases from the letter he had been considering with the palms of his hands. Under the pressure of Hawtrey’s impenetrable gaze, shifting constantly back and forth between them, Luke, uncomfortably, began to feel as though they were a couple of biology lab specimens, wriggling hopelessly around in a glass tank, waiting to discover who was about to be chosen for dissection that day.
After a considerable pause, Hawtrey sat slowly forward on his chair and clasped his hands tightly together, mimicking a form of prayer. His voice one of gentle admonishment. His face sublime and patient.
“Gard, Grant. Thank you for coming. I have a question for you both. Could either of you tell me the meaning of the word ‘duty’?”
Luke and Lawrence glanced at each other.
“Well. I’m waiting,” snapped Hawtrey, suddenly impatient.
“Sir?” asked Luke pretending not to comprehend what was required of them.
This stand-off caused the raven like Cholmondley to snap out a short rebuke.
“If the Master of this college asks you a direct question, Gard! Please have the courtesy to answer it promptly!”
“Duty, Sir?” Lawrence asked nervously.
“An honourable obligation, Sir,” Luke cut in, steering the master’s attention in his direction.
Hawtrey smiled sanguinely. Relieved that the narrative he’d constructed for this meeting could thankfully move on.