‘Mm?’
‘And I read about the fire. You know Edmund Pearson?’
She nodded. ‘The son who was killed in the war?’
‘How do you know he was killed in the war? The booklet doesn’t say that. It says
Believed to have been
killed at the time of the fire.
’
‘I know, but surely—’
‘If he’d died in the war, wouldn’t it have said?
Died
in action
, or
Died at—at Passchendaele
, say? Whatever.’
‘What are you suggesting, then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? Does it mean
in
the fire? But then why not say so?’
Faith shook her head firmly. ‘No. Definitely not. There’d have been . . .’ she made a face ‘. . . bones, a charred body. And he’d be buried somewhere.’
‘Well, he must be buried
some
where, either way.’
‘Yes, but if he died at home he’d be in the churchyard next door.’ Faith made a gesture with her head. ‘Lots of his relations are there. We’ll go and have a look if you like. But I’m sure we won’t find him. I don’t really see why you’re bothering about it. There would have been plenty of chances for him to get killed in 1917. There’s nothing specially odd about that. And we’re not likely to find out now, are we?’
‘
Believed to have been killed
. That’s not the same as
was
killed. That must mean his body was never found. His parents outlived him, didn’t they? Didn’t they know any more than it says in the book?’
‘I expect his name’s on the monument at Thiepval,’ Faith said. ‘Or that other one at the place beginning with Y—what is it?—Ypres, in Belgium. You know, those huge Memorials to the Missing, with thousands of names engraved on them? I’ve been to Thiepval, on the school battlefields trip. If I’d known about Edmund then, I could have looked for him.’
‘But perhaps he didn’t die at all,’ Greg said, thinking aloud.
‘You mean—?’ Faith lowered her cup carefully to its saucer, staring at him. ‘You’re not thinking he could still be alive? That’s impossible! He’d be over a hundred years old if he was twenty-one in nineteen seventeen.’
‘Don’t be daft. What I mean is, supposing he survived the war? He could have married, had children. There might be descendants.’
‘If he’d survived the war he’d have come back to Graveney,’ Faith pointed out. ‘Obviously. The book doesn’t mention him after the war.
Or
any descendants of his. Surely he, or they, would have taken over what was left of the house and the estate? It all went to some second cousin, the book says.’
‘What if he survived, came home, found Graveney burned out and decided to start again somewhere else?’ Greg was struck by a new idea. ‘Who wrote the book? Maybe we could ask him.’
‘I don’t know if we can. It was written ages ago, before the Friends took over—you can see how old-fashioned it looks, all that tiny print. It’s going to be re-done, with colour photos, when the work’s finished, if it ever
is
finished.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Greg conceded. ‘The most likely explanation is that he
did
die in the trenches. Poor sod. Only twenty-one. That’s only four years older than me, and he enlisted at eighteen. I bet he swallowed all that Rupert Brooke stuff about honour and glory.’
Faith nodded. ‘
If I should die, think only this of me
— that’s the famous one, isn’t it? We read that.’
‘If he died in nineteen seventeen—that was after the Battle of the Somme—he’d have seen enough to change his mind,’ Greg said. ‘Can I have your sugar if you don’t want it?’
Faith nodded; he reached over for the two brown chunks, put them in his mouth and crunched them.
‘There were two Edmund Pearsons,’ he said, thinking, his mouth full of sweetness, ‘and they both died young.’
Faith gave him a quizzical look.
‘The first one died as a baby,’ Greg explained. ‘If he’d lived, he’d have been our Edmund’s uncle. Your grotto was made for him.’
‘Oh, that one. Yes, I know. You can see E and P in the mosaic patterns if you look hard.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me when we were down there?’
She smiled at him. ‘Didn’t know you well enough then, did I? It’s not the sort of thing I tell just anyone. The grotto’s my special place, remember? I’ll show you next time.’ She finished her coffee and scooped up the remaining foam with her spoon, scraping for every last smear. Greg watched her, bemused. That didn’t quite go with the air of sophistication she’d tried to convey when they came in. ‘I’ll ask my parents if they know anything else about Edmund Pearson the Second,’ she said, glancing up.
‘Are they very strict, your parents?’ he asked.
Being
Christians
, he meant, but he didn’t want to spark another argument.
‘In some ways. They wouldn’t let me go to all-night parties or anything like that. They always have to know where I’m going and who I’m with.’
‘Like now?’
‘No. Well, I didn’t know about it myself. Only thought of coming to look for you when I came out of school.’
‘Would they mind?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. I mean, they’ve met you. They’d prefer it if I was going out with a boy from the church, but those are as rare as hens’ teeth. That’s one of my dad’s weird sayings. Not enough to pick and choose from.’
Greg shifted in his seat. Wait a minute! Who said anything about
going out
?
‘They don’t mind me having boyfriends,’ Faith went on. ‘They trust me to know what I’m doing and what I won’t do. I mean, I’d never have sex before marriage. They don’t have to warn me about pregnancy and contraceptives and diseases, because I just wouldn’t. I don’t think you should throw yourself away on the first person you fancy, or who fancies you. It’s more special than that.’
Oh. Right. Greg was silent. Was this her way of telling him not to expect sex? Or just an assumption that he wanted it? He felt himself being pushed farther than was comfortable. He sneaked a look at her. In her school uniform she looked rather . . . classy was the word that came into his mind. She was at least passably good-looking, especially when she smiled. Her skirt wasn’t particularly short, nowhere near as short as Katy’s—they were probably a lot stricter at St Ursula’s—but she sat turned towards him with one leg crossed over the other, giving him a good view of her knees and thighs, shapely in black tights. School governors might think they could put girls into white shirts and navy-striped ties and blazers to make them look demure and respectable: it only made them look sexy. As before with Faith, he felt that the words coming out of her mouth were at odds with her body language. What was she saying?
You can go out with
me but I’ll set the rules.
Or was it Mummy and Daddy who set the rules?
Having one cup of coffee didn’t mean they were
going out
. He could get up and cycle home whenever he chose.
‘I’m going to have another coffee before we go and look in the graveyard.’ Faith looked round for the waiter. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Yeah, all right.’
Gizzard phoned while Greg was starting his homework. ‘What got into you Saturday night, slugbait?’
‘Nothing. I’d had enough of that party, that was all.’
‘Thought I’d fixed you up nicely with Tanya. You must be well demented.’
‘What did she say?’ Greg asked cautiously.
‘One minute you were all over her, the next out the door.’ An abrupt hoot of laughter made Greg hold the receiver away from his ear. ‘Says she’s going to stop playing around with schoolboys. She’ll stick to men from now on.’
‘I didn’t fancy her, that’s all. And I don’t like being set up.’
‘Thought you’d be grateful,’ Gizzard said, aggrieved.
‘Well, I’m not. The fact is,’ Greg improvised, ‘I’m going out with someone else.’
‘Yeah? Why didn’t you say so, moron? Could have brought her along. Anyone I know?’
‘No. She goes to St Ursula’s.’
‘An All Saint, eh? You want to watch those. If you thought Tanya was a man-eater—’
‘I can manage, thanks,’ Greg said.
He went back to his homework. For English tomorrow he had four poems to read and think about. Greg sat on his bed, reading a sonnet Mr O’Donnell had given them to compare with Rupert Brooke’s
The
Soldier
. It began, ‘
When you see millions of the mouthless
dead
. . .’ and was by another soldier-poet, Charles Hamilton Sorley. His was another lost voice: only twenty when he was killed in October 1915. This poem, Mr O’Donnell had said, was found in his kit after his death, so was never published in his lifetime. Were they all at it, the generation of young officers, Greg wondered—working away at their sonnets as if it were obligatory, the only way of recording experience? But he liked this one better than Rupert Brooke’s rather smug patriotism. ‘
Say only this. “They
are dead”,’
Sorley had written.
The First World War was back in the last century, and soon it would have happened a hundred years ago, but for some reason Greg felt closer to it than to other conflicts since. He had studied it in GCSE History; he had read
All Quiet on the Western Front
and seen the film; he had watched documentaries, with first-hand accounts from elderly survivors. It was hard to see these doddery, watery-eyed old men as the unsuspecting young soldiers they had been at the time; easier to imagine himself as one of them, like Edmund. Or like Paul Bäumer in
All Quiet on the
Western Front
, going straight from school to the army in a fervour of patriotism no-one would feel today, seeing his friends maimed and killed, himself doomed to survive. He and Gizzard would be privates—Gizzard the born survivor, the crafty scrounger who always knew where to get fags and booze—but Jordan would be an officer: handsome and correct in a peaked cap, every button-badge polished, his face taut in the guarded expression Greg knew well. ‘
Like swimmers into cleanness leaping
. . .’ They would leap not into cleanness but into the squalor of the Western Front, so familiar from photographs that it was hard to believe the war had not actually been fought in black and white. Jordan would be horribly injured in an attack, and Greg would glimpse his white, sweating face as he was carried away on a stretcher. Michelle at home would open the telegram . . . except that Michelle would surely be dead too, because there would be no kidney dialysis back then . . .
‘Greg! Dinner’s ready!’ Katy yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
Greg came back to the present: his rumpled duvet, a thump of bass from his cassette player, and the Sorley poem still in his hand. He’d been staring at it sightlessly.
‘Coming!’ he yelled back. He stood up and yanked his T-shirt straight, glared at himself in the mirror and examined a potential spot on his chin. Deep in his chest there was an ache of loss for the imagined death of Jordan.
Yobs
Greg’s
photograph
(colour):
a corner of a
partially demolished wall. On the brickwork, the
words DEAN WOZ ERE are sprayed in acidic
yellow, and GREG H IS A TOSSPOT in green.
The letters are fuzzy and uneven. There is a litter
of Coke cans, fag-ends and sweet wrappers,
scattered around the blackened remains of a fire.
‘Heard you had an assignation yesterday,’ Jordan said. He and Greg stood by the drinks machine in the common room, sifting coins.
It took Greg a couple of seconds to realize what he meant.
‘It wasn’t an assignation. I hadn’t arranged anything. Here.’ He handed Jordan the ten-pence piece he was short of.
‘Thanks.’ Jordan fed it into the slot and pressed
Co fee White No Sugar
. ‘Girlfriend?’ he asked casually.
‘No, just someone I know. A friend—well, hardly even that, really.’
Was he imagining it, or did Jordan seem relieved? Jordan took his coffee and sipped it carefully; it was always too hot. Greg put his own coins in and pressed
Coffee White With Sugar
. ‘What about you?’ He matched Jordan’s offhand tone. ‘Going out with anyone?’
Jordan shook his head. Greg, on the point of asking whether he’d ever had a proper girlfriend, was trying to find the wording when Bonnie came up to the machine, dumping her rucksack at their feet. ‘Hi, Greg. Hi, Jordy. Got any change? Need to wake myself up before double Maths. God, English was dire, wasn’t it?’ She looked at Greg, then at Jordan. ‘What’s up with you two? Am I interrupting something?’
‘No,’ Jordan said.
‘Done your Maths?’ Greg asked, knowing she wouldn’t have. Bonnie simpered at him. ‘Mindreader! That’s just what I was going to ask. Let me copy yours!’ she pleaded. ‘You know what Sourface Simpson told me last time I forgot.’ To get her out of the way, Greg gave her his file, and swapped her pound coin for change. She flashed her insincere smile: ‘Thanks, Greg, you’re a star,’ got her coffee and took it and his Maths file to one of the corner tables, getting to work with more eagerness than she ever showed in class.
Jordan gave Greg a wry look. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Oh . . .’ They took their coffee and sat down at the table farthest away from Bonnie.
‘Christ, it’s like a morgue in here!’ A jostling group had come in; the cassette player was turned on, filling the room with something electronic and repetitive. It screened conversation very usefully.
‘About girls,’ Greg said. ‘I was going to ask if you’ve ever had—you know—a real girlfriend?’
‘Girl
friends
, yes,’ Jordan said. ‘Girlfriend, no. Only if you count when I was at junior school and a girl called Rosie decided I was going to marry her.’
‘So you’ve never—I mean, have you ever just been with a girl at a party or something, and actually got to the point of . . .’ Greg made a
You know what I mean
gesture.
‘Have I ever done it? Is that what you’re getting at?’ Jordan was sitting back in his chair, looking at Greg with calm amusement. ‘No. Why d’you ask?’
‘Well, you know. Some blokes talk about nothing else. Gizzard, for example. He thinks I’m retarded because I haven’t—’ Greg lowered his voice, although there was no-one close enough to hear—‘you know. He tried to set me up on Saturday night, at a party. There was this girl, Tanya—gorgeous, really—all over me, practically dragging me upstairs. When it came to it, I blew it. No, I didn’t want to—I just cleared off. What would you have done?’
‘Same as you, I expect. I don’t like being pushed into things. I’d rather decide for myself.’
‘Gizzard and this girl Tanya have got me down as a pathetic wimp. Didn’t have the bottle.’
‘Let them. Doesn’t matter, does it? We’re not sex machines. May not want to be, either. It’s more important than that.’
Greg looked at him suspiciously. ‘Are you religious?’
‘No. Why?’
‘What you said. It reminded me of someone else—of that St Ursula girl. No sex before marriage, that’s what she says. Not that I was asking. She’s just a friend, like I said.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Jordan said. ‘More a matter of being . . . careful, I suppose.’
Memories of Social and Personal Skills lessons floated into Greg’s mind—warnings about AIDS and herpes and teenage pregnancies, statistics and role-plays and even excruciating demonstrations involving carrots. A complete waste of time, according to some of the louder girls like Bonnie—everyone knew it all already apart from those who didn’t, and they were the ones who had no need to know.
‘I don’t mean AIDS and that sort of thing,’ Jordan continued. ‘I mean careful of how you feel. And how the other person feels. But the main thing is, there’s no need to rush. There’s plenty of time.’
‘Hey, you two!’ It was Ben Cousins, with a clipboard. ‘I’m getting names for the cricket. Staff v. Sixth Form, Friday week after school. Can I put you both down?’
‘OK.’
‘Yeah, go on.’
Ben sat down to add their names to his list and stayed, chatting, till the bell went. Greg half-listened to the conversation about which teachers were the sneakiest spin-bowlers and which were most likely to hit sixes, watching Jordan. He was so different from Gizzard. What you saw was what you got with Gizzard; but with Jordan, what you were allowed to see was only a fraction of what might be there to find. Or was that just because of the way his features happened to be arranged? His dark, finely-shaped eyebrows gave him a brooding look; but Greg knew that Jordan could be pondering nothing more profound than whether to have cheese or tuna in his lunchtime sandwich and still have that air of intense preoccupation. Thinking of Jordan’s invitation for Saturday, Greg found that he was pleased. Gizzard was friendly with everyone; friendship with Jordan would be deeper, and would have to be better deserved.
On Thursday, in the cool of early evening, Greg cycled out to Graveney Hall.
‘What’s the fascination with that place?’ Mr Teale had asked in Art, last lesson of the afternoon, looking at Greg’s prints. Greg was still trying to work out the answer.
His response in the Art room, after a moment’s thought, was: ‘It wouldn’t have the same appeal at all if the house was still intact and lived-in—you know, like any other stately home. As it is, it’s a kind of symbol of something.’
‘Of what?’ Mr Teale asked, inevitably.
‘It reminds me of the
Titanic
,’ Greg said after another pause. ‘Except that we can see the wreckage.’
‘Think about it,’ said the teacher.
Now, pedalling down the track, Greg thought it was lucky he didn’t have to express his thoughts in the form of a poem, the way Sorley and Owen had. Pictures were easier; they didn’t need explaining. You could make a point just by putting one thing next to another. The placing of an old photo copied from the guidebook next to one showing the litter and the
Keep
Out
signs would make its own impact, without words. He had decided now that his project would include drawings as well as photographs: line drawings, ink and a greenish wash, to show mould and moss growing over stone. He intended to copy some of the stone edgings and fragments of ruined columns and statues. The damaged summerhouses, he thought, could be shown as architectural drawings, the way a designer might have envisaged them more than two hundred years ago, pristine and new. The decorative details would be good to draw: the vines and fruit, and something Mr Teale had said was acanthus—large leaves in bold, sculptural shapes.
Whatever the place’s fascination, it was strong enough to pull him there now, when he could have spent the evening in front of the TV or pretending to do homework. Graveney Hall was more than a handy stimulus for his Art project—it had got into his mind and installed itself there. He had arranged to meet Faith on Sunday morning at the grotto, but had suddenly felt unwilling to wait that long; he wanted to spend time alone with his sketchbook and camera. It would be good to have the place to himself, with no-one peering over his shoulder or asking questions, and not even Faith as a distraction.
The ruined mansion was not so much
Titanic
as
Mary Celeste
, he thought, pedalling close enough to see the blanks of the windows, the twining ivy, the hollow inside: like the ghost ship it was abandoned, enticing the passer-by with its secrets. He left his bike by the steps at the front and walked slowly inside. Echoey space rose above him like the inside of a cathedral. Some time he’d see if Jordan felt like coming here for a look round. Jordan had seen the prints, expressed an interest; Greg wanted to show him the grounds and the lake, watching his reactions, or rather his characteristic, thoughtful non-reaction.
On the garden side, greenness and light opened in front of him. He stepped out to the grass and looked down the length of the garden. It was not difficult to imagine Edmund Pearson standing here, on what would have been the terrace—a slim young man in army uniform, taking his leave before returning to Flanders. The back of Greg’s neck tingled. With no-one about, he almost had the sense that Edmund might appear, summoned by the power of thought. Had this been his last view of Graveney Hall? What miserable death had awaited him at the front?
It took him a few seconds to register shouts from the lower garden. Resentment bristled inside him. Those bloody kids again! If that slimeball Dean Brampton was among them . . .
He couldn’t see the boys at first, his eyes scanning the ruined garden. Then a movement caught his eye: an upraised arm, a thrown brick. He heard the crack of stone on stone, followed by a yell of encouragement. The boys—Dean and a dark-skinned boy, and a third smaller one—were hurling bricks at the caryatid on the summerhouse, aiming for its head.
‘Oi!’ Greg yelled, propelled by anger across the grass.
The Asian boy was first to see him; he skittered off sideways and grabbed Dean Brampton by the arm. Dean dropped the brick he was aiming and all three faced Greg as if he was a figure of authority; then, realizing who it was, Dean laughed.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ Greg shouted.
It was all too obvious what they were doing: trying to smash the beautiful stone face of the caryatid, the perfect one. Already Greg could see splintered fresh stone where a piece had been chipped off the fruit garland.
‘Are you completely moronic or what? God!’
He couldn’t find words to express his outrage. Dean yelled, ‘What’s your problem, saddo? Own the place, do you?’
The sneering expression on his face made Greg’s knuckles tighten. He stepped closer.
‘If you damage that—if I ever see you here again, I’ll—’
‘Yeah, what’ll you do, tosser? ’S only an old statue, not worth anything!’
‘Prat! Poofter!’ The Asian boy joined in the jeering; the small one, more fearful, kept a cautious distance. Greg made a grab for Dean Brampton, whose face contorted into a snarl. Not sure what he intended to do, Greg found himself with a double handful of anorak. With a grunt of indignation, the boy wriggled out of his grasp. Greg both felt and heard the tearing of the anorak sleeve.
‘Get off him, pervert!’ the Asian boy yelled.
Dean Brampton, wriggling free of the garment, kicked out, catching Greg on the shin. Greg seized him hard by the arm, taken over by single-minded fury. The boy looked back at him, chin jutting. There was a flicker of fear in his eyes that belied the practised toughness.
Greg made his own face hard. ‘If I find you here again—,’ his voice came out low and menacing, ‘—I’ll smash your stupid face in.’ He gave a hard shake and flung the boy away. Dean stumbled and picked himself up, glaring his hatred. The other two came closer, circling, looking at Dean for guidance.
This was stupid—three against one if it came to a real fight. They might be younger and smaller, but Dean Brampton had the look of a dangerous wild animal. Anger surged through Greg’s body. He picked up the anorak and threw it to the ground by the boy’s feet. ‘Fuck off out of here. Go on.
Now
.’
‘Run, Yusuf!’ yelled the smaller boy, who was already well on his way towards the ruined conservatory.
The boy called Yusuf did, leaving Dean Brampton confronting Greg. Realizing that he was alone, the boy’s confidence wavered. ‘Wanker!’ He thrust two fingers at Greg’s face, then ran after his friends, leaping a chunk of masonry. With baboon-like whoops, the three disappeared towards the main steps, quick and agile.
Greg stayed where he was. He wasn’t going to run after them, inviting more abuse or thrown bricks. Carefully, he examined the caryatid. Her beautiful face stared impassively over his head, undamaged. He could see only the small chip he had already noticed, from her garland. If he’d come along ten minutes later . . . what were they trying to do, reduce her face to broken stone, destroy it the way time and weather had destroyed her twin?
He didn’t feel like drawing now. He sat on the steps of the summerhouse and stared across at the bearded telamons. This was stupid—it needed a high wire fence to keep those morons out. He could understand them coming here to muck about, to climb in the buildings, but this—! He was breathing hard, disturbed by the incident in more ways than one. Dean Brampton’s mocking face had fired him into not just anger, but violent rage. If he’d given way to impulse, he could have smashed the boy’s head against the stone of the summerhouse. He could still feel the itch of wanting to grab and hurt, flowing down his arms into his fingers and fists. He had made the first grab, even though the insolent little git had been asking for it. But what else could he have done? You couldn’t reason with someone like Dean Brampton.
Wearily, he got up and went to find his bike. It was lying on its side halfway up the steps, with the rear-shift mechanism wedged in the spokes.
‘Oh, bloody hell!’
It took him nearly an hour to get it home, with only the front wheel usable, by which time—ravenous, tired, fed-up and with his arms aching from lifting the back wheel clear of the ground—he had thought of a range of fitting torments for Dean Brampton and associates.