you, of all people, must understand that? Our men are giving their lives out there in France, in terrible conditions, to save England.” He flung his arm out sharply. “And here is this person willing, even eager, to sell us to Germany by murder and treason. It’s . . . it’s so evil it defies imagination.” His cheeks were stained with pink, his eyes bright.
“And what about our spies in Germany?” Joseph asked, thinking of Perth’s suspicions. Then seeing the look on Kerr’s face, he wished instantly that he had not. The man was confused, and because he did not understand, he perceived himself to be attacked.
“I don’t know what you mean!” he protested. “Are you suggesting there is no difference between us, Captain Reavley? If that were so, why on earth would our young men be fighting and dying out there? What you are saying is manifestly ridiculous.”
“In theory there’s all the difference in the world,” Joseph said wearily. If Kerr were really a German agent as Perth had considered, then his acting skill amounted to genius. “When it comes to fact,” he went on, “the difference isn’t much more than that they are fighting against us, whereas we are fighting against them.”
“I don’t know what you mean!” Kerr repeated.
“I’m not sure that I do, either,” Joseph conceded, although it was not the truth. It was just pointless to argue. “Are you so sure that God is an Englishman? Might He not see little difference between one nationality and another, only between a man who does the best he can, and one who doesn’t?”
Kerr blinked. It was quite clear in his face that he was being presented with a vast idea that had never occurred to him before. Suddenly the simple had become savagely and impossibly complicated.
Joseph was sorry he had given the man more than he could accommodate, but he could not bring himself to say so. One thing he was convinced of: Perth was utterly wrong—Kerr was every bit the ass he seemed.
“It’s probably a domestic tragedy, just as you’re supposing,” he said quietly. Conscience demanded that he be kinder to the man. “But leave it to Perth to find out. He’s really quite capable. I’ve seen him work before. He’ll uncover the truth, but carefully, piece by piece, without error. All you can do is tell him what you know, not what other people have told you. They may be malicious, or simply mistaken, and you would unwittingly compound the injustice. If the time should ever come when you know for certain that the wrong person may be convicted, then reconsider. But we are far from that now. You can’t carry the world. Don’t try. You’ll break your back, and that won’t help anyone. Then you’ll be no use for when you are needed by the next person who requires your comfort or help.”
Kerr gulped, but his shoulders were relaxed, his hands still. “Yes,” he said, then again more firmly. “Yes, of course. You are very wise. Very fair. I’m sorry I didn’t see that at first.”
Now Joseph was ashamed for his abruptness. “I should have explained myself a little more clearly.”
Kerr stared at him. “It’s all . . . it’s so alien! Everything’s changing.”
Joseph thought that it was not so much that the world was changing as that they were being forced to see it more realistically. He did not say so. “Yes,” he agreed, feeling like a hypocrite. “I think it’s hard, one way or another, for everyone.”
Kerr was obviously still disturbed about something. “This man Perth,” he said anxiously. “He’s digging up particulars—indiscretions, old quarrels—that have nothing to do with poor Blaine’s death.” He waved his hand uselessly. “It’s like tearing the bandages off everyone’s wounds. I’ve tried, but I can’t do anything to stop him. I feel so . . . helpless! People expect me to look after them, and I can’t!”
Joseph felt a sudden, completely humble sympathy for him. “People expect too much of us altogether,” he said ruefully. “A bit like doctors. We can’t cure everything, only ease the pain a bit, and give advice which they don’t have to take.”
“I’m . . . I’m so grateful to talk to you,” Kerr said impulsively, his face pink. “This whole thing is quite dreadful. The other young men at the Establishment can’t prove where they were when Blaine was killed, either. Everyone is under suspicion. And of course they knew him. It could simply have been a personal dislike, I suppose, a rivalry or quarrel over work. Do you think?”
“It would be an easier answer for the village, if not for the war effort,” Joseph conceded. “I understand what you mean.”
“Good. Good. You’ve been very kind.” Kerr rose to his feet, satisfied. He stood straight, as if with some new sort of strength. “I’m very grateful to you, Captain. You see it all so clearly.”
Joseph did not deny it. That was a truth Kerr did not need. Joseph had made sufficient difficulties for him for one visit. After Kerr had gone, he walked outside in the garden. The spring evening was mild and close. The air was still full of gold from the lowering sun. There was no breeze to whisper in the branches of the elms, but the starlings whirled up in huge flocks, wheeling against the blue of the sky and the shredded mares’ tails of cloud glowing to the west.
He stood alone amid the burning color of the tulips, crimson and purple and hot scarlet. Kerr had been satisfied when he had finally gone, perhaps because he no longer felt alone in his responsibility. That was what Joseph had promised himself when he had first committed his life to being a chaplain in the war. He would try to do what he could for everyone, regardless of their need. He could not cure, he could not even share physical or emotional pain, but he could be there. At least he would not run away.
But had he turned away inside himself? By trying to be all things to others, had he ended being nothing to himself? He had said what he thought Kerr needed to hear. He was thinking of Kerr’s weakness, his very apparent confusion. He was doing the same for Hannah, thinking of her fear of change, of losing the familiar that was so sweet.
In all that he said and did, where was his own passion, his integrity, that part of mind or spirit that was so rooted in belief that it would anchor him no matter what storms blew? What would he live or die for? What would hold him upright if he faced the ultimate storm and there was no one else to consider, no single voice that cried “help me!” and gave him something to do, a direction to consume his thoughts so he had no time and no need to examine himself?
If he faced the silence, where was his inner strength? What color was the chameleon itself? No color at all? Nothing, except as reflected by others? That would be a kind of moral suicide, the final emptiness. Is that what he was doing to himself?
He prayed with all his heart. “Father, do I stay here and pick up the task Kerr can’t and won’t do? These are my people, too! Or do I go back to the trenches, the mud and the stench of death, and be with my men there? What do you want me to do? Help me!”
The starlings wheeled back and settled in the elms. The light was deepening, the colors in the sky growing hotter. The silence was total.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Hannah walked away slowly from the women gathered in the street around the casualty notices. There had been one man killed from Cherry Hinton, another missing from Haslingfield, but no one from St. Giles. Relief welled up inside all the people standing together. They could look each other in the eye for a while longer. There were hesitant smiles, the freedom to think of ordinary things: mending and sewing, shopping, work, the upcoming Easter weekend. But voices were quiet, hushed with the weight of knowing that just beyond that sloping hill, the copse of trees, the spire of the next village church, was the loss that next time might be here.
Hannah walked homeward slowly in the still, damp morning. The sun broke through in misty shafts, making everything silver and green, shining through the raindrops on twigs and grass heads. Some of the early blossoms had blown off and lay in white petals on the path.
She was a couple of hundred yards from the corner when she met Ben Morven coming out of the ironmongers’. He was wearing a corduroy jacket over a crisp white shirt and gray slacks. His face lit up with pleasure seeing her. It was really out of all proportion, but his smile suddenly lifted her spirits also, and she found her step lighter and a warmth inside. She remembered how he had worked at the railway station in Cambridge, the intensity of his concentration trying not to jolt the injured, to be quick and gentle, and how he had ignored his own bruises.
He fell into step beside her, matching his stride to hers.
