The Wood Beyond

xv

Peter Pascoe lay in the dark and felt its weight press upon him.

Peine forte et dure.. Who was it said, 'More weight?'. . And had it been in defiance or merely a plea to hasten a certain end?

Idiot! he told himself. Over the top as usual. What cause have I for despair? There are those out there with nothing but darkness between them and the sky.. soldiers and poor unable to rejoice … the lost, the dispossessed.. while I lie here with a wife and daughter I love..

.. with a wife and daughter who love me — o Alice Ada the thought of you should give me strength to fight — why is it the thought of you brings me to the brink of hopelessness?

Because I cant believe this is for you — not any of it — how can this filth this foulness this blood these broken bones and scattered limbs these lice these rats this helpless hopeless heedless hell have anything to do with you? What is it these horrors protect you from? — Some baby-butchering Hun on a poster? — Ive seen him this monster — Ive seen him dead and Ive seen him alive — and dead he lies there like my own mates — same gore oozing from same mangled limbs — same disbelief in same uncomprehending eyes.

And alive he looks like a lost boy terrified the hand I offer with a fag will turn into a fist — and when he starts to believe my kindness he reaches in his tunic and shows me pictures of his Alice his Ada.

Is this the monster Im protecting you from? Am I the monster hes protecting his family from? I dont know — there must be a reason and if not this then what?

Peter Pascoe rolled out of bed and tiptoed from the room.

Sleep wasn't going to come tonight. He'd known it from the moment Studholme had told him the truth. The major, so reluctant at first to reveal what he knew, once that barrier was over, seemed ready to sit and talk forever. Pascoe's instinct, fine-honed on years of interrogation, knew there was more to come, a lot of questions still to answer. But not now, not now. All he wanted was to be alone in the afterwrack of this bombshell. He'd almost pushed Studholme out of the house, then poured himself a Dalzielesque Scotch and roamed restless, ending up in the garden, feeling the need for space and distance and the cloudy indifference of the sky.

Cold had driven him back in where he found his wanderings had disturbed Rosie. With a huge effort he had put a lid on his emotional turmoil so that it wouldn't overflow and be detectable by the child. A favourite story had soothed her fret and when sleep had finally relaxed those already unflawed lineaments to the breath-catching freshness of the very first spring, he had looked down on her, then closed his own eyes and imagined never seeing her again.

He opened his eyes. She was still there. He had sat by her bedside till he heard the car in the drive and knew that Ellie had returned.

They drank coffee together while she told him with delight of Dalziel's presence at the party and the speculations it aroused. Pascoe had responded dully to both gossip and news and finally headed for bed, pleading his early start and long drive. He wanted to talk to Ellie, but not till he felt he had something rational, something coherent, to say. There were dark places inside his mind that he didn't feel able to share, not yet, not perhaps ever. Once when he was younger he'd have said that love was about openness, about the utter nakedness each to each of two bodies and minds and souls. But not now … not now.. not now..

… I had thought to tell Alice all of this when I was home on leave but I found I couldnt — theres been something called the Battle of Arras which all the papers had written up as a famous victory — and thats what Id been fighting in I discovered — thats where Duggie Granger and Kit Bagley and Micky Sidebottom and God knows how many more tens of thousands made the supreme sacrifice which is how they talk about having your guts blown out or your brains sieved through your tin hat back in Blighty. So how could I tell Alice or anyone about that? — Or when I read about our glorious allies how could I tell them what an officers servant on the leave boat told me hed heard — that the Frogs to our east had had it even worse than us and had chucked away their guns and said they wouldnt fight any more — and that whole troops were being marched out and shot by their fellow countrymen as mutineers.

What we could talk about because all the papers were still talking about it was the revolution in Russia. When I called on Mr Cartwright at the Institute he told me he reckoned it ud mean Russia would be out of the war in no time and this was the chance for workers all over Europe to unite and force their governments to follow suit. There was a big national Convention that week at the Coliseum Cinema in Leeds and he invited me to go along — which I did even though Alice told me to take care as I knew how Mr Grindal hated such meetings. I said — Whats Mr Grindal to me now? — and went anyway. It was very exciting with Mr Snowden making a fine speech and I even said something myself — when this woman who was what they call a suffragette said that of course she wanted peace but we must make sure all the noble sacrifices made by our brave boys had not been in vain — and I jumped up and shouted that if shed seen what Id seen — the bodies of my friends blown to pieces for a hundred yards of wasted ground — shed know it had all been in vain already. Some people cheered but a lot didnt and there was one little bunch of fellows in uniform who set up a chant of traitor which knocked me back till I got a closer look and realized they were all new recruits just out of training camp. One of them I recognized — Archie Doyle — my old enemy from Grindals — wearing the lily and the rose — so I worked my way round to him and said — Nice to see you Archie — when are you joining the battalion — and he gave a sick grin and said he were off in two days — and I said — I look forward to that Archie.

Next day when I called at mill I asked about Archie — and got told that spite of all his hard talk hed hidden behind his wifes skirts till theyd brought in full conscription last year — and even after that by pleading his wife being sick and by running around after Mr Grindal whos on our local Board hed put it off till now. I dont like him much but I thought — poor bastard — youd have been better off sticking your hand in a loom!

Not that theres many looms left to stick anything in! Its all changed — not just that its all old men and lasses now — Id expected that — but its mainly hospital stuff theyre making — dressings and slings and all sorts of medical things — and Uncle George told me that once the gaffer had got it in his head there was more profit in Mr Sams line of business over the river hed not hesitated but started ripping out the old looms and fetching in new machinery as fast as he could manage it. Naturally we talked about Stephen too and I told him he were fit and well — but when I mentioned Mary his face went hard and he said hed have kicked her out long since if it hadn't been for the little lad — then he begged me not to say owt of this to Steve — it must be bad enough having to go through what we went through without worrying about what your wife were up to. I said naturally I wouldnt say a word then Mr Grindal who mustve heard I was there sent down for me to call in at his office.

He met me at the door looking hard and thrawn as ever — and said right off — I hear thas been making a fool of thyself in Leeds last night. I said — I told the truth if thats what tha means. Truth? he sneers. What truth? — The same truth as is keeping all them down there on your mill floor busy — I said. That took him back and he said — Well I dont suppose one more fool ud be noticed in that crowd at the Coliseum. Step inside — someone here for you to meet.

I went through the door and found myself looking at an officer — so straight off I snapped to attention and threw a salute. Back it came but with a big grin — then he said — There Father didnt I tell you that Peter would make a fine soldier — and then I recognized him — young Gertie Grindal looking like he were dressed for CO's parade in the uniform of a Wyfie subaltern. What a lily he looked with his boots glistening like piston oil, his gloves as yellow as butter, and the pips on his shoulders standing out like Johnny Cadgers boils. Id not seen him since that last summer afore the war when hed been fifteen and his dad had set him on at the mill in his school holiday — partly to learn job — partly as punishment for bad reports from his posh school. Id taken care of him — and soon learned he were still as nesh as when a nipper and hed dragged after me round the woods — always coming on like Jack the Lad when the sun were on his back but running for cover at first sign of rain. In the house with his mam — or mine — around he knew he was master. But things were different out in the woods. There I was in charge and I could get my own back any time I liked — like the time I showed him the old ice house and told him it were where the Great White Worm lived — then I yelled — Look out its coming! — and ran off leaving him alone. He cried so much he couldnt eat his tea and though Mam skelped my ears for it I thought it were well worth the pain.

Now he said — Remember the fun we used to have when we were young together — the scrapes Id lead us into? I said — I recall the summer you worked at the mill — thinking mebbe that would pull him up short — he mustve remembered how everyone called him Gertie — but he just smiled and said — Yes indeed — more great days — remember that fifty I made against Uncle Sams Eleven? And you were a very steady bowler if I recall — do you manage to get any cricket out there?

His fifty had been nearer ten and my seven wickets had won us the match. I said — Not much opportunity for cricket over there sir. Grounds not really up to it.

Nonsense — he said. All you need is twenty two yards of flat field — Im sure even the French can manage that. I thought of the shell shattered earth which awaited us as we came out of our trenches and set out up the ridge in front of Wancourt — and I was going to say something a bit sarcastic when I caught old Grindals eye — and I kept quiet — not because anything I saw there made me afraid but because I saw how afraid he was. And he had cause.

Gertie went on — Never fear — Im sure well be able to get some kind of game going when I get across. Get across? — I echoed. Yes Ive got my orders. Off tomorrow — possibly well be travelling together.

I didnt point out the difference between first and third class but said — Sorry sir — Ive still got three days leave.

He looked as if he thought that was a small price to pay for the pleasure of his company then he said — One thing you can help me with Pascoe — I was thinking about shipping my hunters across — what do you reckon? When the breakthrough comes Id like to be properly mounted.

Id seen men properly mounted galloping forward near Monchy where some idiot brass hat had imagined a break in the line. Pennants fluttering — sabres flashing — oh it were a sight to remember — but what really stuck in the mind and would do till memory died was the sound of the horses screaming as they were hosed down with bullets from the Huns machine guns.

I looked sadly at the poor smiling child and thought — three weeks — I give you three weeks. That was about the average for a subaltern in hard fighting. Mr Hurley our present platoon commander had managed nearly three months which was quite remarkable considering he couldnt tell left from right without checking his Sam Browne. We all thought he were a bit of a liability — but compared to the poor bastards who were going to get Gertie we were sitting pretty.

Anyway I gave him another big salute which delighted him and left. As I walked away Mr Grindal came after me and took my arm.

He said — Peter youve been out there long enough to know your way around — look out for him will you?

I knew it must have cost his pride a lot to ask my help and I knew that in his own way hes been right good to me — better than I would have expected once I took up with the Union. But I knew also this was a promise Id no right to give. This werent like stopping a kid from falling in the beck or patching him up when hed scratched himself in a bramble patch. It werent even like pulling him back when he looked like he were going to get tangled in one of the big looms which Id had to do on more than one occasion.

It takes God Almighty to pull you out of the way of bombs or bullets or flying shrapnel and theres neither rhyme nor reason to the way He does it.

But while I was seeking words to say this old Grindal nodded his head — them keen black eyes which see all for once deceiving him into seeing what he wanted to see in my face — and he squeezed my arm and said — Thanks lad — thisll not be forgotten.

I know I shouldve said something but I didnt — and I cant feel guilty.

I mean — why the hell should I feel bothered that I didnt try to tell someone like old Grindal what its really like out there when Ive not yet been able to find words to tell my own dear wife what I feel about it?

'OK, Peter, enough's enough. If I'm going to share my life with Hamlet's ghost, I'm entitled to eavesdrop on the soliloquies.'

He hadn't heard her come down the stairs. Now she padded barefoot into the kitchen, flopped down on a chair at the other side of the table and tested the warmth of the teapot with her left hand.

'I'll make some more,' he offered.

'No, this'll do.'

She pulled his mug towards her, refilled it and sipped the lukewarm liquid.

'It was Hamlet's father whose ghost walked,' Pascoe pointed out.

'Also called Hamlet. So, who do you want revenge on?'

He considered. Was this the right note, very English, light and rational? What was the alternative? Latin emotional? Slav confessional? Scand suicidal?

He said, 'The British military and political establishment might do for a start.'

Then he told her succinctly and unemotionally what Studholme had told him.

He could see she found the information puzzling rather than devastating.

'But how can Ada's father be called Peter Pascoe? It doesn't make sense. It must be a mistake, compounded by the coincidence of names.'

'And the coincidence of faces? No, he's the one, I'm sure of it. And I'm going to find out how it happened.'

'How your maternal great-grandfather happened to have your name, you mean?'

'No. How my great-grandfather happened to end up being tied to a post and pumped full of bullets by his own countrymen.'

'Peter, it's terrible, but it was all a long time ago,' she said gently. 'I know revenge is a dish best eaten cold, all that crap, but this has been lying around so long, even the salmonella's got salmonella! Is it really worth calling up the Furies over something like this?'

He said, still trying to keep it light, 'Maybe they're up and out already.'

She considered this then said, 'You mean after you, don't you?'

'Do I? Yes, perhaps I do,' he said, managing with difficulty a smile.

'But why? I mean, what have you done? What is there in your great-grandfather's death to make you feel guilty? Think about it. How many millions got killed in the Great War? Seven? Eight? More? I doubt if there's a person alive in Britain, France or Germany who didn't lose some relative at that time. So how come you get elected to bear the guilt?'

He felt on the edge of dangerous country which he needed to explore himself before he invited those he loved in. But she deserved something more than silence. A lot more.

He said carefully, 'Look, I'm not clear myself, but it's about my family … as you've frequently observed yourself, we are on the whole a pretty mixed-up bunch of no-hopers…'

'Come on, Pete!' she protested. 'Bad-mouthing your spouse's nearest and dearest is an old and socially accepted convention of marital dispute.'

'So it is. Except that in this case none of my nearest come anywhere close to being my dearest. There were times long ago.. not so long ago. . when I used to fantasize about discovering I was a changeling and I really had this other completely different family I could make a fresh start with, only this time with me calling the shots as well as them.'

'Everyone does that,' she said dismissively.

'In their thirties?' he replied, only half mocking. 'Look, I'm not sure I've really got this worked out, but it's something to do with justice, yes, but it's also something to do with me, what I am, what I'm not, what I would like to be. I know it's a simplification, but it's as if everything that's wrong with the Pascoes, wrong with me, stems from what happened to my great-grandfather back in 1917.'

'Now that would be convenient,' she said. 'But what if what happened to him happened because whatever you imagine's wrong with the Pascoes was there already? Please leave it, Peter.'

'I can't,' he said helplessly. 'When those Furies have got you in their sights, you've got to keep going till you set the record straight. That's the only sanctuary they allow.'

She looked at him steadily and lovingly over her mug of cold tea. She knew what many close friends still failed to grasp, that dominant though her own personality must often seem in their relationship his was by far the stronger will.

She said, 'OK. Go get the truth if you must. Any idea how to start?'

'God knows,' he said. 'But as He seems intent in chucking great lumps of my family history at me in a provocative fashion, I presume that He'll come up with some help on the research front too.'

'Could be He's started,' said Ellie. 'I met this Australian history prof tonight. Poll Pollinger.'

'A female Australian history professor called Poll?' said Pascoe as if he could believe no single element.

'That's right. She invited me up to her flat for a coffee else I'd have been home a lot earlier. .'

'What happened to Wendy Walker? I thought you were giving her a lift.'

'Never saw her. Changed her mind or was having such a good time in another part of the party, she forgot all about me. Wendy always did think good manners were a form of social elitism,’ said Ellie dismissively. 'Anyway, Poll's here on sabbatical to write a book about, yes, you've got it, Passchendaele. What she doesn't know about the First World War isn't worth a footnote. Best of all, she has a direct line right to the heart of MOD records. I asked her how she managed that. She said, "It's all a matter of reputation." I said, "Sorry, I didn't realize I was talking to someone really famous," and she said, "Not my reputation, dingo-head!" It seems she knows something utterly unspeakable about some senior brass hat at whose command all doors fly open. She's really great!'

'She sounds. . interesting. What line is she taking?'

'In conversation at least she seems to think dickhead and Haig form one word. There's a piece by her in the current Review. She gave me a copy. It's titled Lest We Forget, not so much an historical essay as aJ'Accuse for Remembrance Day. Read it. But not now.'

'Why not now?'

'Because you've got me wide awake. Because if I remember right, Wendy Walker interrupted a very interesting conversation earlier today. Because if it's really sanctuary you're after, I can do a much better job than a whole barrow-load of Furies.'

'Sanctuary?' he echoed. 'I really can't imagine what you're talking about.'

She reached her hand under the table and smiled.

'You always were a lousy liar,' she said.