Lovely War(21)
“Out of curiosity,” she said, “why then? To be like the photos in the papers, of soldiers and sweethearts kissing goodbye at the station?”
He shook his head.
“I need a reason,” he said, “to go to the train station. Something to look forward to about that day.”
She didn’t know it, but she felt it; Ares, you were the man seated in the row behind them. The War and all its finality prying its cold fingers in between them.
“Besides,” he said, “if I kiss you before then, I may never get on that train.”
APHRODITE
Torture—November 25–26, 1917
THEY SAID GOODBYE. It was torture.
Hazel went inside and faced her parents. It was torture.
She returned home, not to anger, but worse, to betrayal and disappointment.
James returned home to a telegram.
James and Hazel had made plans to see each other at lunch the next day. Waiting all night and all morning for luncheon was torture.
But it was nothing compared to her torture, the next day, waiting at the café where they said they’d meet, for James not to appear.
Nothing, compared to James’s torture, watching the gray sky out the window of a morning train bound for Calais, there to board a ship for Boulogne, and from there, a train to étaples for training at the British Expeditionary Force base camp.
Nothing compared to the torture for Hazel of receiving a letter, that afternoon at her flat, explaining he’d been summoned to report days earlier than expected. Prime Minister Lloyd George and Field Marshal Haig had an urgent need for new men to replace casualties at the Front. Private James Alderidge, someone in a war bureau had decided, would do as well as any.
APHRODITE
First Night—November 26, 1917
THE CHANNEL STRETCHED between James and Hazel that night. It looks narrow on a globe, but when it divides two hearts, it might as well be the mighty Atlantic.
Hazel paced her bedroom. Her flannel robe, she clutched tightly across her ribs. Her nightgown couldn’t keep her warm. A bitter cold wind blew in from the Continent, from France. Cold enough to chill a girl in her bedroom; how much more a soldier on a boat or in a tent?
She’d seen pictures, films even, of British soldiers, row upon row, marching. An impressive sight, majestic in size and discipline and uniformity. It made her tremble to realize that now, out there, one of those immobile faces would belong to her James. His dear mind and heart, trapped inside that khaki cage. His warm body, tall and graceful, the target of a speeding lump of German steel.
It would be nice, at a time like this, if she could cry. Get it all out in a big rain of tears and finally drift off to sleep. Tears were better by far than the tightness in her throat and the lead weight in her stomach.
She paced the room.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday. One weekend. Only that. A lifetime, crammed into three days.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and a Saturday kiss, stolen away.
If her heart could entwine so completely around his in three days, what would have happened after a week? What words would’ve passed between them? What memories created? What promises exchanged?
Was all of this nothing more than a dream one gradually forgets upon waking?
She sank upon her bed. Stop this, my girl, she told herself. You’ll drive yourself mad.
She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. She took herself back, back to the Royal Albert, to the train, to the walk, the other walk, the tea shop, the dance. Bay rum and wool, a clean shave and soft, steady brown eyes. Dark hair and dimples. Warmth rushed upward from her belly to her head, and tingles shivered down her spine.
It was real and true. However new, however young.
The war was hers now. It was inside her. No more a matter of headlines and jargon.
“God, keep him safe,” she whispered. But it was out of my hands.
Poor lamb.
* * *
James had had the day’s travels to distract his thoughts, but they failed him. He couldn’t bring himself to make conversation with fellow soldiers. All around him, on train and ship, young men talked and laughed as if they were all bound on holiday. A grand game of playing soldier.
James wasn’t going anyplace. He was only leaving Hazel. Leaving her, and leaving her, and leaving her still some more.
They arrived at night at a base camp, drank lukewarm beef broth, then followed a commander to a field of tents. They were barely warmer than the bitter night, but canvas flaps kept the wind out, and eighteen men sleeping three deep in bunks added some body heat.
He slid out of his pack, kicked off his boots, and climbed into bed. It felt like hours before he generated any warmth under his blankets. He couldn’t have slept anyway.
He tried to remember what it felt like, holding Hazel in his arms.
Fool, he told himself. You should’ve kissed her while you had the chance.
Precisely what I was thinking, but I’m not one to say I told you so.
Could it even have been possible for this lovely, lovely girl to decide to favor him, James Alderidge from nowhere, with her laughter, her company, and the way she ate lemon cake? That he should be the one to hold her hands and watch her lashes sweep each time she blinked?