AT THE EDGE OF A LONG LONE LAND
I watched Robbie and David on the beach through grandad’s old spyglass from where I sat at the small table we always ate breakfast at in the hotel pub. They were walking with the pasties Mum made, trying to sell them to the fishermen. I saw Robbie drop a pastie and pick it up quickly, brushing the sand from it and replacing it on the tray.
It was quiet in the hotel because the few guests there were—four different couples had come to see the sights here at the farthest reaches of the country—were on a walking tour, hoping to be in Penzance before lunch. Da’ went out looking for Charlie.
“Have ye gone to see Felicity then?” Mum asked, stepping out of the kitchen. I turned to look up at her and shook my head as she cleaned up the scattered dishes, wiping the table quickly.
She came back out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron and went behind the desk, coming out a moment later with a small bundle of letters.
“What about her mail?” she said, sorting through the envelopes and laying them on the table in a cluster as she sat across from me. She pushed a few of the envelopes aside, looking at the letter from Felicity’s lawyer in London. “I imagine she’s been busy packing and hasn’t had the time to come get them.”
“Packing?” I said, finally putting the spyglass down. “She hasn’t been packing that I’ve seen.”
“And how would ye know that? Ye said ye haven’t been up there today.”
I sat silent, looking at the table.
“If she’s planning to go to London, you can be certain she’ll be getting herself ready.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she repeated after me.
“Why’s she going to London? Why not stay here?”
“Why, indeed? And what does it matter? Did you say for her to stay here? She should be remarrying, and having babies! She’s not going to find anyone here. Or were ye thinking she might wait for ye?”
“Wait for me? Why d’ye say that?”
“Do ye think I don’t know yer sneaking up there rather than selling the left over pasties?”
I felt myself turning red.
“Ah…so it’s true,” she said with a hint of resignation that made her shoulders sag. “I din’t want to believe yer Da’ when he told me—”
“It’s not what yer thinking—”
“And what would ye know about what I’m thinking?”
“I love her.”
“Do ye now?” she said, sitting back in her chair. “And I’m sure she loves yerself as much?”
“She will.”
“Will she? Have ye asked her?”
“I could never ask her that!”
“Then ye can’t claim to love her, can ye?”
Charlie and Da’ were in their cups they liked to say whenever they spent their days drinking cider and beer. “Charlie and I are gonna look for the bottom of our cups,” Da’ said, which simply meant the two of them intended to drink until neither one of them could walk, or talk. Charlie liked his beer as a chaser for the whiskey shots he held up in memory of the friends they’d lost. Da’ matched him drink for drink. Before too long, they were both singing old sea shanties from their youth, as well as popular songs they’d brought back from the Front with them.
Charlie would light cigarettes for Da’, pushing them into the small opening of Da’s mask, next to the straw Da’ drank his cider through. Charlie was quick to laugh at the smoke drifting up through the eyeholes of the mask, as well as the two small slits where Da’s nose should’ve been. Da’ sat with his head bent down low—trying to see I imagine—rolling cigarette after cigarette, and puffing on the one in his sculpted mouth like a locomotive making its way up a long hill. The red tip glowed in the dark corner where they sat, and soon his head was lost in a cloud of blue smoke.
The hotel’s guests, having returned from their walking tours, sat around a large table discussing the sights and smiling politely at the antics of Charlie and Da’. They’d raise their glasses whenever Charlie called out, nodding politely as he saluted the memory of fallen comrades: Kirk Walkley; Raymond Johnson and his brothers Quentin and Jason; Michael Wandler; Dale Hollman, and his brothers, Brent and Edward; the list of names expanded with the amount of drinks they consumed.
I watched Mum where she was seated with Felicity, one eye on her guests and the other on Charlie and Da’. Once in a while, I’d catch Felicity watching me, and once in a while I’d hear her laugh. She nodded encouragement to me whenever Charlie called me to join him and Da’ for a drink.
Mum saw to the needs of her guests, bringing wine, cider, or ale, as they called for it; and she saw to it that Robbie and David were tended to as well. She brought out a dinner of leek soup, braised ribs, mashed potatoes, greens and gravy, as well as Yorkshire puddings. As the afternoon progressed toward the evening, she thanked her guests for sharing their time with us. And then Felicity said she had to leave.
“An’ what’s that ye said yer husband’s name was, Mrs. Sidereal?” Charlie called out.
“Robert,” she said softly.
“I’d like t’ propose a drink in mem’ry of Robert Sidereal,” Charlie called out. “Where was ‘e killed, if ye don’t mind me askin’?”
“Where?” she said. “Wherever they shoot cowards.”
Charlie looked at Da’.
“Ye know, Mrs. Sidereal—” Da’ said slowly.
“Yes Mr. Barrett?” she said stiffly.
“John,” Mum said softly, shaking her head, but Da’ went on talking.
“Just before I was wounded,” he said without pause, as if Felicity’s answering him were a prompt for him to continue, “me an’ several men of me unit were asked—maybe I should say ordered—(they never asked ye t’ do anything they couldn’t tell ye t’ do, did they Charlie?)—but several of us were ordered t’ report, ‘for service t’ the King’, as they liked t’ call it; t’ bear witness,” he said with a slow shake of his head.
“To bear witness to what, Mr. Barrett?”
I looked at Mum who was standing as silent as Lot’s wife, her back turned but listening, looking as though she were afraid of what Da’ might say. I didn’t know if it was for his sake, or Felicity’s.
“Please, Jack,” Mum said, the soft plea in her voice almost lost in the cavernous silence of the room.
“No Tillie, it has t’ be done,” Da’ said, waving her off drunkenly. “It needs t’ be said, it does.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Barrett?” Felicity asked.
“A man goes over the top an’ runs headlong in t’ death every time he goes into battle ,” Da’ said, and Charlie nodded. “That a man lives through his first day—or his first attack—isn’t a testamen’ t’ his brav’ry, or the stragedy of those in command, but sheer, dumb luck. It’s nothing short of miraculous. I mean, how’s it possible t’ walk through a hail of bullets an’ not get shot? It’s like standin’ in the rain, an’ not getting’ wet. But it’s what they tol’ us t’ do, an’ so we did it, din’t we Charlie? Without question.”
“Without question,” Charlie echoed, lifting his drink in salute.
“He was a coward, Mr. Barrett, and they shot him for his cowardice.”
Da’ shook his head slowly. “There’s more t’ it’n that, Mrs. Sidereal; there always is. Even though I never knew the man, I knew men like ‘im. The fact ‘e lived as long as ‘e did, proves ‘e was a brave man. ‘E went over the top more times’n any man has a right to, is what that means. ‘E was simply the victim of a bad decision.”
“And what exactly is that? A bad decision?” she asked quickly.
“Din’t they tell ye? He shot hisself in the foot.”
“I wish I would’ve done that,” Charlie said softly, and we all looked at him.
“Aye,” Da’ said with a slow nod.
“It’s a coward’s way out,” Felicity said sharply.
“An’ what would ye know of that, Mrs. Sidereal?” Charlie said slowly. “Had I shot mesself in the foot, I’d’ve been shipped ‘ome, wouldn’t I? I’d still ‘ave two arms, an’ two legs. I wouldn’t be the freak I am now—the freak ever’one sees me as. I’d’ve ‘ad a limp t’ be sure, but nothin’ more’n that. But I couldn’t do it. I thought about it. But I couldn’t get up the nerve.”
“What kind of nerve does it take to shoot yourself in the foot?”
“More’n ye could imagine,” Da’ said with another slow shake of his head. “I only bring it up ‘cause I was there when ‘e died. I was a witness t’ his final words—they always let ye have yer final words, don’t they Charlie?”
“Aye, that they do, Jack,” Charlie said, slamming the table with an open hand. “That they do!”
“And you feel compelled to share his final words, do you Mr. Barrett?” Felicity asked as she began pulling on her overcoat.
“I’d’ve never pegged ‘im fer bein’ with someone as young as yerself,” Da’ said in a soft whisper, the blank stare of his mask making it impossible to read his look. She paused momentarily, tilting her head briefly, and then looked at Mum as Da’ went on explaining himself.
“He looked old—standin’ there an’ list’nin’ t’ the charges they read out—so old, that if ye asked me I’d’ve never pointed t’ yerself as ‘is wife. I s’pose that’s why his final thoughts were of yerself? That’s why I’ll never forget ‘im. ‘Tell my wife I love her’, ‘e says out loud. Even knowin’ ye’d never get the message, ‘is last thoughts, ‘is dyin’ words, were for yerself. An’ all ye can say is ‘e died a coward.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barrett,” she said, turning with her gloves in hand and walking toward the door. “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that.”
“Ye might not sleep better for knowin’ it,” Da’ said as she closed the door behind her, “but I will,” he added, more to himself than anyone else.
“Oh, John,” Mum said through soft-fallen tears. She walked to him and hugged him to her breast. “Ye foolish old sop.”
I didn't know it, but that night would be the last moments I’d spend with Felicity. She was bound for London in the morning—or so Mum said as she chatted and cleaned the tables. She stopped suddenly, looking at me with a purposeful stare.
“I suppose now that I’ve told ye, ye’ll be slipping out tonight to see her?”
“Tilly, let ‘im be,” Da’ said, half sitting in his chair and unable to move. “If that’s what it takes t’ keep ‘im ‘ere, instead of runnin’ off an’ signin’ up, so be it. Let ‘im, I says.”
“Jack!” Mum said.
“Would ye rather ‘e left one night an’ din’t come back? That’s what ‘e’s wantin’ t’ do. I know; I can see it in ‘im.”
Mum looked at me for a moment and it felt as if she looked right through me.
“Is that true Jackie? Are ye still thinkin’ of joinin’ up?”
“She din’t strike me as someone what loved ‘im though, did she?” Da’ went on in his drunken slur. “‘E looked much older’n I would’ve thought.”
“Who?”
“That woman—Mrs. Sidereal—Felicity. ‘Er husband, I mean. I don’t think she loved ‘im—not as much as he loved ‘er, that’s for certain. That a man knows ‘e’s about t’ die, an’ saves ‘is last words for the woman ‘e loves,” Da’ said with a low moan sounding like a sigh.
“She hardly knew him, Jack. They were only married a short time before he signed up.”
“An’ what of yerself then?”
“Me?” she asked with a laugh.
“‘Ow long we were t’gether ‘fore I left t’ fight the Boers?”
“It’s not the same. I was all ready with child when ye left; I just din’t know it.”
“Aye. With child. An’ there ‘e stands afore ye, a man full growed,” Da’ said.
“Yer drunk, Jack Barrett.”
“Aye. That I am,” Da’ said.
“It’s time we were puttin’ ye to bed,” she said.
“Aye.”
“What about Charlie?” I asked.
“D’ye think ye can carry him up to a room if I get it ready?” Mum asked, and I nodded.
