Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

‘That’s splendid,’ he said. ‘Thanks awfully.’

Encouraged by his smile, she sat down on a chair.

‘You know London?’

‘Yes, I know it.’ He smiled a little. She had asked that so quaintly.

Freda did not smile. She was in deadly earnest.

‘You know a soldier there? A what is it? Corporal Green?’

He shook his head, a little touched.

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said gently. ‘Do you know his regiment?’

‘It was a London regiment – the London Fusiliers.’

She had no further information than that. He said kindly: ‘When I get back to London, I’ll try to find out. If you like to give me a letter.’

She looked at him doubtfully, yet with a certain air of trusting appeal. In the end the doubt was vanquished.

‘I will write – yes,’ she said.

She rose to leave the room and said abruptly: ‘We have an English paper here – two English papers here. My cousin brought them from the hotel. You would like to see them, yes?’

He thanked her and she returned bringing a tattered Eve and a Sketch which she handed to him with some pride.

When she left the room again, he laid down the papers by his side and lighted a cigarette – his last cigarette! What would he have done without those cigarettes – stolen at that! Perhaps Freda would bring him some – he had money to pay for them. A kind girl, Freda, in spite of her thick ankles and an unprepossessing exterior.

He took out a small notebook from his pocket. The pages were blank and he wrote in it: Corporal Green, London Fusiliers . He would do what he could for the girl. He wondered idly what story lay behind it. What had Corporal Green been doing in Holland in A —? Poor Freda. It was the usual thing, he supposed.

Green – it reminded him of his childhood. Mr Green . The omnipotent delightful Mr Green – his playfellow and protector. Funny, the things one thought of when one was a kid!

He’d never told Nell about Mr Green. Perhaps she’d had a Mr Green of her own. Perhaps all children did.

He thought: ‘Nell – Oh, Nell …’ and his heart missed a beat. Then he turned his thoughts resolutely away. Very soon now … Poor darling, what she must have suffered knowing him to be a prisoner in Germany. But that was all over now. Very soon now they’d be together. Very soon. Oh, he mustn’t think of it. The task in hand – no looking forward.

He picked up the Sketch and idly turned over the pages. A lot of new shows seemed to be on. What fun to go to a show again. Pictures of generals all looking very fierce and warlike. Pictures of people getting married. Not a bad-looking crowd. That one – Why –

It wasn’t true – it couldn’t be true … Another dream – a nightmare …

Mrs Vernon Deyre who is to marry Mr George Chetwynd. Mrs Deyre’s first husband was killed in action over a year ago. Mr George Chetwynd is an American who has done very valuable relief work in Serbia .

Killed in action – yes, he supposed that might be. In spite of all conceivable precautions mistakes like that did arise. A man Vernon knew had been reported killed. A thousandth chance, but it happened.

Naturally, Nell would have believed – and naturally, quite naturally, she would marry again.

What nonsense he was talking! Nell – marry again! So soon. Marry George – George with his grey hair – A sudden sharp pang shot through him. He had visualized George too clearly. Damn George – blast and curse George.

But it wasn’t true. No, it wasn’t true!

He stood up, steadying himself as he swayed on his feet. To anyone who had seen him, he would have appeared a little drunk.

He was perfectly calm – yes, he was perfectly calm. The thing was not to believe – not to think. Put it away – right away. It wasn’t true – it couldn’t be true – if you once admitted that it might be true, you were done.

He went out of his room, down the stairs. He passed the girl, Freda, who stared at him. He said very quietly and calmly (marvellous that he should be so calm!):

‘I’m going out for a walk.’

He went out, oblivious of old Anna Schlieder’s eyes that raked his back as he passed her. The girl, Freda, said to her:

‘He passed me on the stairs like – like – what has happened to him?’

Anna tapped her forehead significantly. Nothing ever surprised her.

Out on the road Vernon was walking – walking very fast. He must get away – get away from the thing that was following him. If he looked round – if he thought about it – but he wouldn’t think about it.

Everything was all right – everything .

Only he mustn’t think. This queer dark thing that was following him – following him … If he didn’t think he was all right.

Nell – Nell with her golden hair and her sweet smile. His Nell. Nell and George … No, no, NO! It wasn’t so, he was in time.

And suddenly, lucidly, there ran through his mind the thought, ‘That paper was six months old at least. They’ve been married five months.’

He reeled. He thought, ‘I can’t bear it. No, this I can’t bear. Something must happen …’

He held on blindly to that: Something must happen …

Somebody would help him. Mr Green. What was this awful thing that was dogging him? Of course, The Beast. The Beast.

He could hear it coming. He gave one panic-stricken glance over his shoulder. He was out of the town now, walking on a straight road between dykes. The Beast was coming lumbering along at a great pace, rattling and bumping.

The Beast … Oh! if only he could go back – to The Beast and Mr Green – the old terrors, the old comforts. They didn’t hurt you like the new things – like Nell and George Chetwynd. George – Nell belonging to George …

No – No, it wasn’t true – it mustn’t be true – He couldn’t face any more. Not that – not that …

There was only one way to get out of it all – to be at peace – only one way – Vernon Deyre had made a mess of life – better to get out of it …

One last flaming agony shot through his brain – Nell – George – No! he thrust them out with a last effort. Mr Green – kind Mr Green.

He stepped out into the roadway right in the path of the lurching lorry that tried to avoid him too late – and struck him down and backwards …

A horrible searing shock – thank God, this was death …

In the yard of the County Hotel in Wiltsbury two chauffeurs were busy with cars. George Green finished his work on the interior of the big Daimler, wiped his hands on a bit of oily rag and stood upright with a sigh of satisfaction. He was a cheerful young fellow and was smiling now because he was pleased with himself for locating the trouble and dealing with it. He strolled along to where his fellow chauffeur was completing the toilet of a Minerva.

The latter looked up.

‘Hullo, George – you through?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your boss is a Yank, isn’t he? What’s he like?’

‘He’s all right. Fussy, though. Won’t go more than forty.’

‘Well, thank your stars you don’t drive for a woman,’ said the other. His name was Evans. ‘Always changing their minds. And no idea of the proper times for meals. Picnic lunches as often as not – and you know what that means, a hard-boiled egg and a leaf of lettuce.’

Green sat down on an adjacent barrel.

‘Why don’t you chuck it?’

‘Not so easy to get another job, these days,’ said Evans.

‘No, that’s true,’ said Green. He looked thoughtful.