Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

Although John paid off their debts then, for a while there was a kind of a rift. My father was humiliated and who knows what John felt? He'd always looked up to my father, was almost oblivious to his weaknesses, and suddenly there he was, begging, and my mother resentful that they should have to. My father was walking the dog one evening soon afterwards and he didn't come back. He'd had a heart attack. They found him dead in a field the next day. The dog had stayed with the body. John had never seen him again to make up. After that the war began.'

'I'm sorry. I didn't know.' He paused. 'I would never have guessed John would be someone who'd be queuing to volunteer. He never seemed the sort.'

'Not a fighter, you mean.' She smiled. 'Or not a patriot?'

'Not taken in by politicians. Certainly not the sort who might have thought war was an adventure. Particularly as he had German friends, had been going to marry a German girl.'

'I suppose,' Mary said, obviously stil thinking aloud, 'that he might have reached a point in his life when he wasn't sure which way to go. His pieces of writing from Germany weren't seling any more. His relationship with Minna ended when hostilities became inevitable. War had come and, having been in Germany, he'd probably got a better view of what it was likely to mean for us. Because he'd traveled, his German was pretty wel flawless—he was an internationalist in lots of ways—

so maybe that made him try to pre-empt the inevitable? He hadn't just hidden in Minna's pro-British circle; he'd written in the papers about the clamour of the Prussian warmongers. I don't think he ever thought it was just going to be a short thing. But he never explained directly.' She looked puzzled and he guessed it was the first time she'd ever considered John's early volunteering. 'I hope it wasn't because he didn't care what happened to him.'

'People admired the first men to go,' he said.

'Yes,' she said eagerly. 'We were proud you know, in an unthinking way. But now, looking back ... You know, even though my father loved it, John would never go shooting. He didn't like kiling things. Not even wasps.'

Her eyes flicked back to the photograph. For a moment she looked distressed, then went on, 'If my father had lived he would have been fearfuly proud. He always said he'd wanted to join the army himself when he was young, but his heart wasn't good from a fever he'd had as a boy. The only books he read were always about battles and heroes. Ancient Greece, Agincourt, Waterloo and the most dreadful memoirs by stuffy old generals.'

The silences that fel between them now were companionable, Laurence thought, not the awkward breakdowns in conversation or head-on colisions when both had talked at once when they were trying to get to know each other. Now silence seemed more of a measure of closeness than speech.

Eventualy he said, 'So that's where the bequests came from? John was wealthy?'

'Fairly. He supported my mother after my father died. And when John died himself he left my mother provided for and left me enough to ensure I could be reasonably independent. If I didn't have commitments here, I'd go to Italy and study in Florence. Art. Italian. I'd always hoped to do that before the war but it wasn't possible.' She seemed to rush past this reflection as if it pained her. 'And now I'm not free to go.'

He was surprised by the degree of her loyalty to her mother.

'I don't know why John left money to Mrs Lovel, but I'm glad he remembered Wiliam Bolitho,' she said.

'I imagine he liked him, and Eleanor Bolitho befriended him when she was his nurse. Also, he probably wanted to help someone who had ended up in poor shape.'

He stil didn't tel Mary that Eleanor had seen John at Holmwood and had passed herself off as his sister. She might even have been the last visitor he saw before he died. Nor did he mention Nicholas. He felt uncomfortable lying by default but he had made a promise.

'That must have made a difference to them,' said Mary. 'I mean, it must have given them hope. Especialy for Wiliam Bolitho, given he was unlikely to work again. They at least had something to live for. That little boy.'

Laurence looked down and Mary took it for distress.

'Oh my God, Laurence, I'm so sorry. I forgot. I mean, it's awful that I forgot.'

'It's al right. I forget myself sometimes. It seems a long time ago. But I just can't imagine it. It's not real. I can hardly remember what Louise's face looked like and I never even saw the baby.'

'Your son.'

'I wish I had,' he heard himself saying without acknowledging her. 'I wish I knew what he looked like. Though he would have looked like al babies, of course.

Smal. Round. Cross.' He attempted a laugh.

'Did he have a name?

'Christopher Joseph Laurence. Christopher after my father and Joseph after hers. We were going to cal him Kit. For short.'

He stopped, the brevity of everything concerned with his unknown son suddenly overwhelming him.

He took a couple of deep breaths. 'He did al right at first. Louise was virtualy unconscious by the time he was delivered. She had a massive haemorrhage, though she did see him, or so her mother likes to believe. He just succumbed. No wil to live. A big baby,' he added. 'No real reason for him to die. Not enough oxygen, perhaps, they thought.'

'Oh Laurie,' said Mary, moving to sit on the floor next to him and rubbing his hand. 'You must have been so sad. To lose them both. You must have loved your wife very much.'

'That's the realy awful bit of it. I'm not sure I ever did. Not enough. I married her because I was lonely. That wasn't what I thought at the time but looking back I think that's why. I didn't have a family so I thought I could share hers. She was utterly without malice but she was just a girl, unformed. I couldn't talk to her.' He stopped. 'And she didn't like me, not as a husband. Not in a physical way. She liked me as a friend, as someone to be beside her, to sit in a nice house, to tease her and admire her. But me as a man she found very difficult. She was young. She knew nothing at al realy about the realities of love or marriage. I think part of her couldn't believe I could want to do something so horrible to her. I didn't have time to get to know her before she was pregnant. Then she lost the baby and was devastated. Al she wanted was another baby. When she knew she was pregnant again, that made her happy. Totaly, utterly happy.'

He wondered whether he was entering territory that was far too personal to discuss with a woman he had not known long, however intensely he had felt a connection, but he kept on talking. Mary looked interested but not shocked at his openness.

'Once she was pregnant she didn't want me to share a room with her. Of course she was terrified about losing this baby too but it was more than that. I think it al revolted her. Al the same, I hated myself for being dissatisfied with her, and yet wanting the comfort of her so much. And meanwhile the war had come.

'When I came back on leave the gulf between us was even greater. Al she talked about was the baby or if she discussed the war it was simply how we were winning every battle. She wouldn't hear anything that contradicted that. She wouldn't see what was right in front of her eyes. A couple of times I read reports to her from The Times: al highly watered-down versions of what I'd been part of, but she actualy put her hands over her ears.'

'Perhaps she was frightened to bring a baby into a world where victory wasn't a certainty?'

Mary stood up as she spoke and he thought she was going into the kitchen. For a second he thought his frankness had disappointed her or even repeled her.

However, she leaned over to touch the side of his face. When he didn't pul back she put out her other hand and raised his face to look at her. Then, astonishingly, she bent down and kissed him gently on the lips. 'I'm so sorry,' she whispered.