He loved the curve of her lips. That was all he could say with certainty. He hadn’t heard of love ‘til a couple of years ago, when a few of the lads who could read got hold of some novels. They didn’t pinch them! The old woman probably brought them; she would come with trifle and sandwiches and some old books and toys a few Sundays a year and every Christmas Eve. In those books at least, love seemed to be a prize to strive for, something even better than pounds and shillings.
For him though, a little money would be best. If only he had some, he could replace his jacket or at least repair the shoulder which hung off at the seams. He wasn’t sure but if he just had a little extra money he might be able to afford a house. She would look just lovely in the evening with sunlight coming through even the smallest window. Yes, some pounds or shillings would be nice. Still the curve of her lips and the way she spoke and laughed was something he thought about at least twenty times a day. Until then he never thought about anything twenty times a day, except for food maybe.
He supposed that Jack was a decent enough man; he would sometimes shout if the measurements were wrong but really he had been good to him. He gave him a job even though there aren’t many who trust lads from the home and he’d often find an extra shilling in his wage if the sawdust was swept up properly. He even gave him that sturdy little chair with the crooked back. The landlady hadn’t approved of new furniture coming into the room but he had pleaded and she gave in. She wasn’t a likeable woman, all hunched and harsh she was. Yet she would make porridge in the morning and sometimes bread and butter pudding for afters at teatime.
The landlady was the first to tell him what Asquith said in the Commons, she seemed to talk more than usual that evening. She was proud that her country was entering the struggle. She wasn’t sure of the reasons why but that didn’t stop her being proud, particularly of her sister’s son who had already volunteered. He would look so smart in the uniform. He had her father’s strong and handsome profile, he’d make a fine soldier.
It was the uniform which first made him consider it. He didn’t think he was handsome. Still a uniform would at least make him look more grown up when he got home at Christmas.
Yes, he’d be more worthy of her if he signed up and got the uniform. They met every Saturday afternoon at the gate of the workshop. She’d always be carrying a big box of vegetables. He would stare at the box or at his boots. Sometimes he would find the courage to look into her eyes; they were always bright and happy. He would talk about what jobs he and Jack were doing, about the weather and he’d ask after her father who was poorly. ‘He’s been much better this week’ she would say, until the old man died. Jack told him he had to go and pay his respects and said, ‘for some reason, unbeknownst to me that young lass seems to have her heart set on you.’ He laughed a bit too much and wondered for a minute if Jack wasn’t joking. He told her he was sorry for her loss, that her father was a kind and honest man. He realised right away that it probably sounded daft, he’d never met him and by all accounts he was a tight-fisted ol’ git. He shook her hand and held on for far too long. That Saturday in August he told her he was going to volunteer he thought she looked sad but he wasn’t sure.
The uniform wasn’t as good as he expected. The jacket snagged on wire when he and Jim Crowley were filling the sandbags and the whole front pocket came away. Mud kept building up on the sleeves and although it was fumigated for a nasty dose of lice it still itched like hell. The boots filled with wet mud so often it built up and hardened and made them feel three sizes too small. The trousers were far too baggy and seemed to get worse by the day. Christmas had passed and so had his chance to look his best in the uniform.
He felt lonely again for the first time in a long while; he even missed the landlady a bit. All the lads in his division were on the same boat he supposed. Still they had their letters. He thought hard about writing home; Jack and his Mrs would probably be glad to hear from him. Of course Jack was one of the only people able to understand his scribbles. He thought about writing to her too but couldn’t quite work out what to say.
Simon Young was the best friend he met in the trenches, such a likeable lad he was. When he talked and my God, he didn’t half talk, there was a lull in the boredom. There was one day he managed to go on about horses for what seemed like hours. He had a Clydesdale mare called Maisy. His great-uncle let him keep her on his farm if he and the horse helped out with some of the more strenuous jobs. He hoped that Maisy would be well fed and wouldn’t be worked too hard when he was at the front. He told his father who to bet on in last year’s Grand National and he had made a good few bob. They had listened to the race together. When Percey Woodland rode Covertcoat over the line his old man let him have a drink of Brandy for the first and only time.
Simon died on his third week in the trench.
He must have forgot himself and lifted his head to look across the parapet. It wasn’t obvious right away that the sniper’s bullet got him. It looked like he was sitting, hunched over, thinking. They should have realised he would never have been quiet for so long.
On his first stint on the frontline not long after Simon died he heard them refer to the ‘stand-to-arms’ as the ‘daily hate.’ He felt a wave of sickness. It wasn’t the smell for once but the word, he didn’t have it in him to hate.
He cleaned his rifle as instructed and shot into the dawn.
He went over the top and killed three men.
He killed three men he didn’t hate.
When he made it back to the reserve line amongst the swarms of rats and new batch of fearful faces he could manage a few minutes sleep here and there. He dreamt about the men. He could only remember one of their faces clearly and couldn’t work out if it was full of anger or fear. The man’s grimace was there every time he closed his eyes. The young Alleyman, all grey and bleeding, would open his dead mouth to speak. He woke up with the smell of hot iron in his nostrils, sweating in the mud. He couldn’t breathe properly when he had those dreams, his breath would come out in short sharp gasps and his lungs felt like they had shrunk.
He thought about her more than twenty times a day now.
The constant sound of artillery fire and shells gave him a dull ache in the centre of his head and a ringing in his ears. One morning just before dawn he swore that he could hear birdsong in the distance. After the ‘stand-to’ there was just the ringing again.
He tried to remember her voice when the noise got too much. He tried very hard to remember her voice.
The stench of death was worse when he was sent to the frontline for the second time; it was so strong he couldn’t even smell the latrines. It made his eyes water. He pinched his nose and breathed in through his mouth holding his breath for as long as possible and then blowing it down towards his mud caked boots. He spent hours like this, trying to block out the putrid smell and staring at the sky. It was grey and dull most of the time but it still comforted him a bit. He told himself that somewhere the same sky looked down on life rather than so much dirt and death.
He would write her a letter when he was back on reserve. She might not understand his handwriting or even why he had written at all. Still, he felt it was best to write.
He could see only mud and mist before the blinding flash.
After that he never saw or heard or felt again.
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