Morton nodded. She was right and he hadactually hoped that she would decline his invitation. It wasn’t that hedidn’t want her company; it was simply that he needed just a few minutes byhimself.
Outside,the bracing salty air blasted against his face as he ambled slowly along thecliff path. He passed the disused coastguard hut and his thoughts turnedto this morning and to the new life ahead of him as a married man. Heloved Juliette and wanted to spend his life with her. The happiness thatshe evoked in him and the calmness that her presence brought him could never beequalled. She seemed to know and comprehend his thoughts before he hadeven thought them. She understood and guided him gently through theturbid complex waters of his past. Right now, though, he felt like one ofthe tiny boats out on the open seas before him: released from the past with awhole world out in front of him.
Morton took a step up onto the grassy bankand drew in a long, deep breath. He stared out into the distance. Somewhere out there, probably on another continent, was his biologicalfather. A normal real man who had no idea of his existence.
Jack. An American with someconnection to Boston. A degree in archaeology. A stay in Folkestonein early 1974. That was the sum of his knowledge about his father. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. ‘Dad,’ he mouthed into the air.
He closed his eyes and felt the cold wind on his face. Wind that blew infrom his father’s homeland.
For the first time in his life he felt part of a family with a past, presentand a future.
Taking in another long inhalation, Morton headed back down the hill to join hisfiancée for a drink in the pub.
ChapterThirteen
25thDecember 1914, Le Hamel, France
CharlesFarrier was standing in a long queue of noisy soldiers, which slowly snaked itsway through the ground floor of the house towards the dining room. Atemporary kitchen had been established there to serve the company Christmasdinner. Alone in his thoughts, Charles was feeling surprisinglygrateful. Yesterday evening, just as the men were beginning to relax intheir billets, the Battalion had been ordered to proceed at 9am on ChristmasDay to relieve the 6th Brigade near Cambrin, a prospect they had allfeared and which had severely dampened their evening. However, at 11.30last night, the order had been cancelled and the men had slept well in theknowledge that their Christmas Day would be a peaceful one. The cancelledorder had come with the caveat that the Battalion must be ready to move withjust one hour’s notice. Last night Frank and Jimmy had returned from the redlamps, slightly inebriated, dragging with them a small fir sapling. Theyhad also procured from somewhere a few measly strips of tinsel and a handful ofover-sized baubles, which looked ridiculous on the diminutive tree. Butit was better than nothing, Charles thought, as he looked at the treestanding drunkenly in the corner of the room that he was sharing with the fiveother men.
They had woken to a bitingly cold bedroom and had worked quickly to ignite thebrazier. Following a slow breakfast of bacon and tea, the men had satquietly on their own beds and opened their presents from home. Carefullywrapped inside brown paper, Charles had found two pairs of thick socks, severalbars of chocolate, a plum pudding, some dried fruit and a new photograph ofNellie and Alfred inside a decorative leather case.
‘Here you go,’ Charles had said to Leonard, tossing a small wrapped parcel athim. ‘Happy Christmas.’
Leonard had looked surprised at being given the package.
‘From Nellie and little Alfie. Well, and me of course.’
Leonard had opened the parcel and smiled at the gifts of socks, candles, apacket of fancy biscuits and some dried fruit. ‘Thank you.’
Charles had seen in Leonard’s eyes how much the trivial gifts had meant to him;without them, he would have had nothing. His aging aunt certainly wasn’tgoing to send him anything.
Charles returned to the present when Leonard turned to speak to him. ‘Smells delicious, doesn’t it?’ he asked.
‘My stomach’s doing summersaults,’ Charles replied. They were in a grand,high-ceilinged room once used as a library before the house had become anothercasualty of war. Each wall had been lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves;but only a few books now remained. Small handfuls had been hastilygrabbed by the exiled previous owners and half a dozen ‘borrowed’ by transientsoldiers; the bulk that had remained had slowly kept the braziers and cookingvats burning for the past few weeks, when the claws of winter had sunk into thehouse. For Charles, the sight of the empty shelves, knowing that allthose precious tomes had been consumed by fire, was desperately pitiful. It was just another consequence of war to which desensitised men paid nothought. Nobody whosoever even raised an eyebrow to the literarydestruction. But how could they, Charles thought. Theyhad marched until their feet had bled. They had stood for hours infreezing water. They had witnessed shells ripping apart their friends andenemies. They had watched helplessly as rats had devoured their comrades’internal organs. No thing or person held any value anymore.
Yet it broke Charles’s heart as much as seeing the death of his friends. For him, it symbolised a further lowering of humanity. If we can’teven care for a pile of books, he thought, what hope do we have ofcaring for other human beings?
Charles watched from his position in the line, as one of the three cooks beganto wrench, break and snap away chunks of the actual shelving behind him. He slowly fed the pieces into the fire.
Finally reaching the front of the queue, Charles received his plate of food:boiled potatoes, carrots and a piece of chicken, all swimming in a watery brownliquid that reminded him of the stuff slopping about in the bottom of thetrenches. ‘Delicious,’ he said flatly.
In the adjoining lounge and dining room, a variety of makeshift tables had beenassembled, some covered with tablecloths and a vase of fresh flowers. Thetwo rooms were raucous with light-hearted chatter and laughter; it was awelcome sound for Charles, as he took a seat on a long table between Leonardand Edward Partington.
‘This
