Выбрать главу

Someone on the other side of the yard tittered. Quigley swivelled on a sixpence, nimble enough to catch a smirk on the face of a tall, thin man.

‘And I’ll teach you not to laugh on parade, Fidget! I don’t want to see a smile on your milk-white mug till kingdom come.’

Stanley felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, and turned. Hamish smiled at him, a warm, tranquil smile, and whispered, ‘The Sergeant-Major’s just a bully, laddie, just a bully.’

Yes, thought Stanley, just a bully. I’ve left home, left one bully only to run into another.

‘Everyone. On all fours. Now, up-down, up-down, up-down . . .’

Stanley’s eyes watered as pain seared his muscles. He must blot out the burning pain in his arms. He closed his eyes, and at once visions of Soldier and of the dark lake flooded his head. A solitary circle rose on the surface of the water that he saw in his mind. It rippled outward, unleashing a tidal wave of anger that surged through Stanley. Charged with raging pain, on he went, up-down, up-down, till he was the last man still going.

Six weeks inched past. Stanley had got used to Quigley’s mockery, got used to the food, to the rules and the regulations of Army life. If he wasn’t hopping up and down, he was being inspected. He was always being inspected. Everything had to be done just so, blankets folded just so, shoes shined just so.

‘Subservience and obedience, laddie,’ Hamish had said to him as they’d folded their blankets. ‘They want them to run in your blood.’ Hamish was right, in the Army you must never think for yourself and you must always obey, however pointless the exercise. You must always have shiny boots or be punished with three days on water and biscuits if they told you to. Stanley would keep on doing everything just so, keep his head low, his boots clean, his blankets folded and he’d eventually be sent to France, where Tom was – and Quigley wasn’t.

Hamish and his brother James were both in Stanley’s unit. They were both clear-browed, large men, born to big hills and deep valleys. James, the older of the two, was a little morose, but Stanley liked and trusted them both.

Everyone was progressing to specialist training. For Stanley there’d be two extra weeks of parade drills, bayonet fighting, musketry, route marching, wheeling about to the right and the left, inclining and forming squads. He alone among his batch of recruits had been ordered to do two more weeks of Basic Training. Two weeks longer to get to France.

Stanley’s companions were queuing for the canteen, their mood jubilant. There’d been a success in France at Cambrai. Church bells had rung today for the first time. Had Tom been there, at Cambrai? The country had clutched at something to celebrate after Passchendaele. One hundred and forty thousand casualties for a five-mile advance. Had Tom been there at Passchendaele?

As each man turned the corner into the canteen, he looked at a list pinned to the Orderly Room door. That was how you knew if you had a parcel, but Stanley never looked. There’d never be a parcel for him, so it was better not think about it, better just to concentrate on counting days.

‘Stanley, have they sent you anything?’ James and Hamish were both looking at the notice. Stanley shook his head and turned away. Hamish and James might get parcels of jam and chocolate, Stanley was thinking, but he never would. Not till Tom knew where he was.

‘No one knows, do they, that you’re here?’ said Hamish quietly. Not expecting an answer, he continued, ‘But we know, and we’ll take care of you.’

Stanley took a place at table next to Hamish, opposite James. James picked up the loaf of bread.

‘Made of grit and granite,’ he said, weighing it in his hand before passing it to Stanley. ‘Needs lots of margarine so it’s easier to chew.’

The surface of the table was swimming in sloshed tea. Each man slopped tea into his jar from a basin in the middle of the table. Tea wasn’t at its best in a jam jar, but when you were tired it was good that it was strong and sweet. The tall man, called Fidget, who’d snickered on parade that first morning, slipped himself in between Stanley and Hamish and placed a parcel on the table where everyone could see it. All of Fidget was long and colourless, like a weed grown too fast in a dark cupboard, and he had a habit of sliding into places where he wasn’t especially welcome. Fidget’s hands fluttered over his parcel. His darting gooseberry eyes widened, and his mouth opened to a slack smile.

‘From my sister . . . She sends one every week. Fruit cake.’ The loose smile was interrupted by a sudden thought. ‘Do you get parcels, Stanley?’

Fidget’s face was too mobile, his eyes the colour of Army tea. Fidget meant no harm but, unable to answer, Stanley looked down. He scribbled with his forefinger in the tea on the table.

‘Do you get parcels, Stanley?’ asked Fidget once more.

The doodle in the tea had a tail and a long snout.

‘Don’t say much, do you, Stanley Ryder?’

Once upon a time, Stanley was thinking, there’d been tablecloths and honey and a mother to make cakes. Once there’d been a beautiful oatmeal puppy . . .

Fidget wasn’t to be put off. ‘She’s a good cook, my sister. Is your mother a good cook?’

If Stanley answered, his words would stick in his throat. His forefinger wiped out the dog in the tea. Ma had been a lovely cook. Stanley swallowed hard.

Hamish put an arm round Stanley’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Stanley. The cake in the YMCA hut’s better than Army food any day. We’re parading for pay tomorrow, and I’ve got money over from last week.’

Stanley shot Hamish a grateful smile, and they rose and left. As they made their way past the rank and file of tables, Hamish asked, ‘Do you like dogs?’

Stanley felt the death of Soldier jam like a stone in his throat. He said nothing. Hamish tightened his arm around the boy’s shoulders and steered him on. It was good, Stanley felt, to be with Hamish, who was kind and thoughtful, and never minded that Stanley said so little. At the Orderly Room door, Hamish said, ‘Did you see this?’

Stanley’s throat constricted as he saw the mail list.

‘Not that.’ Hamish pointed. ‘This. Read this. Working with dogs would be more fun than tunnelling with the Engineers – aye, and safer. What do you think?’

Stanley felt Hamish’s gentle eyes on him as he read:

THE MESSENGER DOG SERVICE REQUIRES MEN ACCUSTOMED TO WORKING WITH ANIMALS TO VOLUNTEER.

THOSE INTERESTED TO APPLY TO SGT. QUIGLEY

Dogs? Messenger dogs? How wonderful, Stanley was thinking, wonderful beyond imagining. Yes, he thought, I’d love that.

‘You’ll have had reasons of your own for signing up, and I’ll ask no questions, but the Front will be no place for you, laddie. The Dog Service maybe would be just the ticket for you.’

Stanley spread his uniform out on the bed, admiring the ‘R.E.’ on the collar and the embroidered flags, the proud insignia of the Royal Engineers, on the left arm. This week had been a good week. Twenty-eight men had been requested for Signal School and Quigley had instructed Stanley to sign up and do it before his transfer to the Messenger Dog School. Stanley liked Signalling – he’d liked the lamps and the heliographs and wires. He’d learned that signalling was vital in a war that was trench-based, where so much depended now on messages being sent to and from the front lines. Those messages sent by telegram, dispatch rider, radio, by telephone, wireless or pigeon, could make the difference to the success or failure of an operation, and Stanley was proud to be part of the Signals Service. He’d done well, too – he’d passed first-class in the Signalling Examination and now he had a new issue: a greatcoat. He was proud of the coat, proud of his regiment, of its history, its dignity and importance. Stanley smoothed the sleeve with the embroidered flags.