The Shell House (3 page)

‘I’ve heard that this next push should be decisive,’ Edmund’s father said, at tea. ‘Maybe it won’t be many months more.’

‘Something must be done to relieve the pressure on the French. They can’t hold out indefinitely, around Verdun.’ The Reverend Tilley liked to give the impression of being party to the latest news. ‘You’ll be going back at just the right time, Edmund. I wish I were going with you.’

Why don’t you, then? Edmund thought, irritably. Wasn’t there anything else to talk about, apart from the war?
Someone’s got to stay and keep up morale at
home
, the vicar would say next, with a regretful sigh. This, apparently, meant sermonizing on the evils of German militarism and choosing hymns like
Fight the
good fight with all thy might
. ‘Can it be right to take up arms, to kill another human being?’ Edmund had asked him, at the outbreak of hostilities nearly two years ago. ‘When God wills it so,’ had been the Reverend Tilley’s prompt reply.

But how did you know what God willed and what He didn’t will? How could you know it wasn’t your own will, disguising itself? Edmund crumbled cake on his plate, thinking that if he hadn’t been prepared to be a soldier, and therefore to kill Germans, he wouldn’t have met Alex. He would have gone off to Cambridge according to plan, as his father had done at his age. He would go there still, after the inconvenient interruption of the war—if he survived, as everyone seemed oddly confident that he would. To his father and the vicar, it was as if the British army had merely been awaiting the return of Lieutenant Edmund Pearson before sweeping on to victory.

The maid, the pretty one, brought more hot water in a shining silver pot. She bobbed a curtsey as she placed the pot on the table, which already bore a ridiculous amount of bone china, linen and silverware just for three people to have scones and cream and a cup of tea. In France, in the front line, there would be a battered tin mug and strong tea tainted with petrol from the cans the water had been carried in. Edmund would have preferred that. Home, with all its comforts and routines, seemed abnormally normal, shockingly familiar.

Edmund, with his father and the vicar, was sitting out on the terrace, supposedly enjoying the fine midsummer weather which was gracing his last week of convalescent leave. Their chairs faced the balustrade, so that they could gaze over the gardens and out to the fields and forest. Since the gardeners had enlisted—all but Baillie and his remaining son, the dull-witted one, who kept order as best they could—the gardens were less manicured than usual. June growth flourished all the more for the comparative neglect, with buttercups and campions daring to show their blooms alongside the choicer plants. Beyond the ha-ha, acres of Essex countryside spread themselves in the patterns so familiar to Edmund from the framed estate map that hung in his father’s study: fields of wheat and barley, copses, grazing land. Beyond, to the south and west, the farthest reaches of Epping Forest were hazed in fresh green.

It was for this he was fighting, Edmund told himself. If the German army had its way it would sweep on over the Channel and across the English coast. He imagined these fields—his own fields—sliced up into trenches, bristling with barbed wire and pitted with shell-holes, like the front lines in France and Belgium. England had entered the war to support the Belgians; but to Edmund, future landowner, it was the land itself that was the victim, hacked and mutilated. It was bad enough in winter, worse in summer. The front line and its debris made an ugly gash across the French landscape at a time when the meadows should have been lush with grass, the trees graceful in new leaf and full of the twitter of nesting birds.

The vicar took another scone from the tiered plate. ‘Of course the French haven’t got the leadership we have. Haig’s been biding his time, but this will be a master plan.’

Master plans, new pushes—they cost lives, Edmund knew that. To the vicar and his father it was like bringing on a new spin-bowler in a cricket match; an interesting tactic, when viewed from the sidelines. Edmund knew that the front-line soldier saw the war not in terms of master plans, strategies or maps of Europe but as a few hundred yards of scarred earth, another day survived, another wiring party accomplished without shameful loss of nerve. On his way back from Arras, injured, he had seen a batch of new recruits arriving in Boulogne, many of them alarmingly young; some had looked like schoolboys. But at least they had chosen to enlist. Now the Government was bringing in conscription.

‘So, Edmund,’ the vicar said, noticing his withdrawal from the conversation, ‘five more days at home, then back to your unit?’

Edmund nodded. His father said, ‘The Fitches are dining with us tomorrow.’

The two men exchanged glances. Edmund knew what that meant.

‘Good,’ said the vicar, sipping tea. ‘And how is Philippa?’

‘Very well,’ said Edmund’s father. ‘Looking very well indeed last time I saw her.’

At this point Edmund was supposed to betray interest. Instead he looked away, towards the ha-ha. Slipping a hand into his pocket he felt the smooth rectangle of a letter; he touched it, caressed it. As soon as the tiresome vicar had gone he would read it again, though he already knew its contents by heart. He closed his eyes, taking pleasure in the deep, yearning ache that was his constant companion; more painful than the shell-fragment that had embedded itself in his leg, because he didn’t think he could ever be cured. He didn’t want to be cured.

Realizing that Reverend Tilley was addressing him, he called himself to attention. The vicar was still going on about the Fitches. ‘I’m sure young Geoffrey wishes he were in your position. Another eighteen months and he’ll be old enough to enlist.’

‘Then,’ Edmund said, ‘we must all hope that the war goes on long enough.’

The vicar decided to take this as a joke. Edmund’s father heard only the sharpness, and gave him a reproachful look. Edmund looked straight back at him. It was his father’s fault, since he chose to arrange these ordeals. Tea with the vicar today, dinner with the Fitches tomorrow . . . it was unbearably tedious. And pointless, if they only knew.

The Fitches were old family friends, with a large house in Ongar. Their daughter, Philippa Fitch—her name was like a tongue-twister, or the start of a comic verse—was destined to be Edmund’s wife, if his father had his way. This dinner party was carefully timed so that Philippa could see Edmund in his uniform, modestly playing his part of wounded hero about to return to the battlefield. The supposed romance between Philippa and Edmund was being carefully orchestrated by both sets of parents. A marriage would be a way of uniting the two families. After an appropriate interval, according to the plan, Philippa would obligingly produce a son, heir to the Graveney estate, and the future would be assured. Philippa was a pleasant young woman, well-mannered, accomplished and pretty by anyone’s standards, with a pale complexion and a mane of rich chestnut hair, artfully arranged by her maid. She had large dark eyes which constantly darted and flickered in Edmund’s direction; she listened attentively to everything he said, as if expecting nuggets of insight and wisdom to drop from his lips. She knew how to play her role.

There was one very large obstruction to this marriage, something that would have shocked and horrified Edmund’s parents if they had been able to begin to understand it, the Reverend Tilley even more. Everything was the wrong way round.
Thou
shalt not kill
, the Commandments said, but that was all changed in wartime, when
Thou shalt kill
, like it or not, and with the approval of God’s deputies if not of God Himself. And if killing could be good or bad, so could loving, it seemed. Love thy neighbour, but not too much. Love thy neighbour with everyone’s blessing if her name is Philippa Fitch, but not if his name is Alex Culworth. That kind of love was reprehensible, damnable, contemptible. Edmund could imagine the vilification he would get from the vicar if he found out. But the idea of confiding in him was laughable. The vicar, a long-standing friend of Edmund’s father, was like a tedious uncle—a frequent visitor to the house, fond of good dinners, vintage wines and circular conversations.

Edmund amused himself by imagining Alex here now. No respecter of convention, he would be sprawled on a chair with unconscious elegance, long legs stretched out. Alex and the vicar! Edmund found himself smiling at the thought. He could imagine how Alex would draw out the older man, questioning him with open-faced sincerity about the conduct of the war, innocently leading him into confusion, self-contradiction and bluster. Alex’s cleverness and barbed wit did not threaten Edmund now, as they once had. Alex had a way of looking at him, no matter who was present—a swift, reassuring glance that was as good as a declaration.

‘Excuse me.’ Edmund pushed back his chair. He had tolerated the conversation for long enough.

Reverend Tilley also rose to his feet and proffered his hand. ‘Well, good luck, my boy. I don’t suppose I shall see you again before you leave. My thoughts go with you.’

Edmund sincerely hoped not. He suppressed a smile, composed his face into an expression of pensive gravity, and walked away down the steps, past the fountains and formal beds to the grass walk that led to the ha-ha. He stood there for a few moments, feeling the sun warm on his back, looking out over fields of ripening barley. He knew that they could see him from the terrace, and were fondly imagining, no doubt, that he was savouring the peace and harmony of the garden and the productiveness of the farmland, his inheritance; looking forward to the time when he would walk here with Philippa on his arm and an infant or two romping at his feet.

‘Alex . . .’ he said slowly, lingering over the separate sounds for only the green ears of corn to hear.

Wanting to be out of sight, he turned away through the orchard and walked towards the stableyard. It was deserted and unswept; all the horses, apart from the old pony that pulled the gardener’s cart, had been requisitioned by the army. Edmund could see the gardener’s son, the one he knew as the idiot boy, pushing a wheelbarrow, with his odd ungainly gait. He was concentrating hard, gripping the handles tightly, his mouth open; he did not notice Edmund.

Leaning on the Coach House wall, Edmund took off his uniform jacket and slung it on the mounting-block, first taking Alex’s letter from one of the pockets. Unfolding the pages, he held them to his mouth. One more week.

Jordan

Greg’s
photograph:
at the swimming pool, from
the poolguard’s chair. The water is cool and
aquamarine, shimmering in artificial light. Most
of its surface is undisturbed. The first swimmer
has just dived in and is swooping low under the
water. The long human shape flickers against
pale-blue tiles.

On Tuesday evening Greg cycled over to Graveney Hall, taking his camera in his rucksack. The weather was still very warm for September; the ground was dry and dusty. He passed a couple of dog-walkers on the driveway, but there were no cars parked along the front of the house. He dismounted and stood looking at the façade. This time, there was nothing to stop him having a proper look round.

Abandoned, the mansion was eerie, standing sentinel over its fertile acres. It was a house out of time. The fire that had destroyed it had also preserved it; the nearby towns had expanded, motorways had been built, the M25 had circled London, cutting off Graveney Hall from the forest, but the wreck of 1917 still stood. Rather like the
Mary Celeste
, Greg thought—an abandoned hulk, empty, mysterious. Its blank windows made him think of a skull’s empty eye-sockets. He felt dwarfed by its height and scale, reduced to insignificance, standing and staring, as so many must have stood and stared before.

It was rather an ugly building—imposing and magnificent rather than beautiful. The square brick extensions at either side of the stone-faced central part could have been added at a later date. The ornamental panel which crowned the central section, shaped like a flattened triangle, was state-of-the-art décor of the period, he supposed, looking at the reclining figures, harps and flowing vegetation.

Signs on the frontage warned DANGER, KEEP OUT. STRICTLY PRIVATE. But what damage could he do? He wasn’t stupid enough to risk climbing rickety walls or staircases, and it must be safe enough to enter the building; people had been working inside on Sunday.

Parts of the lower frontage on this side were boarded up with corrugated panels, but the door beneath the twin flights of steps—the one he’d glanced through last time—was a makeshift wooden panel, left as an entrance. Carefully, he pushed it open and stepped through.

It was like entering a cathedral, but one open to the sky. He was standing on a concrete floor littered with silted mud and fragments of brick. Looking up, he saw a huge fireplace on what would have been the first floor, suspended in mid-wall; he could see that the upper rooms must have been enormous. Above him had probably been a drawing room or dining room, giving, at that height, the best possible views over the countryside and forest. To his left, the floor gaped, revealing more rooms below—cellars or kitchens, he thought. Since humans had moved out, vegetation had moved in. Clumps of nettles clung between bricks; brambles, willowherb, and even the sapling trees he had noticed before had found rootholds. A swallow swooped low over his head as he stood there.

He began to make his way through to the rear. He was thinking of what Faith had said, about the place being a prime site for development as a country club, hotel or conference centre. He disliked the idea, but now wondered why. This house was a relic of an age when the rich were very rich and the poor were nothing. Dozens of poorly-paid labourers must have sweated and toiled to build the place; teams of servants would have slogged long hours so that the owners could live in luxury. Wouldn’t it be better turned into a facility for everyone to enjoy? The land itself must be worth a packet, at a time when farmers could make a fortune by selling off odd corners of fields for house-building. But country clubs and hotels were only for the well-heeled; there would be no change there. His instinct was that the mansion should be left as it was. To pull it down would be to destroy the past with it, to state that the twenty-first century had no room left for this great, sprawling reminder of an older way of life . . .

The hairs rose on the back of his neck as he became aware of a strange keening sound. At first he thought it was some creature, a fox or a cat, trapped in the ruins. He stood and listened, trying to locate the direction. Then the voice took on a distinctly human tone, and was joined by another, rising in a banshee wail. Kids, mucking about! Greg’s anxiety turned to annoyance. They were taunting him, creeping up close, hooting, staying out of sight. He heard a jeering laugh and another drawn-out, wavering cry. Then a Tarzan yell from somewhere above his head made him jump. He looked up and saw, balanced on the edge of a staircase, a skinny boy—wavering, losing balance, arms flailing. Greg caught his breath. The boy laughed and dodged back out of sight—only pretending. Kookaburra laughter rippled to his left. There must be three or four of them.

Irritated, Greg continued to pick his way through to the back of the house. The voices followed him, like sparrows mobbing a magpie. The glimpse he’d had was of a boy, thirteen or so, in jeans and a yellow T-SHIRT. Moronic, climbing around in an unstable building! But Greg was unlikely to catch them—they knew their way around. It must be their illicit playground.

Emerging at the foot of the steps leading down from the first floor to the garden, Greg looked to his left. Past the brick wing of the building were the remains of another low structure reaching along the edge of the garden; could have been a covered walkway or pergola. He stepped out into the garden and stood looking and listening. Silence. Then:

‘Tosspot!’

‘Prat!’

There were three of them halfway along the walkway, running, leaping over blocks of stone, knowing he was too far off to catch them. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself by trying. They were making for the main driveway. A moment later he saw them riding away on bikes, which they must have hidden in a ditch or behind bushes, or he’d have noticed them. Well out of his reach, they rode slowly, swerving across the path, sliding into turns. One of them gave a mocking hoot and raised two fingers.

He walked slowly along the way they had left. The low structure, marked by remnants of pillars at varying heights, led to a large octagonal area of foundations. A conservatory, he supposed. At the farthest end, his eye was caught by something bright, where a section of wall still stood. DEAN WOZ ERE announced itself in spray-paint. Going closer, Greg smelled dry ash and saw the scattering of cans and litter in the burned circle of a fire.

Yobs. Morons
.

He took out his camera: focused, clicked, without being sure why. Then he thought of his bike, vulnerable there in the driveway, and went to check it; he wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d sprayed that as well or kicked the spokes in. He found it unharmed, but resolved to be more careful where he left it in future.

Mindless little oiks! He resented the way they’d tainted the place. They could have gone into the forest to light fires and muck about, but the PRIVATE and KEEP OUT signs here were as good as an invitation. He could hardly blame them for trespassing when he was doing the same himself. But he was here as careful observer, not leaving markers like a tomcat spraying its territory, or clambering all over the building at the risk of bringing it down.

With any luck, they’d break their stupid necks.

Keith, the pool manager, had asked Greg if he could continue to do the early Wednesday slot as well as all day Saturdays. It meant hauling himself out of bed at first light, but was otherwise no hassle; the early morning was a training session, no-one likely to get into trouble, with the coach watching his group closely. The pool guard was a token presence.

Greg did his routine jobs—checking the water temperature, taking a sample to be measured for chlorine, putting out lane markers—then got up on his high seat as the first swimmers started to arrive. He saw Jordan, in brief black trunks, come out of the changing room and walk to the deep end, dangling goggles from his fingers. Poised to dive, Jordan saw him and raised a hand, then took a neat header into the pool—the first to ruffle the turquoise-blue surface. Greg watched the deep, sure underwater curve, a long shape flickering against pale-blue tiles. It made him think of a line from a poem they’d looked at in English yesterday—something about ‘swimmers into cleanness leaping’. Flipping over, Jordan put on his goggles and adjusted them, then did two lengths of leisurely crawl. The coach, a small wiry man in jog-pants and flip-flops, sent his group into their warm-up routine, gradually building up speed and effort. Greg watched Jordan. A strong swimmer himself but with neither elegance nor impressive speed, he envied Jordan’s ability to make swimming so good to watch. When Jordan swam butterfly—a stroke which Greg could manage only as a laborious flounder—it was like watching a fast, graceful animal in its natural element. Poor or clumsy swimmers seemed to fight the water; Jordan rode it, like a human surfboard.

At school Jordan rarely mentioned the swimming, even though he turned up every day smelling faintly of chlorine and with hair still damp, and ate his breakfast in the sixth-form common room, usually before anyone else arrived. It was odd that someone so eye-catching and powerful in the swimming pool could be so unobtrusive at school. Jordan kept himself to himself, rarely speaking up in class. In some subjects he could get away with remaining silent and letting others answer the questions, but when he was forced to speak up—in English, particularly, where Mr O’Donnell insisted on everyone taking part—he usually said something perceptive. He certainly wasn’t dim but, Greg realized, had an almost neurotic dislike of drawing attention to himself.

At the beginning of term he and Greg, finding themselves the only two boys in their English class, had sat together with the defensive instinct of boys outnumbered by girls, and discovered that they had other subjects in common as well as being in the same tutor group. It had become habitual for Greg to look out for Jordan in the mornings, in the common room. If Jordan arrived first, as he usually did, he would sit by himself in the corner reading the sixth-form copy of the
Guardian
, which he collected from Reception on his way in; if for some reason Greg were there first, Jordan would give his diffident smile and come over to join him. The predominantly-girl tutor group took little notice of Jordan, so successful was his fading-into-the-background technique. Which was strange, Greg thought, because Jordan was a handsome boy—more so than Gizzard, for instance, whose mouth was too wide and nose too podgy for conventional good looks. Jordan was tall, slightly olive-skinned, with springy dark hair and eyes that Greg had noticed were an unusual clear green. Clever, athletic, good-looking—he had all the qualities that could easily, in someone else, have added up to arrogance. Yet there was always something cautious and guarded about him.

That day in English, they were continuing the reading for their first coursework piece, on First World War poetry. Mr O’Donnell had given them various handwritten drafts of
Anthem for Doomed
Youth
by Wilfred Owen. In one version, alterations had been made in another hand; these, Mr O’Donnell explained, were the suggestions made by another poet, Siegfried Sassoon.

‘That Wilfred had really neat handwriting, didn’t he?’ said Bonnie Johnson.

‘Yes, Bonnie—unlike yours,’ Mr O’Donnell said crisply. ‘Now listen. When they met, at Craiglockhart Hospital in Edinburgh, Owen was definitely in awe of Sassoon. Sassoon was a few years older and already a published poet. Not only that, he had a reputation for bravery and dash in the trenches. He’d already been awarded an MC—a Military Cross—for conspicuous gallantry, after he captured a whole German trench single-handed. Poet-soldier—it must have seemed a potent combination to Owen, the younger of the two. It’s not surprising he hero-worshipped Sassoon.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
is one of the poems Owen wrote at Craiglockhart. We’re going to spend a bit of time looking at the drafts I’ve given you, comparing them.’

‘What’s the point,’ Bonnie grumbled, ‘if these are just the rough drafts? Can’t we stick to the one in the book?’

Mr O’Donnell had a way of looking over the top of his glasses that could be completely shrivelling. Bonnie shut up and looked at the duplicated poems.

‘If Wilfred Owen was so much, you know, in awe of Sassoon, like you said,’ Madeleine Court pointed out, ‘he might have agreed to the changes whether they were good ideas or not, mightn’t he?’

‘That’s exactly what I want you to think about,’ Mr O’Donnell said, ‘by looking at each of the changes suggested by Sassoon, and at the finished poem. I want you to work in pairs, consider each one carefully, and think about what difference it makes. I’ll give you fifteen minutes, then we’ll hear what you’ve got to say.’

‘Shouldn’t it be
Anthem for Doomed Youth
by Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon?’ Bonnie said, recovering from the non-verbal snub.

Mr O’Donnell considered. ‘If I help you with your coursework essay, will you write on it:
by Bonnie
Johnson and Mr O’Donnell?’

‘That’s different. You’re paid to help me. You’re a teacher.’

‘And perhaps Sassoon taught Owen something. There are lots of ways of teaching that have nothing to do with school,’ Mr O’Donnell said. ‘Or not so much teaching, more a matter of Sassoon helping Owen to express what he wanted to say more effectively. Which, come to think of it, is exactly what I try to do with your coursework, Bonnie. Many people consider Owen to be the more promising poet of the two—in fact I think Sassoon himself thought so. Who knows what Owen would have gone on to write if he hadn’t been killed?’

The class settled down to study the poem. Immediately Jordan pointed to the title:
Anthem for
Dead Youth
in Owen’s hand, with
Dead
crossed out and the word
Doomed
substituted in Sassoon’s.

‘You can see why that’s better.
Dead
— well, they’re dead already, corpses, finished.
Doomed
means they’re fated, there’s a death sentence hanging over them, they can’t escape it. It makes you sorrier for them.’