Chris Cleave - Everyone Brave is Forgiven

He rubbed his eyes. It was impossible. In the history of the world there was not one example of a man ever having written a satisfactory letter to a woman who mattered to him. How could he even attempt it, after eight days and nights of bombing? And yet this is when he must write: now, in the lull between attacks, when his letter would go straight out on the next available airplane. War made one do everything when one wasn’t at all ready. Dying, yes, but also living.

Mary,

Damn the garret and damn my old clothes, I wish I were there with you.

He stopped. Perhaps he was entirely misreading it. Now that he read her letter again, he was ashamed. She loved Tom, and Tom was dead, and her letter was a game attempt to buck herself up. She was a child talking herself into courage and she wanted a brotherly word from him, nothing more. She needed him to tell her that it was all right, that he felt hollow about Tom too — that this was simply how it was with the dead, and it did not mean that one had not loved them enough. And yet at the same time, her letter seemed to say, “I love you — can anything be done?” after only the mildest decryption.

He put his head in his hands and groaned. She had had this effect on Tom too — had driven his poor friend around the twist wondering if it could possibly be true that she liked him. If Alistair could believe that he felt Tom laughing at him from beyond the grave, it might make everything easier. But the truth, of course, was just as Mary had put it. One felt nothing at all from the dead. They died, and then they were gone, and one’s heart ached from the sudden absence of feeling more than from any surfeit.

He held Mary’s letter and breathed in the smell of it: soap and cigarette smoke. Here it was, in his hands, this hour of her life in London that he supposed had not been straightforward.

He picked up his pencil and began again.

Mary,

I do not mind what you do with the garret. I mind if you are happy. Do not keep the garret on my account. Keep it if you feel better there. Please consider not taking the ambulance driver position. You know that it is dangerous work in a raid, and you have lost quite enough already. What I find with my men is that they will rush into harm’s way after they have lost a friend. Partly it is the desire to avenge, but it is more than that. I tell them that the war is not their fault. I give my men permission to feel guilty if they die themselves, and not before.

Do not let them tell you that you cannot teach anymore. If you are good at it, then teach. Find a way — I do not think you are one to follow orders. We are all of us orphaned by this war — the world that bore us is gone and now we must be useful where we can.

Yours,

Alistair

He folded the aerogramme, addressed it, gave it to Briggs and collapsed back onto the cot.

—

His letter flew off the island on the same Wellington that had brought Mary’s. The aeroplane also carried a burned RAF man, bound for home via Gibraltar. The casualty lay on a carpet of mailbags in the narrow tunnel of the tail section that ended in the rear gunner’s turret. The pilot kept the Wellington at sixty feet until they were out of range of Axis fighters operating from Sicily, and then he climbed and began to thread a high line between Sardinia and the Barbary Coast.

Sixty miles north of Tunis, the burned airman died of his wounds. It happened quietly in the drone of engine noise, and in the last minutes the numbing cold of high altitude was a comfort to the man. There in the sweet sacking smell of the mailbags he understood that he was dying, and it pleased him that he was going in the company of so many soft words home. He looked down through the Perspex side panel of the Wellington and watched the endless blue Mediterranean wash the blood away from all shores.

The crew of the Wellington experienced no mechanical problems and encountered no enemy aircraft. Leaving Algiers to port, the pilot turned across open water to Gibraltar. There was cloud in the western Mediterranean, and as they closed on the Spanish coast it came lower. By the time the pilot made radio contact with the tower at Gibraltar, he had been forced down below one thousand feet and a southerly wind was buffeting the plane from side to side. The tower had the pilot make a west-to-east landing from the Atlantic side.

As they came in behind the rock, the crosswind kicked up a sudden gust and yawed the plane just as its landing gear touched down. The Wellington lifted one wing, dug the other wingtip into the deck, and spun sideways off the end of the runway into the sea. In the cold water off Gibraltar, Alistair’s letter sank to three hundred feet along with eleven hundred other letters, the burned airman and the six-man aircrew, and none of them ever made it home.

A MONTH WENT BY with no reply from Alistair. When a letter came accepting her for a post as an ambulance driver, Mary smoothed it out on the writing table of her bedroom at her parents’ house. She frowned at it, holding her cigarette any old way, not caring if it stained her fingers. Smoke had gone over to the enemy’s side in any case. It had once been the same stuff that curled from a genie’s lamp. Now it only reminded one.

What ought she to do? Perhaps she should give in and let her mother marry her off. Or she could join the ambulances, and see what good she might do there. The war might punish either choice with equal probability.

The longer she thought about it, listening to the maid dusting on the landing, the more daunting any choice seemed. To begin life the first time had been a breeze. Being so newly fledged, one had only to step off the bough and be astonished by the sudden rush of air. Now, at twenty, it was hard to begin again. One had to take off from the ground. Every wing beat had to be forced against an unsympathetic gravity.

In the half light from the courtyard, in the silence that lay on the white crocheted bedspread, she felt herself dissolving. Her father was away at his constituency. Her mother was spread thin with her coffees and committees, achieving a busy translucence. Some days Mary lay on the bed for hours.

At first, with the funerals, and boxing up Tom’s things, and writing to Alistair, she had crackled with a desperate energy. She had been certain that Alistair would reply. It had seemed to her that she would be fine again with just the slightest word to get her started in some direction. Now she cringed when she thought how foolish she had been, to imagine that he might mind about her. And it wasn’t only Alistair. Since receiving the manager’s letter she had written to Zachary directly at the Lyceum, and received nothing in reply. Perhaps this was what it was to grow up: this realization that the world was already staffed with people and that one was not particularly needed.

She lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The covings depicted an endless rope. At each corner the rope described an inward whorl before embarking on the next cornice line. One could follow the rope all day.

The telephone rang downstairs, and presently Palmer came up to call her to it. Nothing had changed in his tone. That he continued to treat her as if she was not greatly diminished — as if she required no particular sympathy — struck her as a colossal kindness. She followed him down the central stairway as a girl might follow a grown-up, in her bare feet on the soft runner, still wearing her nightgown at noon. The telephone was off the hook on the console table in the hallway. White narcissi overhung it, vased in crystal gray.

It was Hilda. “So, did you get yours? Your letter?”

“Yes,” said Mary.

“And you’re accepted, too?”