Justin Go - The Steady Running of the Hour

— Il y a une problème ?

Assuring her that all is well, Jeffries collects money from the officers and counts it out before the madame. As the others walk out of the estaminet, Ashley sets a pair of gold ten-franc pieces on the little zinc bar in the corner. His eyes scan the dusty bottles on the mirrored rack. He asks the madame for a bottle of brandy to take with them. He studies the rack further and frowns.

— Non, je prends l’Armagnac. The one on the top, the Boingnères. And could you uncork it?

— Bien sûr , the madame says, drawing the cork skillfully with an old wine key. Ashley takes the bottle and plunges the cork back in with the heel of his palm. He tells the madame to keep the change. The girls stand by the entrance ceremoniously, the brunette propping the door open with her back. Ashley wishes them a good night. He looks away from them as he walks out.

Descending the estaminet’s frozen steps, Ismay stumbles and nearly falls, only caught by Bennett at the last moment. Ashley hands Jeffries the Armagnac bottle.

— From the foothills of the Pyrenees. Wasted on you philistines.

Jeffries admires the bottle in his hands. Trying to read its label by the moonlight, he nearly drops the Armagnac.

— Good fellow. And a wise man. You can’t take it with you.

Ashley grins. — Rather. Only we haven’t any snifters.

Jeffries uncorks the Armagnac and passes it around. It is fifteen minutes’ walk to their billets in La Calotterie. The road is dark and empty, the void around them punctuated by phosphorescent flashes, Very lights tumbling down the eastern sky. Ismay whistles the melody of “Any Time’s Kissing Time.” From here the artillery is an elemental rumble in the lowest register.

The officers trudge a dirt path through fallow beet fields. They stumble and drag their feet, treading in puddles and splattering mud onto their puttees. Ismay passes the bottle to Ashley and puts his arm over his shoulder. He tells Ashley that he isn’t after him, not about the Empress or anything else. He knows Ashley is a damned fine officer, probably the gamest in the battalion. He has heard about the business with Ashley’s girl. Ismay’s eyes are bright as he talks. His nose is red from the cold and a shock of dark hair spills from his cap onto his forehead.

— We shan’t be here forever, Ismay says. We’ll be back in the mincer in a fortnight, and it won’t matter what we’ve said here unless we tell the truth. It’s no use — mincing words, so to speak.

Jeffries stops his singing long enough to grab the bottle back. It is already half-empty.

— For the Lord’s sake, Jeffries says, leave the poor spymaster alone. The last thing he needs is your counsel.

— Keep singing, Ismay said. We’re only discussing Marlowe’s Faustus. Spymaster’s a literary chap, like myself.

Jeffries walks on ahead with Bennett. Ismay turns back to Ashley, his breath thick with wine and brandy.

— Now hear me out. I was in the same spot as you. Of course, you’re thinking it’s never the same. But I was engaged to a lovely girl. Known her since we were children. Wrote nearly every day for four months. Then I got a letter while I was at Loos, telling me she’d gone off with some worthless character. I did as you did, but not so well. Night patrols, as many as they’d let me. I didn’t take any trenches, but I was out of my mind and I suppose I wanted to get myself killed. And for what? Let me have a gasper.

Ashley takes his silver case from his pocket, removing a cigarette for both of them.

— If I’d kept that up, Ismay continues, I’d be rotting in Delville Wood for a girl who wouldn’t have come to my funeral, nor hardly thought of me again. When did you come to France?

— August.

— And you’ve been in some ghastly shows, haven’t you? But you’ve survived. Surely there’s a reason for that. You can’t have made it through all that only to be ended by some girl. Remember, Walsingham, whoever she is, she’s only some girl. Remember that.

— I’ll try.

— You ought to go back to that estaminet and see that brunette. I saw how you looked at her.

Ashley shakes his head and draws from his cigarette.

— Perhaps I’m only tired of looking at you fellows.

— Perhaps. Look here, I’m only trying to be decent. You’ll do as you like. But if I’d had my way, I’d be dead on account of someone I wouldn’t cross the road to see today. That’s the last I’ll say of it.

Ismay takes his arm from Ashley’s shoulder.

— Walsingham, what did you do before the war?

— I was at Cambridge.

— Naturally you were. But what did you really do? I’d like to know what counts for a fellow like the spymaster.

— You mean what used to count—

— And will again one day. Foxhunting, perhaps? Snooker? Are you one of those fellows who goes round the world looking at geese through field glasses—

— I liked to climb mountains.

— For sport?

— There’s no other reason.

Ismay shakes his head.

— Climbing mountains for sport, he repeats. Sounds dangerous.

— Not compared to France.

— No, Ismay agrees, nothing quite compares to France. But how does it work? You rope on to another fellow and go up something tall and icy?

— More or less.

— And if he falls?

— He’d better not fall.

— But if he does?

— Really, I’d prefer he didn’t.

Ismay grins. — Walsingham, you may be a damned strange fellow, but I admire you. You’re cut from your own cloth, no one else’s. You certainly know how to suffer fools gladly.

— It was a fine speech.

Ismay nods appreciatively.

— Tell me something, he says. When you took that Hun trench. What’s it like, being the first man to step in there? I’ve imagined it so many times—

Ashley tosses his cigarette into the darkness, but he says nothing.

Ismay grins. — You ought to go and see that brunette.

The others have stopped singing. Jeffries stands in the rutted road, waiting for Ashley and Ismay to catch up. He regards Ashley with a queer expression.

— Where’s your hat?

Ashley runs his hand over the empty air above his head.

— Bollocks. Left it there. I’d better go back.

— Forget it, Jeffries says. There’s a spare around, I’m sure. You can send someone in the morning for it.

— Or he can go there himself, Ismay says.

— Or he can go there himself. Now where the deuce is Bennett?

Guessing that Bennett has gone ahead, the officers stagger along toward La Calotterie, calling out for him. Bennett never appears. Ismay is particularly irritated, for Bennett had been holding the Armagnac.

When they reach the edge of La Calotterie, Ismay can barely stand. Ashley and Jeffries drag him on their shoulders toward Ismay’s billet, a second-story bedroom in a farmhouse whose timbered walls seem to meet at grotesque angles. They dump Ismay onto the yard before the house. He lies in the frosted dirt, squirming and ranting.

— I’ve only one question for you fellows. Have you an able-bodied groom, chauffeur, gardener or gamekeeper serving you who should be serving your king and country?

— Enough, Jeffries says.

— Have you a man digging your garden who should be digging trenches?

— Hush—

Ismay rises from the mud. He squints theatrically at them.

— I ask you gentlemen, have you a man preserving your game who should be helping to preserve your country?

Ashley takes Ismay by the shoulder.

— I’ll see him up. We needn’t both run the gauntlet.

The old woman of the house holds a candle as Ashley pulls Ismay up the stairs, his tall boots shedding clumps of black ice onto the carpet. The woman begins her usual tirade against the English, but she has a thick Picardie accent and Ashley understands few of the insults. Ismay bellows back at the woman.