'Yes, I know, Billy.'
'O' course you do, Miss. You know, don't you? Blimey, when I think of what you nurses must've seen . . . anyway, if the truth be told, we was all scared. You didn't know when you were going to get it.
But some of 'em. . . .'
Billy stopped, turned away from Maisie, and took the red kerchief from his neck and wiped his eyes.
'Gawd--sorry, Miss. Don't know what came over me.'
'Billy. It can wait. Whatever you have to tell me. It can wait. Let me pour that tea.'
Maisie went to the stove, poured boiling water from the kettle onto the tea leaves in the brown earthenware teapot, and allowed it to steep. She took two large tin mugs from the shelf above the stove, stirred the tea in the pot, then poured tea for them both, with plenty of sugar and a splash of milk. Since her time in France, Maisie had preferred an army-issue tin mug for her private teatimes, for the warmth that radiated from the mug to her hands and to the rest of her body.
'There you are, Billy. Now then . . .'
'Well, as you know, Miss, there were a lot of lads 'o enlisted that were too young. Boys tryin' to be men, and blimey, the rest of us weren't much more than boys ourselves. And you'd see 'em, white as sheets when that whistle blew to go over the top. Mind you, we was all as white as sheets. I was barely eighteen meself.'
Billy sipped his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
'We'd 'ave to get 'em under the arms, shove 'em over, and 'ope that the push would get 'em through. And sometimes one of 'em didn't make it over.'
Billy's eyes misted over again, and he wiped them with the red kerchief.
'And when that 'appened, when a boy was paralyzed with fear, like, 'e could be reported for cowardice. If 'e'd been seen afterwards, not 'avin' gone over with the rest of his mates, the brass didn't ask too many questions, did they? No, the poor sod's on a charge and that's it! So we 'ad to look out for each other, didn't we?'
Drawing the red cloth across his brow, the young man continued his story for Maisie.
'Court-martialed, they were. And you know what 'appened to a lot of 'em, don't you? Shot. Even if some of 'em weren't quite so innocent, villains getting up to no good when they should've been on the line, it ain't the way to go, is it? Not shot by their own. Bloody marvelous, ain't it? You pray your 'ead off that the Kaiser's boys don't get you, then it's your own that do!'
Maisie allowed silence to envelop them and held the steaming mug to her lips. This was no new story. Only the storyteller was new to her. Happy-go-lucky Billy Beale.
'Well, this Vincent Weathershaw, as far as the brass were concerned, was a soft one with 'is men. Said it was enough with the trenches and shells killing 'em without their own 'avin' it in for 'em. Apparently they wanted to 'arden this Weathershaw up a bit. I don't know the 'ole story, nowhere near, but from what I've been told, 'e was commanded to do a few things 'e didn't want to. Refused. There was talk of strip-pin' 'im of 'is commission. The word is that no one quite knows what 'appened, but apparently, it was after these rumors went about, that 'e sort of lost 'is 'ead and started to do all that daft business, walkin' around without the 'elmet on in front of the other lot. Then, o' course, they got 'im--at Wipers--Passchendaele. Not far from where I copped it, really, but it seemed like 'undreds of miles at the time.'
Maisie smiled, but it was a sad, reflective smile as she remembered how men made easy work of pronouncing 'Ypres,' referring to it as 'Wipers.'
'Mind you, they didn't get me coming out of a trench and over the top. No, it was all that business at Messines, not knowing whether the other lot were in the trench next door, or below us, and not knowin' whether the buggers--pardon me language, Miss--but not knowin' where they'd laid mines. Us sappers 'ad our work cut out for us there.'
Billy lowered his head, swirled dregs of tea to soak up sugar at the bottom of his mug, and closed his eyes as memories pushed through into the present.
Maisie and Billy Beale sat in silence. Maisie, as she so often did nowadays, remembered Maurice and his teaching:
'Never follow a story with a question, Maisie, not immediately. And remember to acknowledge the storyteller, for in some way even the messenger is affected by the story he brings.'
She waited a few more minutes, watching Billy sip his tea, lost in his memories as he looked out over the rooftops.
'Billy, thank you for finding this out for me. You must have worked hard to track the details down.'
Billy lifted the mug of tea to his lips.
'Like I said, Miss--you need anything doing, Billy Beale's your man.'
Maisie allowed more time to pass, and even wrote some notes in her file, in front of Billy, to underline the importance of his report.
'Well, Billy,' said Maisie, closing the file and placing it back on the desk, 'I hope you don't mind me changing the subject, but there is one thing. No rush, in your own time.'
'You name it, Miss.'
'Billy, I really need to have this room painted or wallpapered. It's as drab as yesterday's black pudding and needs a bit of cheering up. I noticed that on the ground floor you did such a nice job with Miss Finch's room--the door was open as I came through one day and I looked in--it was so bright and cheerful. What do you think?'
'I'll jump right to it, Miss. I'll put my mind to the colors on the way 'ome, and tomorrow I'll go by me mate's place--painter and decorator, 'e is--and see what 'e's got in the way of paints.'
'That'll be lovely, Billy. And, Billy--thank you very much.'
