Where the Line Breaks Page 15
I write another letter I know you will never reply to. Another hopeful missive sent out into the world in the foolish belief that you might find it within yourself to forgive me. How many times must I ask for your compassion? I know, in the deepest recesses of my heart, that you felt the same strong feelings for me as I did for you. One cannot create those feelings. One cannot imagine them.
If I could, I would leave camp, ride out this morning and make my way back to you. Cross deserts, swim oceans. If I could, I would sit you down and explain. The life I left. The life I want. You would see that none of it matters anymore. There is nothing for me back there. There is only you. There is only us. I will spend ten years working my way back to you, avoiding the siren call of the south, avoiding the war, avoiding living, to feel what we had for one more day.
If I could, I would change it all. I would have told you on that first morning, through the pain, and let fate take its course. That is how confident I am in us. That is how confident I am in our love.
I cannot do this without you. I thought I knew love, I thought I knew purpose, I thought I knew the world. And then you entered my life, and I discovered a world ten thousand times larger than I imagined. Share it with me.
Yours, pleadingly.
Week two of R&R behind the lines, and this morning they’ve ridden into Tel el Fara, alongside men from every other regiment in the brigade. Some of them he hasn’t seen since Egypt.
The stallholders hawk their cheap souvenirs in limited English. The smells of small-town life drift in the air. Animals and sweat. Raw meat. A woman walks down the road toward him, covered head to toe, her face peeking out, like a porthole on a ship. She keeps her eyes on the ground, doesn’t respond to the whistles and calls from the men on horseback. As she passes him, she looks up, and for a second they lock eyes. Intense black pupils, judging him. Eyes like Nancy’s. She melts into the crowd. As the roads converge, they meet more diggers, headed the same way. He barks a ‘G’day’ across the street to a fellow officer from the 8th, but he doesn’t hear, walking on through the natives without a backward glance. They’re all making their way to the same place anyway. Through the packed bazaar and down toward the murky waters of the nearby river.
As the stench of the river grows, the crowds drop off, until the soldiers are humping along alone. At the place, he orders the men to halt, and they slide from the saddle and stretch their legs. There is a wooden spar reserved for them, and two of the new recruits are press-ganged into acting as stewards, sorting out food and water for the horses while the rest of the men scatter, fanning out among the congregation, searching for mates. Kelly shakes her head in a long whinny as he hands the reins to the trooper. They’ll need to be ready to ride at a moment’s notice.
The horses sorted, he wanders among the crowd of assembled diggers, looking around for anyone he might know. Faces look familiar. Names elude him.
Right about now, Nancy would be doing her morning rounds, checking in on each of her patients, fluffing pillows, doling out pills and brightening the faces of the sick. Right about now, he would lean across and pinch her as she leant over the bed next to his, and she’d slap his hand away. To anyone watching, it might look perfunctory. To him, it would be as good as a kiss, enough to get him through the hours until she came around. In the hospital the days were measured in Nancy’s clipped tones, her tutting and teasing, the touch of her icy fingers. He’d invent reasons to call her – pain in his legs, bad dreams, or terrible headaches. She knew, of course, but she’d roll him over nonetheless and massage the scarred muscles. Right about now, she’d catch his eye before she left, her steps echoing down the corridor.
The first event is a simple sprint, alongside the river, down and around the waiting men, finishing back where it started. The 10th volunteers four runners, three of the new recruits and one of the remaining Gallipoli veterans. He takes his place among the assembled crowd, watching the men line up, their bodies shaking with nervous excitement. The diggers around him yell encouragement, the crowd threatens to push forward. He wishes Nancy was holding his hand, like he’s wished every day for the past year. She’d put up with the men’s comments and give it back as hard in return. Nancy has a mouth on her like a drover, but English – his constant contradiction. He’s learnt to drown out the noises around him, to focus inside, on memories of what he considers his new home: Lemnos with Nancy. He gets headaches when it’s too loud, around the campfire at breakfast, on the beginning of a ride, when the men have the energy to talk, on days like today when the excitement of the unusual bubbles to the surface. He’s learnt to excuse himself, to politely drop away, somewhere quieter, where he can hear himself think. Where his thoughts have room to bloom.
‘You ain’t running?’ A hand claps him on the shoulder, pulling him back to the race; the crowd, the smell of the river. Nugget slaps him on the back and laughs, ‘Al? Anyone home?’
‘Sorry. Daydreaming.’
‘I’ll say.’
With a bang, the sprinters race down the track, the whooping and hollering of the crowd following their progress. The water in the river rolls by, dark brown and frothy.
‘What’re you thinking?’ Nugget says.
That maybe he should find a way to injure himself, not too badly, but bad enough to put him out of action for a few months. A fall from Kelly. Enough time for him to make his way back to her, to put himself out of the firing line, maybe for good. A bullet through his hand. To give himself enough time with her to put things right. Running away, they’ll say. Running towards something, he says to himself.
‘Thinking of her.’
‘You old softy.’
‘Proper ro-fucking-mantic.’
‘Rose is a lucky woman.’
He grimaces. The roar of the crowd is circling back to their position. Soon the runners will barrel around the corner, pushing for the line. The men behind him surge forward, knocking them, hands in the back and screaming by his ear. He can’t hear what Nugget says next.
A young bloke from the 9th wins by a whisker, ahead of one of their boys. The runners flop, exhausted, into the dust, until the crowd rushes forward to lift them up. The winner is unceremoniously dunked in the brown sludge of the river, in his full kit.
Nugget turns back to him with a broad smile plastered on his leathery mug. ‘I meant, what are you thinking you’ll enter? You know the men will want to see you compete.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s half the fun of a day like this,’ Nugget says, giving him what he must think are puppy-dog eyes. ‘Do it for the boys.’
He’s written her letters, with dwindling regularity, for the last year. Through the Turkish attacks at Romani, through the shitshow of Magdhaba, and the failed charge at Rafa two weeks later. Early in the new year he even sent her a figurine, carved with his knife in his downtime, from the hard, dry wood they use for the campfires. It was meant to be her, peering down at her hands, but it looked more like a snowman, the body too round, the arms unrecognisable.
While the other men lounge in the sun, naked save for their slouch hats and the rifles by their sides, he can be found in his tent, poring over his papers. Every week, when the post rolls around, he has a letter from Rose, or Ma, or both. Every week, he sits down in the closest shade and forces out a reply, writing about the same events, asking after their health, promising to write more often. Every week, when the post catches them up, he waits for a letter from her and comes away disappointed.
Next up, an all-out sprint on horseback, with so many entrants they need to run five heats. The winners and runners-up advance to the final. Technically, he should be forbidding the men any exchange of money, and shutting down the entrepreneurs taking bets, but he turns a blind eye, preferring to maintain the peace. Silence is golden. He hovers about near the other officers, not talking, laughing when he should, answering their questions with as few words as possible; a grunt here, a nod. By the end of the day they’ll have forgotten he was even there.
And Kelly was the first to greet him on his return from Lemnos, before Nugget or the Major, or any of the boys. She tossed her head and ran to him across the makeshift paddock the horses were being kept in. He tossed her the core of his apple, and like him, she ate the whole thing. He felt like he had to rebuild his friendships with everyone, except Kelly.
She can tell something is up as he walks her to the starting line – a ragged scratch in the dirt. She twists forward and back beneath him, champing, but soothes when he places a hand low down on her shoulder. He leans in close, whispers in her black ears. When the starting gun fires, she bursts forward, and he finds himself in the lead. He kicks his spurs into her flanks, pushing her forward, pulling away from the larger horses of the men from the 8th. Down the back straight, the bigger horses gain on him, and by the penultimate corner, he can feel the wind from their whips. As they slow past the bustling crowd and turn toward the final stretch, he thinks he hears Nugget’s lilt above the other voices in the crowd.
‘Ride ’er like she’s Rose, Al.’
The men snigger.
But on the final corner, he finds he’s too far out to make the turn. He’s seen the other riders, in the earlier heats, push their horses up the bank, hoping the lighter sand there will hold. But he can’t risk it. Not with Kelly. He’d never forgive himself. He slows, and gives her the space she needs. He finishes third, out of the running for the final, but not disappointed. The men clap him on the shoulder as he dismounts. Kelly stamps her feet, and gives him a look, like they could have won if they’d wanted. He pulls her head down and stares into her black eyes, bright against the white stripe that runs across her face.
‘Alright, but I’d rather you didn’t break a leg.’
She blows hot air into his face and shakes her head. He pats her fondly as he passes her to the steward.
Nugget appears from somewhere to his right, thumps him on the back, with sweat running from the blistered skin of his nose. He holds a small wad of notes and smiles like a fool.
‘Close call,’ Nugget says, waving the wad in his face, ‘but thanks, Lieutenant!’
‘You bet on me coming third?’
‘No, mate. Just knew you wouldn’t risk Kelly on a game, like.’
Nugget is smiling the shit-eating grin that has started its fair share of pub fights. Nugget swears it makes him look rakish. Alan hasn’t told him it makes him look like a letch. ‘So you knew I wouldn’t win?’
Nugget slaps him hard on the shoulder. ‘I bet on it!’
Nugget enters the sack race, which seems appropriate – the potato sack pulled nearly to his chin. He wins by six feet, that same idiot grin on his face, bounding through the dirt like a suntanned kangaroo. He collects winnings from no less than three men, earning himself more than a month’s wages.
‘How could you be sure you’d win?’ Alan asks.
‘I’m Irish,’ Nugget winks, ‘we know potatoes.’
They sit out the tug-of-war and the tent pegging, making their way back toward town for a bite to eat from one of the street-side stalls. After months of bully beef, every mouthful tastes vibrant and multicoloured. His stomach churns. They’re about to head back when they pass what must be a local watering hole. A bearded Arab out front offers them tea. Nugget looks at him eagerly.
‘I can’t,’ Alan says, ‘some of us are still on duty.’
‘C’mon, sir.’ Nugget pulls the wad of notes from his pocket and heads inside. ‘My shout.’
He follows reluctantly, but doesn’t stop him.
Inside, they sit down at a table, and the Arab places two warm beers down in front of them. Already, there are flies milling on the surface. Across Sinai, they’ve become experts at whisking the flies out of their drink and gulping down the liquid. Any available water source buzzes with insects in seconds.
After a sip, he relaxes. He hasn’t had a proper drink since their last bivouac outside one of the larger dusty cities. Back on Lemnos, when Nancy proclaimed him well enough to drink, but before the doctors had got around to sending him back, Nancy had snuck a bottle of red wine into the ward. She’d pulled the privacy screen around his bed and they’d passed the bottle between them, tasting hints of each other around the rim. Before Skyros, before he’d messed it all up. When returning to the regiment had seemed a fragile enough excuse for their private celebration – when he’d thought they might have a future beyond Brooke’s grave and the sandy beaches.
‘Where are you, Al?’ Nugget has finished his beer, and orders them another round. He’s drunk a few sips of his own warm mug.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’ve been a bit off recently.’ Nugget glances about the dishevelled room, eyeing up the carpets on the walls, the dirt in the air. ‘Well, longer than that, even.’
Alan downs two thirds of his glass in one long gulp, placing the mug back on the table, avoiding the question.
‘Not gonna lie, you’ve been a right moody bastard since Red.’
The Arab places two more beers down on the table and takes away the empty glasses. Alan raises his glass, offering up a wordless cheer. Nugget picks up his own glass, and they toast. Nugget doesn’t look at him.
‘Bad luck not to look when you toast,’ he says, but Nugget ignores him.
‘Sometimes I think they sent the wrong bloke back to Perth.’ Nugget drinks, the dirty foam settling on his upper lip, the black dot of a fly struggling in his white moustache.
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘Just saying.’
‘You wish Red was here instead of me?’
Nugget doesn’t say anything, just pushes the bowl of brown mush they’re sharing towards his side of the table. A blur of flies rises as one from the bowl as it moves.
‘You think it’s my fault he was injured?’
Nugget looks up at him, surprise in his eyes. ‘No. Red knew the odds. We’re all playing the game until our turn.’
He feels stupid for saying anything. The Arab bustles around their table, spouting his guttural language. Nugget waves him off.
‘What happened out there, Al?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I see the way you wait for the post. I see you writing in your little book and never sending anything. I see you, Al.’
He’s finished his second beer, and orders another round without checking with Nugget. He heads out the back of the bazaar to piss against a wall, the brown clay of the walls stained with the hot stream. The beers are on the table when he gets back, and Nugget glances at him expectantly.
‘Nothing happened, Nug.’
‘You know I don’t believe you.’
He can see he is going to have to give him something – Nugget can be tenacious in his insistence, a pitbull gnawing on a bone. ‘I suppose …’ Nugget is watching him intently. ‘You ever read the Greek legends, Nug?’
‘The fuck do you think?’
‘Well, there’s all these heroes, see, princes and warriors and whatnot.’
‘Sure.’ Nugget takes a long sip, but his eyes don’t leave Alan’s.
‘And they’re all written down in these old poems.’
‘The Oliad, I know. What’s your point?’
‘I guess, I thought that’s what it would be like. This. Right and wrong.’ He motions around the room, from the dusty floor t
o the sweat stains on their uniforms, and sighs dramatically. ‘But Red can’t walk, and I’m so fucking sick of bully.’
‘That’s it?’ Nugget eyes him across his glass, the beer at his lips.
‘That’s it,’ he lies, and finishes his beer.
‘You know anything you write in that little book, you can say to me, right?’
‘Let’s go.’ He rises, his chair scraping as he stands.
‘No secrets, Al.’
‘Let’s go.’
Nugget pays, and they walk back out into the street, turning back toward the river, the cheering of the diggers leading them forward. It’s later than he thought. His legs are unsteady underneath him. The dark-skinned locals are watching him, judging. The beer has gone straight to his head.
‘Nug, wait.’ He says, and he’s on his knees, spraying beer and chewed food into the dust. The burn of stomach acid. Spit dangling from his lips, and Nugget’s hand on his back. He needs Nancy – the sweet smell of her hair, the cool touch of her hands. The flies settle on the sides of his mouth. Nugget helps him to his feet, but he brushes him off.
‘I’m fine,’ he says, head spinning.
‘No, mate, you’re not.’
My love. The last week has been spent in a rest camp behind the lines, recovering as best we can, tending to the horses and the men’s spirits. It has been sorely needed. After a month on the line, one forgets what ordinary life is like – all that matters is keeping your horse alive and waking to the sound of the bugle.
I would have written sooner, but I spent the first two days sleeping, and the past three eating. I’m not sure you would recognise me anymore. In another time, I would have delighted in teasing you about returning home as dark as an Arab, smelling of horse, perpetually suntanned. You could keep me in the barn with the dogs, and let me out to run through the fields, and feed me bully beef through a hole in the wall.
Ma writes and tells me Red is doing well, though unable to walk without assistance or properly understand where he is. I have tried to write to him, but understand if my letters have gone unnoticed. Perhaps you could read them to him? I’m sure the sound of your voice would cheer him considerably.