The Angel of Mons - Chapter nineteen

Nineteen

When George returned to the living room the thin winter sun was shining through the large windows over the small un-kept garden. A light breeze blew leaves across the long grass and the rose by the bench hung forlornly in its large pot, suckers growing wild and dead heads hanging with rotting leaves.
He picked up the photographs sat in his brother’s chair and smiled. He thought back to the times shortly after Liz and he had married. They lived with his mother in the Gables. It was obvious to George that she was happy to have a full house again. And he remembered how she seemed to grow stronger every day. She smiled and sung tuneless tunes as she busied herself around the house. George would sit for hours and watch the boy as he lay on the drawing room floor just as he and Graham had, in front of the fire playing with his wooden soldiers.
George would stir occasionally; walk over to the fire to stoke the embers and add another log, or to light a cigarette from a piece of kindling. He would stand with his back to the orange glow and look across the room, Liz in the corner by the window looking out across the misty countryside, the child mumbling and humming the rallying calls of bugles and the roar of battle. And he would feel a glow inside like sunshine in his stomach, a light headed tingle of contentment and happiness.
Three weeks before Christmas in 1919 George returned home from a shopping expedition in London, and he felt a shiver run through his body. It pulled at his neck under his skin and as the afternoon turned to evening it felt as though every joint in his body, particularly around his damaged leg was swelling - he thought his entire body was going to seize solid.
Liz placed a caring palm on his forehead frowned and bit her lip. She ushered him upstairs and tucked him into bed. For a while he resented the fuss. He felt such a fool, after all he had been through he thought he should be able to see off a cold without any difficulty.
The fire in his room was lit and as he lay staring into the flames he could feel the glow burning on his face, as if he were laying in the amber’s at the heart of the fire itself. He slept. And he dreamt of corpses swollen up and stinking mud, their lipless faces in a permanent grin their dark empty eyes laughing.
He dreamt he was hanging on a thread, which grew larger in his hand, all around was black but he was aware of a great terrible void beneath him. He could no longer hold the thread that turned into a rope, he wrapped his arms around it but felt it grow so he could hold on no longer. He fell, into the dark, he fell and waited for the ground to rush at him and break him. He squirmed in the air and every movement was accompanied by a terrible aching pain, which gripped his body, as if a huge hand were crushing him, squeezing the life from him.
He dreamt he was in a church with his back to the alter. To his right were his friends, with Liz and the boy, behind him he felt a comforting hand, he did not look round he had no need. To his left stood his brother his mother a young woman and a child. The child was holding his own mother’s skirt and pointing. Pointing at George.
When George finally woke he could hear the sound of weeping. His body was still stiff and his joints raw, but his head was clear. He could feel dampness in his bed, the sheets were soiled and his body was covered in sweat.
There was a tray next to his bed and his mother who was looking at him tried to smile through her tears.
Liz and the boy had died the day before within an hour of each other. The child first. Liz had not known the boy was ill.
They lay together in the casket; George turned to the heavens his features etched with anger. He prayed for them to return and hung his head over their sleeping faces in the hope that he would find a tiny breath, the smallest sign life.
He had seen men blown in half, their guts spread across the ground, smoking and smiling, still alive for a while. How could they be dead he wondered? George took the oldest of the two tiny chains of flowers and lay it on her chest. “Goodbye my loves” he had whispered.

Suddenly George felt the cold and realised it was growing dark outside. He frowned when he looked at the clock on the mantle piece. It was nearly four in the afternoon. He had been sitting in his brother’s chair all day.
He made his way into the kitchen put the kettle on and fed Bully, who scoffed ravenously. George stood next to the boiler in the corner of the room and felt its warmth. He leant on it and allowed the heat to run through his body. Suddenly he felt alive. Just as he used to feel after coming in from the front line and knowing he had survived another day. As he felt when he arrived at his billet with his friends and they took off their heavy bags, lay down their weapons sat warm among the other men, there stomachs full their memories hazy from the sweet red wine.
That night George slept better than he could remember. He woke fresh and felt a strange excitement in him. He shaved and ate a cooked breakfast. The sun was shining bright as he backed the car from the garage, he wrapped a thick scarf around his neck, adjusted his cap and tightened the belt on his over coat. He lowered the roof of the car and with radio blaring he sped up Hobsons Walk, down the Greenway and away onto the Ikneild way.
He stopped briefly at Faulks and bought some food and two bunches of winter flowers. “I knew your Grandfather,” he announced to the young man behind the counter, “bloody good fiddler, couldn’t keep his trousers on though. Had his dick shot off at Loos and we said it served him right,” he continued as he counted his change. Faulks junior made no reply, but stood with his mouth wide open as if he were expecting to be fed.
George pulled up at the church gate and his mind flashed back to Peter’s wedding and how handsome he was and how perfect she looked. It was his favourite memory of the place which had had so many moments that had affected him in so many ways.
He cleared some old flowers from the grave of his mother and pulled long grass from Graham’s patch. He placed a few flowers in the small stone urns and touched the carved messages with the tips of his fingers.
Then he went to the grave opposite. It was overgrown and the old lichen covered stone was leaning slightly away from the grave. He took off his jacket and cleared the area. He pulled up the grass with his bare hands and scrubbed the stone with a stiff brush. He put on his jacket and smiled at his handy work. “I won’t be long now,” he whispered, smiling, “I won’t be long now.”
It was growing dark as George pulled into Hobsons Walk. He was whistling to himself a marching tune, a song from the trenches and the thought of it sent shivers down his spine and formed a lump in his throat. It was only as he turned into the drive and his headlights scanned across his neighbour garden that he noticed the sign.
He stopped the car suddenly displacing gravel across the paving slabs. He pulled on the gear stick engaging reverse and with a high pitched crunch which sounded as though the car were complaining like a whipped horse. The car jerked back, and the lights rested on the ‘For Sale,’ notice, which stood on a single six-foot pole.
George stared from the car and bit his lip. He shook his head and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
That night George paced around the house. He had a whisky, then a hot drink, he made himself a hot water bottle, he read a little and listened to the radio, sleep eluded him.
He sat by the fire and stared into the ambers, he added coal and watched it burn; he added more and gazed unblinking until it too was gone. He agonised trying not to look at the clock, but gave in time and time again only to be disappointed by its slow progress. And at last when the black of the night gave way to a steel grey of the winters morning, he began to brace himself for what he had to do.
George stationed himself at eight o clock, just inside the garage, coal bucket in hand, full, and waited. He knew they would not appear for at least ten minutes but could not take the chance that that morning they may leave early. His watch seemed to stand still and his body trembled as the icy wind blew between the houses. He leant against the open wooden door out of site of the entrance to number six, stepping from his good leg to his bad and back again over and over.
“Hurry now Joseph, and don’t make too much noise,” she whispered.
When George stepped around the side of the garage, Terri visibly jumped. She looked down and ushered Joseph forward. It was obvious to George that she would continue without saying a word to him if he let her.
“Terri,” he called. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, took two more steps, and then stopped. Her head lowered and for a moment she was still. She did not look up as she turned, but said quietly, “I have been wanting to say something, I just haven’t been able to find the right time. It’s the house; it’s too small now. I’m sorry, we’re not going to far, just the other side of Wendover, we will still see you,” she said her eyes only meeting his as she spoke the last few words, and then quickly moving from him back to the grey stone path.
George stepped forward and ran his fingers through Joseph’s hair, who looked up at him smiling.