“Morning,” and that, like him, they wore smart, open-necked shirts. They might have been three of a kind. He was in a hotel which in November catered, if it catered for anyone, for travel ing reps with limited expense accounts. It seemed suddenly to Jack an innocent and honourable league to belong to, and he began to invent for himself—in case he should come to be questioned—an alias as a salesman.
What might it be? Agricultural machinery? No, caravans, of course. Al those sites that in winter might be considering replacements. He was travel ing—in caravans.
He was also relieved to see that the proprietor seemed to be in sole charge of the kitchen and the serving of breakfast. Hers was at least a familiar face and, so long as she was busy, he felt, an unthreatening one.
He ordered the Devonshire Breakfast. It was no different in its basic components from a breakfast you might have had in any county, but it was, when it came, very good. The bacon in particular was very good. It was so good that for a few minutes, despite what lay before—and behind—him and despite the miserable night he’d passed, Jack’s whole being relaxed into that of a man solely given over to the consuming of breakfast. It real y was extremely good. He felt amazingly restored.
But no sooner had he finished eating than he’d looked up and seen, in the smal porthole window of the swing door leading to the kitchen, not the face of the proprietor, but the face of Tom, peering in and peering directly at him. Since it was only his face, Jack couldn’t tel if he was in his combat gear again (or if, for example, he was wearing an apron), but he was looking in as a mindful chef might briefly look in to see if the customers—and one particular customer—
were happy.
It was Tom who’d made this breakfast, Tom who’d cooked his bacon.
Tom’s face had disappeared. Then Jack, who’d scrupulously avoided the morning papers lying on the bar and had picked up instead an unhelpful brochure—“Things to Do in North Devon”—had glanced towards the front page obscuring one of his fel ow breakfasters and seen the caption “Heroes Return” (it wasn’t the top story, but it was there in the corner) and had also seen the photo. He couldn’t tel which of the coffins it was. Nonetheless, he was sure.
So everything that had happened yesterday was real y and undeniably true. It was publicly the case. Though for that man sitting there at his breakfast, concealed by his newspaper, and perhaps for thousands of others doing the same, it was not even drawing his eye.
LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER Jack drove northwards from Okehampton towards Marleston, the long shadow of the Cherokee leaping out ahead of him. His last act before leaving his hotel room had been to slip the medal into the breast pocket of his suit (his fresh white shirt had no pocket). He was quite sure by the time he settled his bil that the woman real y knew who he was, but wasn’t saying.
Or, at least, that when she looked later at her paper (hadn’t she looked already?) it would simply jump out at her: Luxton, I thought it rang a bel .
The traffic was light and the road shone. He’d delayed his departure so that he could pace this short final leg comfortably, without having to stop or cruise around to kil time. He fil ed up with petrol just outside town.
During these few miles Tom didn’t appear at his side again. Jack took this to mean that Tom was now entirely sure that he, Jack, would complete the journey, would keep his appointment. Nonetheless, during this last stage Jack felt constrained to say aloud a number of times, softly but purposeful y, “I’m coming, Tom. I’m nearly there.” He would hardly have needed to do this if he’d felt that Tom might in any sense have been his passenger.
Ten-fifteen, he’d reckoned. Ten-fifteen or ten-thirty. He couldn’t, of course, be late, but, just as with yesterday’s ceremony, he didn’t want to be so early as to be trapped by people. He didn’t know how many there would be. A sprinkle, or—given that it was clearly national news—a multitude? He should be just sufficiently early as was decent and as would al ow him to make his presence known and to get his practical bearings. Perhaps, he vaguely anticipated, he could then ask to spend a few moments somewhere safely alone.
He was aware that being who he uniquely was might grant him excuses for behaviour that might otherwise seem clumsy, inadequate, even rude. He was relying on playing this card. He’d played it, strongly, yesterday. His principal plan—he didn’t disguise it from himself—was to get away with as little as possible: time, involvement, talk. Pain. He would do the essential thing, he wasn’t shirking that, but he wasn’t up for any extras.
The arrangements he’d made—al by phone—had been minimal. He’d spoken to Babbages. He’d spoken to Brookes. And he’d spoken, of course, to Major Richards.
No flag, please, the battalion could keep it. A non-military funeral, thank you. He’d been surprised at his own firmness.
He’d not made a point of notifying people, let alone inviting them. He’d left that as a matter between Brookes and his parishioners. He knew that he was supposed to organise and host some gathering afterwards. But where could that be? There was only one appropriate place: Jebb Farmhouse. Impossible. The Crown? No. In any case, he knew he couldn’t go through with it. Be the living centrepiece. Make a bloody speech (having not made one yesterday). Whatever poor form it might be, he couldn’t do it. He would be present, that was the main thing.
A simple word had come, theoretical y, to his aid:
“private.” Today’s thing was private, if yesterday’s hadn’t been. Arguably, the whole thing was immeasurably private, and Major Richards had even framed for him that statement
—for public release—that “Corporal Luxton’s family” (though there was only one) “hoped that their need for privacy and peace in this time of great sorrow would be respected.”
But Jack could equal y see that private was a thin, even treacherous word. A war memorial, for example, was not a private thing. It was a public monument, the names on it were for al to read. And how did a common soldier, serving his country in its public causes, ever get to be cal ed a private? Ful er, Pickering. (Where were they now—and those clusters that went with them?) In any case, life in a vil age was never private, Jack knew that. Everyone eyed everyone else. This was one respect in which, today, he could envy the inconspicuous existence of those who lived in cities.
Yesterday’s event should have trained him up, perhaps, for exposure. This little affair in a country churchyard ought to be a doddle in comparison. But Jack knew—seeing now the line of frost-speckled hil s that he hadn’t seen for over ten years—that it wasn’t so.
Brookes and Babbages had been good to deal with.
He’d been both pleased and troubled that it was stil Brookes, since the rector’s voice, even on the phone, took him straight back to the burial of his father (and of Jimmy).
Brookes had said, “I don’t know what to say, Jack. The last time we spoke was when … And now this.” It was reassuring somehow to know that a man of the Church didn’t know what to say. But Jack didn’t like that linkage across twelve years—first that, now this—as if the two things were actual y connected and the later one would unearth the other. Perhaps Brookes, who’d been so solid that first time, might be stretched past his limits now. A suicide—now this?