Harry Bingham - The Sons of Adam

‘Let’s get you home.’

‘Not hurt? Not wounded?’

‘Typical of the gardener’s boy, eh? No, completely unhurt. Not a scratch. Now come on back.’

Alan giggled in relief, but his emotions were still all over the place. He was laughing but could just as easily be crying. ‘Sounds like he’s the hero once again. You must have been pleased to see him. So pleased. Soooo pleased.’

‘Mmm,’ Guy agreed, without enthusiasm. Tom’s extraordinary record through four days of intense fighting had been somewhat muddied by a blazing row he’d had with one of the brigadier’s aides on the day of his return to the rear. Tom, incensed by the massacre he’d been in the middle of, had accused High Command of butchery. He’d more or less called Haig a murderer. It had taken Guy’s intervention to prevent Tom from getting into serious disciplinary trouble. ‘He can be a damn fool, that man. Now look, old chap, you’re looking awfully queer. Don’t you think you’d better –’

But Alan’s mood had become suddenly belligerent. ‘You’re the fool, a big bloody fool. And what’s worse, much worse, you’re a bloody staff officer fool.’

Guy’s voice tautened. He could see Alan was hardly himself, but it was dangerous territory that he was entering. ‘Alan, that’s enough –’

‘Bloody staff officers. Just as Tom says. Bloody, skulking, yellow, behind-the-lines, staff bloody –’

‘Stop it!’ Guy gripped his brother’s arm, attempting to swing him back round to the village. ‘I’m taking you home. You need some –’

‘No, I don’t.’ There was a roaring in his ears and a buzzy quality to his vision. He suddenly thought of Lisette, and wanted her with a passionate longing, rejoicing in the knowledge that if Tom was alive, then everything in the whole wide world would be all right. He pushed Guy away with both hands.

‘Don’t touch me. There’s someone I need to see … I have to go.’

Guy looked at his brother with sudden acuteness. ‘You’ve got a girl, have you? You?’

‘“I’ve got a little lady by the name of Sue,”’ sang Alan. ‘Not Sue actually, Lisette.’ He was babbling. He waved at the farmhouse where she lived. ‘Lisette, Lisette.’

‘That farm? The one just there, with the red-painted gables?’ Guy’s tone was half urgent, half incredulous.

‘That farm there.’

A delighted smile spread across Guy’s face. He released his grip so suddenly that Alan tottered and almost fell.

‘Go on then. Go.’

‘I’m going.’

‘Go to your precious Lisette. You’ll see just how precious she is. Her and your beloved twin.’

And Guy escorted Alan the two hundred yards to the farm. Before they were even halfway, Alan lost his desire to go there. He wanted to see Tom and he wanted to sleep. ‘Lisette will be there for me in the morning,’ he chanted.

But Guy’s determination was fixed. When Alan’s feet stumbled and dragged, Guy lifted him bodily, so anxious was he to get Alan to the farmhouse door. When Guy finally had Alan propped against the doorpost, he left him there, saying, ‘Go on, go in. I’m sure your arrival will be a delightful surprise. I’ll catch up with you later, old man. Toodle-oo.’

The farm door was never locked and Alan let himself in. The range was warm and a couple of cakes, yellow and creamy with egg, were cooling on the sideboard, a wire net over them. Lisette wasn’t there, probably out. Alan felt too happy to think. He was safe. Tom was safe. And nothing else in the whole world mattered.

There was some old coffee cooling in a pot. Alan drank it. The smell jerked at a memory. ‘Mind the bloody coffee’ – Major Fletcher – polished leather boots on a map-covered chest – loping monkey arms – ‘Keep your own bloody head from being shot off – then nothing: just a poor sod with his left arm loose between his knees and all his precious company lying dead about him.

Alan lifted the mesh from the cakes and stole a piece. It was good cake and he ate hungrily, before noticing that the cat was eating hungrily too. He chased the cat off and replaced the mesh. Upstairs, there was a sound: a creaking of floorboards and laughter. Of course! Idiot! Naturally, Lisette would still be upstairs. Why not? It was morning. What better place to be than bed?

Alan went upstairs, using his hands as well as his feet to avoid falling on the steep wooden staircase. The sound of laughter was louder now.

‘Lisette?’ Alan bounded along a corridor and burst through a door. ‘Lisette!’

The word died in his throat. There in bed lay not one person but two. Lisette and, next to her, naked and at home, was Tom.

There was a moment’s silence. All three people were shocked. In that tiny gap of time, nothing had yet been said, no damage done, no lives ruined.

The moment didn’t last.

Alan’s emotions looped again. An indescribable fury surged through him. ‘You bastard!’ he screamed. ‘You thieving, sodding, bloody bastard!’

Alan flung himself at Tom, fists flailing, blind with hot tears of rage. Tom defended himself. Although Alan was hitting with all his strength, he was exhausted and weak, and his lungs were rasping for breath. Tom slid from bed, grabbed his clothes and attempted to hide from the hail of blows. He didn’t fight back.

‘You bastard! You steal every fucking thing that matters to me! Lisette was all I had! All I wanted was Lisette.’

‘Alan, old chap – steady on – I didn’t know you were coming back.’

‘Alain, tais-toi, sois sage!’ cried Lisette, frightened and appealing for calm.

‘Everything that ever matters.’

‘Jesus, brother. There’s no need. You can have her. I didn’t –’

‘I don’t want to have her because you say I can. I don’t want …’ Alan’s attack was hardly serious now. Tom struggled to get his trousers on, keeping Alan at a distance with his stronger right arm. Lisette helped as well as she could.

‘Guy was out there, wasn’t he? Why in hell didn’t he keep you away? He knew I was here.’

‘Guy? He knew, oh yes, he knew. He carried me here. Carried me. So I would know who you were. And I know now, all right. I know .’

Tom was dressed from the waist down now and had his hands on his boots. ‘Take care, Alan, take care what you say.’

Alan steadied himself with his back against the chalky lime-washed wall. Although his face was purple with bruises, adrenaline had given him more control than he’d had with Guy. His extreme shock and nervous collapse was no longer obvious. It was easy for Tom to mistake him for a man upset, but otherwise in control of his faculties.

‘What I mean is,’ said Alan, speaking as distinctly as he was able, ‘that Guy has been right about you all along. You have some fine things about you, no doubt, but in the end you’re the sodding little gardener’s boy. Please get your hands off my girl and get out of here.’

‘Alan, for God’s sake, be careful. Some things can’t be unsaid, you know.’

‘Alan, s’il te plaît, calm down, I’ll make you coffee, I’ll explain.’ Lisette implored Alan for calm, but the situation had travelled too far.

Alan tried to pull a revolver, but he managed to snag the barrel as he pulled it from its holster, and the gun clattered uselessly to the ground. Tom snatched the gun up and tossed it out of the window into the cattle trough below.

Alan lurched to the doorway and steadied himself on the doorpost. ‘Guy is my brother. You’re a gardener’s boy who fucks my girl.’ He shook his head. ‘And by the way, I’m never going to drill in Persia with you. Why would I? As far as I know, the concession belongs to the Montague family. It doesn’t belong to the fucking staff.’