Homecoming

Jeff drank in his surroundings as the bus made its way through leafy winding lanes dappled with golden sunshine speckles shifting in the breeze. He glimpsed the small, ploughed, sandy fields through gaps in the high granite-walled banks and scrambling brambles and half listened with a contented smile to the old men at the front discuss the weather in the local patois. He was home. Tall, slim, in an almost gangly way, with dark curly hair and green eyes, he looked far too young to have such a weary expression on his face. However, through the tiredness shone an unmistakable happiness that not even the dusty tattered uniform could hide. The war was over and he was still alive. More importantly, Emma, he hoped, was still waiting for him after four years apart.

The old green bus rattled to a halt outside the Parish Hall at St Ouens. Jeff grabbed hold of his rucksack and moved to the front of the bus, lost in daydreams. He wondered if she would still look the same, if she would really still love him. At the sound of a polite cough, the hunched old woman in front of Jeff realised that she had not yet let go of the handrail of the bus, and pulled her hand away embarrassed before setting off at a slow hobble down the road towards Greve. Jeff stepped down to the pavement, the doors closed and the bus rattled off slowly, coughing a plume of black smoke. From what he had heard about the island during the occupation, having a bus service at all was a luxury to be enjoyed - almost all the petrol had been confiscated by the Germans.

He ran his hand through his hair as the smoke cleared and looked around him at the small parish centre. The place seemed empty. The Parish Hall was the same squat, square granite building it always had been and there was even a new grocers store with blanked out windows, but the windows of the bakers and the newsagent were almost bare and Jeff wondered again what hardship his family had endured while he was away. At the time he had felt guilty about leaving his ageing and infirm father to run the farm alone while he went off to fight in what had seemed an exciting adventure, but he had been young and determined to make his own mark on life. His family had been unimpressed with his career choice and he and his parents had parted on angry terms, something Jeff had regretted for the last few years. Emma had not been too enthused either, fearing, in the way all women left behind do, that he would never return. If only he had known then what he knew now.

The thought of going home to whatever remained of the farm, his father's weary disapproval, and his mother's fussing, suddenly seemed too much to face just yet. He needed to see Emma, the girl who sent those letters throughout the war, his shelter from the storm. He needed her soft voice, her arms around his shoulders, soothing the fears and doubts now beginning to swirl within him, welcoming him home. Jeff set off down the road past the bakers, past the green-painted house with its privet hedge still sculpted into large, indefinable but unmistakable birds, and turned to crunch down the curved gravel drive to the left. At the end of the drive was a small south facing granite cottage, cream coloured roses growing up against the orange-pink stone wall, and a milk churn planted with flaming orange marigolds sitting on the doorstep. This was where Emma lived with her parents.

As Jeff approached the door to the cottage, a herring gull perched on the chimney raised its head, spread its wings in a languid flap, and uttered the mournful, compelling cry of its kind. Jeff was transported back in time, to the moment when he was leaning on the railings at the rear of the Weymouth ferry one cold winters morning, watching the island growing smaller as the seagulls swooped and glided over the ferry's wake. It had all seemed so full of promise then. The war was an opportunity to leave the small island where he had spent all his life, to cross that oh-so-wide ocean, see new places, meet new people. He had sat for hours watching the ocean passing swiftly beneath the hull of the ferry, hurrying him on to pastures new. He shivered as he remembered the noisy, smelly, painful, bloody reality of war, and of what so called civilised human beings were still capable of doing to others.

Dragging his attention back to the present, he advanced once more towards the door of the cottage. Before he quite reached it, the door opened, and standing on the top step with her hands on her more than ample hips, and a hostile expression on her face, was Emma’s mother, heavier than he remembered her being, but not looking any more friendly than usual. Jeff's heart sank.

‘What do you want?’ the woman asked, eying the dishevelled Jeff with distaste. Jeff bit his lip, smoothed down his tattered tunic and refrained from uttering any of the numerous caustic replies which had popped into his head.

'Is Emma in?' was all that eventually passed his lips.

'Who? No she isn't!’ With that the woman slammed the door in Jeff’s face, leaving him standing on the step, alone, confused and angry. While Emma’s mother and Jeff had never liked each other, he had not expected quite that reaction.

Jeff was now in even less of a mood to face his family, and decided to visit his friend Robert at the farm next door to his father’s. Robert was a couple of years older than Jeff, and had always been a source of common sense and calm in addition to being a drinking partner. He set off down the marsh, also known as hydrangea avenue, the lush shrubs lining either side of the road smothered in the large blue blooms, huge elms arching over the whole so that he felt, as always, like he was moving down the aisle of some huge airy cathedral. The effect was only slightly lessened by the need to avoid the occasional chickens wandering around his feet pecking at the sparse grass verge, yellowed by the lack of any recent rain.

On reaching Robert’s farm, Jeff’s long-time friend expressed his pleasure to see him, threatening him with a giant bear-hug that Jeff fended off with a plea for his still painful ribs, a souvenir from a less than professional parachute jump into France. A half-veiled look of concern flashed across Robert’s face, but he said nothing and invited Jeff inside. Half an hour later, Robert finished his tea of crusty French bread, crisp lettuce fresh from the field, tomatoes from greenhouse and large slabs of cheese, unsuccessful in his attempts to press Jeff to join him. Jeff had protested that he had eaten on the ferry over and was not really hungry yet, but seeing the unease in his friends eyes he did suggest that a beer would go down nicely.

They walked back up to the parish centre and crossed the road to the Farmers Inn, chatting about crops Robert was planting and harvesting, how long since it had last rained (several weeks) and which fields would need irrigating soon. In the way of all good friends, Robert was avoiding mention of more difficult subjects until Jeff was ready to raise them himself.

Their local was still quite empty as it had only just turned six o'clock. Robert bought their beers and the two found a comfortable seat in a corner of the empty lounge. Robert emptied half his pint in several long gulps, and placed the glass down on the table with a satisfied sigh just as a tall, blond, stocky man walked in through the door.

‘Watch out Jeff, ’he said, quietly. Jeff looked at his friend briefly and then back at the newcomer when no further comment was forthcoming.

Then Emma came in through the door after the stranger. She followed him to the bar, and the man put his arm around her waist. It took Jeff a few moments to register what was happening, then he surged to his feet and stalked over to where the couple were standing, leaving Robert sitting with his hand stretched out after him, an anxious expression on his face.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing with my fiancé?’ sputtered Jeff into the face of the blond stranger. ‘And what are you doing letting this…man… put his arm around you?’ he continued, turning to glare at Emma.

The two continued to wait while their drinks were being served.

‘Oi! I’m talking to you!’ blustered Jeff, becoming even more angry at the rude manner in which he was being purposefully ignored. This outburst had as little impact on the young lovers as his first sally, and he looked over at Robert, confused, unsure, his blood alternating between boiling and running cold. Why hadn’t Emma responded?

Robert rose from his seat and beckoned him over to the exit. Jeff glared once more at the blond usurper, pointedly ignored Emma, and followed Robert outside with a stiff back and clenched fists.

When they were outside, Robert said ‘That’s not Emma you know, you’ve no fight with that guy - he’s a good man.’

‘What?’ asked Jeff, confusion doing little to soothe his anger. He couldn’t get over the fact that Emma hadn’t even looked at him.

‘That’s not Emma.’ repeated Robert.

‘Rubbish! You think I can’t recognise my own fiancé? Who is that man? What is she doing with him? And why am I standing out here when I should be knocking his block off?’

Jeff could contain his ire no longer and with this last growled comment he spun on his heels, stalked back into the pub and up to the blond stranger and went to grab the mans shirt front. His hand passed straight through the shirt, straight through his chest. Jeff just stood there, hand stretched out in front of him, staring, a low moan starting somewhere deep inside him, rising, struggling to get out. He clenched his teeth together, swallowed and then walked back outside to where Robert was still standing. Still staring at his hand, he clenched it into a fist, then launched a vicious swing at his friends face. Robert flinched, but stayed still. The fist passed straight through his head.

‘You’ve forgotten you’re dead again haven’t you.’ More a statement than a question.

‘What?’ asked Jeff, thinking he had miss-heard his friend and wondering he was suffering some delayed effect from the bungled parachute drop.

‘You’re dead Jeff.’

‘What? Don’t be stupid - I’m standing here talking to you!’

‘You’re dead. You’ve been dead for forty years, and that girl in there is your granddaughter.’

‘The love of my life is in their getting pawed by another man, and you drag me out here to play silly buggers - I thought you were a friend Robert!’ Jeff swung again at his friends head - Robert didn’t even flinch this time, but the effect was the same. Jeff’s fist cut through his friends chin like it was made of air.

‘I told you Jeff, why is it always the same - you’re dead!’ Roberts voice sounded old, tired, sad. He moved over to one of the picnic benches next to the car park, checking that no-one was around. He sat down, put his elbows on the table, and lowered his head into his hands. Jeff followed him and sat opposite his friend, watching his shoulders shaking slightly and feeling sick.

‘Dead.’ said Jeff stupidly ‘How?’

‘Parachute drop over France. Your chute didn’t open.’ Replied Robert, not raising his head.

They sat like that for a few moments, Jeff’s mind was reeling in doubt and confusion.

‘But you’re not old, you should be old?’ Jeff accused Robert, ‘If I’ve been dead for forty years, why aren’t you old?’

‘I’m sixty, with white hair and wrinkles, you’re just superimposing your memory of me.’ Robert finally raised his head to look at Jeff and smiled at him sadly. ‘I’m sorry Jeff, I really am, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you over the years, but this is hard for me too - it’s always hard. It’s good to see you, but it’s hard. I need another drink.’

He rose from the bench and disappeared inside, leaving Jeff sitting in a fog of confusion and growing misery. Forty years. Dead. Impossible. He felt the warm sunshine on bare arms exposed by the rolled up sleeves of his uniform, the rough wood of the table under his fingertips. Impossible. This is some sort of sick joke. It must be. He stood up and walked over to the pavement, looking up and down the road and the houses and shops - still pretty much the same as when he left, though a few had been painted recently. Just not possible.

Unable to sit still any longer, Jeff decided it was time to go home. Robert and his sick joke and Emma and her new man could wait - he needed some solid truth he could hold onto - the pink granite farm house that had been home since he was born, his parents, the land he now wished he had never left. He set off back down the marsh, first walking, then jogging, then running in his need to dispel the growing fear and despair he felt, the scream threatening to rise in his breast almost choking him as he ran. Down the marsh, up the long gravel drive, past trees that had been saplings when he left, up to the farm house. He stopped.

There was no farm house, only ruins, tumbled granite blocks, overgrown with weeds, a walnut tree growing tall where the kitchen with its welcoming Agar had once been.

‘What the hell?’ he murmured to himself, not believing what he saw. His eye was drawn back to the walnut tree, impossibly fifteen feet high with ivy twining its way up the trunk.

Then he remembered. A long, dark fall into nothingness, wind rushing past his face and ears, cold, fumbling at the cord to open his parachute, pulling, nothing happening, rising panic as he realised he wasn’t going to stop falling, howling wind, howling, falling, nothing but howling.

Jeff slowly realised that the howling wasn’t the wind on that fateful night, it was the scream that had been threatening since his hand had passed through the strangers shirt. He stopped, opened his eyes and uncurled his fingers from where they were gripping the dirt and weeds in what used to be his front yard, stood up and brushed the dust off his tattered uniform. After a brief frown of concentration, his uniform was rendered as smart and well creased as the first day he left the barracks. Then he thought himself back at the pub and sat back down at the bench just as Robert came back out with his second pint.

‘Think I’ll join you actually.’ said Jeff, and a pint of Guinness materialised in front of him. ‘So, what’s been happening since the last time I popped by then?’

Robert, aged sixty three, white haired, blue eyed, skin tanned and wrinkled from working out in the sun, looked over at his dead friend for the fortieth time since his death, and smiled as he took a sip of his beer.

‘Nice to have you back Jeff’.