The Moon Field

‘Do you like them?’ Edmund asked. ‘I thought we’d never get them all up.’

‘They’re beautiful,’ Violet said.

‘Would you like to light them? Here, look, I have tapers.’ He picked up a long thin stick, struck a match in a splutter of flame and a smell of saltpetre and lit the end of it, which glowed a soft orange. He handed it to her and steadied her as she climbed on to the crooked roots and reached up to guide the flame carefully inside the lantern to the candle within. The flame caught and grew, filling the sphere with light that cast a pool of radiance over their upturned faces and the gnarled and shining roots below, and faded into shadows beyond them.

‘I made a wish,’ Violet said, smiling, but didn’t tell him what it was.

They moved silently between the lanterns, sometimes separating and lighting them simultaneously, sometimes steadying each other on the slippery wood and guiding each other’s hands. They went from tree to tree, cedar to elm, as the crowd danced on, oblivious. At the last tree, they stopped and looked back at their handiwork.

‘They’re like captured fireflies,’ Violet said.

‘Or little moons caught up in the branches,’ Edmund said, and it was true: in the elms, twigs and leaves laced the globes with dark patterns.

‘“The silver apples of the moon,”’ Violet said dreamily, remembering the ending of the Yeats poem.

‘Exactly,’ Edmund said. ‘Shall we walk?’ He gave her his arm. ‘I don’t think anyone will miss us from the general mêlée.’

They slipped away across the lawn behind the trees. Dew had formed and underfoot the short grass was cool and damp, scattered with the closed eyes of daisies. The sun was now a mere line of gold on the horizon, a last gash in the twilit sky. Edmund pointed out the papery disc of a full moon, slowly gaining brightness and substance, ‘As if one of our lanterns has escaped and floated away,’ he said whimsically.

They came to the walled garden with its deep borders and turned along the walk towards the arbour. Violet was aware of every small thing around her: the shapes of peonies and larkspur; the smell of sweet peas; the faint strains of music; the warm solidity of Edmund’s arm under her gloved hand. Every now and then, she felt that he glanced at her but didn’t break his silence. They reached the arbour and sat down on the stone seat beneath a wrought-iron arch weighted down with a mass of balsam and roses. In the fading light, the garden had faded to monochrome, the flowers becoming pale, their beauty transformed to form and scent rather than colour.

‘You look incredibly lovely tonight,’ Edmund said, gazing at her.

Violet, unused to compliments, looked down at the flower pinned at her bosom. ‘Thank you for the beautiful corsage,’ she said, as if her appearance lay only in the adornment of her dress. She touched the flower self-consciously and he gently took her hand.

Slowly, without letting his gaze slip for a moment from hers, he took each finger of her glove in turn, pulling until he had freed it and could twine his fingers with hers and place warm palm to warm palm. ‘Dearest,’ he said, ‘you must know how I feel about you. I realise that we can’t be together straightaway, that I need something more behind me before I can offer you the kind of future you deserve …’

Violet looked into his dear eyes, hardly daring to breathe, her heart beating like a ragtime band.

‘But only say you’ll be mine,’ Edmund said softly, bending towards her, ‘and anything will be possible, because I shall be the happiest man on earth.’

Violet, moving into Edmund’s embrace, closed her eyes and without speaking let her lips say their tender ‘Yes’.

When Violet had opened Edmund’s letter to say that he was being sent abroad she had felt all her hopes shrink, just as Edmund and the family had grown smaller as the motor had carried her away down the long drive at the end of her stay, receding to a dark dot against the stucco house. She had struggled, not entirely successfully, to compose herself in front of George but as he rode away, she felt panic at the hopelessness that threatened to engulf her.

She remained perfectly still as George rounded the bend. She felt that she should call after him but her throat was closed and tight with misery and she couldn’t speak. She tried to get a grip on herself; she must make sure she asked him tomorrow about what he’d wanted to show her; it was thoughtless of her to have disappointed him through being so overcome by her news. The sound of the bicycle wheels clattering over the ruts receded and left only the hot, heavy silence of the summer afternoon. After a few moments, she turned and began to walk away. Instead of returning to the house, however, she veered into the wood and took the path that ran alongside the beck, although she was barely aware of its trickling and gurgling or the smell of greenness and fresh water. She walked slowly amongst the huge Scots pines, sun slanting on their tawny red trunks, the canopy high above her. Shafts of light fell on glossy rhododendron leaves and the white trumpets of yellow-stamened flowers, their petals with a bruised look this late in the summer, as if thinned by heavy rain, and the vivid green moss growing thick and soft as carpet on the trunks and branches of coppiced trees.

Thank God I have an hour or so before Mother will miss me, she thought. Her mother knew nothing of all this. Violet had kept her own counsel about meeting Edmund, afraid that her mother would not react well to the news. Even though Edmund had understood that they would have to make a home for Mother with them, Violet knew that Mother would fret dreadfully at the prospect of ‘losing’ her to a marriage and she didn’t want to burden her with worry any sooner than was necessary. So she had said nothing of the talks she and Edmund had shared on country picnics, at the park, at the garden party. She had been non-committal when answering her mother’s questions about the people she’d met during her stay. Instead, she had offered descriptions of the garden, the decor and the food in minute detail, to satisfy her mother’s curiosity and take her to a place, any place, other than the house that her mother now hardly ever left.

In secret, she thought about the feel of Edmund’s hand in the small of her back as they danced, or the way his moustache tickled when they kissed. Such things were private – no, sacred moments which could not, in any case, be unwrapped in the stuffy sickroom among her mother’s bottles and potions. The very air, heavy with the knowledge of her father’s neglect, would dull and tarnish them.

She and Edmund had stored up every minute that they could snatch together, knowing that there would be time apart to follow, as Edmund would be sent away to an officers’ training camp. They had planned that once Edmund had finished the first leg, he would apply for leave and they would find some way to meet.

It’s so unfair! she thought. Now he would have to go abroad and even if the whole conflict were short-lived, as people said it would be, it would be months before he was in barracks at Carlisle again. She tried to stifle these selfish thoughts, and think instead of troubled Belgium, threatened France, honour and the King. Over the past few months, the whole country had been speculating on German expansionist policies and the likelihood of war; it should be no surprise that now it was here it was going to affect everyone’s life, even hers.

War. The word reverberated through her mind as if it were a cold gust shaking the little wood and rattling like a dry shiver through its leaves.

What if he were hurt? It had not been until she had fallen so headily in love that she had realised that it was possible to feel the same tenderness and care towards the body of another that she felt towards her own. She thought of the way the outdoor summer life had browned his forearms and tanned a V at his throat; of how she imagined the rest of his skin, pale beneath his clothes; and of the vulnerability of the body that she loved. She squeezed the letter even harder in her hand and quickened her step. She would go to the little church at the lakeside where she could be private and alone.

She reached the edge of the wood, swung open the iron gate and stepped out into the brightness. The beck ran on through the parkland, rushing and gurgling beside the path, on its way down to the wide sheet of water. Before her was an open view over the fields to the lake and hills, interrupted only by a scattering of sessile oaks and a lonely church that stood encircled by a dry-stone wall, a quiet grey against the surrounding green.

She walked towards the church. Despite the heat of the day, a stiff breeze blew from the lake, carrying the sound of sheep bleating from further fields and of the water lapping fast against the shore. She felt exposed as she walked across the empty parkland, aware of the house in the distance, angled to take in this vista. She imagined her mother at the window watching her solitary progress and wondering where she was going with her camera slung across her shoulder, when she had taken photographs a-plenty of this view in every season. She hurried across the field to the church and let herself into the churchyard. Tall blond grasses and thin purple thistles grew among gravestones with their memorial verses obliterated by the scourings of the weather.

She went into the church and pushed the heavy wooden door shut behind her. Despite the fact that the leaded window was clear rather than stained glass, it took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the dimness. Ahead of her, the sandstone font, at which she and generations of Walters before her had been christened, sat squat and solid. Above the arch opposite the door, a wooden plaque, muddied dark brown with age, bore the images of a lion and a unicorn facing each other in regal poses. The painted banner above them read ‘Dieu et mon Droit’.

She sat down in a pew at the back, so that the light from the window would fall over her shoulder, and slowly unfolded Edmund’s letter again. It had been softened by the moistness of her hand. She spread it out on the dark material of her skirt and read once more:

My dearest Violet,

I am so sorry, my love, to have to tell you that I have received my orders. We are to be dispatched today for further training in mapping and signalling then on to a different camp to meet up with our draft of men, and to embark for active service. My dear, I know that this is a setback to our plans, but believe me it is only that and I hope and trust that I’ll be back soon and we will be able to be together at last. Before we met, I was never done badgering my uncle to get me a commission so that I would be ready, if called upon, to serve, so I must remember now that it’s an honour to fight for my country, put aside my own desires and do my best to step up to the mark and make my family proud.

You must not worry . I am fit and well thanks to the Officer Training Corps and the boxing (not to mention all that tennis we played!). Although one shouldn’t swank, I’ve been told at rifle practice that I’m something of a crack shot too. Sam Huggins and Lofty are in the same battalion so I shall be in the best company and we will give Old Fritz something to think about.

I wish that I could have come to you to say goodbye in person – it has all been so fast. I’m writing this in a corner of the mess, which, despite the clatter of plates and knives and forks, is the least chaotic place in camp. I wonder where you are at this moment. I always somehow imagine you in a garden. Perhaps it’s because of my memory of how I came upon you once at home, with the honeysuckle spilling over the pergola and your head bent over your book and the sun painting copper lights in your hair.

In my mind’s eye, I see you reading in a garden. Your long, slender fingers reach to turn the page and I bend towards you and cover your hand with my own. How I wish that I could pluck a flower to mark your place, take your hand in mine and lead you away. I must not do this. It is hard enough already .

I have your letters, which I will keep by me at all times so that I can always hear your sweet voice in my head. I will write again as soon as I can and let you know how to address your letters so that they will find me. Please do write as often as you can. You know that you have my heart in your safekeeping.

Ever yours,

Edmund

Violet put her forearm down on the ledge of the pew, amongst the hymn books, and rested her forehead on it, breathing in the musty smell of old, damp paper. ‘Please, keep him safe; I’ll do anything; I’ll be a better person,’ she prayed. ‘I won’t be irritable with Mother when she asks me to read the interminable household articles in her women’s paper, nor leave the planning of dinner so often to Mrs Burbidge. I won’t pester Mother to let me visit Elizabeth, or long for company, or feel sorry for myself, stuck here, where there is no one younger than forty. Only let Edmund be all right and I’ll be a model daughter and a better housekeeper and I won’t even be angry at Father any more for going away and leaving us here …’

In tears all over again, Violet stopped praying as the old hurt overcame her. The hollow, empty feeling that thoughts of her father brought on began to bear down on her, black as the darkness under her eyelids where her face pressed into the crook of her arm. Why did he not write? Why did he never come home? He hadn’t been near the place since before she went away to finishing school and then he had been cold to her mother and horribly formal with her, as if she had done something terribly wrong. The litany of questions ran through her mind as it always did. If he had loved her even a little, he would have visited her at school. No, it was not merely his estrangement from her mother that kept him away; it was something about her. It was somehow her fault.

If only Edmund could be here. His smiles, his small kindnesses and consideration somehow made her real, as though she was only brought into being when someone looked, really looked at her: as if his attention were an artist’s pencil sketching her lightly on a page. She thought of him holding her and how nothing else beyond them had existed, the hurt all blotted out, his eyes on her face conjuring her from drawing to sculpture, willing her into three dimensions so that she was solid and firm and glowing like bronze under the spotlight of his gaze while, all around them, everything that was other just fell away.

She sat up and stared again at the letter. How could she stand it? How was she to bear it? Soon she would have to go back to the house. She would have to swallow all this down into herself and keep it there, carrying on as though nothing was wrong, exchanging meaningless conversation, arranging the unremitting round of domestic life: the repetitive menus, the cycle of cleaning and gardening and maintaining the grounds, forever preparing for the visit from Father that never came, moving through days whose friction was slowly, inexorably, rubbing her out.

4

MEASURING UP

George was woken by the noise of a milk-cart in the street outside. The milkman’s whistled rendition of ‘Hearts of Oak’ went through his head like the shriek of an engine with a full head of steam. He lay very still, gritting his teeth until the clink of bottles into crates was over and the clop of hooves on cobbles faded into the distance. He found that he was lying on top of a bed rather than in it and was still in his clothes, although his jacket and his boots had been removed. Gingerly, trying not to groan at the tenderness of his rib cage, he rolled over to face into the room and found Turland, sprawled asleep in an armchair with a pillow under his head and a washed-out green quilt over him, from which his legs protruded, showing a large hole in the heel of one of his grey socks.

Recognising Turland, everything about the night before came back to him in one huge wave of misery. How was he to explain that he had lost his wages and had no board money to give to his mother? He knew how much they needed every penny and that it was all accounted for as soon as it came into the house. He remembered the lessons at chapel on ‘the demon drink’, and how his mother had always said in her milder way that it ‘led to errors of judgement’. As a child, he had thought of God’s Judgement and wondered how God could possibly make a mistake. Now, as though he could hear his mother’s voice in his head, the true implication of human frailty sank in and he recognised his own weakness. He was angry and disgusted with himself.

There was nowhere in his thoughts that he could turn for any comfort. If he thought of Violet, her gentle eyes, her quiet manner, her lovely smile, it was as though a picture of the girl from the pub stood between them. The memory of the girl’s piggy eyes with their fair lashes and the feel of her pudgy, soft hands made him feel grubby, as though to think of Violet as existing in the same universe was to besmirch her. He had sunk low. He had let himself down and behaved like an absolute beast. He thought of Kitty scolding him over some minor foolishness in the past and the way that she would eventually shake her head and say, ‘You are a lost cause, George Farrell!’ and he would know he was forgiven. He had always been able to tell Kitty everything yet the thought of this made him wonder how he could look her in the face again.

There was a tap at the door and Rooke opened it a little way and put his head round it. ‘Breakfast’s started,’ he said.

Turland woke, stretched, and scratched his head. ‘Righto, I’ll be down in a minute.’ He glanced over at George and then added, ‘Here, Percy, see if you can put your filching skills to use and get something for Farrell, will you?’

Rooke nodded and withdrew.

George said, ‘Thanks for giving me the bed – very much appreciated.’ He slowly swung his legs down, using their weight to lever himself into a sitting position, and then braced himself by leaning on his hands, pressing his palms down on the edge of the mattress and straightening his arms to release some of the pressure on his bruised ribs.

‘No trouble. Everyone was in bed so we smuggled you in without a hitch. The bike’s down behind the basement railings.’ Turland pulled on his clothes and sat down again to tie up his shoes. ‘If you want to use the lav you should be all right while everyone’s at breakfast. There’s only Mr Anstey on this floor and he always goes fishing on a Saturday so he’ll be out by now.’ He chucked George a towel and hurried off to breakfast.

George crept along the landing to the bathroom where he splashed his hair and face with water and then stripped, washed and towelled himself down briskly. He rinsed the foul taste from his mouth, dressed and tried to make himself look respectable once more. He rubbed at the grubby knees of his trousers with a dampened corner of the towel and disposed of his soiled handkerchief in the bin marked ‘Laundry’.

When he slipped back to the room, Turland and Rooke were standing back to back comparing their height.

‘Turland reckons he’s five foot five. How much smaller am I?’ Rooke asked.

George obliged by putting his hand flat on Rooke’s smooth, well-oiled head. He marked where Rooke came up to with the side of his hand against Turland’s head. ‘Well, you’re about half a head shorter.’

Turland said, ‘Come on, Percy, you have to make five foot three to get in.’

Rooke pulled himself up to stand even straighter.

‘You’re still about three inches shorter,’ George said uncertainly.

Rooke’s shoulders sagged. Turland turned round and gave him a friendly punch on the arm. ‘Buck up, Rooke. Everyone knows our lads are desperate for reinforcements. I bet they’ll take you on, even at bantamweight.’

Rooke looked pleased and straightened his tie and collar.

Turland turned to George, and eyed his height and broad shoulders. ‘How about it, Farrell? Fancy changing your mind and coming along to make up the numbers? They’d snap you up, you know.’

There was a silence. George felt pleased that Turland thought so well of him and that the lads wanted him to come along as one of them. He’d always been outside the gangs at school, just him and Kitty muddling through, never feeling part of a group, never really belonging. Not like this: friends, comrades, brothers in arms. He thought about the extra pay he’d get, a shilling a day, and how it would help him make things right at home. He thought about casting off the self that he saw as grimy, weak, despicable, and replacing it with the aspiration of glory and honour and being a man. It would be like diving into a clear lake and emerging a new person: fitter, stronger. He imagined them all returning together, victorious: bronzed and battle-hardened men. Perhaps he would be able to do something half decent so that he could hold his head high in front of Violet again. His heart beat a little faster and his spirits lifted.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right, I will.’

Turland nodded sagely, affecting a gravitas suitable to the occasion.

Rooke said, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ and brought out from his jacket pocket a square package wrapped in a rather greasy-looking napkin. George opened it to find a round of toast with a thin piece of bacon pressed between the slices.

‘Iron rations,’ Rooke said. ‘Eat up, soldier.’

They met up with Haycock and set off for the castle where recruitment was taking place. As they approached the centre of the town, they could hear the sound of a silver band in the next street. Haycock said, ‘Eh up? What’s this all about?’ and they wandered over to the Botchergate to find out. The street, always busy with shoppers, was thronging with people who had been drawn by the music, a martial tune with a solid drumbeat and a brash melody in a major key. George craned his neck to try to see above the spread of caps and hats but the crowd was four or five deep on the pavement and he was too far back. Rooke disappeared into the press, ducking under a man’s arm, and George followed suit, slipping through behind a nursemaid who was trying to manoeuvre a baby carriage.

He reached the others at the front and saw, coming towards them, a military band in navy dress uniform, striped with red ribbon: trumpets and trombones in front, polished to a glaring brightness in the morning sun, a euphonium and the huge bass drum behind. The drummer beat the taut skin with gusto and the sound reverberated as if caught between the high buildings. The rhythm was underwritten by the sound of the marching feet of the soldiers who followed on behind, carrying placards that read: ‘Will You Answer the Call? Now Is the Time’ and ‘Take up the Sword of Justice. Enlist Today!’ A wave of cheering from the crowd followed their progress. Behind the soldiers followed a mass of ordinary men in civilian dress, looking a rag-tag group in comparison with the orderly men in khaki. Some were laughing, some waving at friends in the crowd, while others made self-conscious efforts to fall into step with the marching soldiers. Every now and then, a man or two would break from the crush on the pavement and step out to join the procession and the volume of the cheering would rise as if to carry him forward on a swell of sound.

The band drew level with George and the others. A group of young women applauded but the sound mingled with the music, drowned out as the people all around took up the cheer. Turland plucked at George’s sleeve. Haycock was watching with a broad grin on his face. Rooke took off his cap, smoothed down his hair and put his cap back on again. ‘This is it, then,’ Turland mouthed at George over the ear-splitting noise. The band passed and the rows of marching soldiers followed, four abreast. ‘Ready?’ said Turland.