he’d thought again: Al those kettles.
11
LATER THAT MORNING Jack had cal ed the special direct-line number in the letter. How could he not? But he’d had to brace himself to do it and he’d felt, as he spoke, like a man cal ing a police station to turn himself in.
“I am Jack Luxton,” he’d said, like the start of a confession.
AND ONLY THE NEXT MORNING, which was also grey, damp and stil , a smart black saloon had driven up the winding road from Holn, which Jack surveys now, and after making the climb in a slow, unfamiliarised fashion, had pul ed up in the turning-space opposite the cottage. Jack had watched it, from this very window. On a stil day any car ascending the hil —it was a rare enough event—would announce its approach, even if you weren’t already waiting. Then he’d watched an army officer get out, reaching as he did so for his peaked cap on the passenger seat and for a brown leather document wal et beneath it.
Jack had been informed of this visit and the timing was spot-on, it was eleven-thirty almost exactly. But when he saw the officer emerge from the car, Jack, who thinks now that El ie might return in convoy with a squad car, was for a moment in no doubt that the officer had come to arrest him, to take him prisoner or to do whatever army officers were empowered to do. To have him shot, possibly. Yet at the same time, when he’d seen the khaki uniform, he’d had the distinct thought: Tom might have done this. Tom might have driven up one day, out of the blue. He might have turned out, who knows, to have become an officer.
But the officer, whose name was Major Richards—and Jack had spoken to him the preceding day, as requested, on the phone—was in his early fifties and, before he’d put on his cap, Jack could see that his hair was grey and receding and that he looked, in some ways, more like a visiting doctor or some peculiarly burdened schoolmaster than an army officer.
Major Richards had stood for a moment and put his cap on very squarely, pul ed his tunic straight and, tucking the wal et under his arm, had coughed into his hand. Then he’d walked the few paces to the front door of Lookout Cottage not quite as if he were marching, but as if ceremony and dignity were not out of place and he knew he might be being watched.
Major Richards had explained, even rather insisted, on the phone that this was how the battalion did things. A personal visit, regardless of how notification had actual y been made, to express the battalion’s condolences and sympathies—and loss, and gratitude. And to explain related matters. In the circumstances, nothing less was proper, and he was the appointed visiting officer. So Jack had found himself agreeing to an imminent visitation by the army. He hadn’t consulted El ie, but he’d said after putting down the phone, and repeating Major Richards’s words almost exactly, that it was how they did things and he’d agreed to it.
So they’d had to tidy up the place—though it was not an inspection—and El ie had put on something smart and vaguely solemn—she chose her black skirt and pale-grey V-neck with her imitation pearls—to go with Jack’s black trousers and white shirt (things he was never normal y seen in), and they’d both prepared to pretend that this was how they always loafed around the cottage on a weekday morning. El ie had looked at him with a strange, appraising tenderness as they’d dressed in this unusual way. It was like the day they got married. And even as Major Richards strode towards the front door, Jack, having descended the stairs, was on the other side of it, waiting in his crisp white shirt and, in spite of himself, not quite resisting the urge—
he’d feel it again in the coming days—to stand to attention.
Major Richards had said, “Mr. Luxton?” And had asked very formal y if he might come in and, when he did, had removed his cap with a distinct and formal gesture. It had been on his head for just the few steps he’d taken from his car. He’d shaken their hands and at once, while stil on his feet, had expressed again, to them both, the battalion’s profound regrets and condolences. He’d said that Corporal Luxton was a brave and exemplary soldier who’d done his duty to the utmost, so that the army was proud of him, and that this was a great blow to everyone.
Jack had lost the immediate sensation of being under arrest or that he was about to have some order barked at him, but he’d felt that, though it was he who’d shown in their visitor and introduced him to his wife, it was more as if Major Richards was greeting them and ushering them into his world. Everything was the wrong way round.
Only when Major Richards had sat down, placing his cap very careful y on another seat close by and the leather wal et on his knees and meanwhile accepting cordial y El ie’s offer of a cup of tea, did the thing relax, if such a thing can relax. With his cap off, he didn’t seem so intimidating.
Looking at them both very attentively, his eyes making regular sweeps between them, Major Richards had reiterated the point about the battalion liking to do things this way. He apologised for the letter’s having reached them by its delayed and roundabout route. He apologised (though it wasn’t his fault) for the need for the letter at al . In most cases, the news, the sad news itself, would be communicated directly, and very quickly, in person. There were what he cal ed “army families.” Jack understood that he and El ie, if they were a family at al , were not an “army family.” In other cases, Major Richards had explained, it was only wise to avoid what might be a wasted or impractical initial journey. As to his own journey right now (since El ie had kindly enquired), it had actual y been quite short—not that shortness mattered: Wiltshire, not so far from Salisbury, to the Isle of Wight.
AND NOT SUCH an unpleasant one, Major Richards might have added, if the circumstances had been different. He might have said something complimentary about the real y remarkably pleasant situation they had here. The fine view, even on a grey day like today. As he’d parked the car he’d noticed the caravans, in their neat rows, down below.
HE’D LOOKED at Jack and El ie attentively, as if silently confirming permission to proceed, then had unzipped his leather wal et. He’d said that Corporal Luxton had been kil ed, as stated in the letter, on the fourth of November and at approximately three p.m., local time. It was not possible for him to give many details at this point—he was obviously just a home-based officer—but he could confirm that Corporal Luxton would have died instantly, on active, front-line duty, and that his record was such that he would undoubtedly have been promoted soon to sergeant. He’d been trained as a sniper—had himself been a trainer of snipers—but had been kil ed when the armoured vehicle he was in had triggered an exceptional y lethal roadside bomb. Two other members of his section had been kil ed and two wounded, one seriously. It was a very grave incident and a very great loss. These were things, nonetheless, that soldiers in Iraq risked every day.
Major Richards had left a little measured pause, though he did not actual y say, “Do you have any questions?” Then, taking out a pen and one of the documents from his wal et, but with an air of being ready to reverse or modify these simple actions if necessary, he’d said that he was sorry to have to ask for such information at such a time, but there were certain matters he needed to confirm.
That Corporal Luxton was never married.
