Starlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 1) Page 6

  Lewis couldn’t bring himself to do that. He knew he should but he couldn’t. And so later, she stood up, packed up her things and, without looking in his direction, went away. He felt crushed and spent the rest of the evening brooding over his failure. She must think him cold and unfriendly. Or was she wise enough to understand how it was to be a seventeen year old? What had she been like at that age? He tried to picture a younger, more willowy version of her. He couldn’t imagine her uncertain and shy. To be born beautiful like that must mean you were always confident. He replayed what had happened endlessly in his head and imagined how it should and could have been so different.

  The next day they were both there again. Again, just as yesterday, he waited until late to walk near to where she sat. Again she looked up and again, to his immense relief and wonder, she smiled at him. This time he smiled back. Their eyes held for Lewis knew not what amount of time but it was a delicious feeling. Then he had walked past her.

  He reached his towel in triumph. Mission accomplished. After this all he would need would be a few more days and he would start speaking to her. He suddenly realised he had a new mission. He would talk to her, just as Dad would have done. Maybe he would offer to buy her an ice cream. Yes, once he had thought of it, he had resolved that that would be his new objective.

  It was about five when she packed up her things to leave. Lewis watched her movements. She was graceful. The way women moved was so different from men. He wondered what it must be like to be her, to inhabit that body. To bathe it, put clothes on it, move around in it throughout the day, lay it down at night to sleep? He pictured her sleeping, hair scattered on the pillow.

  She walked up the beach, without looking to right or left. His eyes followed her. Now that she was leaving, there was no point in his staying and so Lewis began to get dressed himself. She turned to the right, past the low stone wall topped with ivy. Then she came to the taller wall of the big grey house and was gone from view. He finished dressing, put everything into his pack and made his way back up the beach to the road. Maybe she was walking into Fowey and he could walk behind her. Or catch up with her? Did he dare to talk to her? But on what pretext?

  He turned the way she had gone and there, a couple of hundred yards up the road, he saw her. She was standing, looking down at a bicycle which leant against the high grey stone wall. As he walked towards her she squatted down putting a hand on the front wheel. His heart was pounding. As he got nearer, he could see that the front tyre was flat. She looked up.

  She had green eyes, high cheekbones and lips that were parted slightly. Her teeth were very white and peeped out through bright red lipsticked lips. Her face looked inexpressibly kind. Lewis thought that he had never seen anyone more beautiful – not even his mother. Should he walk past her or say hello? It seemed ridiculous on this deserted road with just the two of them that he should just pass her by. But he was suddenly terrified by the prospect of speaking to her. In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands, when she smiled and said, ‘Hello. I’m afraid my tyre is gone flat. I think it must be punctured. Do you know if there’s a place in Fowey where I can get it fixed?’

  A small furrow of worry showed between her eyebrows.

  ‘I could probably fix it for you,’ he said.

  He had blurted out the words before thinking. It was true that he knew how to fix a puncture because Dad had shown him how to do it. Lewis wasn’t normally good at things like that, but he had enjoyed watching his father going through the various steps of the operation. It had all seemed very simple – and there were some very clever bits in it. And this was the front tyre which made it a bit less complicated.

  ‘Could you really?’ she said.

  Her voice was gentle and tender and hopeful.

  ‘I think so. I know what to do. Do you have a puncture repair kit?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘Yes, I do. I got it when I bought the bike.’

  ‘Alright then. Here, let me wheel it for you.’

  ‘Oh, you’re so kind … Mister?’

  ‘Lewis. I mean Lewis is my first name. Lewis Friday.’

  She held out a hand.

  ‘Helen Hope.’

  Lewis took her hand in his. Her grip was firm but the skin and fingers felt warm and soft.

  ‘I’m renting a house just up here,’ she said, indicating the hill that rose away from the sea. ‘It’s only a couple of minutes. Oh, I do hope I’m not taking you too far out of your way. Or delaying you.’

  Lewis was struck by the fact that she was treating him as an adult, even though he felt more like a youngster in the presence of a grown-up. Her skin was pale and peachy under the straw hat. He guessed her to be in her early thirties.

  ‘No, it’s no trouble. I’m staying in town.’

  ‘So you’re on holiday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you here with your family?’

  ‘No, by myself. My Dad suggested I come down here for the summer.’

  And then he added, to put the issue out of the way as quickly as possible.

  ‘I’ll be eighteen in November and joining the Army. I’m just really waiting until then. I don’t know – it’s the calm before the storm, fattening me up for the kill, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ she said. ‘I think you’re very brave.’

  ‘Or very stupid. One of our neighbour’s sons was killed in 1915 – and another came home blind.’

  Her hand went up to her mouth. She had perfect nails – Lewis always bit or picked at his.

  ‘I shouldn’t like to die,’ he said lightly. ‘I like living.’

  ‘Yes, it’s nice,’ she said, ‘isn’t it?’

  Again that smile. He would do anything for that smile. He hoped now that he would be able to fix the tyre. He didn’t want to make a mess of it or find out a few days later that he hadn’t done it properly. He suddenly felt fearful. How good he would feel if he could do this for this goddess – and how terrible if he failed.

  10

  It was dark and fetid in the trench as Lewis followed Byrne back to the battalion command post. The occasional lantern, hanging from an iron stake driven into the trench wall, gave inadequate light. There was the acute smell of a sewer but added to that the chronic, sweet smell of things rotting. Away, in the distance the artillery grumbled and crashed as it always did and occasional flashes made the fog lighter from time to time. Was it Lewis’ imagination or was it thinning?

  Jesus Christ, a bloody trench raid. Oh Christ. Lewis had a bad feeling about this. Why couldn’t those stupid staff bastards just call it a day? Why did they have to go on killing people? Hadn’t enough men died? In a few more weeks it could be all over. What was the fucking point of a trench raid? What possible difference could it make?

  ‘Mind the sump, sir,’ called Byrne, in a monotone.

  Lewis stopped, looked down, just about saw the waterlogged hole in the trench floor and stepped across it.

  He tried to subdue the anger he felt. It only clouded things. Made you miss details and out here, missing any detail, no matter how small could be fatal. He patted his tunic pocket through his greatcoat just to reassure himself that he had his notebook.

  ‘Telephone cable overhead, sir.’

  Byrne lifted some cables that were draped across the trench and handed them back to Lewis. He took them, stepped under them and dropped them back where they’d been. Lewis would concentrate on the briefing. He would get through this. He wasn’t going to die now.

  ‘Low trench, sir – possible sniper.’

  ‘In this weather, Byrne?’

  Lewis ducked anyway, following Byrne’s lead. A few moments later Lewis tripped on something and put his hand against the wall of the trench to keep his balance. He had expected his leather gloved hand to land against wooden revetting but instead it sank up to his wrist in some malodorous mush in the trench wall. Whatever it was leaked inside Lewis’ glove and the smell came with him the rest of the w
ay, despite taking off the glove and trying to shake out whatever was in there.

  The battalion command post was in a dugout near the reserve line. Stepping inside, Lewis found himself in a single room that contained one undamaged chair and a table upon which two storm lanterns burned. Some maps lay scattered on the table along with some glasses, a revolver and an almost full bottle of whiskey that glowed golden in the lamplight. The place smelt of sweat and paraffin and bad breath and faintly of whiskey. Colonel Ogilvy, the CO was there along with Major West and three other lieutenants. With his tall, thin frame like a stork, thinning hair and glasses perched on the end his nose, Colonel Ogilvy had the air of a school principal. Major West had black hair, a black moustache and a swarthy complexion that made him look like a pirate.

  ‘That’s everybody,’ somebody said.

  ‘Very well, let’s make a start,’ said Colonel Ogilvy. ‘Major West?’

  The sound of the artillery was much duller in here. West swished a map out from under some others, smoothed it out with his hands and weighed down the corners with the whiskey bottle, the revolver and two of the glasses. He moved the lanterns to improve the light. The map was carefully hand drawn in blue and red ink on a piece of foolscap. It showed a section of the British and German front line trenches. Even shell holes had been faithfully reproduced.

  ‘Alright gentlemen, have a look here. Division wants us to send out a raiding party tonight.’

  In this fog, thought Lewis.

  West said, ‘According to Division’s met people, the fog is due to lift in the next hour or so. They’re expecting a clear night.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t, sir?

  The speaker was Lieutenant Redman – small, reminding Lewis of a terrier – smoking a cigarette in a way that managed to make him look important.

  ‘Lift, I mean?’

  ‘The raid will go ahead anyway, Lieutenant.’

  Lewis tried to remember what time the moon had set last night. Again West was there ahead of him. Lewis liked West. He was careful – careful with men’s lives.

  ‘There will be no moon.’

  Colonel Ogilvy looked round the occupants of the room over his glasses. West continued.

  ‘We’re to enter the enemy’s front line trench here’ – he pointed at a spot marked ‘C’ on the map – ‘on a frontage of about fifty yards. The objectives will be the usual. Capture prisoners, get identifications, papers, titles, any article of military use and – as always – cause havoc to the enemy.’

  West sounded like he was reading from a script that he had memorised many years ago.

  ‘Division wants to get a sense of the strength and morale of the people opposite us. You may have heard rumours of an armistice. I expect Division wants to see how real these might be.

  The wire is reported to be in a broken condition but we know that Jerry renews it every night by throwing out large bundles of coiled wire. So our people will shell it with two inch mortars in the next hour or so. Oh, we also have reason to believe that they have machine guns at these points here and here.’

  Of course they bloody do, thought Lewis.

  ‘Lieutenant Redman will lead the raid.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Redman cheerily.

  ‘Lieutenant Friday will be second in command and will lead the Body Snatching Party.’

  Oh Jesus, this was going from bad to worse. Lewis had been on several trench raids before. But he had never led the Body Snatching Party. These were the men who jumped into the enemy trench and had to subdue the prisoners. It was ghastly, close quarters work, done with knives and knuckle dusters and clubs but also with fists and knees and boots and teeth. Anything could happen and the success of the trench raid was measured by what the Body Snatchers achieved. If they didn’t bring back the requisite prisoners they would just be sent out again. Lewis would have to lead by example but he had hated fighting in school and had avoided it whenever he could. He had been hopeless at tackling in rugby. Tonight he would have to tackle men who were fighting for their lives.

  ‘Lieutenant Friday?’ West asked.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ll be leading the Body Snatchers.’

  ‘Yessir. Er, thank you, sir.

  11

  ‘Lewis. Lewis. It’s me – it’s Mummy. Wake up. Wake up, Lewis.’

  Lewis was groggy from sleep. Where was he?

  ‘You must come and help me – it’s your father.’

  She peeled back the bedclothes and he felt a wave of cold. He moaned and pulled at the blankets to try to pull them back over his shoulder, but he couldn’t find them. There seemed no other option now but to wake up. He opened his eyes. Mum was there in her long white nightie with an anxious look on her face. He thought she looked much older than she had earlier this evening.

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you up, luvvy,’ she said, ‘but I need you to help me.’

  He was awake now – still a bit muzzy, but awake. She had left his light off, but the light was on in the hall and the bedroom door was open. He climbed out onto the familiar rug and then stepped from there onto the floorboards. They went out onto the landing. Lewis blinked against the bright light. He rubbed his eyes. They went down the short stairs from his bedroom at the top of the house and then across the landing until they reached the top of the main stairs. At the bottom his father lay on his back. His eyes were closed but he seemed to be awake because he was talking to himself.

  ‘What’s wrong with Daddy?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Mum.

  She took his hand and they started down the stairs. As they did his father’s eyes opened. He watched the two of them descend.

  ‘He … should … be … in … bed.’

  He said each of the words very slowly, as if there was some difficulty in remembering them or getting them out. The words sounded very soft and floury.

  ‘Lewis,’ he said, in the same strange way. ‘You should be in bed.’

  ‘Come on, help me lift him.’

  Lewis’ mum took one of Dad’s arms and Lewis took the other. With Mum doing most of the lifting – Lewis found Dad was just a dead weight – they managed to get him sitting upright. Then Mum gave a huge gasp and lifted, and Dad seemed to help a little bit by shaking his arm free from Lewis’ grasp and putting a hand on the floor to lever himself up. However it was done, they got him into a precarious standing position.

  ‘We’re not going to get him upstairs,’ said Mum. ‘Come on. In here.’

  With his arm slung across Mum’s shoulder, and Lewis holding Dad’s hand and pushing against his leg, they managed to get him into the sitting room. They steered him to the couch and he collapsed onto it. Mum knelt down to untie his shoelaces and, as she did so, she said to Lewis, ‘Fetch some blankets from the cupboard upstairs, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘You’re a good boy, Lewis,’ said Dad in the same funny voice he’d used earlier.

  Lewis ran from the sitting room, up the stairs and returned with the blankets. By this time Dad’s shoes were off, his jacket and tie were thrown on a nearby chair and he was lying on the couch, head on one arm, feet on the other. Mum arranged the blankets over him. He appeared to be sleeping already.

  ‘Is he sick?’ Lewis asked, frightened.

  ‘No, he’s not sick,’ said Mum, concentrating on what she was doing.

  When Mum had finished, she put an arm around Lewis and led him out of the room. She turned out the light and shut the door. They heard a snore through the door.

  ‘No, he’ll be fine now,’ said Mum. ‘Come on.’

  He tucked in beside her as they climbed back up the stairs to his bedroom. He could feel her legs moving beneath the nightdress. She settled him back into bed and knelt there, stroking his face and hair, until he drifted off into a warm sleep.

  Next morning Lewis hoped he wouldn’t have to see his father. But while Lewis was eating breakfast he heard heavy steps on the stairs and then the sound of the toilet flushing. Dad came into the kitchen.

&
nbsp; ‘So how’re all my crew this morning?’ he asked.

  Lewis looked up and said, ‘Fine, Dad’, softly.

  Mum stood at the sink with her back to them and said nothing. Dad wore his trousers and braces, slippers and a vest. His face was red and he was sweating. His black hair looked oily. Mum poured a cup of tea silently, put it at Dad’s place and returned to the sink. Lewis saw that she was looking out the window. He stared at his Dad.

  ‘I’ll just have a couple of raw eggs in a glass please, Sue.’

  Without indicating that she’d heard him, Mum took eggs from the cupboard and broke them into a glass. She mixed the result with a fork.

  ‘I’ll be going away for most of next week,’ Dad announced. ‘There’s a trade show on in Newcastle. I’ll have to go up there on Sunday. Probably be back on Thursday.’

  Mum placed the yellowy glass in front of him and returned again to the sink and the window. Dad drank down the contents.

  ‘You’ll take care of Mummy until I get back, won’t you, Lewis?’

  He smelled of oily stuff on his hair, and his breath didn’t smell nice.

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘That’s a good boy.’

  12

  Helen’s house was a small, two-storey cottage with a flag-stoned path all round it, a lawn of rough grass at the back and a freshly cultivated vegetable patch on one side. A gate led in from the road. Lewis wheeled the bike through the gate and round to the back door. Here there was a double line of flagstones that made a small patio. The cottage looked out over Readymoney towards the sea. He turned the bike upside down, resting it on its handlebars and saddle. He tried to feel strong and manly and knowledgeable. In fact, he was quaking. Oh please don’t let me make a mess of it. Please let it work.