The Somme Stations

twenty whatsnames…’

‘Centimes,’ I said.

‘… And you get goodness knows how many glasses in a bottle, whereas one glass of beer is a franc – and there’s a lot more wallop in a glass of wine than there is in a glass of beer.’

‘Spoken like a connoisseur,’ said Dawson, who was mooching along behind, hands in pockets. In the washroom, directly after the bath, he’d covered his face in a lather and set about it with a razor. It seemed he’d finally had enough of his not-quite moustache, but when he’d wiped away the soap, it was just as before.

Dawson seemed to be looking for something, and I wondered whether it was the same thing I believed Tinsley to be looking for, namely a place signified by a red light burning low. On the train coming in from Burton Dump, I’d decided – on looking at all the brilliantined hair, the shaving nicks on the chins, and the soap suds hardened into white crusts about the backs of the necks – that such a place was the true goal of every man in the carriage, even the twins.

Of course, most of the blokes in the carriage were not married. I was, and so the question of my own intentions came with complications. Whenever I thought of the red light, and how it might look, and where it might be, I thought of the wife. Best thing would be to have a drink, and see what happened. That’s what I intended to do, anyhow, but we couldn’t seem to find the right spot.

We came out into the main square, where the half-wrecked cathedral stood. On the top of the spire, the Virgin Mary, tilted a few degrees below the horizontal, held the baby Jesus.

‘Famous is that,’ said Tinsley. ‘They have postcards with it on.’

‘Having a lovely time on the Western Front,’ I said.

‘It’s known as the Albert Memorial,’ said Dawson, and when he saw Tinsley’s expression – half believing it and half not – he had to laugh.

We found a basement estaminet just off the Square that looked all right – not red lamps but green ones, which, together with dark blue, none-too-clean tablecloths, gave an underwater look to the place. It seemed to draw quiet types. A couple of privates talked in low voices in one corner; a couple of officers did likewise in another. As we descended the stone steps, a tired-looking woman said, ‘English menu’ in a strong French accent and held up a little blackboard. She looked at us, waiting. The odd thing was that it was all written in French, except for the odd word that stood out in capitals like ‘ENGLISH SHIPS’ which, odds on, was ‘English Chips’, since it went next to ‘Oeufs au plat’.

‘Bonsoir, madame,’ I said, and the woman nodded back. She wanted us to get on with the ordering.

‘What is oeufs au plat?’ asked Alfred Tinsley.

‘Eggs on a plate,’ I said.

‘Where else would they be?’

‘Fried eggs. So in English it’s egg and chips.’

‘I’ll have that,’ he said, and we all asked for it.

The woman made no move, but nodded. She was still holding up the little blackboard, still looking worn out.

‘For dreenk,’ she said.

The menu said ‘Notre Vins’, then came ‘Vin Blanc 1ff’. Below that was written ‘Cidre’, and no price.

Tinsley said to me, ‘Ask her if she has Vin Superieur.’

He’d set his heart on this, having seen signs about the town announcing that it was only ten or maybe twenty centimes dearer than the ordinary stuff. I asked the question as best I could, and I could not make out the answer.

We sat down at the table next to the officers. They were only junior officers – one pip and two pips. Two pips was out of the Quinn mould. He was saying, ‘That’s final to my mind… But then again…’

We started in on the wine, which came in a bottle without a label, and without a cork – a dodge that most French barkeepers seemed to think they could get away with. I took a sip, while Alfred Tinsley drank off his glass in one go. He sat back, and said, ‘My eye! Is that what wine’s meant to taste like?’

‘No,’ I said.

Dawson passed me a Woodbine, before offering one to Tinsley.

‘Go on then,’ said the lad, and he set about trying to enjoy a cigarette for the second time in his life.

Dawson re-filled Tinsley’s glass, and the kid knocked half of that back straightaway as well. After taking a draw on the fag, he eyed it as though there was something wrong with it. But it was just the same as all other Woodbines.

‘I think a cigar might be more my style,’ he said.

He seemed determined to go all-out this evening – and in all directions. Then he said, ‘Why does Oliver Butler say all that stuff about Oamer? Making out that he’s, you know, funny? A sort of nancy, I suppose is what he’s saying. He’s so keen to throw blame for what happened that I’m beginning to think he might have done for Harvey himself – him or his loony brothers.’

Watching Tinsley, I was wondering again about the torn number of the Railway Magazine. It was the only thing about him that I couldn’t explain. Tinsley drained his glass, and this time took the liberty of re-filling it himself. ‘Oamer’s brainy,’ he ran on, ‘that’s the only thing different about him. Did you see him coming up on the train? He was reading the fattest book I’ve ever clapped eyes on.’

‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ I said.

Taking another belt of wine, Dawson said, ‘I’ve got a book called The World’s Best Books. It’s awfully good. I’d read about half of it but then the war started.’

Dawson looked up and said, ‘It’s not the same as reading half of the world’s best books, you know.’

Re-filling my own glass – Dawson, who’d seemed miles away, had barely touched his – I said, ‘I’d stick to the Railway Magazine if I were you. But Alfred… How did one of yours end up getting burnt in the stove at Spurn?’

‘Eh?’ said Tinsley, setting down his glass, ‘How do you mean?’

I thought: If he’s lying, he’s doing it pretty well.

The English Ships came, and Tinsley got stuck in, but Dawson was still in his daze.

‘Look alive,’ Tinsley said, and Dawson started eating.

The grub seemed to revive him, and when we’d finished eating, Dawson was all for quitting that particular basement, and finding another with a bit more life to it. So we paid the bill, and walked up into the dark street.

This one offered no other estaminet, I was sure – just the tall houses, looking tense, waiting for another shell to come flying in. But there was no indication of the battle going in the east, save the occasional rumble of what sounded like thunder, and a faint discoloration on the sky. I looked along the road, and a little old man had appeared there. The males of Albert generally were little old men, or blokes otherwise crocked – they’d have been in the French army otherwise. But this bloke was in uniform, even though he carried a very un-military carpet bag.

We stood near the street corner, and Dawson and Tinsley were after drifting around that corner. Tinsley was prattling about cigars: ‘The time for a cigar is after dinner,’ he said, ‘and we’ve had dinner so it’s time for a cigar.’

Well, he was already canned. Dawson was jingling the change in his pockets while puffing on a fag. His cap was tipped right back, and a line of insect powder showed luminous in the crease of his tunic.

‘Just want to take a peek around the corner, Jim,’ he said.

He sloped off, and the little old man was coming up fast. He wore a uniform at least a size too big for him, and of a washed-out, greyish colour. It featured a black brassard with lettering on it, but he wasn’t a military policeman. As he approached the white light of the lamp, he spoke, and it was a hard Yorkshire voice.

‘Who’s that man, bringing the King’s uniform into contempt?’

It was the bloody Chief.

‘It’s Dawson,’ I replied, being in a state of shock, ‘the bloke you had a run-in with…’

‘Might have bloody known.’

‘Chief,’ I fairly gasped, ‘what…?’

I meant ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Where’ve you just come from?’ ‘What’s this queer sort of uniform you’re wearing?’ and ‘Why have you bloody shrunk?’ Shaking his hand, I read the lettering on the