The Dead Can Wait Read online

  He had been nineteen, a full ten years younger than she, when a trench mortar had dropped a shell on him, the baby of the family. He was, she had realized much later, unexpected by her parents, but they had made out he was the son that, after three girls, they had always longed for. People had said Nora and Arnold were very alike, but she couldn’t see it. The grief of his death had chased her away from Chichester to the Suffolk countryside, to teaching the children of the estate and the surrounding villages, trying to blank out the war and what it was doing to millions of young men like Arnold.

  It wasn’t only the children who were absent. By now she should have seen a dozen or more people on the farms. In summer, Mrs Dottington always leaned on the gate after she had collected the eggs from her henhouses, enjoying the sun on her face. Old ‘Zulu’ Jenkins, veteran of the South African wars, ninety if he was a day, was normally out in the fields, helping – or just as often hindering – his son Johnnie. If not, he’d be sitting on a stump, taking a pipe. And then there were the nameless workers who would pause and doff a cap to her as she rode by.

  All nowhere to be seen.

  The area outside the schoolhouse was also empty of children, who by now would usually be playing marbles or jacks, or gossiping and sniping. An ad hoc game of boys’ football or cricket, perhaps; hopscotch or skipping rhymes from the girls. But apart from a car she didn’t recognize, parked across the entrance, the playground was deserted.

  She dismounted from her bike, leaned it against the wall and examined the vehicle. She didn’t know much about the various makes of car, but from its drab paintwork and stencilled numbers on the bonnet sides, even she could tell it was military in origin.

  Miss Pillbody undid the ribbon under her chin and removed her hat before she stepped inside the little vestibule of the schoolhouse.

  ‘Hello?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Come in, please,’ came the reply. Inviting her into her own schoolhouse. The cheek of it.

  She opened the door and stepped through into the classroom, chairs still up on desks from the previous night, the six times table chalked on the board, because she had promised her pupils they would be doing it again first thing.

  There were two men in the room, one standing next to the blackboard, the other perched on the corner of her desk. The one on his feet was older, his moustache almost white, a corporal of the new Home Service Defence Forces, who were ubiquitous in the towns and villages of Suffolk and East Anglia. The one seated was an officer, as proclaimed by the gleam on his boots and the swagger stick in his hand. He was square of jaw and dark of moustache, probably a good few years younger than she. Striking-looking, she thought, but with a cruel aspect to his mouth and sharp blue eyes that shone with a glacial coolness. His top lip was a smidgeon too thin, she decided, for him to be entirely handsome, but he was certainly attractive. And, she suspected, he knew it. The officer stood and scooped off his cap as she crossed towards the pair.

  ‘Miss Pillbody.’

  So he had her name. ‘You have the advantage of me, Lieutenant . . .?’

  ‘Booth. Lieutenant James Booth, from the Elveden Explosives Area.’ His eyes ran over her, making her feel uncomfortable. ‘I must say I was expecting someone older.’

  She was in no mood for flirtatious flattery. ‘Where are my children, Lieutenant Booth?’

  The grin faded to something more sombre. ‘They won’t be coming to school today, Miss Pillbody.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘In fact,’ he said, the pink tip of his tongue touching his top lip for a second as he hesitated, ‘they won’t be coming to school for the foreseeable future, I am afraid.’

  A multitude of possibilities rattled through her mind – were they recruiting children for the war? Was it a disease quarantine? Evacuation because of the Zeppelins? – but none made any sense. ‘And why not?’

  ‘I can’t say. But we have extended the quarantine zone around Elveden. All the tenant farmers are being relocated for the duration, and the children are going with them.’

  ‘Duration of what?’ she pressed. In fact, there was only one week of school left before the holidays, but she wasn’t going to let that assuage her indignation.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  She looked at his uniform, searching for regimental badges, but could spot none. Wasn’t that unusual? She wished she had paid more attention to such matters. ‘Who are you with, Lieutenant? Which regiment?’

  A tight-lipped smile silently repeated his previous statement. Those chill eyes told her not to pursue the matter.

  ‘These children need schooling, you know. A good proportion still can’t read or write—’

  ‘All that has been taken into consideration. They will be well looked after where they are going.’

  ‘And where is that? No, don’t tell me. You can’t say.’ She could feel anger rising in her, the sort that bubbled up when she had to deal with locals who told her that their young daughter was going to marry at sixteen and be a farmer’s wife and had no need of any further schooling. ‘You have no right to do this—’

  ‘But I have,’ said Booth, his manner suddenly abrupt. He reached into his top pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. ‘I have every right under the Defence of the Realm Act. You actually live just outside the new exclusion zone, so you can keep your cottage, but after today you will not be allowed anywhere on the estate until further notice.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And if you do set foot on the estate, or indeed mention anything that has happened to you today, or speak to any of the locals about this or any subsequent events, you will be prosecuted under this Act.’ He unfurled the sheet of paper and shook it threateningly. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t reach you before you made the journey here, but there has been a lot to do. I suggest you return home to your cottage now. You will be compensated financially, of course, for loss of salary. Perhaps you should go back to your parents in Chichester. I am sure you can find a young man who will snap you up.’

  She was furious at both the crass remark and the fact that he had been peering into her life. ‘There is more to life than finding a young man.’

  Booth raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And there is no appeal against this?’

  ‘None, I am afraid.’ He put on his cap. The matter was closed.

  He indicated to his driver they were leaving. ‘Look on the bright side, Miss Pillbody. Your holiday has come a little early.’

  She could think of nothing to say, although she wanted to stamp her foot and wail at him. ‘Very well. But I intended to run summer art classes here—’

  ‘Cancelled,’ said Booth, bluntly.

  ‘And if I need anything from the schoolhouse at a later date?’

  The lieutenant and his corporal exchanged glances. When he looked back at her she felt something icy on her neck and the hairs prickled to attention. ‘I’d make sure you take everything you need today. If you come back here, Miss Pillbody, you will be shot on sight.’

  THREE

  The editor’s eyes widened when he saw the person standing before him. ‘Next!’ he had called and into his office had marched a remarkable sight, a woman, all red hair and leather, dressed as if she was about to tackle the hill climb at La Turbie. Her face – striking enough, but frumpled with fatigue, it seemed to him – showed the dusty outline of goggles. She had clearly ridden a motor bike to the offices of Motor Cycle Gazette.

  She took off her gloves and held out her hand. ‘Mrs Georgina Gregson.’

  He took it. ‘Daniel Samson.’

  ‘Really?’ The editor was in his forties, balding rapidly, with rheumy eyes and protruding teeth. He looked nothing like the lantern-jawed motor cyclists he liked to portray in his publication. This was hardly surprising, as he didn’t actually ride himself.

  ‘Yes. Really. How can I help you, Mrs Gregson?’

  She unbuttoned her coat as she sat down and took from an inside pocket a cutting clipped from Mo
tor Cycle Gazette. ‘I have come about this advertisement.’ She placed the scrap on the blotter in front of him.

  He examined it for a second before he burst out laughing.

  ‘What is so amusing?’ she asked.

  ‘You have been outside in the corridor for some time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you have seen your fellow applicants?’

  She looked over her shoulder, as if the door were transparent. There were, indeed, several others who had answered the same advertisement, although few as qualified as she was, she suspected. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And did you notice anything about them, Mrs Gregson?’

  ‘Well, for the most part, their hands are too clean.’

  This wasn’t the answer he was expecting. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Some of the fingernails are too clean; they’ve never touched an engine in their lives. Some are just too smooth. The palms and fingers, I mean. Not a callus between them. No manual work of any description, I fear. There is a chap out there called Collins I spoke to. He’s a likely one. Look at his knuckles. He’s used a spanner or two.’

  ‘Ah, my point exactly. He’s a chap. And you aren’t.’

  ‘How terribly observant of you, Mr Samson,’ Mrs Gregson replied coolly.

  ‘The position is open only to men.’

  She pointed at the advertisement. ‘It doesn’t say that.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t, Mr Samson,’ she almost growled.

  He snatched up the advertisement and read it. ‘It says: “As part of important war work, we are looking for persons with mechanical and engineering skills, preferably with a knowledge of petrol engines and motor cycles.” See?’

  Mrs Gregson leaned forward. ‘No, I don’t see. Where does it say “Men only”?’

  Samson gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘It says “persons”.’

  ‘I’m a person,’ she said. ‘Ask anyone.’

  He pushed back in his chair. He wanted this bothersome woman gone. He knew her sort. They did have a page in the magazine penned by ‘Motorcyclatrix’, who was really Lady Rose Penney, but that was just a sop to the ladies who wrote in complaining that their sex was under-represented in the pages. Mrs Gregson was no doubt one of those who wanted to feminize the pursuit. If they had their way, the sport would become the motorized arm of The Lady.

  ‘Well, it’s obvious we aren’t talking about women. Knowledge of petrol engines . . .’

  ‘I drove ambulances for a year at the front, Mr Samson. I can strip down a Daimler as quickly as the next person. I have rebuilt my Rudge twice. Would you like to inspect my fingernails?’ She thrust her hand forward.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Mrs Gregson. Look, I admire you for wanting to do war work. But there is much you can contribute in other fields. You drove ambulances, you say? What about becoming a nurse? Pretty woman like you—’

  ‘I’m done with that,’ she snapped. She didn’t feel inclined to offer any further explanation as to why she hoped never to see the inside of a hospital ward – or an ambulance – ever again. Like many medical staff who had been at the front, it was the sounds and smells that stayed with her. It seemed the brain could somehow consign the images of the mangled and the dying to some dark recess. But a loud bang would make the heart race, as if it heralded an artillery barrage, and even the most innocuous of scents was sometimes transformed by a mysterious alchemy into the tang of carbolic and the sweet decay of flesh.

  ‘I can’t help you, Mrs Gregson.’

  She was exasperated now. ‘But I understand engines, Mr Samson. I love motor cycles—’

  ‘I’m sorry. My hands are tied.’

  ‘Why? Because of my gender?’

  ‘It doesn’t help matters,’ he said, a smirk flickering under his moustache.

  She stood and buttoned up her Dunhill coat, her fingers shaking with barely suppressed fury. ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we? I shall find out exactly what is required for this war work and make damned sure’ – she paused to enjoy Mr Samson’s flinch at the profanity – ‘that I get a bash at it.’

  With this she turned on her heel and left the room, making sure the door nearly burst through the frame as she slammed it behind her.

  Samson picked up the receiver of the Kellogg Interoffice phone and pressed ‘Call’.

  ‘Shall I send the next one in?’ asked Mrs Beasley at the other end.

  ‘Is it a male?’

  ‘Yes. I’m very sorry about that woman, Mr Samson. I did warn her, but she was most . . . insistent.’

  ‘Not to worry, Mrs Beasley.’ He was certain that his secretary was no match for that flame-haired harridan. ‘But ask the next candidate to wait a second, will you?’

  He opened the drawer of his desk and took out a notebook. He quickly found the emergency number he had been given by the government department that was using his paper to recruit the ‘mechanically minded’.

  Samson hesitated. The woman might just be full of hot air. If she wanted to do her bit, she could always get a job on the omnibuses. Perhaps he should have suggested that. And yet, she didn’t strike him as one who would flit like a butterfly from project to project. More like a terrier that would worry at a bone until it was splinters.

  He glanced at the page of the notebook with the telephone number on it. Samson’s hand had been shaking when he scribbled it down but it was still legible. Mrs Beasley would have made this Mrs Gregson fill in a contact form, so her address would be out there on her desk. Therefore, he could tell the man at the other end of the telephone where she lived if need be. What would he do to her? Put the fear of God into her probably. As he had Samson.

  ‘Report anyone suspicious,’ the dour man had said. ‘Or who might cause trouble.’ What was the expression he had used? ‘On pain of death’, that was it. Call us, no matter how trivial, on pain of death. A figure of speech. Wasn’t it? Although the portly little man who had delivered it hadn’t looked or acted like someone who used words frivolously. Mr Grover, he had called himself. A ‘servant of the government’ was all he would offer by way of identification. The mere memory of those eyes of his, fish-cold, projecting a not-so-veiled threat, made Samson’s mouth dry.

  For a second he almost felt sorry for Mrs Gregson. But self-preservation was the stronger instinct. He picked up the telephone and waited for the operator. Whitehall 0101. Once he made the call to that number, Mrs Gregson would no longer be his problem.

  Major Watson’s patient was sitting at one end of the gymnasium, which was located in the wing of the former school, now designated a ‘special’ ward. The doctor stood in the doorway, a nurse hovering one step behind him, and he took some time to observe the soldier before he made his presence felt. The young man, a captain, was dressed in pale blue overalls, which marked him out, so he had heard a nurse say, as ‘one of the barmy ones’. He was at a table, looking down at it, as if reading a newspaper in a library, but there was nothing to be seen other than scuffs and scratches in the wood. Whatever he could see on that surface was visible only to the captain. The man’s right leg was pistoning up and down, and his upper body was folded in upon itself, arms crossed over chest, hands gripping the opposite bicep, the whole torso rocking back and forth almost imperceptibly. There was noise, too, a hum from the back of the throat, low and constant, as if he was trying to block out some other sound.

  The doctor knew from the notes that the lad had suffered from ataxia, the inability to move, a total paralysis with no physical cause anyone could discern. There was also aphasia, the loss of speech. He also knew that, in a strange way, he was responsible for this boy’s condition.

  Just seven months previously, in the trenches of France, Watson had helped make the captain a hero, a burden that had led the lad to this ‘special’ unit in Wandsworth Hospital, designed to deal with those who had been damaged by the war in ways the authorities were only just beginning to grasp. The captain had been variously classified as ‘emotional’ or ‘Not
Yet Diagnosed (Nervous)’. Neither truly suggested the severity, or strangeness, of symptoms such a broken man could display. The machinery of war had not killed this one, just chewed him up in its fearsome, unrelenting cogs.

  The doctor turned to the nurse at his shoulder. ‘I’ll be fine by myself.’

  ‘Are you sure, Major?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘Captain Fairley and I are old friends.’

  At that moment the damaged man looked over at him, the head wobbling as if on a spring as it turned. He stared across the scuffed parquet floor of the gymnasium at the figure standing in the doorway, but there was no recognition in the gaze. Just another quack, he would be thinking – if he was thinking at all, the doctor appreciated – with his damn-fool questions and exhortations to pull himself together.

  ‘Hello, Captain Fairley,’ Watson said, his voice thin in the cavernous space.

  There was no reaction from the patient.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  The slap of his leather soles on the wooden floor sounded like timpani as he crossed to the table, where an empty chair faced the soldier. He pulled it out and asked permission to sit. When there was no response, he did so anyway. Then he waited.

  ‘Congratulations on the promotion,’ he said eventually.

  Fairley still studied the desk. When they had met, Fairley had been a mere second lieutenant. Then he had saved Watson’s life out in no man’s land. Good news from the front was in short supply, so Fairley’s story had grown in the telling and retelling. Percival Philips of the Express had written about ‘The Unsung Hero Of No Man’s Land’, making sure he was unsung no more, and Reuters had gone with with ‘Angel of Mud’. There was a medal. In the months since his brave action, Fairley had become something of an expert on that blasted strip of land between the lines, and had been transferred to an intelligence role and promoted. But while mapping ‘the wire’ and the German forward trenches, something had happened to Fairley out there, reducing him to this palsied wreck.