William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

Cerridwyn was impressed, he saw — moved, even. Perhaps no one had recited poetry to her before.

“You never writ that,” she said. “You learned it.”

“I can’t prove it. But it’s all mine, I’m afraid.”

“Well — sounds lovely to me. What’s that last line again?”

“‘She answers to ‘Love’ — and she’s You’.’”

Suddenly he felt the urge to possess her, to unfasten that satin blouse and unpin her lurid hair. In an instant, also, he saw that she had registered this change in the look he was giving her. How does this happen, he wondered? What atavistic signals do we inadvertently send out?

“It’s my day off on Monday,” she said, meaningfully.

“I’m going to London on leave on Monday,” he said.

“Never been to London.”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“You could show me around, like.”

“I’d love to.” This was madness, Lysander knew. “I’ll meet you at Swansea station. Nine o’clock. At the ticket office.”

“Ach. You won’t be there.”

“Yes, I will.”

“What’s your name?” she asked making it sound like a challenge, a test of his sincerity.

“Lysander Rief.”

“Strange name.”

“No stranger than Cerridwyn.”

Merrilees lurched up and said they’d better be getting back.

“Nine o’clock, Monday morning,” Lysander said, over his shoulder, taking Merrilees’s elbow and helping him out.

On the way back to the sawmill there was a lot of foul-mouthed lewd banter about Lysander and the barmaid. Lysander switched his mind off and let the speculation swirl around him. He was thinking, pleasurably: train to London, slap-up lunch in a chop-house or an oyster bar. A little hotel he knew in Paddington. Ticket home to Swansea on the milk train for Cerridwyn. An adventure for them both.

Sergeant Mott was standing at the sawmill gates, his long baton twirling in his hand. They were all dead drunk except Lysander. Merrilees saluted and fell over.

“Fuck off out of it, you scum,” Mott said. “It’s the actor I’m interested in.”

The others disappeared in a second.

“I’m not drunk, Sarge,” Lysander said. “Honest. Just had a couple of pints.” He was frightened of Mott.

“I don’t care,” he said. “Someone wants to see you in the office.”

Captain Dayson, company commander, had his billet in the sawmill office building across the yard. Lysander buttoned his tunic, straightened his cap on his head and knocked on the door.

“Ah, Rief, there you are,” Dayson said, in his usual drawl. He was a lazy man, more than happy with the internment camp job, hoping it would see the war out. “You’ve a visitor.”

Lysander stepped into the room.

Alwyn Munro rose to his feet. He was in uniform and Lysander saw that he had Lieutenant-Colonel’s pips on his shoulders. Promoted. Lysander remembered to salute.

“Hard man to find, Rief,” Munro said, and they shook hands.

“What can I do for you?” Lysander asked, his mind frantic with other questions.

“I’ll tell you on the way back to London,” he said. “I’ve a motor car waiting outside. Do you want to get your kit together?”

The journey back proved strangely uneventful. I sat in the rear of a large military staff car beside Munro, with some sort of pennant fluttering on the front mudguard, as it sped towards London. As we left the outskirts of Swansea, Munro offered me a cigarette and I asked him what was going on.

“You know what?” he said, as if the idea had just come to him. “Why don’t you just enjoy your well-earned leave? Relax, indulge yourself. Next Monday morning report to this address. In civilian clothes.”

He took out a little notebook and wrote down a number and a street.

“And what will happen then?” I asked.

“You’ll be given new orders,” he said, a little coldly, I thought, implying I would have no choice in the matter. “You’re a serving soldier, Rief, don’t forget.”

And he wouldn’t divulge anything else. We talked in desultory fashion about the course of the war — the big attack at Aubers Ridge — and my experiences in the E.S.L.I. and my work at the Bishop’s Bay Camp.

“I think you can consider that chapter in your life closed,” was all he said.

So here I sit in a small hotel in Bayswater (Greville and I have sublet the Chandos Place flat) with a week of leave awaiting me. My mind is empty — I have no expectations and speculation would be fruitless. God knows what Munro has lined up for me but it must be more interesting than Frau Schumacher’s constant health issues.

Funnily enough, my little nugget of regret about my Swansea life concerns Cerridwyn. I can see her — all dressed up for her trip to London — standing outside the ticket office at Swansea station waiting to meet me. And then the nine o’clock train will leave. Of course, she’ll wait for the next one just in case, but with hope dwindling as time goes by, and, after an hour or so when I don’t appear, she will go home, cursing the tribe of men and their endless, selfish duplicities.

“It’s a huge success. I could never have predicted it. We’ve already made over £ 200 and it’s not even lunchtime. We made £ 500 yesterday,” Lysander’s mother said, speaking in tones of humbled incredulity, as they stood on the main drive looking at the rows of parked motor cars and charabancs and a hundred-yard queue of people waiting to pay their shilling entrance fee to the ‘CLAVERLEIGH HALL GRAND FÊTE’ — as the banner at the gateway to the park proclaimed.

“Bravo,” Lysander said. “Lucky Belgian refugees.”

“Oh no,” she said. “We’re much bigger than that now. We’ve just sent another six ambulances to France.”

The Claverleigh Hall charity had started shortly after the outbreak of war as a blanket-drive, a local scheme to provide warm clothing, blankets and tents for Belgian refugees. Anna Faulkner had been galvanized by their initial success and the Claverleigh Hall War Fund, as it then became, provided her with a focus for her energies and her organizing capacity that Lysander had not seen demonstrated for years — not since she had effectively run the administrative side of the Halifax Rief Theatre Company, anyway. Suddenly she had a cause and the considerable sums of money she raised meant that her voice was listened to. She started going up to London once or twice a week for meetings with civil servants at the Home Office and then senior soldiers at the War Office once the Claverleigh Hall Field Ambulances came into being. Her new plan was to open a training school for nurses to deal specifically with the most common wounds and ailments suffered by the troops on the Western Front. Who needs a midwife when you’re suffering from trench-foot? was one of her more memorable slogans and she began to be invited to sit on committees and add her name to petitions and other good causes. She was looking even younger, if that were possible, Lysander thought. That’s what having a purpose in life gave you.

“How’s Crickmay today?” he asked. He hadn’t seen his stepfather since he’d arrived.

“No change. Very poorly. Wheezing, coughing. He can hardly get out of bed, poor darling.”

“I’ve got to go back to London after lunch,” he said.

“He won’t be at lunch,” she said. “I’ll pass on your best wishes. He’ll see you next time you’re down.”

Then she hurried away to change the brimming cash-box at the entry-gate and Lysander set off on a wander round the park, past the stalls selling jams and cakes, the coconut shy, the beer tent, the dog show, the jokey races — egg-and-spoon, three-legged, sack — the livestock exhibits and the gymkhana — keeping an eye out for Hamo, who had arrived an hour earlier and had gone in search of some seed potatoes for his vegetable garden.