The sun dipped down between the trees of the copse and for a second or two flamed straight into his face.
He did not want Barton to go away.
‘Franklin won’t be pleased.’
‘What the hell?’ Barton lay on his bed reading a letter. The C.O. had sent someone else on the gas course.
‘Only that it’s better to get on with your senior officers if at all possible. It makes life easier.’
‘Life seems perfectly all right to me.’
For the first time, Hilliard lost his temper. ‘Don’t be so bloody complacent. You haven’t been anywhere yet, you haven’t seen anything. You’re in a rest camp, remember? You don’t know what you’re talking about but you damn soon will.’
‘I know,’ Barton said quietly.
Hilliard was silent.
‘Look, I don’t really care for Franklin much more than you do, John, but it’s a perfectly irrational dislike. He’s done nothing to me at all – or to you, for that matter. It’s a pure case of Dr Fell.’
‘Oh, no. He’s got it in for us.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘If it boils down to it, he doesn’t seem to like anyone much, does he?’ Barton sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘He doesn’t have any particular friends, doesn’t do much in the way of relaxation except play bridge, and even then, it’s for the sake of the game, not the company.’
‘He doesn’t like to see other people being friendly.’
‘Nonsense. He could perfectly well have friends himself if he chose. He wouldn’t have to put himself out a great deal, but he doesn’t choose.’
‘Why?’
‘Lord, Hilliard, I don’t know.’
‘A Captain is easily capable of making one’s life a misery at the front, if he has half a mind.’
‘I should have thought that went for a C.O. or a Brigadier or for that matter for one’s own batman.’
‘All the same…’
‘Oh forget it, forget it.’ Barton laid a hand on his shoulder, laughing. ‘I didn’t go on the gas course, about which I’m fairly relieved. I didn’t enjoy all that plunging in and out of smoke-filled chambers at the training camp. I never could bear masks over my face. Franklin didn’t get his way. Now, let’s make the most of this place, while we can.’
Footsteps came quickly up the ladder. Whenever Coulter appeared, Hilliard could imagine him in the circus ring, he half-expected him to take a leap off the floor of the loft on to some trapeze dangling from a beam. He had given them an off-the-cuff juggling display one afternoon in the mess kitchen, throwing spinning saucers up into the air, and balancing glasses of water on his nose; ‘What are you doing in the army, Coulter? You should have stayed on at home and kept their spirits up!’
Coulter brought the crockery down neatly, piece by piece, turned and began to stack it away. ‘I’m right out of practice, sir, if you did but know it. Besides, I joined up to come to France, didn’t I, this is where the war is. I’m more use here than in a circus ring just at present.’ For Coulter was aggressive about the war, still patriotic and still confident, in spite of all he had seen. He had a distant respect for the Generals, close admiration for the officers of his own regiment. It was only politicians about whom he might occasionally say a bad word. But Hilliard liked Coulter, he had come to rely on him, though their relationship was entirely different from the one he had had with his former batman, the morose Bates. Coulter was more easygoing, he had greater nerve, and probably less stamina. But no, you couldn’t say that, for it was impossible to tell until you were in the line, you couldn’t pass any kind of true judgement upon a man, here, in the uneasy calm and quiet of the rest camp.
Now, Coulter did not come into the loft, only to put his head through the hatchway. ‘Excuse me, sir – the C.O. wants to see both of you right away, sir. He wants to see all the officers. It seems as if there’s something up.’
Garrett looked calmer, full of some sort of relief. The Battalion was leaving Percelle first thing the next morning for the front lines at Lully, near Barmelle Wood and Queronne, an area which had been under heavy fire for the past six or seven weeks.
For the rest of that day the atmosphere of the farm changed, and the yard and the orchard and the lane leading down from the village were full of men moving about, shouting orders, carts arrived, two advance motor buses came, were packed up, left again. The farm dog wandered about and was repeatedly pushed out of the way, until it retired behind the stables.
Hilliard thought that the men were relieved, as Garrett had been, no matter what might be to come: they knew where they were now, were able to immerse themselves in physical activity with a clear end in view.
He noticed that Franklin was everywhere, supervising everything, though he seemed to be in no hurry and his face showed no interest in what went on. He would be a good officer under fire, efficient and cool-headed. But Hilliard disliked him more than ever.
Garrett had ordered the evening meal to be put back by an hour because there was so much to be done, they would not be eating in the officers’ mess until after nine. But Hilliard’s platoon had finished earlier, there were only the tents and kitbags to be put up just before they set off the following morning.
He found Barton.
‘I’d like to walk down to the orchard.’
‘Say a fond farewell!’
‘Why not?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Hilliard?’
They both turned. Hilliard walked back towards where the Adjutant was standing, outside the stables.
‘Either you or Barton will have to be on foot tomorrow. There aren’t enough horses for everyone.’
‘Harrison’s gone off on that gas course, though.’
‘There still aren’t enough, too many are needed for carrying.’
‘I see. Well, Barton had better ride in that case, sir.’
‘I’d prefer it if you did. You know the form, you can keep an eye on things. We’ll probably be stopping overnight at Feuvry.’
‘Yes.’
‘All right.’ Franklin turned and strolled back towards the farmhouse.
But when Hilliard told him, full of annoyance, Barton only smiled. ‘I don’t mind marching. I’d prefer it, actually. I did walk 800 miles down through Italy with my brother a couple of years ago, you know.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Ah!’
‘He could perfectly well have asked someone else.’
‘But he didn’t, that’s all there is to it.’
‘He’s making bloody sure we don’t waste time tomorrow chatting together.’
‘Don’t be so touchy – you’ve got a thing about this. And would we, in any case? We’d both have too much else to do and we know it and Franklin knows it.’
Hilliard let out a long breath. ‘You’re too good natured,’ he said.
‘I ought to be more like you.’
‘Perhaps I just plump for a quiet life.’
‘No.’
He looked at Barton, walking beside him with his odd, loose gait. The Battalion barber had shorn him up the back of the neck but he had not managed to prevent the front hair from falling in a thick ledge over his forehead, so that he looked as though he held his head at an angle, that the front might suddenly tip, unbalancing him.
‘Well,’ Barton said. It was simply an expression of contentment.
They had come through the copse into the orchard, and were following the bank of the stream. The sky was mulberry coloured, over the church.
Barton stopped. ‘I can smell something.’
There were no sounds except the song of larks and blackbirds and the trickle of water over flint-stones.
‘Can’t you smell it?’
‘Burning? Yes, I can now.’