Warlight(53)

And so it was that during my translation of a recorded interrogation that included descriptions of possibly invented women, and parrot lore—all put forward by the captured man as useless information—I heard described the pattern of birthmarks on my mother’s neck.

I returned to my office. But the interrogation stayed with me. I half believed I had heard the man’s voice before. I even thought for a while it might belong to my father. Who else would have known those distinguishing marks—the unusual cluster of moles whose pattern, the man had joked, resembled a star formation called the Astral Plough.



Each Friday, I boarded the six o’clock train at Liverpool Street Station, and relaxed, just stared at the ribbon of landscape passing me. It was the hour of distilling everything I had gathered during the week. Facts, dates, my official and unofficial research fell away and were replaced by the gradual story, half dreamed, of my mother and Marsh Felon. How they had eventually walked towards each other without their families, their brief moment as lovers and then their retreat, but still holding on to their unusual faithfulness to each other. I had barely a clue as to their cautious desire, of travels to and from dark airfields and harbours. All I had, in reality, was no more than a half-finished verse of an old ballad rather than evidence. But I was a son, parentless, with what was not known to a parentless son, and I could only step into fragments of the story.



It was the night driving home from Suffolk after her parents’ funeral. The speedometer light on her dress covering her knees. Damn.

They had left in darkness. All afternoon she had watched him courteous at the grave, and at the reception listened as he spoke shyly and tenderly about her parents. Country neighbours she had known since childhood came up to her to give condolences and ask after the children who were at home in London—she had not wanted them at the funeral. She had to explain again and again that her husband was still overseas. “A safe return then, Rose.” And she would incline her head.

Later she witnessed Felon struggling to move a full and overlapping punchbowl off a rickety table onto a more solid one, the guests’ laughter loud beside him. For some reason she’d never felt so relaxed. When everyone had gone, about eight in the evening, she and Felon left for London. She did not want to stay in the empty house. They drove immediately into fog.

They crept along for a few miles, stopping warily at every junction, and paused at a railway crossing for almost five minutes because she thought she heard the howl of a train. If there was a train it remained howling in the distance, as cautious as they were.

“Marsh?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to take over?” The dress had moved as she turned to him.

“Three hours to London. We could stop.”

She flicked on a small light.

“I can drive. Ilketshall. Where’s that on the map?”

“Somewhere in this fog, I guess.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay what?”

“Let’s stop. I don’t want to drive in this, after the way they died.”

“I know.”

“We can go back to White Paint.”

“I’ll show you my house. You’ve not seen it in a while.”

“Oh.” She shook her head, but was curious.

He turned the car—it took three attempts on the narrow fog-blind road—then drove to the cottage he had rebuilt long ago.

“Come.”

It was cold inside. “Bracing,” she would have said if it was morning, but it was pitch-black, not a clue of light. He had no electricity, just a stove he cooked on, and that kept the place warm. He began burning wood in it. He dragged a mattress in from an unseen room; it was too far, he said, from the heat. All this he had done within five minutes of entering. She’d not said a word, was just watching Felon to see how far he would go, this always careful man, always careful with her. She was disbelieving about what was happening. There was already too much closeness in the room. She was used to being with Felon in open country.

“I’m a married woman, Marsh.”

“You are nothing like a married woman.”

“And of course you know married women….”

“Yes. But he is in no way a part of your life.”

“It’s been a long time since that.”

“You can sleep here by the fire. I don’t have to.”

A long silence. Her mind tumbling.

“I think you might need to now.”

“Then I want to be able to see you.”

He went over to the fire, opened the flue, and it brightened their room.

She lifted her head and watched him directly. “You too, then.”

“No, I am not interesting.”

She saw herself lit only by the stove’s flickering light, with the long sleeves of the dress she’d worn at the funeral. It felt strange. Something had slid under her reason. And also that this was a night of fog, with the world around them invisible, anonymous.

—

She woke enveloped. His open palm under her neck.

“Where am I?”

“This is where you are.”

“Yes. It seems ‘this is where I are.’ Unexpected.”

She slept, and woke again.

“What is it about funerals?” she asked, her head against his body. It would be cold, she knew, beyond the fire’s reach.