At the Break of Day (26 page)

Rosie followed him, out of the town, to a crossroads where the only sound was the wind, but when it dropped she heard the sheep too. He stopped now, sitting on the rocks off to the left, lighting another cigarette.

‘I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry I left.’ She wanted him to reach out and hold her but he didn’t and so she put her hand out. He knocked it to one side and threw his match away. It fizzed in the damp grass.

‘I had to go. Joe wrote. To say Frank was ill. He works for him, you see.’

Jack sat slumped on the rock, his head down, his cigarette glowing. ‘Is that so? Norah gave me the letter. You left it in your room. You knew him well. You had a summer together. You never told me. Maisie knew Ed well. She never told me either. You knew though. But you didn’t tell me.’

Rosie put her hands in her pockets, bunching them. This was all wrong. Joe meant nothing. How could he come into this? How could he touch her life with Jack? This was about Maisie and Ed, not her and Joe. The panic was rising, she wanted to hold him, kiss him, tell him she loved him, only him, but there was such anger in him. It changed his face, now, as she looked at him.

She spoke slowly, carefully. ‘It wasn’t like Maisie and Ed. Joe works for Frank. I knew him, that’s all. Long ago. We dated. He wasn’t important.’

Jack didn’t look up and his voice was dead. ‘I told you about the girl in Somerset. She wasn’t important. I wanted you to know. So that you could trust me. So that I could trust you.’

Rosie wanted to reach out, make him look at her, make him see her love. She said, ‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell you, Jack.’ But she did know why. It was because Joe had touched her breasts and his tongue had found her mouth and she was ashamed, but how could she tell him that?

He flicked his hair with his hand. It was longer now. She wanted to reach out and stroke it, stroke his face, see him smile.

‘Anyway, what about that girl? What about the trust I have in you?’ she asked, her hands clenched tighter now, with anger as well as pain. The red lipstick, the mouth, the hair, all in her mind.

Jack shrugged. ‘What about her? She’s here. You aren’t. You went to America. Maisie left. You knew about Ed. You didn’t tell me. You deserve nothing better. I thought I could trust you.’

He was standing now, shouting at her, screaming at her. ‘Don’t you understand? It was Ed. I loved Ed. Ed was like my father. But he wasn’t mine, he was Lee’s. After all that he’s Lee’s father and Lee has gone.’ He was gripping her shoulders, shaking her until her head jerked backwards and forwards. Then he stopped and turned.

‘Tell me you didn’t know, Rosie. Please. Tell me it was a mistake.’ His voice was tired. The anger was gone in her. She knew his face would be drawn but he wouldn’t turn for her to see.

She couldn’t tell him. She stood there as the cold wind caught at the trees behind her and at her hair and wanted to be back in Middle Street, back with Grandpa and Jack, back with the roses, with the life they had had. Back where she could understand why this was happening.

‘I did know. I saw them. I didn’t know it was Ed then, or I didn’t think I knew. But when Maisie told me in her letter it wasn’t a surprise. She had said she would give the man up. She made me promise not to tell you. I said I would help. I stayed as long as I could. But then I had to go. Frank was ill. I love him.’ Her hands were out of her pockets now, reaching for him. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought it would be all right. She promised when I left.’

He hit her then, turning, slapping her across the face, then pushed her backwards, and again, gripping her coat as she almost fell.

‘But you promised me, Rosie. You promised me that you would stay. Then you get a letter from this bugger and you go. What have you done? What has Mum done?’

He was holding her now, hugging her, crying because he had wanted to cry like this when Ollie had rung, when he had caught the train home, gone into the empty house. But Maisie had already gone and Rosie wasn’t there and she was his friend and his love and he needed her.

She held him close, though her mouth was bleeding and her face throbbed. She held him because for this moment he was hers again and there was so much sorrow, so much love. ‘I did nothing with Joe. I’ve let you down though. Lee’s gone. I can’t bear that either but I had to go.’

She felt his breath in her hair, the wetness of his tears. ‘I love you. I thought I’d helped. I thought it was safe to go. I had to go.’

But now she felt him stiffen again and tried to hold him as he pulled away.

‘I know. You went. Maisie went. Lee went. Over there where Ed is. I trusted you all. I loved you all and now it’s just Dad and me.’

He walked back to the road. He could hear the wind in the trees. He could hear his voice, Ed’s voice. He had lent him his bike. Ed had given him sweets. They had laughed and talked and Jack had told him that his dad was changing, becoming mean and strange, and Ed had put his hand on his arm. Don’t worry, he had said. It’s the war.

‘And all the time he was laying my mum,’ he shouted, laughing, turning to Rosie who was dabbing at her mouth. ‘Is that what you were doing with Joe?’

He didn’t know where the words were coming from. He didn’t know what to do with the anger which filled him, spilled over, made him crazy, made him hurt her. Made his head go round until he felt ill.

Her mouth was bleeding. His Rosie’s mouth was bleeding and he went to her again, holding her, telling her he was crazy. He didn’t know what he was doing. He loved her, he hated her. He hated them all. He loved them all. She wasn’t here when he needed her. She was with Joe, and Maisie was with Ed. He loved her. He loved his mother, and Ed. But he hated them. Christ, how he hated them. They had taken Lee. They’ve … taken … Lee.

He was howling now and he could taste the blood on her mouth as she kissed him. She drew him to her, stumbling, falling, taking him with her on to the soft grass, and he kissed her, his tongue in her mouth. He pulled at her coat but she stopped him and, he undid her buttons. Then he ripped at her blouse, he wanted her to tear, to feel his lips hard on the softness of her skin. Had Joe done this too, while Ed took Maisie and Lee from him?

‘I love you, Jack,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

He looked up at her then. ‘Has Joe done this to you?’

The wind was clawing at the branches, the clouds were whirling across the sky. Rosie looked at him, deep into his eyes, into the pain that all the lies had brought.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But long ago and it was not what I wanted. I was confused.’ She held his face between her hands, making him listen, making him look into her eyes. ‘It was long ago. I love you. I’ve always loved you. All my life I’ve loved you.’ She was kissing his lips, his eyes, his skin. There was blood on his face and the warmth of it in her mouth and she didn’t know that it was hers. Slowly he began to kiss her back.

But the anger hadn’t gone. It took hold deeper, stronger. Other hands, American hands, had touched her. Touched his Rosie, the girl who had played flicksies, the girl he had pushed on the swing. The girl he had taken to fetch the cheeses. American hands had touched his mother, taken his brother. Christ, it was all too much. It was all too strong. The rage was too strong.

He pushed up and away, but she pulled him back.

‘Don’t leave me,’ Rosie said against his mouth.

He pushed away again, because he wanted her, but he hated her, loved her, wanted to hurt her, wanted to hold her and the rage was still there; his head felt as though it would burst.

She pulled back at him again.

‘Don’t leave me,’ she said again and now her kisses were on his lips and her hands were on his back, and the wind was all around and he couldn’t think, he couldn’t see her, and he held her, moved on her, dragged at her skirt, her pants, hauling them down, pushing her legs apart, heaving at his own clothes. He sank down on to her, and she cried out as he tore and entered her. And he cried out as he came because all the love and the hate were still there, and the rage too. And then it was over.

Suddenly it was cold, and they moved, pulled at their own clothes, neither helping the other. Then they sat with their backs to the wind, separate, alone, and he wanted to wipe the last minutes from their lives, but it was too late and he was glad that he was leaving England, taking this rage away from her.

They moved without speaking into the trees where the wind was not as strong. The damp had soaked into their coats. Jack lit another cigarette.

‘I’m going to Korea. I’ve volunteered.’

The branches were cracking, shaking, twisting, and the sheep across on the other slope were moving, baa-ing, Rosie saw them, heard them. He couldn’t go. No, he couldn’t go.

‘You can’t. I love you. You can’t leave me.’ She felt the ache between her legs, the feel of him inside her. He couldn’t go. Those were the only words left in the world – he couldn’t go.

‘You love me,’ she insisted, catching at his arm as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth, watching as he drew its nicotine deep into his lungs and then out again, his lips pursed, his eyes on the trees in front.

‘I do love you and I hate you and if I stay I’ll do what Ollie did. I feel as though I’m going mad inside. Everything’s gone bad. I’ll destroy us both.’ He took her hand. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get the anger out of me. It’s been building since she went. Ollie cried and I held him and then I held him while he tried to tear the house apart. I wanted to do it too.’ He pinched out the cigarette. ‘I can’t think. There’s so much hate. I miss Lee so much. I missed Ed so much.’ He dropped her hand.

‘I’ve got to get away. That’s all.’ His voice was angry again. He stood up. ‘Let’s get you back.’

He walked in front of her, down the road. There was no train that late so she had to stay in a hotel, alone. He left her there, outside. Not touching her, not smiling.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘About … well, you know. If you’re in trouble, let me know.’

She gripped his arms. He couldn’t go. Not out there. He couldn’t leave her. They loved one another. She knew they did. This anger would pass … wouldn’t it? But then she thought of Ed and Lee, of Maisie, of Joe, of America and she didn’t know.

There was light from the hallway, falling out on to the street, there were soldiers walking past, one being dragged. He was singing ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ and she wanted her grandpa.

She said nothing. She let her hands fall, made herself watch as he walked down the street, made herself nod as he called back, ‘I’ll write. When I’ve sorted myself out, I’ll write. If I sort it out. If there is anything worth sorting out between us any more.’

Then he was gone and there was no one left in her life. ‘Oh, Jack,’ she called, but it came out as a whisper. ‘You and your goddamn anger. Your pain. What about mine. What about mine?’ She was shouting now but he didn’t hear.

Jack sailed from Liverpool at the beginning of October on a troop ship with Regulars, Reservists and National Servicemen, and he was glad to be amongst them, to be leaving England, to be leaving Rosie and the memories. He was glad to be leaving for The Land of the Bleeding Morning Calm as the Sergeant had called it when he marched them up the pier.

He was glad to be on board, to be drilled, to be exercised. He enjoyed the orders, the bull, because it was familiar, like the scar on his hand was familiar. Like the other men were familiar, though he knew none of them. He just knew their language, their style, their habits, because they were like him. He was Army now.

There were no women. There was no tenderness. No betrayal, because if anyone broke the trust, out there on the hills of Korea, they all died.

He enjoyed pushing the ammunition into his rifle, hearing the click. It was cold, final. He enjoyed the storm which lashed the ship for four days, pitching and tossing, throwing him from his bunk, making him sick, making him wheel and fall, because it stopped him thinking and feeling.

He enjoyed the lectures, because then he could not hear her voice in his head. He learned how the North Koreans with Russian-built tanks and weapons had poured across the 38th parallel into South Korea in June.

‘Will the West really resist the spread of Communism? is what the Russians will be asking themselves,’ the instructor said. ‘And I can tell you that we will. They’ve challenged the UN. They must be stopped.’

Jack listened when Captain Norris said that the Korean War had come when the international outlook was already bad, how the cold war was at its height, how Eastern Europe was under Russian domination. How West Berlin had just escaped this fate. How the Chinese Communists had triumphed in China. He knew all this from Frank’s letters to Rosie. But, no, he wouldn’t think of her.

He took out a cigarette, smelling the match, thinking of the oast-houses, the fag-ends they had collected as children. But he wouldn’t think of that. He must listen to the officer with the moustache now, standing as Captain Norris sat. He must look at the Padre sitting upright, one leg crossed over the other. He must not think of her.

The second Captain was pointing at the board where a map hung.

‘In June the South Koreans had a small army, no tanks or heavy artillery and only a small airforce. The North would have conquered South Korea if the United States hadn’t had access to their occupation forces in Japan. These, though under strength and ill equipped, were mobilised but were still pushed back to the South East Corner along with our men when they also reached Korea.’

The officer slapped his cane down into his hand. Jack pinched out his cigarette. The Corporal next to him sighed.

‘Get a bloody move on,’ he murmured. ‘I want me bleeding lunch.’

Jack grinned. The Captain was looking at his notes, the men were stirring. The man in front of Jack rubbed his neck. His hair was very short. LOVE was tattooed on his fingers. But there wasn’t such a thing, was there?

‘As you know, men, General MacArthur launched an invasion in September at Inchon while those in the Pusan perimeter, in the South East, went into the offensive. Now the North Koreans are on the run. We have pushed them back almost as far as their capital Pyongyang. Well over the 38th parallel. The border.’ Captain Mackin coughed and looked up as another officer left, papers in his hand.