The Wood Beyond

I looked sadly at the poor smiling child and thought — three weeks — I give you three weeks. That was about the average for a subaltern in hard fighting. Mr Hurley our present platoon commander had managed nearly three months which was quite remarkable considering he couldnt tell left from right without checking his Sam Browne. We all thought he were a bit of a liability — but compared to the poor bastards who were going to get Gertie we were sitting pretty.

Anyway I gave him another big salute which delighted him and left. As I walked away Mr Grindal came after me and took my arm.

He said — Peter youve been out there long enough to know your way around — look out for him will you?

I knew it must have cost his pride a lot to ask my help and I knew that in his own way hes been right good to me — better than I would have expected once I took up with the Union. But I knew also this was a promise Id no right to give. This werent like stopping a kid from falling in the beck or patching him up when hed scratched himself in a bramble patch. It werent even like pulling him back when he looked like he were going to get tangled in one of the big looms which Id had to do on more than one occasion.

It takes God Almighty to pull you out of the way of bombs or bullets or flying shrapnel and theres neither rhyme nor reason to the way He does it.

But while I was seeking words to say this old Grindal nodded his head — them keen black eyes which see all for once deceiving him into seeing what he wanted to see in my face — and he squeezed my arm and said — Thanks lad — thisll not be forgotten.

I know I shouldve said something but I didnt — and I cant feel guilty.

I mean — why the hell should I feel bothered that I didnt try to tell someone like old Grindal what its really like out there when Ive not yet been able to find words to tell my own dear wife what I feel about it?

'OK, Peter, enough's enough. If I'm going to share my life with Hamlet's ghost, I'm entitled to eavesdrop on the soliloquies.'

He hadn't heard her come down the stairs. Now she padded barefoot into the kitchen, flopped down on a chair at the other side of the table and tested the warmth of the teapot with her left hand.

'I'll make some more,' he offered.

'No, this'll do.'

She pulled his mug towards her, refilled it and sipped the lukewarm liquid.

'It was Hamlet's father whose ghost walked,' Pascoe pointed out.

'Also called Hamlet. So, who do you want revenge on?'

He considered. Was this the right note, very English, light and rational? What was the alternative? Latin emotional? Slav confessional? Scand suicidal?

He said, 'The British military and political establishment might do for a start.'

Then he told her succinctly and unemotionally what Studholme had told him.

He could see she found the information puzzling rather than devastating.

'But how can Ada's father be called Peter Pascoe? It doesn't make sense. It must be a mistake, compounded by the coincidence of names.'

'And the coincidence of faces? No, he's the one, I'm sure of it. And I'm going to find out how it happened.'

'How your maternal great-grandfather happened to have your name, you mean?'

'No. How my great-grandfather happened to end up being tied to a post and pumped full of bullets by his own countrymen.'

'Peter, it's terrible, but it was all a long time ago,' she said gently. 'I know revenge is a dish best eaten cold, all that crap, but this has been lying around so long, even the salmonella's got salmonella! Is it really worth calling up the Furies over something like this?'

He said, still trying to keep it light, 'Maybe they're up and out already.'

She considered this then said, 'You mean after you, don't you?'

'Do I? Yes, perhaps I do,' he said, managing with difficulty a smile.

'But why? I mean, what have you done? What is there in your great-grandfather's death to make you feel guilty? Think about it. How many millions got killed in the Great War? Seven? Eight? More? I doubt if there's a person alive in Britain, France or Germany who didn't lose some relative at that time. So how come you get elected to bear the guilt?'

He felt on the edge of dangerous country which he needed to explore himself before he invited those he loved in. But she deserved something more than silence. A lot more.

He said carefully, 'Look, I'm not clear myself, but it's about my family … as you've frequently observed yourself, we are on the whole a pretty mixed-up bunch of no-hopers…'

'Come on, Pete!' she protested. 'Bad-mouthing your spouse's nearest and dearest is an old and socially accepted convention of marital dispute.'

'So it is. Except that in this case none of my nearest come anywhere close to being my dearest. There were times long ago.. not so long ago. . when I used to fantasize about discovering I was a changeling and I really had this other completely different family I could make a fresh start with, only this time with me calling the shots as well as them.'

'Everyone does that,' she said dismissively.

'In their thirties?' he replied, only half mocking. 'Look, I'm not sure I've really got this worked out, but it's something to do with justice, yes, but it's also something to do with me, what I am, what I'm not, what I would like to be. I know it's a simplification, but it's as if everything that's wrong with the Pascoes, wrong with me, stems from what happened to my great-grandfather back in 1917.'

'Now that would be convenient,' she said. 'But what if what happened to him happened because whatever you imagine's wrong with the Pascoes was there already? Please leave it, Peter.'

'I can't,' he said helplessly. 'When those Furies have got you in their sights, you've got to keep going till you set the record straight. That's the only sanctuary they allow.'

She looked at him steadily and lovingly over her mug of cold tea. She knew what many close friends still failed to grasp, that dominant though her own personality must often seem in their relationship his was by far the stronger will.

She said, 'OK. Go get the truth if you must. Any idea how to start?'

'God knows,' he said. 'But as He seems intent in chucking great lumps of my family history at me in a provocative fashion, I presume that He'll come up with some help on the research front too.'

'Could be He's started,' said Ellie. 'I met this Australian history prof tonight. Poll Pollinger.'

'A female Australian history professor called Poll?' said Pascoe as if he could believe no single element.

'That's right. She invited me up to her flat for a coffee else I'd have been home a lot earlier. .'

'What happened to Wendy Walker? I thought you were giving her a lift.'

'Never saw her. Changed her mind or was having such a good time in another part of the party, she forgot all about me. Wendy always did think good manners were a form of social elitism,’ said Ellie dismissively. 'Anyway, Poll's here on sabbatical to write a book about, yes, you've got it, Passchendaele. What she doesn't know about the First World War isn't worth a footnote. Best of all, she has a direct line right to the heart of MOD records. I asked her how she managed that. She said, "It's all a matter of reputation." I said, "Sorry, I didn't realize I was talking to someone really famous," and she said, "Not my reputation, dingo-head!" It seems she knows something utterly unspeakable about some senior brass hat at whose command all doors fly open. She's really great!'

'She sounds. . interesting. What line is she taking?'

'In conversation at least she seems to think dickhead and Haig form one word. There's a piece by her in the current Review. She gave me a copy. It's titled Lest We Forget, not so much an historical essay as aJ'Accuse for Remembrance Day. Read it. But not now.'

'Why not now?'

'Because you've got me wide awake. Because if I remember right, Wendy Walker interrupted a very interesting conversation earlier today. Because if it's really sanctuary you're after, I can do a much better job than a whole barrow-load of Furies.'