Then El ie had gone to fil the kettle. Certain moments in life, it seemed, required the fil ing of a kettle. Kettles got fil ed every day, without a thought, several times over.
Nonetheless, there were certain moments.
He heard the gush of water in the kitchen. It would have been a good inducement and a good moment to shed a few more tears while El ie wasn’t looking. And an opportunity—if that’s how it was—for El ie to do a bit of private gushing herself. But he didn’t think so. He only imagined how her hand might be grasping the tap a bit more tightly and for longer than was necessary.
How many kettles had El ie fil ed? That had been the first ever kettle she’d fil ed at Jebb. And she’d done it stark naked. But she’d fil ed enough kettles for him before that, over the years, at Westcott. And she’d have fil ed enough, anyway, for old man Merrick. He felt, with a letter lying in front of him that weighed, of itself, next to nothing, the weight and strain in her arms of al those kettles El ie would have fil ed for Jimmy Merrick. What had she thought that day when her mum had disappeared? And it was a big old farmhouse-kitchen kettle too, it wasn’t like the natty plug-in thing they had here at the Lookout.
When she came back with the tea he knew it was up to him (if it was al his fault) to break the silence, to say something appropriate to the occasion. He might have said any number of things, poor as he was with words. He might have just said, in fact, “Poor Tom. Poor Tom.” But he felt he might already have said that, during his short burst of tears.
Though the words, if they were there, had got so mixed up with the tears that he wasn’t sure if they’d come out like any sort of words that El ie would recognise. It was just a general choking.
He might have said, “I wonder how, exactly.” Or, “I hope it was quick.” He might have said, looking at El ie, “I hope it was damn wel quick.” He might have said, “Why him?” On the other hand, he might have said, “We always knew it was a possibility, didn’t we, El , something like this?” And added, “But we blanked it out, didn’t we?” He’d thought: this is like the cow disease. It was a strange thought to have, but he’d had it. This was like when the cow disease and its real meaning had hit, and he and Tom had waited for Dad to say something, to gather them round the kitchen table, a proper farmhouse meeting, and give them his word. So what now? So what next?
But Dad had never gathered them round, and his strongest course of action had been to stand in the yard alone and spit.
AND THE TRUTH WAS that while that kettle had boiled and even as these useless thoughts had besieged him, a whole series of practical considerations and estimations had also run through Jack’s head, which had added up to the unavoidable certainty of a journey. A journey that he—he and El ie—would have to make. The certainty of one journey. And the impossibility, under the circumstances, of another.
So, of al the things he might have said, he’d said that stupid thing. Though he’d said it, he remembered, as if he was truly sorry and as if he was breaking now, to El ie, a piece of terrible news.
“I think we’d better cancel St. Lucia.”
And El ie had looked at him as if it might, indeed, have been the worst thing he could possibly have said. And he’d thought again: Al those kettles.
11
LATER THAT MORNING Jack had cal ed the special direct-line number in the letter. How could he not? But he’d had to brace himself to do it and he’d felt, as he spoke, like a man cal ing a police station to turn himself in.
“I am Jack Luxton,” he’d said, like the start of a confession.
AND ONLY THE NEXT MORNING, which was also grey, damp and stil , a smart black saloon had driven up the winding road from Holn, which Jack surveys now, and after making the climb in a slow, unfamiliarised fashion, had pul ed up in the turning-space opposite the cottage. Jack had watched it, from this very window. On a stil day any car ascending the hil —it was a rare enough event—would announce its approach, even if you weren’t already waiting. Then he’d watched an army officer get out, reaching as he did so for his peaked cap on the passenger seat and for a brown leather document wal et beneath it.
Jack had been informed of this visit and the timing was spot-on, it was eleven-thirty almost exactly. But when he saw the officer emerge from the car, Jack, who thinks now that El ie might return in convoy with a squad car, was for a moment in no doubt that the officer had come to arrest him, to take him prisoner or to do whatever army officers were empowered to do. To have him shot, possibly. Yet at the same time, when he’d seen the khaki uniform, he’d had the distinct thought: Tom might have done this. Tom might have driven up one day, out of the blue. He might have turned out, who knows, to have become an officer.
But the officer, whose name was Major Richards—and Jack had spoken to him the preceding day, as requested, on the phone—was in his early fifties and, before he’d put on his cap, Jack could see that his hair was grey and receding and that he looked, in some ways, more like a visiting doctor or some peculiarly burdened schoolmaster than an army officer.
Major Richards had stood for a moment and put his cap on very squarely, pul ed his tunic straight and, tucking the wal et under his arm, had coughed into his hand. Then he’d walked the few paces to the front door of Lookout Cottage not quite as if he were marching, but as if ceremony and dignity were not out of place and he knew he might be being watched.
Major Richards had explained, even rather insisted, on the phone that this was how the battalion did things. A personal visit, regardless of how notification had actual y been made, to express the battalion’s condolences and sympathies—and loss, and gratitude. And to explain related matters. In the circumstances, nothing less was proper, and he was the appointed visiting officer. So Jack had found himself agreeing to an imminent visitation by the army. He hadn’t consulted El ie, but he’d said after putting down the phone, and repeating Major Richards’s words almost exactly, that it was how they did things and he’d agreed to it.
So they’d had to tidy up the place—though it was not an inspection—and El ie had put on something smart and vaguely solemn—she chose her black skirt and pale-grey V-neck with her imitation pearls—to go with Jack’s black trousers and white shirt (things he was never normal y seen in), and they’d both prepared to pretend that this was how they always loafed around the cottage on a weekday morning. El ie had looked at him with a strange, appraising tenderness as they’d dressed in this unusual way. It was like the day they got married. And even as Major Richards strode towards the front door, Jack, having descended the stairs, was on the other side of it, waiting in his crisp white shirt and, in spite of himself, not quite resisting the urge—
he’d feel it again in the coming days—to stand to attention.
Major Richards had said, “Mr. Luxton?” And had asked very formal y if he might come in and, when he did, had removed his cap with a distinct and formal gesture. It had been on his head for just the few steps he’d taken from his car. He’d shaken their hands and at once, while stil on his feet, had expressed again, to them both, the battalion’s profound regrets and condolences. He’d said that Corporal Luxton was a brave and exemplary soldier who’d done his duty to the utmost, so that the army was proud of him, and that this was a great blow to everyone.