It was—wel , memorable. But more than that. The word was real y (though neither of them said it) haunting. When they final y reached their destination, Marleston church, back in Devon, where the coffin would rest overnight, they felt relieved, but also vaguely sorry, even deprived.
By then the sky had cleared and the November afternoon had turned stil and chil y. The air in the churchyard smelt smoky and raw. They’d phoned ahead and the rector, Brookes, and some local men were on hand to help with the final carrying into the church. In the fading light it felt like an act of stealth.
They were certainly exhausted. They’d need a drink or two, in the Spread Eagle, once they’d garaged the empty hearse in Barnstaple. Tired as they were, they didn’t wish this long mission to be over. They weren’t at al resentful that they’d have to go back to the church in the morning, to make contact again with Jack Luxton (who hadn’t been sighted en route, so far as they could tel ) and to finish the job.
The sky to the west, as they drove the last few miles to Barnstaple, had reddened while the hil s had darkened.
They’d seen a lot of hil s today, a lot of land. Even that seemed haunting now, or haunted. This was Corporal Luxton’s land, his country, as much as theirs. He’d been returned to it—with a little help from them. One of those ready phrases that had sprung into their heads earlier now seemed as shadowy as the nightfal . Corporal Luxton, who’d ridden with them, must have been a pretty good soldier, especial y if he was as big as his brother. But to say, as is said of soldiers, that he’d died for his country—
no, that wouldn’t be exactly true, would it?
23
CORPORAL LUXTON, Tom Luxton, then a lance-corporal and between tours, had seen those shots of burning cattle, huge roaring piles, on the TV in a West London pub—tanking up before a night of it—but had simply sniffed, swal owed more beer and said nothing to his mates. Roak Moor, Devon. Foot-and-mouth this time. Wel , there were worse sights in the world (Hounslow Barracks, for example). And now he could feel sure—as if he hadn’t known al along—
that he’d made the right decision.
But he kept the TV picture of those burning cattle in his head as if it was a real and actual memory, and it was a useful memory to have, somehow, whenever he saw a belch of black smoke, after the explosion, rise up above the flat rooftops, over the palm trees—which was getting to be most days now, sometimes you’d see two, three or more pal s of dark smoke. It was a good guide and reference point to have, whenever you had to think of or sometimes look at what those clouds of smoke meant. Burning cattle, slaughtered cattle. Like the ones he’d seen carried off from Jebb Farm because they might be mad. Not were, but might be. They might have been going to catch or spread the madness.
It was a good guide. Tom could remember another news clip, on the tel y at Jebb, when the mad-cow thing was just starting, but in some other part of the country and they hadn’t the slightest idea it was actual y going to hit them.
It was a clip of a cow, in a pen somewhere, that had got the disease. It was fal ing down and getting up, then fal ing down again, its legs skidding sideways. It didn’t know what it was doing, it was going round in circles. It wasn’t a good picture for him and Jack and Dad to be looking at, even if it was only a picture on the tel y, and they were al thinking it couldn’t possibly come their way.
And it was pretty much the same when Wil is got shot, their first serious casualty. Everyone was dreading carnage, major detonations, someone with a nasty parcel under their shirt. But it was a single bul et, a sniper. No one even seemed to have heard the shot. They just saw Wil is acting funny, not being Wil is any more, moving around like a big, jerky puppet with some of its strings missing, no one understanding why. A bul et that just nicked his spine, but it was enough. Enough to stop Wil is being Wil is any more, for the rest of his life maybe. The first of theirs to be shipped home.
And because he was Corporal Luxton now and had to make sure they got that picture out of their heads pretty fast, he’d had to act for them like someone who’d seen this sort of thing before, maybe a dozen times, and knew how to hack it. And the only thing that had helped was that cow on the tel y—the memory of sitting round at Jebb and thinking: surely not.
It had flashed through his brain, while God knows what was flashing through Ricky Wil is’s brain. That and the fact that he himself was a sniper. Or had been. More of a regular corporal these days, only a part-time sniper. If you were going to shoot a man, then do it cleanly, so he’d never even know about it. It made him angry, that poor bit of snipering. From then on (it was already there, but Wil is helped to sharpen it) there was a general feeling that if it was going to be your turn and if it wasn’t going to be something nice, like just a foot or an elbow, then let it be something you’d never know about, not some crap like Wil is got.
He’d had the thought, later, that the army ought to have its own equivalent of a squad of MAFF slaughtermen to come as quickly as possible and finish off cases like Wil is. It would be a mercy, it would save a lot of trouble. It would only be doing what any soldier might sign up for. If you’d do it for an animal.
He’d got the picture of Wil is out of his head by remembering that cow. Strange, that it was just a cow on the tel y. But then they, B Company, were just pictures on the tel y for most people back home, though they didn’t get the pictures like they got of Wil is. And that picture on the tel y at Jebb wasn’t funny. There were real cows across the yard. It wasn’t just a picture, even if they didn’t know the thing was coming smack in their direction. You might have said they’d been served notice.
Or he had. Though he hadn’t yet made up his mind. He’d make up his mind down in Barton Field. What you’d do for an animal. The cow disease, when it came, was like some not quite final warning. A disease had already been eating away at Michael Luxton and was starting to eat away at him, Tom, too. He’d got it from his dad. Jack was made of tougher stuff, maybe, better stuff than he was. A good brother, a better brother. And a better father, sometimes, than his father.
But after that morning with Dad and Luke in Barton Field he wasn’t going to stick around any longer than he needed, with bad thoughts in his head that he might just one day put into action. Let the cow disease seem like his reason.
What should he have said? Why don’t we both do it, Jack, you and me together, why don’t we both just hop it? But he’d looked hard into Jack’s eyes and seen, first, that what he did actual y say would be safe with Jack, safe as blank ammunition, and, second, that Jack had never even dreamed of it himself.
Wel then, Jack could keep it. Keep what he was leaving.
Let that be the deal. He’d never break it or ask for his share back. If that took away the weight of guilt that settled inside him as soon as Jack said, there in the parlour, “You can rely on me, Tom.” If it made Jack the good brother and him the bad one, so be it. If it made Jack the fool and him the smart one, so be it. He’d slipped out of the farmhouse, like a fox from a henhouse, at three a.m. on his eighteenth birthday.