“Who was half crazed for love of my brother,” she said, smiling. “You’d never believe the way the girls around here threw themselves at him. Even my own friends were sweet on him and they were years older than he was.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, smiling. “You’re only a few years older than me. You’re not ready to be put out to pasture yet.”
“No, of course not,” she said. “But it used to drive me crazy. I mean, don’t misunderstand me, Tristan, I loved my brother to distraction, but to me he was always just a rather messy, rather unkempt, rather mischievous little boy. When he was a child, the difficulty my mother had getting him to take a bath was quite extraordinary—he would scream the house down the moment the tin appeared—but then I suppose all little boys are like that. And some of the older ones, too, if the chaps I know are anything to go by. So when I saw the effect he had on women as he grew older, it took me quite by surprise, I don’t mind telling you.”
I nodded. I wasn’t entirely sure that this was a line I wanted to pursue but there was a part of me, a masochistic part, that could not help itself.
“And he reciprocated their affections?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” she said. “There was a string of them at one point. You couldn’t walk down to the shops without seeing him strolling along with some hare-brained thing in her Sunday-best dress who’d put a few flowers in her hair for effect, thinking she might be the one to catch him. I couldn’t keep track of them, there were that many.”
“He was a good-looking fellow,” I remarked.
“Yes, I suppose he was. It’s hard for me to recognize it, being his sister. Almost as hard as it is for you, I suppose.”
“Me?”
“Well, being a man.”
“Yes.”
“I used to rag him about it, of course,” she continued. “But he never seemed to pay any attention to me. Most boys, of course, would have flown into a fury and told me to keep my nose firmly out but he just laughed and shrugged it off. He said he enjoyed going for long walks, and if some girl wanted to join him for the company, then who was he to stand in their way? To be honest, he never seemed particularly interested in any of them. That’s why it was pointless to tease. He really didn’t care.”
“But there was a fiancée, wasn’t there?” I asked, frowning, wondering what to make of all of this.
“A fiancée?” she asked, looking up and smiling at Jane as she placed the fresh pot before us.
“Yes, he told me once that he had a sweetheart back home and they were engaged to be married.”
She stopped pouring then but held the pot in mid-air as she stared at me. “Are you quite sure?” she asked me.
“Perhaps I have it wrong,” I said nervously.
Marian looked out of the window and remained silent for a few moments, considering this. “Did he say who she was?” she asked, turning back to me.
“I’m not sure if I can recall,” I said, although the name was firmly emblazoned in my memory. “I think it was Ann something.”
“Ann?” she asked, shaking her head. “I can’t think of any Ann. Do you have it right?”
“I think so,” I replied. “No, wait. I have it now. Eleanor. He said her name was Eleanor.”
Marian’s eyes opened wide and she stared at me for a few seconds before bursting out laughing. “Eleanor?” she asked. “Not Eleanor Martin?”
“I’m not sure of the surname,” I said.
“But it must be her. She’s the only one. Well, yes, he and Eleanor did have a thing, I suppose, at one point. She was one of those girls who were always hanging off him. I imagine she would have liked nothing more than to marry my brother. In fact,” and here she tapped the table several times as if she had just recalled something of importance, “Eleanor Martin was the one who wrote him all those soppy letters.”
“When we were over there?” I asked, surprised by this.
“Well, possibly, but I don’t know anything about that. No, I mean she used to send these extraordinary letters to the house. Frightful, scented things with little flowers crushed inside that fell out over his lap whenever he opened them and caused a terrible mess on the carpets. I remember once he asked me what I thought they were supposed to signify and I told him nothing at all, other than the girl’s utter stupidity, because—and you can trust me on this, Tristan—because I’ve known her since she was a child, that girl has no more sense than a postage stamp. I remember that she would write long essays on the theme of nature—spring, rebirth, little bunny rabbits, all that rubbish—and she sent these along, convinced that they would somehow captivate my brother. I don’t know who she thought he was, Lord Byron or someone. What a fool!” She raised her cup to her lips and held it there for a while. “But you say that he claimed they were engaged?” she asked, frowning. “But it can’t be. If she had said it I could put it down to the fact that the girl’s a complete idiot, but him? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Perhaps I have it wrong,” I repeated. “We had so many conversations. It’s impossible to remember half of them.”
“I’m sure you must have it wrong, Tristan,” she said. “My brother was many things but he would never have given up his life to share it with a fool such as her. He had more depth than that. Despite his good looks and his ability to captivate any woman in sight, he never seemed to take advantage of any of them. I rather admired him for that. When his friends were chasing girls like crazy, he seemed to lose interest entirely. I wondered whether it was out of respect for our father, who would not have been happy, of course, to have a son who was the village cad. Being a vicar, I mean. I find that many handsome young men are cads, Tristan. Would you agree with me?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I really couldn’t say, Marian.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” she said, smiling gently, teasing me a little, I thought. “You’re almost Will’s equal, as far as I can see. That lovely blond hair of yours and those sad, puppy-dog eyes. I say this strictly from an aesthetic perspective, Tristan, so don’t get any ideas, since I’m old enough to be your grandmother, but you’re rather a dish, aren’t you? Good Lord, you’ve gone quite red.”
She was speaking with such good humour, such unexpected joy in her tone, that it was hard not to smile back. This was not a flirtation, I knew, not anything of the sort, but perhaps it was the beginning of a friendship. I realized that she liked me, and I knew that I liked her, too. Which was unexpected. That was not what I had come here for.
“You’re not old,” I insisted, mumbling into my cup. “What age are you, anyway? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was rude to ask a lady’s age? And you’re just a boy. What are you, nineteen? Twenty?”
“Twenty-one,” I said, and she frowned, thinking about it. “But hold on, that would mean—”
“I lied about my age,” I told her, anticipating the question. “I was only seventeen when I was over there. I lied in order that they would accept me.”
“And I thought Eleanor was a fool,” she said, although not unkindly.
“Yes,” I muttered, looking down at my tea.
“Just a boy,” she repeated finally, shaking her head. “But tell me, Tristan,” she continued, leaning forward. “Tell me the truth. Are you a cad?”
“I don’t know what I am,” I said quietly. “If you want the truth, I’ve spent most of the last few years trying to work that out for myself.”
She sat back then and narrowed her eyes. “Have you ever been to the National Gallery?” she asked me.
“A few times,” I said, a little surprised by this abrupt change of topic.
“I go whenever I’m in London,” she said. “I’m interested in art, you see. Which proves that I’m not a philistine, after all. Oh, I’m no painter, don’t get me wrong. But I love paintings. And what I do is I visit the gallery and find a canvas that intrigues me and I just sit down in front of it and stare at it for an hour or so, sometimes for a
whole afternoon. I let the painting come together before my eyes. I start to recognize the brushstrokes and the intention of the artist. Most people just take a quick glance and walk on, ticking off this, this and this along the way and thinking that they’ve actually seen the work, but how can you appreciate anything that way? I say this, Mr. Sadler, because you remind me of a painting. That last remark of yours, I don’t quite know what it means but I feel that you do.”
“It didn’t mean anything,” I said. “I was just talking, that’s all.”
“No, that’s a lie,” she said equably. “But I feel if I keep looking at you for some time, then I might begin to understand you. I’m trying to see your brushstrokes. Does that make sense?”
“No,” I said firmly.
“And that’s another lie. But anyway …” She shrugged and looked away. “It’s getting a little cold in here, isn’t it?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“I believe I’m a little distracted,” she said. “I keep thinking about that business with Eleanor Martin. Such an odd thing for Will to have said. She still lives around here, you know.”
“Really?” I said, surprised.
“Oh yes. Well, she’s a Norwich girl born and bred. Actually, she got married last year to a chap who really should have known better, but he was from Ipswich and I suppose you take what you can find there. She’s always about the town. We might run into her later if we’re terribly unlucky.”
“I hope we don’t,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason. I’m just … not that interested, that’s all.”
“But why wouldn’t you be?” she asked, intrigued. “My brother, your best friend, tells you that he is engaged to be married. I tell you that there was never any such engagement that I knew of. Why wouldn’t you be interested in seeing this Helen of Troy who had so captured his heart?”
“Miss Bancroft,” I said with a sigh, leaning back now and rubbing my eyes. She had referred to Will as my best friend and I wondered whether the corollary held true. I also questioned why her previous good humour was now tinged with a certain amount of barbarity. “What is it that you want me to say?”
“Oh, I’m Miss Bancroft again now, am I?” she asked.
“You called me Mr. Sadler a moment ago. I thought perhaps we were returning to formalities.”
“Well, we’re not,” she replied abruptly. “And let’s not argue, all right? I couldn’t stand it. You seem like such a pleasant young man, Tristan. You mustn’t mind if I appear out of sorts. I’ll attack you one minute and call you a dish the next. It’s a strange day, that’s all. I am glad you made the journey, though.”
“Thank you,” I said. I noticed her glancing at my hand, my left one, though, not the twitching right, and I caught her eye.
“I just wondered, that’s all,” she said. “So many men your age seem to have got married since coming back from the war. You haven’t been tempted?”
“Not even a little bit,” I said.
“You didn’t have a sweetheart waiting for you, then, back home?”
I shook my head.
“Well, so much the better for you,” she said quickly. “In my experience, sweethearts are a lot more trouble than they’re worth. If you ask me, love is a fool’s game.”
“But it’s all that matters,” I said suddenly, surprised to hear myself say such a thing. “Where would we be without love?”
“You’re a romantic, then?”
“I’m not sure that I even understand what that means,” I told her. “A romantic? I know that I have emotions. I know that I feel things deeply—too deeply, in fact. Does that make me a romantic? I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“But you men all feel things so deeply now,” she insisted. “Friends of mine, boys who fought over there. You have an intensity now, a potent sadness, even a sense of fear. It’s not at all like before. Why is that, do you think?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked.
“Yes. To an extent. But I’d like to hear you explain it to me.”
I glanced down at the table and thought about it. I wanted to be honest with her, or as honest as I dared to be. I wanted my words to have meaning.
“Before I went over there,” I said, not looking at her now but staring at the used cutlery laid out before me, “I thought I knew something about myself. I felt things then, of course. I knew someone, I … forgive me, Marian, but I fell in love, I suppose. In a childish way. And I got very hurt by it. No one’s fault but my own, of course. I hadn’t thought things through. I thought I had. I thought I knew what I was doing and that the other party had similar feelings for me. I was wrong, of course, quite wrong. I allowed things to get completely out of hand. Then when I went over there and fell in with the regiment, fell in with your brother, too, of course, well, I realized how silly I had been back then. Because suddenly everything, life itself, became an intensely heightened experience. It was as if I was living on a different plane from the one before. At Aldershot, they weren’t teaching us how to fight, they were training us how to extend our lives for as long as possible. As if we were already dead, but if we learned to shoot straight and to use a bayonet with care and precision then we might at least have a few more days or weeks in us. The barracks were filled with ghosts, Marian. Does that make sense? It was as if we died before we left England. And when I wasn’t killed, when I was one of the lucky ones … well, there were twenty of us in my barracks, you see. Twenty boys. And only two came back. One who went mad, and myself. But that doesn’t mean we survived it. I don’t think I did survive it. I may not be buried in a French field but I linger there. My spirit does, anyway. I think I’m just breathing, that’s all. And there’s a difference between breathing and being alive. And so, to your question, am I a romantic? Do I think in terms of weddings and falling in love any more? No, I don’t. It seems so pointless to me, so completely and utterly trivial. I don’t know what that says about me. Whether it means that there is something wrong in my head. But the thing is, there’s always been something wrong in my head, you see. From ever since I can remember. And I never knew what to do about it. I never understood it. And now, after everything that has happened, after what I did—”
“Tristan, stop,” she said, reaching forward suddenly and taking my hand, which was shaking noticeably, embarrassing me once again. I realized that I was crying a little, too, not heavily, just a few tears working their way down my cheeks, and I felt ashamed about that as well, and wiped them away with the back of my left hand. “I shouldn’t have asked you about this,” she said. “I was being flippant, that’s all. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Good Lord, you came all this way to meet me, to give me this great gift of your stories about my brother, and this is how I repay you. Can you forgive me?”
I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said. “It’s just … Well, you don’t want to get any of us started on these things. You say you have some friends, some former servicemen, who came back?”
“Yes.”
“Well, do they like to talk about it?”
She considered this for a moment and looked uncertain. “It’s a difficult question to answer,” she said. “I feel at times that they do, because they talk about it almost incessantly. But it always leaves them distraught. Just as it did with you a moment ago. But at the same time, I feel that they cannot stop themselves reliving every moment over and over. How long will it take, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “A long time.”
“But it is over,” she insisted. “It’s over! And you’re a young man, Tristan. You’re only twenty-one years old, after all. My God, you were just a child when you were over there. Seventeen! You can’t let it drag you down. Look at Will.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he’s dead, isn’t he?” she said, a look of genuine empathy on her face. “He doesn’t even get to be distraught. He doesn’t get to l
ive with his bad memories.”
“Yes,” I said, that familiar stabbing pain resurfacing inside my body. I exhaled loudly and rubbed the heels of my hands against my eyes for a moment, and when I took them away I blinked several times and focused on her face carefully. “Can we get out of here?” I asked. “I feel I need some fresh air.”
“Of course,” she said, tapping the table in immediate recognition that we had stayed too long. “You don’t have to go back to London yet, though, do you? I’m enjoying our talk.”
“No, not yet,” I said. “Not for a few hours, anyway.”
“Good. It’s such a beautiful day, I thought we might go for a walk. I could show you some of the places where Will and I grew up. You really have to see some of Norwich—it’s a beautiful city. Then we can have a late lunch somewhere. And there’s just one thing I’d like you to do for me, but I’ll tell you that in a while, if you don’t mind. If I ask you now, I think you’ll refuse me. And I don’t want you to refuse me.”
I said nothing for second or two but then nodded. “All right,” I agreed, getting up and taking my overcoat from the stand as she put her own coat on. “Let me just pay for the teas,” I said. “I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”
I watched her as she made her way towards the door and out on to the street, buttoning her coat as she stood glancing around for anyone she might recognize. She didn’t resemble Will physically, of course. They were very different types. But there was something in the way that she carried herself, a certain confidence mixed with a sense that although her beauty would be noticed by others, she rather wished it wouldn’t be. I found myself smiling as I looked at her and then turned back to pay for the teas.
“I’m sorry about before,” I said to our waitress as she took my money and counted out change from the till. “I hope we weren’t becoming a bit of a trial for you.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said. “You were a friend of Will’s, then?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, we served together.”
“It was a disgrace,” she hissed, leaning forward, fire in her eyes. “What happened to him, I mean. It was an absolute disgrace. Made me ashamed to be English. You won’t get many around here that will agree with me on that, but I knew him and I knew the kind of man he was.” I swallowed and nodded, taking the coins from her and putting them silently in my pocket. “There’s not many people I respect as much as I do Marian Bancroft,” she continued. “She’s one in a million, she is. Despite everything that happened, she offers such help to the ex-servicemen around her. You’d think, all things considered, that she would hate them. But she doesn’t. I never know quite what to make of her, actually. She’s a mystery.”