rolling, grey ocean. I always found some comfort in this thought. Even in the beginning there must have been a thread of sweet fatalism in my attraction to Sarah.
My mind itches for an escape from tomorrowâs plan. I have the glimmerings of an idea. Every fractured sentence my father spoke last night had been about the tannery. Making a valiant effort not to avoid the subject of war, he had lingered meaningfully on army contractsâfifteen hundred jackets, seven hundred pistol holsters, harder leather for four hundred officersâ boots of various sizes. We were to cut the leather and send it by train to Northampton. Each time his words died away, leaving only the clink of cutlery on china, and the embarrassed locking, or studied avoidance, of glances over the table, I came closer to realizing that this was our war debrief. Grateful, I wondered why others did not follow the same example.
Turning back the covers, I switch on the bedside lamp and stare at my watch until the convergence of hour and minute hands makes sense. Itâs just gone quarter past three. Even with the horrors of recent memories and the burdens that weigh upon my conscience, there is something uniquely forbidding about rising at this hour, something that brings a special kind of censure. It is as though, despite our collective claims at modernity, we still believe that imps and demons hold sway over the earth while the moon glides beyond the clouds and dark breezes play with trembling branches.
I find myself dressing before I have a chance to change my mind. Belt, clip, and button will be my protection from the night. I anticipate the crisp, autumn predawn on the four-mile trek to Darsham, the wait upon the quiet station platform, the rattle and squeal of the train carriage, and my arrival at Ipswich before the tannery opens. Troughs of horsesâ urine and dead animal skin beckon me. Ipswich will be my hideout. I will be as elusive there as a creature of the night.
CHAPTER 9
Sarah
T he heat of self-accusation rises up my neck as twigs continue cracking under my footfalls. Which of last nightâs blunders caused Simonâs unexpected flight? I feel again the weight of his skull on my shoulder while he sobbed out his soul, but this time the triumph reverses into disaster.
You humiliated him! The taunt keeps pace with my footsteps, the verb stretching over the crunch of dead foliage. Surely this is why he left before daybreak. The tears that spill by night will surely hide themselves by day. A tactful woman would have helped him to restrain himself. A tactful woman would have been more patient, would have given room for his anxieties to subside and for his old affection to unfold when it was ready.
I cannot visit the new churchyard and Charlesâs grave as planned. My feet carry me in the opposite direction, towards the old churchyard and the cliff. It is as though visiting Charles without Simon would be breaking faith with my brother. I have long envisaged all of us together as an important moment. Through the night I felt the energy of communication rising between Charles, Simon, and I; I felt some joy in the prospect of this meeting and a sense that Charles may be waiting. Daylight has since dispelled the most fevered part of such imaginings, but a wisp of superstition remains. Any part of Charles that might linger could not help but sense my disillusionment were I to go there now. I cannot allow even a chance of that happening.
The ruins of the old church show dark now against the milky sky. My mind sifts once more through Mr. Jensonâs nervy explanation, his account of Simonâs note to him, his sonâs insistence on going to the Ipswich works to supervise the new orders. In Mr. Jensonâs slightly puffy, rapidly blinking eyes, in the twitch of his half-smile, I saw an attempt at faith. He needed to believe that his son, having served his country, felt duty-bound to help equip his comrades.
Leaving, I tried to
My mind itches for an escape from tomorrowâs plan. I have the glimmerings of an idea. Every fractured sentence my father spoke last night had been about the tannery. Making a valiant effort not to avoid the subject of war, he had lingered meaningfully on army contractsâfifteen hundred jackets, seven hundred pistol holsters, harder leather for four hundred officersâ boots of various sizes. We were to cut the leather and send it by train to Northampton. Each time his words died away, leaving only the clink of cutlery on china, and the embarrassed locking, or studied avoidance, of glances over the table, I came closer to realizing that this was our war debrief. Grateful, I wondered why others did not follow the same example.
Turning back the covers, I switch on the bedside lamp and stare at my watch until the convergence of hour and minute hands makes sense. Itâs just gone quarter past three. Even with the horrors of recent memories and the burdens that weigh upon my conscience, there is something uniquely forbidding about rising at this hour, something that brings a special kind of censure. It is as though, despite our collective claims at modernity, we still believe that imps and demons hold sway over the earth while the moon glides beyond the clouds and dark breezes play with trembling branches.
I find myself dressing before I have a chance to change my mind. Belt, clip, and button will be my protection from the night. I anticipate the crisp, autumn predawn on the four-mile trek to Darsham, the wait upon the quiet station platform, the rattle and squeal of the train carriage, and my arrival at Ipswich before the tannery opens. Troughs of horsesâ urine and dead animal skin beckon me. Ipswich will be my hideout. I will be as elusive there as a creature of the night.
CHAPTER 9
Sarah
T he heat of self-accusation rises up my neck as twigs continue cracking under my footfalls. Which of last nightâs blunders caused Simonâs unexpected flight? I feel again the weight of his skull on my shoulder while he sobbed out his soul, but this time the triumph reverses into disaster.
You humiliated him! The taunt keeps pace with my footsteps, the verb stretching over the crunch of dead foliage. Surely this is why he left before daybreak. The tears that spill by night will surely hide themselves by day. A tactful woman would have helped him to restrain himself. A tactful woman would have been more patient, would have given room for his anxieties to subside and for his old affection to unfold when it was ready.
I cannot visit the new churchyard and Charlesâs grave as planned. My feet carry me in the opposite direction, towards the old churchyard and the cliff. It is as though visiting Charles without Simon would be breaking faith with my brother. I have long envisaged all of us together as an important moment. Through the night I felt the energy of communication rising between Charles, Simon, and I; I felt some joy in the prospect of this meeting and a sense that Charles may be waiting. Daylight has since dispelled the most fevered part of such imaginings, but a wisp of superstition remains. Any part of Charles that might linger could not help but sense my disillusionment were I to go there now. I cannot allow even a chance of that happening.
The ruins of the old church show dark now against the milky sky. My mind sifts once more through Mr. Jensonâs nervy explanation, his account of Simonâs note to him, his sonâs insistence on going to the Ipswich works to supervise the new orders. In Mr. Jensonâs slightly puffy, rapidly blinking eyes, in the twitch of his half-smile, I saw an attempt at faith. He needed to believe that his son, having served his country, felt duty-bound to help equip his comrades.
Leaving, I tried to
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