Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

He almost let slip that he was enjoying al the 'charging about', but it seemed tactless. 'It's good to be busy, funnily enough,' he said. 'I haven't realy done anything, not since the war.' He paused. 'Not since Louise—died. Not realy. I've only been writing because I had to do something.'

Suddenly, her hand was on his, and stayed there, calm and warm. She said nothing.

They had to hurry to the concert hal. The concert began with Elgar's Salut d'Amour, and then there was some Debussy, which he liked less, though he thought how Louise would have enjoyed it. Next was a Brahms quintet, which drew enthusiastic applause. Mary was rapt. He was aware, al the way through, of her closeness.

From time to time her knee touched his. A couple of times he stole a glance at her in profile. The second time she caught him and returned a smal smile.

As they left the auditorium he left her for a moment while he went to fetch her coat. She was standing behind him as he queued. Reflected in the wal of mirrors above the attendant he saw that a man had stopped to greet her and had even taken her hand in his. Their bodies were very close as they talked, Mary's head bent towards his to catch his words. Then she looked towards Laurence's back and obviously said goodbye. The man was quickly gone. The attendant handed Laurence their belongings and he returned to Mary, expecting her to explain, but as he helped her into her coat she simply said, 'Wasn't that fun!' Her face, however, was serious and pale.

Al the way to the station he wanted to ask her who the man was but could think of no way to raise it that didn't seem clumsy. He told himself that if the meeting had been insignificant, surely she would have explained. As the wish to know loomed larger, the opportunity to do so receded. He could think of nothing else to say.

Mary kept looking at her watch in the dark of the cab. From time to time she gave him a nervous and, he thought, slightly distant smile. She was no longer eager to talk but anyway they made it with just minutes to spare. As she stepped up into the carriage, she placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. He waited until her train had gone, waving with a joliness that he didn't feel.

He decided to clear his head by walking back. The city was quiet. The monumental architecture of the great financial institutions rose up either side of him, dark and oppressive. He supposed they had fought to protect these as much as they had the idea of vilage greens or royal palaces, had fought to keep things as they were. The dome of St Paul's came into view against the night sky, its silhouette softened by a veil of cloud. The night was cool and slightly damp; autumn was wel on its way now with leaves beginning to fal from the plane trees. He felt indescribably sad.

That night was the first bad one for a while. The banshee scream of shels. The distant crump of other men's catastrophes. The stink of burning and sweat, and al the time his heart pounding. He placed his hand on his chest to steady himself but his heart pulsed loudly through the dream. He put the whistle in his mouth. He was supposed to blow but couldn't get enough breath. Then somehow he was alone in the remains of a traverse, digging as fast and as desperately as he could. It was raining and Louise was there, under the earth. The wet soil made his hands ache with cold. His fingers found first her face and then her nose, entered her open mouth, felt the edges of her teeth. As fast as he dug, earth fel on her from above. Rain pooled in the crater he had dug to let her breathe and slowly, though he held her muddy hair, it filed up and she slipped away from him.

Chapter Eight

Finding a man in France was obviously far beyond his resources, so Laurence mentaly set Monsieur Meurice on one side. Kentish Town was another matter entirely.

He had decided not to write to Mrs Lovel but simply to go to her house on the chance he would find her in.

At four o'clock he arrived at the address given in John's wil. It was a smal, slightly shabby, dark-brick house, one of thousands like it in London. He noticed grass sprouting in the gutter and that a single spindly rose needed deadheading. Rain was pattering on a faded canvas screen hanging over the door and when he knocked, several tiny spiders were dislodged. No one came. He looked up at the grimy windows and thought how Mrs Lovel must have welcomed John's bequest. He knocked again and caled out self-consciously. 'Mrs Lovel.' He waited for a while and then turned away. A woman in a print pinafore was watching him from over a bowing fence.

'They're long gone,' she said. 'Those Lovels. Four—five years? She kept it nice but there's been another lot since and they've gone too. Bad drains.'

'Do you have an address?'

'No, but my daughter might. Used to help with the children. She liked her.'

She turned and went into her own house, leaving the door open. He heard no voices but a few minutes later a skinny younger woman came out with a baby in her arms. She handed him a grubby bit of paper with an address written in capital letters.

'That's where they were, last I heard.'

It was a fifteen-minute walk, through increasingly heavy rain, to a modest street, but one much less drab than the first address. The semi-detached house sat back behind a low hedge where large cobwebs held drops like jewels. The smel of privet after rain was one he always associated with London.

A tiled path led up to a dul black front door. He walked up and puled the bel, hearing it jangle in the rear of the house, and almost immediately he heard swift footsteps inside. The door swung open and a young woman stood there, her fair hair loose on her shoulders. She had a sleeping cat draped over one arm and looked surprised, as if she had expected someone else.

'Can I help you?' She was much younger than he'd imagined, just a girl realy, but her face was quite composed.

'Mrs Lovel?' Laurence began.

' Miss Lovel,' she replied. 'Catherine Maude Lovel.'

Laurence was suddenly and embarrassingly aware of how impulsive his decision to visit had been. In his haste to help Mary he hadn't thought of the effect of his enquiries on those at the receiving end. How the hel could he explain himself to the slender girl in front of him?

'I'm looking for someone caled Lovel who knew one of my friends.'

'Who?' she said.

'A man caled Emmett. Captain John Emmett.'

There was no sign of recognition on her face.

'He died a few months ago.' He was beginning to feel it was hopeless. Rain was starting to fal again.

'My brother was kiled in the war,' the girl said, matter-of-factly. 'But I don't know a John Emmett. Perhaps it's my mother you want? She's out but she should be back soon. I thought you were her, forgetting her key again. You could wait if you want?'

How could he have been so stupid? Of course this girl was too young to have known John. She was what—fifteen? Younger? But he had at least established that the family had a son who had fought. That was the likely connection to John.

He folowed her indoors with some relief; water was now trickling down the back of his neck. A daily woman, by the look of her, emerged from the back of the house. She took his hat and coat, shaking them out as she did so. Catherine Lovel showed him into a smal sitting room. It was neat, respectable, perhaps a little old-fashioned, and decidedly cold, but there were some good books in a glass-fronted case. He looked sideways and read those with larger lettering on their spines: Trolope, Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop, Sir Walter Scott, Tennyson, Wordsworth; it was more or less the sort of colection he had at home. There were even some bound operetta scores. The girl sat opposite him talking to the cat.

Eventualy he heard the door open, and the gasps and protestations of someone retreating from a downpour.