"A little madness can be a pleasant retreat sometimes." Daniel says, his voice carrying a trace of melancholy. As he lowers his face, the darkness creates shadows below his cheekbones and his eyes. His statement startles me, a mirror of the workings of his mind. I decide that the new Evelyn is a blunt sort of person and ask the question playing on my mind.
"Did you serve?" A few simple words, but they are loaded with assumption and insinuation, probably unexpected coming from a young and proper English girl, who has been taught not to speak of unpleasant things, especially with men, and never with strangers. If he is shocked or annoyed, to his credit, he does not let it show. He inhales slowly, fresh air perhaps the sustenance his body needs for an unhappy disclosure. For a moment, I experience a flash of shame for my curiosity. I should not have asked, should not force a confession of a man I barely know. Before I can reprimand myself further, Daniel’s voice draws me out of my pensiveness.
"Yes, I did," he says, staring straight ahead, a shadowy, unreadable expression on his face. "It was early in 1917. Too young to join earlier. The youngest of three sons." That is all he says. I know the rest of the wretched story.
Youngest of three sons
. The only one left, I am led to assume by his withdrawn expression and tone of voice. Mentally kicking myself for my carelessness, I cannot think what to say. His story is far from unique, which makes it all the more tragic. A subject of such magnitude can hardly be followed by silly party chatter. Daniel senses the thickening of the atmosphere around us and in a forced jovial tone goes on. "It’s all right, you know. One cannot change the past. Let us of think of happier times ahead." He plasters a slim smile across his lips, not fooling me. I resolve not to ask him anything further as I recognize, with a familiar emotion, the effort maintaining his composure requires of him. I will not add to anyone’s burden if it can be helped.
Fortunately, at that moment we are joined by Caspar, who, if not outright drunk, is certainly headed down that path. Nevertheless, I am surprisingly glad to see him, his presence shattering the tension that has formed between Daniel and myself.
"
Oh, Danny Boy
!" He sidles in between us, amber liquid slopping in his half-full glass in one hand, and a rank smelling cigar sending whisps of smoke into the sky in the other. With a loose-limbed gesture sending a spray of his brandy over the garden fence, he waves at the sky in an embarrassingly dramatic manner and grins at us. "What are the words … Oh, yes, ‘The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space, rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth, swung blind and blackening in the moonless air’ … can’t remember the rest, sorry.’" He beams gleefully and takes a slow drag on his cigar, admiring the thick white plume of smoke he exhales as it drifts into the black night.
"Byron, if I’m not mistaken." An undeniably wry note enters my voice. "Too affected for my taste, I’m afraid." Actually, I like a bit of Byron when the occasion is fitting, but I have taken a slight dislike to Caspar, unfair judgement though it may be. Caspar throws his hands into the air in a gesture of wine-addled exaltation, and I take a tiny step away from him and toward the cliffs edge.
"Affected, no my dear," he drawls, leering down at me from his six inch elevation. "You misunderstand the passion behind his words."
Misunderstand the passion?
Well, pardon me, please! I happen to have passion in spades! I can see the silver in the moon, the diamond in a dewdrop, Poseidon’s kiss in a sea breeze. I am tempted to roll my eyes, but restrain myself, not wanting to stir the fire of passion within his flaming bosom. As if on cue, he clutches a hand dramatically to his heart and shakes his head, tossing his pale curls. "Affected indeed. The master speaketh of the driving forces of nature."
"He is, if I am not mistaken," I comment, knowing that I am not, "speaking of desolation and fear. He speaks of the end of days, the end of mankind." At this point I assume I have the upper hand, though I try to hide my smugness, having been taught
it does not become a lady
. He probably thinks he can impress with the few lines of an arbitrary poem he has memorized to fan the passion of the ladies he wishes to woo. Though, by now, I think, it is quite clear I am not a worthy object for his attentions. He is looking put out, while I continue. "It is rather unromantic, rare as such a poem may be for both Lord Byron, or I venture, for your good self." I say this with a smile, intended to lighten the mood. He has had a fair bit to drink and may be contrite and the sufferer of a thunderous headache by breakfast time.
Oh dear, I am sounding like Aunt Agnes!
"Is desolation not fueled by passion?" Caspar raises his eyebrows, not willing to concede. Tiny beads of sweat have formed above his lip, despite the cool breeze, and I wonder whether he might do well to sit down, or better yet, go to bed. Then again, I am no nurse, nor his mother so I will keep my council.
"Perhaps," I shrug noncommitally, slightly taken aback how like Aunt Agnes I was thinking and not wanting to argue with him, especially not in front of Daniel. It has been a long day, and I am not in the best form myself. I ought not be too hard on him, I think, trying to make up for my harsh judgements.
"All is in the eye of the beholder. At that I think we can leave it." Daniel interjects before his friend can add offense. He steadies Caspar, who is looking rather peaky and pale around the gills in the silver light of the moon. Gripping him by the elbow and making an unsuccessful grab for the glass, Daniel pulls Caspar further away from both me, and the fenced edge of the garden. Is this concern for Caspar a result of my sharp tongue, or the threat of sharp cliffs?
"Yes, fine, fine. I shan’t argue with you, my friend." Caspar grins, manages to take another puff from his cigar and dawdles off making his slightly curved way towards Darius, who has been standing alone at the edge of the terrace, looking in the other direction at the shadowy hills. Perhaps he is imagining what might be hidden under all of that dry earth, what treasures of the past it may be concealing. I pull my attention away from him and back to the one standing before me, appearing apologetic and a little discomfited.
“I am sorry about him. He’s had one or three too many tonight.” Daniel murmurs, shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyebrows by way of an excuse. He looks tired, perhaps it is simply a trick of the light, which has dimmed from one moment to the next as a cloud pushes itself across the nearly full moon.
“Quite all right," I smile. "Besides you are hardly responsible for his behavior, are you?” Shaking his head, and without speaking, he takes a few steps to sit down on a small wrought iron bench, nearly concealed by the dipping branches of a knarled oak, the sole tree of substancial size in the garden. I sit down beside him, once again aware of his closeness, but not intimidated by it. In a strange way, he is more vulnerable at this moment than I.
“You’re right," he says, picking up the line of conversation I thought had ended. "Nonetheless, we have been friends for many years, comrades, fellow travelers," he places both hands, palms down, on his thighs, "that establishes a certain sense of responsibility for one another.”
“How did you meet?” I whisper, the way we are seated here, playing tricks on my mind. The question has escpaed my mouth before I had a chance to think. In this moment of stillness I worry the answer will inevitably lead back to memories of the trenches, to memories better left untouched. To my surprise, his reply comes with a smile, and I almost sigh in relief.
"He lived on my family’s estate. You could say we grew up together. My two older brothers are …" he swallows before he goes on. "They were a bit older than me, so Caspar and I got along well. He is an only child, you see. His father manages parts of the estate for me still, and our families were constantly together." I watch Daniel as his eyes glaze over, lost in some other place, some other time, dipping into a pool of bittersweet memories. His obvious show of emotion is unusual to witness in someone I have met only hours ago. All the same, it does not feel unnatural. I try to join him in his reverie, imagining two rambunctious boys running across vast green fields, maybe escaping the consequences of some mischief.
"You must have had a happy childhood." I say before thinking, immediately regretting it, for the moment is over and Daniel’s eyes regain their focus, snapping back into the present.
"Yes," he swallows, "yes, I did."
The leaves in the branches above are gently tussled by the wind, and a group of cicadas has begun their ritual humming. Behind our perch, I hear Caspar’s voice making a loud joke, and a few half-hearted laughs from his audience.
For a moment, I forget that I have known Daniel just a few hours. We sit here both having escaped something from our past, unwilling to make it real by uttering the words. His friendly manner does little to disguise the discomfort of being trapped in his own skin. I am eager to ask questions, to know more, so my imagination fueled by unsatisfied curiosity will not paint a false picture.
Fortunately, before my tongue betrays my remaining tact, Daniel asks, "Where did you grow up?" It is such an ordinary question, I am snapped out of my spell, feeling a little diappointed.
"Mostly London. My parents liked to travel, though they only took me to France and a few jaunts to Scotland. And you?"
"I lived in Kent growing up," a faint crinkle of a smile appears on the left side of his mouth, and I will it to spread to the right. Smiling faces tend to open up like unfolding maps, allowing an access one did not know existed before. He gives a tiny shake of his head and turns to face me. "You know what happened then." The smile expands, though it seems an odd point in his story for this to occur. "I am sorry, I must have been a terrible party guest tonight. What a miserable impression I am making!" He shakes his head again, letting out a short laugh, neither happy nor sad.
"Not at all," I also smile. "Besides," I cross my legs at the ankles, "I am the one who should apologize, springing myself on you all. Briony sent an invite, though she didn’t mention she already had guests." I raise my eyebrows.
"I am quite sure she would have chosen your company over ours. I have the impression," Daniel gestures vaguely behind him where a few of Briony’s other guests are mingling, "she quite enjoys a full house." I turn to look around at the veranda a few meters away where I see Rosie staring straight at me, at the same time seeming to see nothing at all, while Paul holds her hand and chats with Jeffrey. The woman unnerves me. Immediately as I allow this thought to pass a wave of shame washes over me, chastizing me for my quick judgement. I turn back to Daniel.
"Yes, I believe you’re right. She has always liked being the hostess." A memory flits into my mind."I remember when we were girls she would play the mother at all our tea parties. I am less than three years younger than her, but she would convince me that I must
obviously
be the child."
I sigh quietly, remembering us sitting in her mother’s conservatory, wearing our frilly pastel dresses, our short legs dangling as we sat in the wrought iron chairs, Briony presiding over the tray of pretend-tea and very real strawberry scones we had filched from the kitchen without being caught. While I tell him this little story, the air about him changes. He sinks deeper into the bench looking, if not relaxed, then at least slightly more at ease.
"I can well imagine." The corners of his mouth curve decidedly upward. "You might understand my attachement to Caspar a bit better. We did not play tea-time, but we went fishing and hunting and learned how to ride our first ponies together. People change, but often we remain inextricably bound by happy memories and the people we shared them with."
He is speaking more animatedly than he has all evening, and I am worried I will say the wrong thing and make him retreat back into his shell.
"I understand," I say, meaning it.
"I thought you would." The seconds of silence following are not filled with heavyness or sorrow and when I hear the sound of footsteps on dry grass, I am content to leave our conversation where it is, knowing that the first layer has been peeled back, and we are not strangers anymore.
Briony appears, a pale blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Following her are Paul and Rosie. In the cool light of the moon and the wide-casting glow from the torches anchored into the ground on the edges of the veranda, Rosie’s yellow hair gleams like a halo. Her face still expressionless, she looks like a statue, hovering over us. I stand up as they approach and feel, rather than see, Daniel lift himself off the bench as well.
"Hello, my dears, Paul and Rosie are leaving." Briony’s voice is friendly as always, though I detect a hint of fatigue behind her chipper façade. Shrouded in her shawl she looks smaller even than usual, like a child almost, and I wonder how long she will keep up this mask before she tells me the truth and unburdens herself.
"Yes," Paul confirms as fresh and friendly as at the beginning of the evening, "I’m afraid it’s getting rather late. But it was wonderful to meet you, Evelyn, and to see you again, Daniel." He doles out handshakes all around.
Laria and Nikolas approach our little group as Paul is thanking Briony for a "wonderful evening".
"Paul," Nikolas says, his voice deep and slightly raspy, "would you drop Laria and me off at ours? I know you do not drink and I am afraid, I may not be the best driver tonight. "He winks in the direction of Jeffrey, who is talking to Darius a small distance behind us. "Your husband," he smilingly shakes his head at Briony, "has too good a taste in wine. It is a wonder he gets any work done!" He lets out a happy bellow, and Laria squeezes his arm.