The Angel Of Mons - Chapter forteen

Fourteen

The clouds were high and thin and the air was clear and clean as George led Joseph by the hand down the road and onto Greenway toward the school. Normally George would struggle to keep up with the child, but on school mornings he could always feel reluctance pulling on his hand.
George didn’t know what was happening with his neighbours, but he was non-the less concerned. He had begun taking Joseph to school in late September, ever since Terri started working in the evenings in a local pub. She had said she had wanted to work for some time and insisted it had nothing to do with the money, she just wanted to work, to meet people, “not to vegetate at home.” But it had left her tired. He had not seen Jerry for some time and the last time he had seen him, he too looked tired, his eyes were puffy and watery, his face set and distant.
One evening George had asked Graham if he had noticed anything out of the ordinary, “no,” he had replied without looking from his newspaper, “and even if I had I would say it was non of our business.”
When they arrived at the school gate, George released the tiny hand of his charge and ruffled the child’s hair. Joseph looked up at him, and the dimple on his chin began to tremble slightly. George wanted to rap him up and hold him tight forever. Instead, he smiled and winked and nodded his head toward the gate. “Your mother will pick you up, now off you go.” Joseph sniffed put his head down and ran through the gate, quickly blending into the unformed mass that ran and skipped, jumped and fell on the black tarmac playground.
George watched for a moment and then happy that Joseph was settled, he left. It was only on the journey home that George could really feel his damaged foot. It throbbed and stiffened and with every step it became more uncomfortable. He stopped twice and rested, once on a bench near the school and the second time on a low wall near the top of Christchurch hill.
He wished he could stand and run, and for a moment he thought about trying to. He thought about trying to forget the pain, about putting his head forward and running into the cold air. But he knew he would only ever do that again in his dreams.
George was distracted by the sight of a tall thin figure in a long grey suit, no tie or collar heading toward him. The man was on crutches and he swung his one remaining leg with confidence ahead of himself as he moved forward quickly. He was wearing a grey flat cap and a broad grin. George had seen him before around the market and making his way down the high street. He seemed to know everyone, and they knew him, “Morning Sammy,” they would call as he passed. He would never reply, just nod, wink or grin at them and go on his way.
And so George was particularly surprised when Sammy stopped and lowered himself onto the wall next to him.
George had never noticed how badly damaged Sammy’s face was. He had always looked away before. There was no right eye, just a gnarled socket and the cheekbone below was smashed, giving the effect of flattening his face and releasing it of all expression. His mouth hung open. Saliva ran white and foaming down the side of his face, down his neck and onto his shirt. But the left side was untouched, as nature had intended it to be. His eye shone bright blue and his mouth turned up to a huge gormless grin. He looked around George’s face and slowly nodded.
George frowned at him, he had never heard Sammy speak and had assumed he was unable. “My name is George,” he said slowly, and loudly, as if anxious to ensure he was understood.
Sammy smiled even more and rolled his eye skyward before replying. “Samuel Lister, how do you do?” George’s eyes opened wide, his reaction doing nothing to disguise his surprise at the clear, deep, crisp shires English accent with which Sammy spoke. “Do you see them too?” He continued. George closed one eye and looked at his companion. He shook his head slowly as if to say ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ “Thought so,” chuckled Sammy, “I seem to see them more and more.” He paused for a moment and looked out across the road and then into the cold blue sky. “Your leg, it was the war?”
George looked up at him nodded and shrugged his shoulders. He thought, it could have been worse, he could have ended up looking like Sammy.
“Tell you what, at this time of day I like to make my way down to the market, sit for a while watch the world go by. What do you say?”
“My brother will be expecting me, and I have to let the dog out,” said George knowing that Graham wouldn’t notice him missing until he was hungry and that Bully would be quite happy to stay warm next to the boiler.
Sammy smiled and looked at George.
George thought about the walk and was concerned that his foot had been troubling him. He stretched out his leg and snapped his ankle which caused Sammy to jump up contort his face as if he were sucking of a particularly acidic lemon.
George smiled. “Alright, an hour can’t do any harm.” Sammy stood to attention for a moment and then reached down and took George by the hand and with a firm grip he lifted him to his feet.
They made a strange sight. One long and tall his face smashed and a leg missing, swinging with the ease of a chimp through trees on his fully extended crutches, the other small and thin, his body almost complete, but limping and stumbling slightly with every step. Who would have thought that once they were able to run and dance, jump and march for mile after mile, on roads through woods and rain and snow, through mud and over deep blood filled trenches. Difficult to imagine for a moment what these part men were capable of, what they had done. Things that in any other age would have branded them as monsters. This unlikely pair.
Although it was early, the market was busy. The grocers and ironmongers were calling their offers and winking at the young mothers pushing infants in prams. Small groups gathered round on the edges of the market and chatted, nodding, laughing and whispering their news.
The scene was full of the colour of the produce, the yellow bananas the crimson fabric, the rich green of the plastic grass used to decorate the stalls, which was picked at by tiny hands.
“Morning Sammy,” the traders called, “brought a little friend along today I see.” Sammy simply smiled, dribbled and continued on his way.
Sammy’s bench was in the middle of the market next to the memorial near the entrance to the churchyard.
“Funny you know,” said Sammy leaning over to whisper into George’s ear, “they all know me, they all call to me, but I bet you most of them think I can’t speak. You know they think I’m an idiot because of the way I look.”
“You have created that though, you never speak to them.”
“And what did you think?” Sammy grinned and dug George with his elbow teasingly, George looked to the ground.
“I was in university, training to be a doctor before this happened,” announced Sammy.
George looked at the throng in the market and his head turned as he followed small groups that interested him, until they disappeared into the crowd. “My father was doctor,” said George who looked briefly to the heavens. “I was going to go to Oxford, but I joined up instead. Went to France.”
“Then we would have met. I was at Oxford until the middle of 1915. I thought it might end so I signed on the dotted line, thought I could finish my training after. I was lucky, my training saved my life.” He paused and George turned to him frowning. “This lot was my second time. The first time was on July the first 1916.”
“I was on the first day too,” said George, solemnly.
“Got it in the belly, bad hit. They tried to lift me but I was having non-of it. I knew that if I moved I would bleed to death. So I lay still for two days, until I could be sure the wound had begun to heal and then walked back to a dressing station.” He laughed and some passers by looked at him. Sammy nodded and let out an inane grunt.
George looked at Sammy and shook his head almost in disbelief. “You know I got my first lot on the very same day.”
“So did a lot of people George, so did a lot of people,” he whispered sadly.
“What have you done since then? Since it all ended I mean?” Asked George.
Sammy was distracted for a minute as Faulks the grocer climbed into his green van and slowly headed into the crowd eventually being engulfed, on his way to making his deliveries. George was about to repeat his question but was interrupted by Sammy’s reply.
“I really am not sure if I know,” he said pausing to take a long deep breath. “I think I’ve spent my life wondering.” Sammy looked down at the end of his crutches as if examining them prior to making a repair, or like a glassmaker would look at the molten material before beginning to blow. “I have never understood why I was spared, and like this.” He lifted his hand to head and touched the pallid lifeless side of his face before continuing. “I never had to worry about money.” George looked at him and smiled. “So I never really worked. I had a job for a while, in a shop near Oxford. I hung around with some people. They became quite well known. Poets, artists that kind of thing. But since then, these last forty years. Nothing, just wonder, wonder around, wonder how I came through but feel more like the forgotten than those ‘who with the setting of the sun,’ etceteras.”
George noticed no bitterness in his voice or in his manner, just an acceptance. A resignation to the fact that that was how it was to be.
A large grey cloud moved across the weak autumn sun and changed the scene. The temperature dropped and George pulled his coat around his body tight and reached into his pocket for his tweed cap. Sammy seemed unaffected, he sat with his shirt open and his jacket loose, the two sides of his old face set in their familiar pose.
George noticed that with the changing of the weather the people around them were less inclined to stand and chat. They greeted one another with hasty politeness, muttered about the possible on set of rain and hurried about their business, dragging or pushing their young offspring along.
It was cold and George felt his body beginning to tremble. He turned to Sammy, “I think its time I headed for home.”
Sammy turned and smiled, his eye piercing in its stare.
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you at last George,” he said warmly, holding out his hand.
“I’ll see you again?” Asked George
Sammy smiled and looked back at the market and watched as an old woman shuffled passed overburdened with groceries. “Hope so George,” replied Sammy, grinning. “If I don’t get ‘called up the line’ in the meantime,” he raised his head and nodded at the memorial.
George put his hand on his comrade’s shoulder smiled at him and nodded. He raised himself and limped painfully in to the throng of the market. When he turned, Sammy was gone.
Graham made no comment on George’s return. He simply peered around his newspaper and looked at his brother, who stood by the kitchen door shivering, rain dripping from his cap.
Three weeks later, George was well enough to get out of bed. He had had a fever for four days during which time he had been taken on a helter-skelter ride of soft easy dreams which turned savage and dangerous so much so that even in his sleep he felt his heart pounding and thought it could burst at any moment. He relived the nightmares of the past, the hanging onto a thin rope which grew in his hand until he could hold it no longer leaving him to fall through the darkness in fear of an impact which never occurred.
Eventually his weak body fought back and thanks to the loving care of his brother and a seemingly endless supply of hot tomato soup, George began to sleep soundly and wake refreshed, the sickness only taking over at the end of each day.
Joseph visited him on occasions and when he did, George made the effort to drag himself out of bed and sit in front of the fire watching Bully snore contentedly as the warming flames licked the side of the blackened chimney. Joseph brought George paintings which were thick with bold colour and a simple happy view of life. Every house was a square and a triangle, and every face was rosy and smiling. Each garden was full of bright large headed flowers and the sun shone round and yellow at the top of every page.
George would sit transfixed; his eyes rarely leaving the child’s face as he described the content of every brush stroke, as he talked about every character, what they were doing and why they were there. “That’s Graham,” he announced and George smiled when he noticed a pronounced lack of hair, “and that is you me mummy and Bully.” His tiny grubby finger pointed to a collection of undersized bodies and long legs, “look, one of your legs is smaller than the other. We are walking together, coming back from church.”
“And where is your father Joseph?” George enquired.
“Working,” he replied quietly.
George was so happy to be able to get out into the fresh air again, although he felt the cold. Graham drove up to Ashridge and they sat in the car next to the tall monument and drank tea from a flask.
George had noticed change in his brother. He seemed somehow more gentle. More forgiving. George liked the change. There were times when he had found his brother chatting to Joseph, once he was showing him the engine of the car, and was holding the child gently above the open bonnet to help him get a good view of the immaculately presented components. Graham had even given George an occasional reassuring touch on his arm or his shoulder when he had stumbled and limped.
They even visited the site of their old home the Gables together and although George hated what they had done, and the house which they had built in its place, he made his peace with Graham by saying that he was happy that they no longer lived there. And to an extent it was true. Of course he wished he could still live there and know Joseph, but he knew had it not been for the move, they would have never met.
Before long Joseph was bringing home examples of his writing, crude lines at first barely recognisable but in no time, the words began to form and Joseph started to express himself through simple verse and messages of affection.
The winter dragged and George never felt as though he had completely shaken off the cold he had caught when he was sitting talking to Sammy. He always looked out for him. Whenever they drover down to the market, he would look at the bench where they had sat and talked, but Sammy was never there. And before long George felt inside that he was gone.
Graham seemed happy to take on more and more responsibility. He helped with the washing and tidied the dishes, took the dog for a walk from time to time and on some occasions he even volunteered to fry the lamb chops or help to peel the potatoes. His taste in music seemed to mellow and George was happy with the distinct reduction in the number of times his afternoon nap was broken by the sound of brass and percussion pounding.
Graham still enjoyed a drink. He still liked to draw the cork of at least two bottles of red between them when he could. Although George noticed that the gin was lasting longer.
In the evening, as spring arrived, Graham seemed anxious to get out and about and on fine evenings suggested they took a drive into the surrounding countryside. He began to plan expeditions and they would set off on a Saturday morning, picnics packed and drive to areas new to the pair of them. Windsor Castle one week, Warwick the next, the Cotswolds and Stratford on Avon.
George felt that Graham was upto something. He noticed when he entered the study on a couple of occasions that his brother would quickly hide away a piece of paper or a magazine and then always seem to be rather vague when George asked him what it was he was working on.
Early in June, Graham tidied away the dinner plates and sat his brother down by the wireless. He was holding a bundle of papers. He smiled at George and began to talk slowly, he seemed uncharacteristically nervous.
“George, I read an article in the newspapers recently about a number of men,” he paused and stretched a smile and then looked over George’s shoulder before taking a long deep breath. “Men who have wanted to go back to France.” George looked at his brother and nodded as if to say, ‘carry on I’m listening.’ “They wanted to pay their respects to their old comrades, visit the memorials that sort of thing.” He was encouraged by George’s bright expression. “I’ve booked us some tickets, across the channel and worked out an itinerary.” He paused and handed over a neatly written sheet of times dates and places. George noticed his brother’s hand was shaking.
George looked down the list and smiled. He noticed they were due to sail on the following Saturday. They were scheduled to visit, Rouen, Theipval, Ypres, Chemin de Dames, and Mons. George smiled and looked into his brothers questioning eyes and quietly said “Thank you Graham, thank you.”

The white wake caught the thin morning sun and in the distance the cliffs of Dover slipped away. George sat on a large grey lifeboat box and looked out across the stern, his mind full of a distant Christmas Eve when he and his friends left on an adventure. He wondered perhaps if he were now as close to the end of his life as they were to theirs.
The cars clattered and banged as they disembarked at Calais. Graham had already taken the roof down and George could feel the sun on his face as they emerged from the belly of the ship.
He had forgotten how different everything was. Separated by a tiny stretch of calm sea, two cultures oceans apart. The buildings with there shabby half open shutters. The smell of spicy tobacco, even the way the people walked and the way that they dressed was different.
Within a few minutes they were winding their way through sun drenched lanes. George could see the sea to his right and as they climbed high above the waves he was able to look across and see shimmering in the distance the English coast as it stood like a defiant white wall, strong and proud.
Graham found a parking place in the centre of Wissan, and suggested they stop for lunch. They walked across the square to a half-timbered hotel where they examined the menu. George suggested something a little less formal and so they made their way across the square once more and into a small bar where they enjoyed a large bowl of Muscles each accompanied by half a bottle of ordinary red wine.
After lunch Graham drove down to the beach where they sat happily for an hour, enjoying the sunshine and marvelling at the expanse of deserted golden sand.
The heat of the day had passed as they in arrived Rouen. George smiled and reached over to squeeze his brother’s arm as he drove slowly over the river, the large grey Cathedral towering over the scene.
That night they ate at a small table on the pavement in front of the hotel. George enjoyed the different vaguely familiar flavours. They drank a bottle of red wine and Graham mumbled quietly to himself about the thinness of the beer, but he mellowed as its deceptive strength worked its way into his system.
It was nearly dark by the time they finished their strong coffee and brandy. They decided it would be a good idea to enjoy a short walk before retiring for the night.
The streets were busy with young couples strolling arm in arm, the deep voices echoing among the tall buildings, the language flowing like music. High pitched pedellows zipped at unlikely speeds around the streets and squares peeling off the road unpredictably as they spotted a friend, an acquaintance, or a lover sitting at a table outside one of the many bars and restaurants.
George noticed that everywhere there seemed to be the sound of talking, laughter and debate.
He tried to remember where the house was in which he had recovered and kept pushing on around the next corner in the expectation that the square would open up in front of him and he would recognise something, a tree, a bench, a turn in the road. Graham protested at the haste with which George was progressing and having tried several different directions, George eventually gave up on the understanding that they would find the place on the following day.

The smell of cigarette smoke and coffee filled George’s senses as he woke. The sun shone low from a cloudless sky through a net curtain, which drifted in the breeze across the large open window. And as the curtain lifted, George saw again the familiar sight of the Cathedral, standing magnificent in a perfect blue backdrop.
It was little wonder that George had been unable to find the old place in the dark. He barley recognised it in the daylight. The hedge in front of the building was overgrown and ragged. The paint was peeling and he could see a large whole in the roof where birds flew in and out unhindered. It was obvious it had been empty for years.
He remembered more when he turned and looked across the small square with its railings and garden in the centre. An enormous willow filled the area its old twisted and snapped branches lying randomly on the long weed choked grass. George was sure he had sat under the old tree in his youth, in its youth, under its comforting shade in the heat of the day, his wound stabbing and itching as he struggled to take even the tiniest breath. He smiled at Graham and nodded.
An hour later the town disappeared behind them and they headed into the countryside. For a while the road ran straight alongside a railway line and George wondered if he had ever travelled along it.
They stopped briefly for lunch under the shade of a long line of poplar trees, which ran perfectly along both sides of the road. They ate bread and cheese and drank a little local wine, which mellowed after the second or third mouthful.
Roof down and the road unfolding ahead, George wondered if he had slept for a while as he became aware of the sound of gravel under the car.
“We’re here old man,” said Graham who reached over and squeezed his knee.
The sun had moved across the blue sky and George noticed the silence. They had stopped in a car park, but there were no other cars.
George bit his lip and, looked at Graham and nodded slowly. He reached up and placing his right hand on the top of the windscreen he pulled himself forwards and stepped out of the car.
“You go ahead old man,” said Graham in a load whisper, “I’ll pull the roof up and lock the car.”
George looked at the sky, turned and smiled at his brother and then began to walk toward a small gap in a low hedge directly in front of the car. Beyond the gap was an expanse of perfectly cut and rolled lawn which stretched to the right and disappeared among rows of silent dark trees. George shuddered a little as walked through the gap, and then thirty yards on, when he could see it, he stopped, lifted his hand to his face rubbed his brow and slowly removed his cap.
He looked back toward the car and noticed Graham was standing watching him. Graham smiled, “Go on, I’ll catch you up,” he called again in a loud whisper, the sort of voice used in the hush of a Cathedral.
The perfectly kept lawns stretched a hundred yards in front of him up a small incline to a giant red brick archway over one hundred feet tall, ugly and uncompromising it upstaged the beauty of the serenely silent countryside in which it stood.
George shuddered, and as he inhaled, the air seemed to stick in his throat. He stepped forward his shoulders held up, his back as straight as he could make it his gait as close to a march as he was able to muster. He didn’t even notice that the pain in his leg, which for once seemed to have abated allowing him at least a little dignity as he approached the marble steps which led up to the centre of the arch.
Around the bottom one third he saw the names tens of thousands, each one of them perfect in there carving. They had come from all over Britain name after name after name. He searched for a while to see if he could recognise any of them, but stopped, as he thought, he had known them all. He saw a small bench to his left and sat silently with his thoughts.
Minutes later he noticed four people making their way up the lawn. They were walking slowly their heads held high looking at the huge flags which gracefully flew on top of the memorial and which hung on the gentle breeze. He noticed a man walking in the centre holding the hand of a young boy, perhaps eight or nine and with his other hand over the shoulder of an older boy, perhaps in his early teens. They were dressed casually, a family on their holiday perhaps. The man wore sunglasses. Walking alongside was a woman who George assumed to be the wife and mother. When they arrived at the monument they stood in silence and looked around the huge walls studying the names for a while.
They walked through the monument and out to the back where lines of perfectly kept grave stones stood.
The man pointed to one of the stones, “what does it mean?” He asked his wife.
George noticed her shoulders tremble as she turned to him her hands held to her face. “The unknown,” she whispered - and she began to sob. The husband held her and the children gathered round. They seemed strangely tribal, close, protecting and comforting one another.
George looked to the heavens and for first time in years he thanked God and thought perhaps ‘They’ would never be forgotten.
When the family had left, George stood and made his way back through the giant brick archway. He raised his shoulders and rubbed his hands together as if a cold blast of air had blown across his path as if someone had walked across his grave.
“Didn’t you want to see it?” said George as he approached Graham who was sitting in the car closely examining an unfolded map of the region.
Graham ignored his brothers question, looked up smiling and said, “I thought we could find a quiet spot and have a picnic. While you were away I popped back to the village and bought a roasted chicken some bread, and a bottle of wine, what do you say?”
George smiled as he slowly lowered himself into the car; he turned to his brother, put his hand on Graham’s shoulder for a moment and nodded.
Graham left the car park, drove a few hundred yards and turned off the main road down a narrow track in search of some shade. George could see across the flat productive fertile farmland. He could see a broad swathe where there were no trees; just huge worked fields of wheat and corn. The flat area cut through the landscape like a river, into the distance and over the horizon.
They stopped on the top of a small hill, which gave them a view across the farmland over to a village about a mile away. George felt he knew this place. And then it came back to him. He had stood on this very spot on a distant Christmas Eve and watched the cold sun flash and glint on distant bayonets. He had watched as lazy shells whistled across the sky to thump and burst into the soil. In his minds eye he could see the supply trench, where they waited for the Worcestershire’s to appear white and exhausted, before making their way up the line. George squinted and moved his head slowly as he searched, the landscape for any sign, and indentation, anything. But he knew it had all been ploughed away many years before.
“I’ve been here before,” said George as he exhaled from the very depths of his sole.
Graham paused from his preparation of the picnic. They had parked near a hedge, which was casting a shadow across the car, and beyond. He had set out the picnic on the back seat of the car and had tipped the two front seats forward to make space for them both to sit comfortably. He stepped over and stood close behind his brother.
“I know that George,” he said a slight chuckle in his voice, “that’s why we are here.”
“No,” said George, his voice trembling slightly his eyes fixed across the sun soaked fields, “I mean here, this very spot, I have stood here before.” Graham frowned and placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. George shrugged and stepped forward. “Come with me,” he said without looking round.
“But George, the food is ready.” George made no reply; he made his way down the slight incline. Graham threw the travel rug over the food and followed, quickly catching up with George who was heading threw wheat, to God knows where.
As George advanced he could hear his heart beating in his ears. He could feel the sun on his back. His eyes darted from side to side and he strained to hear beyond the sound of the silence. The ripe crop pulled at his old body, and the uneven ground caused him to trip and stumble but most of all, as his feet caught in the roots, the feeling of being trapped dragged George back. It reminded him of the wire. He remembered the panic that would overwhelm him when he was caught, the sheer vulnerability. He began to feel breathless and felt streams of sweat running from under his hat and down his back.
At last he was clear, out of the clinging crop and into an area of land which was covered in thin grass, the white soil showing through the green. George stopped and smiled; he bent down, placing his hands on his knee’s gasping for breath. Graham stumbled out of the wheat and stood stone still like a statue, his eyes wide open, his jaw dropped.
The land directly in front of George slipped away into a cutting, around five feet deep, its walls sloping and forming a large V shape. The cutting of around thirty feet continued until it met another at right a right angle. The second cutting was deeper, eight to ten feet in places and at the top, on the east side George and Graham could see metal rods pointing like rusted fingers toward the heavens, some with reddened twisted wire still wrapped around them. George had found the front line.
As soon as he had recovered his breath George limped off down the support trench and into the deeper construction. To his left twisted brambles grew, to his right a small oak tree had taken root at an angle. He scraped the surface with his fingers and uncovered wood and sandbags which had supported the structure so well for so long. George sat in a small hollow in the shade of the tree and smiled. He lay back and closed his eyes his fingers feeling the grass covered surface, stroking the warm land.
Graham said nothing, turned and headed back toward the car. He was a little breathless when he returned, hamper in hand, his ankles covered in clinging wheat and grass.
Together they sat under the oak. They ate bread and chicken, drank bottled water and wine and George talked for the first time ever to his brother about the men and boys he had known and how despite everything, he still looked back on the memories and wished he could be with them there and then all over again.
The sun was setting behind them by the time they tidied away the carcass and drank the remnants of the water.
“We are way behind schedule,” said Graham quietly, smiling and looking toward the heavens. George smiled back closed his eyes and breathed in the rich damp early evening air.
Graham lifted the hamper in one hand and reached down to his brother with the other. George paused at the top of the trench and his body shuddered as he looked out across fields, which burnt red in the light of the close of the day. “With the setting of the sun,” he whispered. He looked back at the point where they had been sitting, the long grass was flattened, and at the bottom of the cutting, in the dry mud, George had left his footprint. He looked at the oak and thought that it had probably begun to grow the moment they had left, and he envied it for the life that lay ahead, and wished it a long and peaceful existence.
By the time they arrived at their hotel in the main square in the centre of Chamin, George and Graham were exhausted. They had kept the roof down all the way mostly to make sure Graham stayed awake. The small hotel restaurant had finished serving food, so after a very quick drink at the bar, they retired for the night.
George’s head lay down and he slept a deep happy dreamless sleep.

George and Graham spent a further seven days touring France. They visited museums and memorials, the graves of some of the men he had known. He looked down at the cold earth where Peter laid and wiped a tear from his eye, for Peter and for himself.
They stood at the Menim gate and listened to the ‘Last Post,’ being played as it had been every night since the end of the war. But more important than that, George and Graham grew close. Closer than they had ever been. They were sharing an adventure. George was sharing his memories and Graham was learning to listen. He would look at his elder brother and smile, his eyes unblinking as they drank Cognac after dinner. He listened to his tales of the war and the piece that followed. To his stories of his own growing up, and the day of his birth. He listened to stories of his father and mother, now seemingly so long gone. He listened to George’s dreams, his hopes and expectations and he learnt of his sadness and disappointment in not having made more of his time. In accepting that sheer survival was enough, and realising too late that there could have been more.
The weather held until the final day. When they woke it was raining and the crossing was a grey dull affair. The cliffs of Dover appeared out of a mist and as they drove through the hop fields of Kent, George felt an overwhelming emotion. A desperate finality. He began to feel that he was now beginning to do things for the very last time. He felt he might never know what it is like to return to his country again. He felt he would never smell and feel the warmth of a foreign land. He felt he may never drive through the Garden of England and may never see the many places he always assumed there would be time to see. The Pyramids, Venice, the United States. He knew in his aching heart he would never see them.
The house felt cold when they walked in and smelt musty. Graham carried the bags while George made tea and opened the post. There was a note from next door telling him that they had gone away to Spain and would not be back for another two weeks. George’s heart sank. Seeing Joseph again was the only thing that had made his return home bearable and now, he would have to wait even for that.
After tea, the rain stopped and after they had collected Bully from the kennels the three of them walked around the garden, and Graham commented on how quickly it had begun to grow wild. The grass was long and covered in seed, small thistles had burst through. The roses wilted and heaved with an infestation of green fly and many of the flowers had simply died away.
“We’ll soon lick it back into shape,” said Graham. “Starting tomorrow.”