Trench Rat - 4. Chapter 4

I have always slept fitfully. A couple of hours of undreaming sleep followed by the same period wide awake. But I slept through that night. The following morning, I woke unusually refreshed but confounded, not only at the unfamiliar surroundings but by the memory of a nighttime encounter. Warm beneath the bedcovers, I didn’t want to move, my nose already numb with cold. But after checking the time on my phone—six-thirty—my waking body insisted that I use the bathroom. Even in thick socks, the floor felt like slabs of ice. Inside the bathroom, after flushing the toilet, I tried the hot water tap in the hand basin. Water flowed freely but icy cold, and I sat on the toilet seat contemplating a cold bath. Just as I had decided to dress and ask Madam Latouche later if she could boil a kettle so that I could, at the very least, flannel wash myself, a gurgling came from the tap, and within seconds, steaming hot water spewed into the sink.

I shut the tap off and tried the bathtub faucet. Once again, hot water poured freely, misty plumes choking the cold room. Opening an old jar perched on the rim, I sprinkled fragrant bath salts into the running water. Once sufficiently filled—and probably hotter than I needed—I quickly undressed in the haze and sank into the depths. After submerging completely a couple of times, I laid back with a sigh of contentment.

Did I really meet a soldier called Alfie in the bedroom last night? If I had dreamt the whole thing, then not only would that have been a first, but I cannot remember the last time I’d had a dream as vivid. But I had my answer. During the night, something had crystallised, and my analytical brain had reexamined the encounter and posited a solution that I would typically have dismissed as preposterous, a result of tiredness and delusion. Except that Alfie had been both real and illusive—of that much, I was sure. But why here and why me? I would make a few tentative enquiries with Mrs LaTouche if I could get her alone.

Somehow, I navigated my way through the labyrinthine corridors of the farmhouse down towards the kitchen, following the inviting scent of baking pastry. When I stood at the kitchen door, Mrs LaTouche busied herself in the kitchen and acknowledged me by turning and nodding hello.

"Bonjour, Madame LaTouche," I said to fill the awkward silence. "Uh, comment ça—?"

"Speak English, Mister Farrell," she said without turning. "My husband is walking the dogs. Did you manage to sleep?"

"Wonderfully, thank you. You were right. I didn’t realise how tired I was."

When she turned, her eyes narrowed a fraction before she nodded again. Before returning to her work, she held out a calloused finger indicating the kitchen table.

"Sit, please. We take a simple breakfast here."

"I’m grateful for anything, thank you."

She worked around me, bringing baskets of assorted bread, pastries, confiture and a clay jug of what I assumed to be water and arranging them on the table. Once she had finished, she patted her fingers on a tall pot sitting on an old iron stove and appeared satisfied with the temperature.

"How long have you had the farmhouse?" I asked.

"Ferme LaTouche has been in my husband’s family for many generations. As with his ancestors, here is where he was born, here is where he labours, and here is where he will die. The farm must keep producing."

Even during the war years?" I inquired, hoping I wasn’t broaching a sensitive topic.

"Even in war, people must eat."

As I glanced up, I saw her gazing out through the kitchen window into the farmyard, her hands moving deftly beneath the running water as she washed cups and plates.

"We were one of few villages on the eastern border to escape the devastation our country suffered in both wars. During the last war, Ripont was held by the German army, and this farmhouse became a command centre. They treated us badly. When they evacuated, every building in the town was left standing. But the morale of the people was damaged beyond repair. Those in surrounding towns accused Ripont villagers, including my father-in-law, of being collaborators. But what can one do with a gun pointed at one’s head? Even now, generations later, we tend to keep to ourselves."

"And during the Great War?"

"What about it?" Her voice sounded next to me as she leant to pour thick, dark coffee into my cup. I would have preferred tea, but I knew better than to ask.

"Were you affected?"

"How old do you think I am?" she said, holding the pot in the air and frowning at me with not a hint of humour. "I am seventy-three. I have no memory of either war. My husband’s grandfather worked the land back then. And, clearly, he is no longer with us."

From her tone, I could tell that she wanted to shut down the questioning. But there was one last thing I needed to ask.

"Is there a war memorial here or in a neighbouring town?"

"Why do you need to know this?"

"I am interested on behalf of a friend."

Once again, she assessed me, and I had no idea what she was thinking. Moving to the table, she pulled a hand from her apron and, without any explanation, placed a key on the tablecloth.

"There is a small memorial outside Ripont to the west. Go to the village centre, and look for a signpost with Monuments aux Morts. And if you are happy to walk, it is around ten kilometres from the town."

"Thank you."

"We have dinner at six if you wish to join us."

"I would like that."

"I hope you find what you are looking for."

Maybe I was being fanciful, but her simple words seemed to hold more than they expressed.

*****

My stroll down the lane I had taken the night before could not be more different. Crisp, powdery frost peppered the dirt track, and the air stung my lungs with its chilled freshness. But the day could not have been more perfect, the colours of dying autumnal vegetation contrasting the deep, unblemished blue of the sky. Perhaps my re-energised mood helped, having slept profoundly and savoured Madame Latouche’s simple breakfast of coffee and pastries, but I felt a spring in my step and a mystery to solve.

On my way to the village, I used a combination of my phone browser—the satellite connection now fully functional—and my eyes to explore. Ripont was nestled in the hilly forests of the Lorraine region in the east of France, hugging the Belgium border. In a rustic, cobbled kind of way, the town and its inhabitants had made no effort to capitalise on its pastoral setting or to entice tourists. Mrs LaTouche had hinted at the reason. I wondered how locals made a living, but seeing the sprinkling of essential shops around the square—Boulanger, Cafe, Boucher, Fromagerie—everything a small rural community might need and probably produced locally, I assumed they existed only for each other like a commune or part of an extended family.

Two hours outside of the village, set back from the lane and flanked by farmland, I found the obelisk memorial constructed from grey-speckled granite. The names of the fallen, mainly French, had been carved into each of the four flat sides. Even on this dull day, colourful flowers brightened the sombre sight, beautifully arranged in stone vases to honour the fallen.

A few cars drove past as I stood there, my head bowed, carefully reading through each of the names. With them listed in alphabetical order, I had no trouble checking for the name Shackleton. No record existed. At least, not at this site.

On my stroll back to Ripont, with the time nudging midday, I discovered a village brought to life with people milling around, a couple of narrow vans parked up and even people sitting at the tables and chairs hugging the small cafe. I decided to pay my thanks to the barman and took a seat, choosing to brave ordering a tea. But an elderly woman worked and served alone in the cafe that day. I ordered my drink—a cup of hot water with an unopened tea bag placed on the saucer, heaven help us—and a local ham and cheese baguette. Sitting outside, watching the day and sedate village life drift by, I felt entirely at peace. Lulled by the pleasant sounds of the day, including the chirping of birds and the trickle of water from the fountain urn in the village square, a thought came to me.

I used to work with a softly spoken man called Dudley employed in our technical department. Neither of us had demanding roles, and, both being socially inept, took to sitting in the staff canteen together at lunchtimes, often eating in companionable silence. He always looked tired and once confessed that he spent most nights streaming and binge-watching old science fiction movies or series. Either that or getting sucked into addictive online multiuser gaming. One day, he informed me that he had resigned his post. Disillusioned by the unfriendliness of Londoners, he had decided to return to his hometown of Preston, having secured a data processing position for the General Register Office in Southport. But we kept in touch through texting, swapping recommendations for new shows to watch.

Uncharacteristically for me, and even though we hadn’t connected in months, I sent him a message, not particularly hopeful of a response.

Less than five minutes later, he texted back. We shared a few words about ourselves. I already knew his life was much better back home and that he shared a flat with an ex-girlfriend. I had formulated what I wanted to ask and thumbed the message into my phone.

In your new job, could you find the name of someone who died in WW1?

Dudley: It’s what I do. As long as the death was registered. If you have someone, give me their full name, date of birth, and place of birth.

Apart from his frank and direct approach, which some perceived as rudeness, I always liked Dudley because, although he knew I was gay, he didn’t judge me. He always delivered promptly and without question if I asked for a favour, an upgrade of a computer monitor or an ergonomic keyboard.

Alfred P. Shackleton. I think he was born in Yorkshire. I don’t have the date of birth, but I imagine it would have been around the early 1900s.

Dudley: That might be enough. Give me fifteen minutes.

Feeling encouraged, I ordered a second cup of tea and a bottle of water. More on impulse than anything, I unzipped my rucksack pocket, instinctively reaching for my pill organiser but finding only vitamins. They would have to suffice. I waited for the drinks to come before chugging the capsules down with the water. I had just poured milk into my tea when my phone pinged with a message.

Dudley: Here you go. Alfred Percival Shackleton born 1898 in Pickering, Yorkshire. Reported missing and presumed dead on 5 June 1916. Does that sound like the person?

That’s the one. Thanks Dudley.

His answer was what I had been expecting, but gave me a pang of sadness that left me feeling unsettled, as though this solved only a part of the mystery. Eighteen. Alfie had barely reached manhood when his life was ended. I was about to put the phone away when another message pinged on my phone.

Dudley: There’s a photo. Do you want me to send it to you?

I did not hesitate to reply.

Yes, please. That would be really helpful.

Dudley: Here you go, all yours. No charge. Live long and prosper.

The sepia photograph with white wrinkles like streaks of lightning had the date 8th August 1914 scratched into the surface. A group of people posed outside the front gate of a terraced house of brick, most of them grinning goofily at the camera. The darkness of their eyes and hair, and even some of their features, made them unmistakably family. In between the oldest—the mother and father, I assumed—stood a young man dressed proudly in his uniform. Although he resembled Alfie, that was not him. Alfie, younger and shorter, stood to the right, in between a slightly taller boy with a crutch and a light-haired girl, the only person in the frame who did not resemble family. Instead of staring at the camera, she turned to study Alfie, but I noticed his attention was elsewhere, as though he was waiting for somebody. Only his profile was shown, but I recognised him instantly.

I tucked my phone away.

Would Alfie even return again tonight? I had to hope so. I had so many questions.

But right then, I had a few hours to fill until dinner. Maybe I would stroll down to the church I had seen on the coach ride into the village and enjoy the delightful weather.