Graham Swift - Wish You Were Here

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From the Booker Prize-winning author of Last Orders comes an incredibly moving and accomplished new novel. A Vintage Canada trade paperback original.
On an autumn day in 2006, on the Isle of Wight, Jack Luxton, former Devon farmer and now the proprietor of a seaside caravan park, receives the news that his soldier brother Tom, not seen for years, has been killed in Iraq. For Jack and his wife Ellie this will have a potentially catastrophic impact. For Jack in particular it means a crucial journey-to receive his brother's remains, but also into his own most secret, troubling memories and into the land of his and Ellie's past. Wish You Were Here is both a gripping account of things that touch and test our human core and a resonant novel about a changing England. Rich with a sense of the intimate and the local, it is also, inescapably, about a wider, afflicted world. Moving towards an almost unbearably tense climax, it allows us to feel the stuff of headlines-the return of a dead soldier from a foreign war-as heart-wrenching personal truth.

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So he hadn’t, though it had cost him a struggle. He’d looked at Ellie, who’d remained standing oddly by the front door, her back to it, as if there was something bad beyond it, though she’d looked, too, as if she were struggling with something inside her. It was the real shock and truth of it all, perhaps, only now getting through. But he didn’t get up to go to her. He knew that something had come between them since that letter. All it took was a letter. But there was an invisible wall. If he walked across to her now, he’d hit it.

They’d both listened to the sounds of Major Richards starting his car, turning it and driving off down the road to Holn. Ellie had stood there in that strange way by the door. He’d thought: Is she going to cry now, is she finally going to cry for Tom, so I don’t have to? But she hadn’t cried, not then, nor at any point in the days that followed, and when, the next day, Major Richards had called again, Ellie had picked up the phone and more or less handed it straight to Jack as if it were some matter that was none of her business. ‘Major Richards,’ she’d said as if Jack now had friends in high places.

Major Richards had told Jack he could now confirm that Corporal Luxton’s repatriation, along with that of the two soldiers who’d died with him, would take place on the following Thursday. He’d given the name of an airbase that Jack had vaguely heard of, though he wouldn’t have been able to place it in Oxfordshire. Major Richards had also explained that because of the unusual delay in arranging repatriation (he didn’t explain that this delay was partly down to the delay in contacting Corporal Luxton’s next of kin) and because, meanwhile, thorough post-mortem procedures had been completed overseas, the Oxfordshire coroner, having read the MOD report and satisfied himself of the facts, would be prepared to grant an effectively immediate release. That is, an inquest would be formally opened and at once adjourned on arrival of the repatriation flight, while the bodies could proceed directly, for their funerals, to their respective undertakers.

Major Richards pointed out that, in his experience, this was quite exceptional — for the civil authority to accept the military authority’s findings — and even suggested, in his tone, that Jack ought, really, to be grateful. Jack, who had his own experience of coroners and inquests, didn’t feel it was exceptional. Or, rather, he felt that everything was now exceptional, so exceptionality had become the norm.

Major Richards was spared from explaining, as he normally had to, though often hinting that it wasn’t a recommendation, that next of kin had the right to view the body while it rested in the coroner’s care. In this instance such a matter would be between Jack and his undertakers. But Major Richards hoped it had never entered Jack’s head.

The situation, anyway, was that Jack was now free to make plans for Corporal Luxton’s funeral — in which, of course, there would be full cooperation. In case Jack hadn’t understood these last remarks, Major Richards spelt it out that Jack would need to decide whether he wanted a private funeral or a funeral with military presence. This could be arranged. That in any case an undertaker’s hearse would need to be at the airbase to receive the coffin following the ceremony and that the costs of this transportation, as well as all the costs of Jack’s and Mrs Luxton’s ‘compassionate travel’, would be met by the army.

Jack (after a silence) had found himself saying the word Devon. The funeral would be in Devon. He’d even blurted out to Major Richards the name of an under-taker — since, limited as Jack’s dealings were in many areas, he’d had dealings in this area, too, before. Babbages in Barnstaple. He’d had to arrange once, with Babbages, his father’s funeral. He knew the ropes in this area. On the other hand, the ropes now were rather different. Then again, his father’s ropes hadn’t been so simple.

Jack had said, ‘Marleston. Marleston, north Devon.’ Then explained for Major Richards’s benefit that the nearest large town was Barnstaple. At the same time Jack had thought: the Isle of Wight to Oxfordshire, then to Marleston and back again. It would mean at least one night away somewhere.

Major Richards had explained that Jack and Mrs Luxton would be sent further, full details of the ceremony. And of course a formal invitation. To Jack, the word ‘invitation’ didn’t seem like a word that went with the army, though in this case it didn’t seem like the right word anyway. Major Richards had said that meanwhile he’d continue to ‘liaise’ (which seemed a real army word) by phone and even, if convenient, by a further visit, and that Jack shouldn’t hesitate if there were anything he wished to ask.

Though this last point was one Major Richards had made before, in person and with genuine kindness in his voice, Jack somehow felt that, now, it really meant its opposite: that the decent thing was actually to hesitate completely — not to ask anything at all. It was as if Major Richards had become his commanding officer and had just said that any man was free, of course, to back out if he wished, but the decent thing was not to. It was like a test of soldiership.

It had always been, in any case, Jack’s basic position in life to hesitate to ask too many questions. He knew that he would never ask (though he would certainly wonder) exactly how — let alone why — his brother had died (he knew that the army would prefer him not to ask such questions). In the same way that he’d never raised with Ellie the question, the peculiarity of their two fathers dying in such quick succession. Was death so infectious?

*

When he came off the phone, Jack explained to Ellie that they were bringing Tom home. He’d been given a date. There would be a ceremony, at some airbase. And they were free to make immediate arrangements for the funeral.

So far, there hadn’t been much discussion between them about this inevitable prospect. It would have to be at Marleston, of course, Jack now said. It was his decision. Though he wondered soon afterwards — and he wonders still now — how different it might have been if he’d said that they should have the thing done locally. For the closeness and the convenience. At least then Ellie might not have wriggled out. Though would she have liked the idea either?

In the twenty-four hours following Major Richards’s visit Jack had felt that invisible wall settle only more rigidly between them — the wall, so he might have thought of it, of Ellie’s failure to reach out and comfort him. Except it sometimes seemed — it was like an unjust reversal of the situation — that this might stem from some baffling failure on his part to comfort her.

As if he should have said, ‘I’m sorry, Ell. I’m truly sorry.’ Without knowing what for.

A local funeral. A cremation even. So then they might have scattered the ashes — scattered Tom — over Holn Head. Or into the waves at Sands End. Stood together on the beach. Or in among the caravans. But Jack didn’t like the idea of cremation. It called up bad pictures. Being a farmer, he naturally went for burial. And he had the distinct feeling that Tom might have been half-cremated already.

But, anyway, Marleston. Where else? He might have said: where all the rest of them are. All Saints’ churchyard.

They would have to go to this — ceremony. Then they’d have to go on to the funeral in Marleston. They’d have to find somewhere to stay. Though, of course, they’d be just a mile or so from Jebb and Westcott, their former places of residence.

It was important to Jack, though it was also natural, that when he explained these things he used the word ‘we’, just as Major Richards had said ‘you and Mrs Luxton’. In the pit of his stomach there was starting to form a tight ball of fear about this journey, this two-stage journey as it now turned out — about all the things, known and unknown, that it would entail. He hadn’t yet begun to contemplate every daunting detail. Yet it had to be done. It was, though the word was hardly good enough, a duty. And it wasn’t as if he, Jack, was being asked, like his brother, to enter a war zone, and so was entitled to this onset of fear. They’d have to go to a couple of places in England, that’s all, one of them very familiar. And Ellie, Jack told himself, would be beside him.

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