I think they checked that I had no weapon — just a medical pack — perhaps they thought I was a noncombatant stretcher bearer or something like that — perhaps the officer had a brother in the trenches — he was young — same age as our Gertie Id say — with the sunken shadowed eyes that mark all of us whove been too long at the Front — what else is there to say about him? — Nothing — and everything — I wouldnt recognize him if I met him in the street — but I wish him well and safely home — for he spoke again to his men and they took the rope from me and began to pull — and slowly Steve came out of that dreadful hole.
I think there may have been a moment when he wondered whether to take us prisoner — words were spoken — the officer looked from me to Steve who was lying semiconscious at my side — and I would guess he said that taking us back with them was likely to prove a lot more dangerous than leaving us to our own devices.
Whatever — he spoke to me in English — the one phrase — Good luck — then they moved off — and Steve and I were by ourselves without a care in the world except how the two of us — one wounded — one exhausted — were to get back to our trenches without getting drowned — blown up — or shot by either side.
But get back we did — and by one last miracle almost to the very point where Id slipped over the top. Dawn was lightening the east and the lads were on stand to — so I risked a shout which was less of a risk than being taken for a sneak attack — and a few moments later I was drinking a mug of tea while Steve was being stretchered to the rear.
It were funny — when news reached the remnants of the platoon that he should be OK though hed got a Blighty one he quickly changed from poor bastard to lucky bastard. What really caught the lads interest was our encounter with the Huns — as word got around about this — I found men from other platoons were coming up to me and asking me about it — out here we never hated the Hun like they do back home — too much sense that hes in the same bleeding boat — and this story of mine mebbe set them dreaming that somehow wed do out here what clearly they couldnt do back there and strike our own private peace.
I didnt know how I was going to react when I saw Gertie — or how he was going to react when he saw me. The way Steve told it he could have genuinely believed Jammy and him were both dead — so I gave him the benefit of the doubt — and he looked me straight in the eyes and said how glad he was hed been wrong about Steve — and how sad he was about Jammy — then he told me to sew another stripe on as he was recommending I got made up to sergeant in Jammys place.
Only once did I let my control slip — back in rest again I was sorting out the days Orders with him when he said — Word of advice sergeant — go easy on spreading tales about friendly Huns — adjutant must have heard something — told me very pointed this morning that fraternizing with the enemy is regarded very seriously back at Base.
I said — Fraternizing? — They saved our fucking lives!
— And he said — Exactly — so how do you feel about shooting Germans now? — And I said — Them Germans?
— If I knew it was them Id not shoot — in fact theres a lot of our own lot back at Base Id sooner shoot than any of them Germans! Gertie said — For Christ sake Peter be careful what you say — you know how they feel about agitators just now — anyone else hears you talking like that and youre in real trouble — mutiny trouble — weve got to do our duty — follow orders — theres no other way — dont you see?
Well hes right of course — and the brass are right — and that German officer was right — and Im right too — and if every buggers so bloody right why arent we all back home moaning about the price of ice cream on a Bank Holiday instead of being stuck in the middle of this stinking mud hole where everythings so fucking wrong?
Why? Why? WHY?
The rain was slackening off just as it had slackened off early in September all those years ago, to be replaced by a gusty wind drying up the ground and with it any hopes that the brass might decide that the fixture was rained off. Not that, on past performance, there'd ever been much chance of that anyway.
Pascoe looked up at the trees, almost leafless now in November, but still tall and shapely with all the latent promise of spring's renewal in the supple swaying of their boughs. As he looked, his inward eye which was the curse of solitude stripped them of everything till they were mere black lifeless stumps. Through Glencorse and into Polygon. Every small advance doing nothing but put a few more yards of ravaged ground between you and whatever mockery of peace remained to the rear. And after Polygon, with the winter rains settling in, weeks more of the endless crawl through the yellow mud up the shallow ridge where stood, or rather lay, the ruined village of Passchendaele.
Pascoe forced himself back to the present by looking at his watch till at last the time registered. What had Pottle said? A window between four and five?
That's what I need, thought Pascoe. A window, nice and high, looking out across a sunlit pastoral landscape.
He was getting the sun at least. The storm had over-taken him and was moving east. Westward the dying sun rimmed the horizon with red and the sky was clear. Could be a frost tonight, he thought. Always something to look forward to.
He started the engine and went in pursuit of the retreating clouds.
part three
I have a Garden of my own,
But so with Roses overgrown,
And Lillies, that you would it guess
To be a little Wilderness.
i
Edgar Wield looked out of the frost-crazed kitchen window as he waited for the kettle to boil and recalled his certainties of an endless Indian summer just a couple of mornings earlier.
Never bet with a farmer about weather, a woman about weddings, or a miner about whippets. Where did that bit of homely advice spring from? Someone who knew his stuff so it couldn't have been a CID sergeant.
He was passing through an uncharacteristic period of self-doubt, swinging between suspicion that he was wasting his time with his blind-man probings of TecSec and certainty that he was missing something as obvious as a drunk at a church fête. Curiously this doubt didn't make him unhappy. These last few months he had spent living in Corpse Cottage in Enscombe had relaxed and released him somehow, bringing the whole spectrum of emotional coloration within his reach for the first time in more years than he cared to remember. And if at one end dark self- doubt was the price he had to pay for bright self-awareness at the other, then that was OK. More than OK, a real bargain.
The kettle was boiling. He mashed the tea, some odd Chinese blend that Edwin insisted on. It was, he had said rather sniffily, an acquired taste. So, Wield had pointed out, was the strong stewed stuff he preferred — acquired through years of no choice — and he saw no cause to brag about that.
So they danced and fenced and sometimes fought around each other, every encounter a learning process, most outcomes leaving them a little bit closer.
He set the tray with two china mugs, a fresh-sliced lemon, a bowl of sugar, and carried it upstairs.
Edwin Digweed was sitting up in bed reading. It sometimes seemed to Wield that where'er his partner walked, old books immediately crowded into a shade. He looked suspiciously at the pile on the bedside table. It appeared to be at least three volumes higher than the previous morning. Digweed's second-hand and antiquarian bookshop in the village was often quite audibly groaning beneath the weight of words piled high on every surface. When he'd moved out to Corpse Cottage, the books had rushed in to occupy what had previously been his living space above the shop, like water into a foundering ship. This was the one uncrossable line Wield drew. Books on bookshelves he didn't mind. But books on sills and stairs, in kitchen cupboards and bathroom cabinets, under sinks and over wardrobes, books breeding books in every nook, cranny and empty space, was not his idea of interior decoration. A good book might be the precious Iifeblood of a master spirit, but that didn't mean you wanted to drown in the stuff.