Graham Swift - Wish You Were Here

He was Jack Luxton, Corporal Luxton’s brother — people knew by now — and he stuck out plainly with his height and his size, but he would surely go down in people’s memories, Jack thought later, as the mysterious man who simply came and went all by himself, the mysterious man who’d stood at the back, but had gone up afterwards to the hearse where his brother’s coffin lay, to the open rear door, and simply bent and touched the coffin — no, held it, clung to it, for several long, gluing seconds, gripped the two wooden corners nearest to him with his big thick hands as if he might never let go.

Many of those around him saw him do this. Just stand there like that, attached to the coffin. Then when they looked for him again a little later — he’d disappeared.

The two drivers, realising who he must be, had simply stepped aside. The flag had been removed. There was just the bare wood, with a brass plate (and no garlands). This was different from the other two coffins — and everyone would notice and remember this too — and was all, in fact, according to Jack’s instructions. Major Richards had explained on the phone that, in this exceptional instance (since the hearses weren’t provided by the army), the flags would be either retained or, according to the bereaved’s wishes, removed and folded by the bearers and presented to the mourning parties. Major Richards hadn’t pushed it either way, but Jack had felt again that it was as if he’d been told he was free to step down, though the done thing was not to move.

But Jack had said — it had just come out, it was one of his occasional, forceful blurtings — that he didn’t want the flag. If it was his say-so, then he was saying so. He didn’t want it left on the coffin, and he didn’t want it himself. He said — and this had just come out too — that he wanted it given to the ‘battalion’. He’d used Major Richards’s word. He wanted the battalion to have it.

And what would he have done with it? Where would he have put it? They didn’t have a flagpole, he thought once again. But, anyway, he didn’t want the present of any flag. Major Richards, down the phone, had been silent for a while, then had said (with a detectable but awkward sigh of relief), ‘That’s — a fine gesture, Mr Luxton. But, if you should change your mind …’

He wrenched his hands from the coffin, from its bare wood, then turned to the two drivers. He was surprised by the sudden outward authority and decisiveness he seemed now to have acquired. Had it come from the coffin? He shook the drivers’ hands. He said, ‘I am Tom Luxton’s brother, Jack Luxton. I am very grateful.’ It seemed oddly like the reverse of the hand-shaking he’d done a little while ago inside the building. It seemed as if he were some senior, elevated dignitary acknowledging these two black-clad drivers in their great loss. He felt a sudden pity, but also an admiration, even a strange envy for these men who would have to drive his brother’s body, sitting with it behind them, for some hundred and fifty miles. He had a sudden sense too of having imposed on them outrageously and of having ducked out of what should have been his own task. Had it been possible — had the coffin fitted — he might have offered to lower the back seats in the Cherokee and take over their job.

But they’d looked at him as if they might have saluted. They said, ‘Sir,’ and ‘Mr Luxton.’ He wanted to gather these men, too, into his arms. But, instead, he took his wallet from his back pocket, opened it and felt the edges of the notes inside. He didn’t care if this were the right thing or not. And he didn’t care that it would be forty now, for the two of them, not twenty. When would this ever happen again? He’d had no idea what his incidental expenses might be for this extraordinary journey, but he’d drawn out a good wad of cash just in case. It was only money that would have been spent in St Lucia.

He handed them each a twenty. They might have made some small, token gesture of protest, but they said, ‘Thank you, sir … Thank you, sir,’ as if he’d pinned a medal on each of them. And he had a medal too.

‘Will I — see you tomorrow?’ he said.

‘All Saints’, Marleston. Ten-thirty,’ one of them quickly said. ‘We’ll be two of the bearers.’

He would be a bearer himself, he knew this, along with five undertaker’s men (Babbages had arranged it) — not having anyone else he could easily ask or choose. Well, Jack thought now, three of the party had been shown how the thing could be done. Should he make that joke? Would they all expect another twenty tomorrow? That would be a hundred all round, on top of this forty.

‘It will be an honour, Mr Luxton,’ one of them said. It was what they always said, perhaps, what undertakers were trained to say, but it occurred suddenly to Jack that these men might actually have volunteered for this job. They’d never done anything like it before. Nor had Jack. It seemed that both of them were a little awed by what they’d witnessed. It couldn’t surely be that they were in awe of him, Jack, for being the brother of a man who’d died in the service of his country. Couldn’t they see he felt like scum?

‘I’m Dave,’ one of them said. ‘Derek,’ the other said.

One was thinnish and sandy-haired, one thick-set and dark. There was no way they could have been taken for brothers. He shook their hands again. They seemed to want it.

‘I’m Jack, I’m Jack.’ They already knew this, he’d already said it, but he said it again. ‘Call me Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

Then he simply turned away. Walked — sloped, slunk away. He could do nothing else, was good for nothing else. He’d kept in mind where the car was and had spotted already how he could get to it without having to go through any door. He could cut across a stretch of grass, then slip behind the corner of the building from which they’d all recently emerged.

He simply turned and walked away. He didn’t care if everyone was watching him. Didn’t mind the feeling of needles in his back, the feeling of being a deserter. Didn’t mind if there were all sorts of other things he still should have done or was expected to do. He simply walked away.

As Tom once had simply fucking walked away.

He reached the car, ripped off his jacket, flung it, with the medal still in the top pocket, on the back seat, and started the engine. He knew he’d already passed from people’s sight after rounding the building. He was back in the inconspicuous, unceremonial world of car parks. He reversed out and drove off along the route by which (it seemed now long ago) he’d driven in. Had barriers come down to prevent his departure, he would have put his foot down and burst through. But he passed Control of Entry without incident (was Exit also controlled?) and reached the main gate, after which he could accelerate and just drive. He drove through the camp-like town with a distinct sense, now, of being an escaper — word would surely be put out about him — then sped into open country. He knew he had to find the M4, then just point west.

He couldn’t have given any coherent reason for his fugitive haste, which didn’t diminish even when he was free of the town, but a strange, hounding explanation came to him even as he drove. It was the hearse. He had to get away from the hearse. It would be making this same journey too — M4, M5—and though, by definition, a hearse was a slow vehicle, he was afraid of its coming up behind him, of seeing it in his mirror, bearing down on him. This was all crazy and unlikely. It wouldn’t even have left yet, and it would surely have to travel, at least at first — and no doubt in company with the others — at a solemn snail’s pace. But the thought of its somehow gaining on him, of encountering it at any point on the journey now before him, afflicted him like a nightmare.