Read Online My Dear I Wanted to Tell You by Louisa Young - Free Book Online
Authors: Louisa Young
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to try to get her pregnant.
He hadn’t, during the honeymoon, paid much attention to the chandelier, but the colour, the melting light, had stayed in his mind. Now it was a brutal little shaft of memory, pricking and stalling him, and when thus stalled and sabotaged he had to stop a moment to put the memory away.
‘Gooseberries, lovely gooseberries,’ he said, out loud, but softly. ‘Someone might be grateful, in a few months, if they survive. Not much chance of a mackerel to go with it, I suppose, but a gooseberry is always a lovely thing.’
Purefoy was touched by Locke’s apparent belief that some kind of future, the time it took for a gooseberry to ripen, was a possibility. He found Locke a decent bloke.
*
The new trench had been in French hands before, and quite a hotspot. Rebuilding the communication lines after a hit, the Paddingtons found corpses in the walls, scraps of uniform, the smell, a hand. When a shell hit, thundering your head and splitting your eyes, it was not only fresh limbs and organs that showered you. There was a French lad under the floor of the trench too: he appeared between the duckboards. They had been walking on him. They dug him up and buried him again, and Purefoy got sick: puking and crapping like a dog, too weak to walk. Burgess dragged him along to the MO’s dugout, which was in itself unusual, for Burgess never did anything helpful.
He murmured to Purefoy as they went, confidentially, under the arm slung over his shoulder for support: ‘We could do each other a favour, you know, Riley . . .’
Purefoy heaved, his stomach wrenching.
‘Make it worth your while,’ Burgess was saying. ‘It’d be no trouble to you . . .’ He eyed Purefoy sideways. Honest Riley. Worth a punt, for old times’ sake. Too good an opportunity, really . ‘Give us some of your puke, Riley, and I’ll make us both rich. There’s knackered men round here who’d pay good money for a couple of days in hospital.’
Purefoy turned his hanging head to look at him, and Burgess gave a little I-didn’t-invent-the-system shrug, and a straight look back. ‘You can’t say they don’t deserve a rest,’ he said meekly.
Purefoy’s stomach heaved; he puked on Burgess. Burgess laughed, his dimples pitting his cheeks. ‘Thanks, old pal,’ he said.
The MO sent Purefoy to a field hospital towards Amiens for two days’ rest and anti-laxatives. Over the next few days seven men from the Paddingtons turned up with the same condition. But, then, it was the kind of bug that got around, and most of them had been digging alongside Purefoy and the dead French boy.
*
When Purefoy returned, Captain Locke called him in. Purefoy thought Locke didn’t look that well either.
‘Purefoy,’ Locke said, shuffling papers. ‘Er. Yes. You’re to be promoted.’
What?
‘Experience, courage, attitude on the field and in the trenches – hasn’t gone unnoticed. Some concern that you aren’t quite a gentleman, but – well – beggars and choosers, rather, no reflection on you. You’re a fine soldier. The men respect you.’
Purefoy, who had seen braver men and better attitudes, Ainsworth for example, said so, in the accent his mother disliked, which he couldn’t help using in the company of the class he’d learnt it from, the accent that had made it possible for him to be promoted from the ranks. ‘And I can’t afford it,’ he said.
‘You won’t have to keep a horse,’ Locke said. ‘And the regiment’s had some donations. One from – someone who knows you.’
A silence.
Another silence, of a slightly different quality.
‘Sir Alfred,’ Purefoy said. He glanced at the floor. ‘I shall be sorry to have to disappoint him.’
‘Your name was on the list before Sir Alfred made his donation. It’s coincidence, Purefoy.’
It’s bribery.
‘Well, then, Fate is conspiring to benefit me, sir,’ said Purefoy, ‘but I can’t possibly accept it. I cannot have the regiment . . . um . . . for my
He hadn’t, during the honeymoon, paid much attention to the chandelier, but the colour, the melting light, had stayed in his mind. Now it was a brutal little shaft of memory, pricking and stalling him, and when thus stalled and sabotaged he had to stop a moment to put the memory away.
‘Gooseberries, lovely gooseberries,’ he said, out loud, but softly. ‘Someone might be grateful, in a few months, if they survive. Not much chance of a mackerel to go with it, I suppose, but a gooseberry is always a lovely thing.’
Purefoy was touched by Locke’s apparent belief that some kind of future, the time it took for a gooseberry to ripen, was a possibility. He found Locke a decent bloke.
*
The new trench had been in French hands before, and quite a hotspot. Rebuilding the communication lines after a hit, the Paddingtons found corpses in the walls, scraps of uniform, the smell, a hand. When a shell hit, thundering your head and splitting your eyes, it was not only fresh limbs and organs that showered you. There was a French lad under the floor of the trench too: he appeared between the duckboards. They had been walking on him. They dug him up and buried him again, and Purefoy got sick: puking and crapping like a dog, too weak to walk. Burgess dragged him along to the MO’s dugout, which was in itself unusual, for Burgess never did anything helpful.
He murmured to Purefoy as they went, confidentially, under the arm slung over his shoulder for support: ‘We could do each other a favour, you know, Riley . . .’
Purefoy heaved, his stomach wrenching.
‘Make it worth your while,’ Burgess was saying. ‘It’d be no trouble to you . . .’ He eyed Purefoy sideways. Honest Riley. Worth a punt, for old times’ sake. Too good an opportunity, really . ‘Give us some of your puke, Riley, and I’ll make us both rich. There’s knackered men round here who’d pay good money for a couple of days in hospital.’
Purefoy turned his hanging head to look at him, and Burgess gave a little I-didn’t-invent-the-system shrug, and a straight look back. ‘You can’t say they don’t deserve a rest,’ he said meekly.
Purefoy’s stomach heaved; he puked on Burgess. Burgess laughed, his dimples pitting his cheeks. ‘Thanks, old pal,’ he said.
The MO sent Purefoy to a field hospital towards Amiens for two days’ rest and anti-laxatives. Over the next few days seven men from the Paddingtons turned up with the same condition. But, then, it was the kind of bug that got around, and most of them had been digging alongside Purefoy and the dead French boy.
*
When Purefoy returned, Captain Locke called him in. Purefoy thought Locke didn’t look that well either.
‘Purefoy,’ Locke said, shuffling papers. ‘Er. Yes. You’re to be promoted.’
What?
‘Experience, courage, attitude on the field and in the trenches – hasn’t gone unnoticed. Some concern that you aren’t quite a gentleman, but – well – beggars and choosers, rather, no reflection on you. You’re a fine soldier. The men respect you.’
Purefoy, who had seen braver men and better attitudes, Ainsworth for example, said so, in the accent his mother disliked, which he couldn’t help using in the company of the class he’d learnt it from, the accent that had made it possible for him to be promoted from the ranks. ‘And I can’t afford it,’ he said.
‘You won’t have to keep a horse,’ Locke said. ‘And the regiment’s had some donations. One from – someone who knows you.’
A silence.
Another silence, of a slightly different quality.
‘Sir Alfred,’ Purefoy said. He glanced at the floor. ‘I shall be sorry to have to disappoint him.’
‘Your name was on the list before Sir Alfred made his donation. It’s coincidence, Purefoy.’
It’s bribery.
‘Well, then, Fate is conspiring to benefit me, sir,’ said Purefoy, ‘but I can’t possibly accept it. I cannot have the regiment . . . um . . . for my
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