Concerts and Carnage

Jimmy Drummond stood outside the arc of the lights. Guilt was the determining factor. He was whole, unmarked, free to move under his own volition. Surrounded by crippled, nerve-torn soldiers: he was the spectre at the feast. He watched in sick fascination as a legless Lieutenant of the Welsh Guards, moved to syncopation by the jazz quartet, beat time with his stumps. A benefit concert for the wounded Tommies of Amiens. He needed to hear them howl their protest, but instead they moved to the beat of Gaslight jazz and he squirmed in discomfort.

She moved among the broken warriors, stopping to speak here, comfort there, summon help and encourage. He could see that her behaviour was unaffected, and marvelled at the transformation. She's supposed to be a rich man's plaything, He acknowledged the empiric nature of his thoughts. By birth, by breeding: an embroiderer, a caterer for shooting parties. And yet watching her in the element to which she had adapted, he knew one thing. I don't know her at all. Jimmy sat on a rickety rattan chair. A private, from an undisclosed Ulster regiment, picked at the bandaged stump of his arm. Jimmy passed him cigarettes and fought his own urge to give sympathy.

The medical staff sang a medley of Scottish and Irish airs. Self indulgent verbage, thought Jimmy, as he bent to light another fag for his wounded neighbour. He raised his head at the sudden hush. Marjorie now stood before the audience. High colour in her cheeks and a twitching tremor in one hand. Her vulnerability touched him. It moved him in a way her normal composure never would. He loved her in that moment; the acknowledgement cracking the fine veneer of his public persona.

'When o'er the hill the Eastern Star,

tells baughtin time is near my Jo.'

She sang to the accompaniment of a fiddle. It was Robert Burns' The Lea Rig; old and powerful. The tones of wistful longing stilled the company. She had a clear, sweet voice which sat above the mournful notes of the fiddle.

'I'll meet thee on the lea rig;

My ain kind dearie o'

The Ulsterman stopped picking at his dressing. The silence lay thick upon the gathering; and Jimmy was conscious of holding his breath.

'Jimmy. So nice to see you.' She stooped to look at a bandaged fusilier. 'Please wait for me,' She gazed upward, fixing him with a single look. 'I may be a time, but we might have supper? It's been so long since we last spent time together.' He felt out of place; a warrior amongst broken warriors; and useless to them in their obvious need. He began to push a wounded soldier, slumped limbless in a wheelchair. The man would have none of his help, and the fuss and noise drew the ferocious attentions of the others. 'Why don't you wait for me in the lobby Jimmy?' She touched his upper arm and smiled her sympathy. This is her environment; it's where she makes her life, he mused, his mind a confusion of awe and distaste.

How formidable she seems. Gone, the giddy daughter of a noble house. She used to be a bit of a tomboy, truth be told. Made an ill-fitting debutante too; beautiful sure, but in a challenging, toe-to-toe sort of way. Now she's... she's... He remembered the song. Now that will stay with me, he thought. Lighting his cigarette he crossed to the wide doors and stood to hear the thunder of the guns down on the floor of the Somme.

She ate supper with a hardy need, her conversation swallowed with the same driving appetite. Jimmy picked at the food and ordered champagne.

'Needful employment suits you, old girl.'

'Why, thank you, your Lordship. Though a little more human biology and a lot less pianoforte might have stood me in better stead.' She smiled as she wiped her fingers with the napkin. 'This is an indulgence at such a time,' she said, lifting her glass to the light. 'But, God I had forgotten how wonderful it feels.'

'Once we're married you can bathe in the old juice, my love.' Marjorie swallowed the contents and Jimmy's eyes never left her face as he refilled the glass.

'Please, Jimmy... I don't want to think about life back there. I need to hold a focus on what I'm doing...' She looked at him; an appeal for understanding, unable to put it all into words.

'You won't get by on milk stout and salt herring, old girl.' Jimmy peered into the middle distance as he brought the lighter to a cigarette. 'It's perfectly acceptable to read collier poets. God knows we laud them high enough. But you can't live with them. How would that look?' She rose from her seat, glass untouched.

'He's twice the man you are Jimmy. Twice the man and twice the gentleman.' Jimmy grabbed at her hand.

'I'm sorry Marjorie.' He paused to consider. 'Please. Don't go. Not like this.' At length she sat. She reached for his cigarette case and withdrew a cigarette.

'Would you light it for me?' She smiled; a shyness in the look. 'Yet another habit father wouldn't approve of.' As she leaned to the flame of his lighter, Jimmy saw the same, fragile vulnerability he had noticed earlier. She drew the smoke deep, almost mannish in her actions. She drained the champagne before motioning a silent request for refill; and Drummond knew enough to give her time and space.

'You mustn't make it difficult for him Jimmy. He knows we haven't a future; we both do.' Again, the noisy intake of smoke; the bite of the tobacco showing in her eyes. 'I'm the weak one. I can't let him go. Not yet anyway.'

'Marjory. I...'

'You don't need me Jimmy: She sounded abrupt, and knew it on the instant. Extinguishing the cigarette, she reached for his outstretched hand. ' We are affectionate, yes; but... you can have any high born lady who takes your fancy And I don't think I could ever give you what you're really looking for.' She tightened her grip on his hands. 'Let's stay good friends Jimmy, please.'

After she'd gone Drummond summoned the waiter. Climbing the stairs to his hotel room, Jimmy held a bottle of American Bourbon whisky by the neck. Hours later, the whisky more than half gone, Jimmy laughed in the darkness. A poor excuse for a whisky, drunk by a poor excuse for a man; the whimsical thought that humoured him to sleep.

Marjorie sat at her open window. The laughter she was hearing sounded no less bitter. The laughter of the Gods, she thought. The image of Jimmy Drummond, sitting across the table, came back to haunt her. Not the impeccable, handsome playboy, Lord Elcho. The real man. A very different animal. The real man underneath; I've been given a glimpse of him much too late. She wept then, without knowing for whom.