was, the factories back home would come up with something better, but who had time to wait?
He took to the road, thinking of war, not his meeting. It was easier. And another thought came to him. Those Lea End buggers could certainly throw, bowling out the Newcastle recruits within minutes at the winter cricket match. It had earned them beer from Captain Bridges. Not a good move because Jack and Simon, plus Eddie and Frank, who had come out in a January draft, both hewers, had had to round them up and herd them back to their billet and sit on them till morning, or have a raging fight on their hands, not to mention the whole lot on a charge.
Jack stuck to the verge as the ammunition carts rumbled onwards, to the station probably, or towards Ypres perhaps? The Front was so extended that every conceivable form of transport was used. The lorries with red crosses were as busy as ever, heading either to the Front or away towards Rouen and the base hospital, or Le Touquet, or even to the ships, if someone was lucky enough to have a wound that would get them back to Blighty. Taxis and buses had been called into service too and all around, carried on the wind, was the crump and muted roar of artillery, the stutter of machine guns. Often there was the crack of a solitary sniper. With every step nearer the Front the noise would increase, and added to it would be the sound of the men, and the blast of hand bombs.
He was striding on mud-splattered cobbles as he entered the village, splashing through swathes of surface water, even though it had stopped raining by nine hundred hours or thereabouts. Bloody hell, what about some warmth, and sun? But it was only March. Nuns were scurrying children along the edge of the road towards the church spire. Were they off for Mass? He didnât know and didnât care because God was a lot of baloney, but if it kept the poor buggers happy, so be it. It was their country being wrecked and how did one cope with that? He didnât dwell. Why would he when it dragged him down?
Cars and lorries revved. A horse neighed as its driver sat astride and urged it forward with its cartload of shells. Now he could see the church ahead, and the long line of children entering through its massive doors, being shepherded by the nuns. There was a market set up in the square, with people buying, talking, bartering. It was comforting, in a way, that life went on within the sound of warfare. It meant that one day sanity could prevail because some people would remember the sense of normal life. He couldnât, not any more.
He headed straight for the turning Aub had mentioned. It was shaded here and the cold penetrated deeper. He slowed, looking left and right, and there it was. Le Petit Chat. He stopped, feeling in his pocket for the package. Damn Evie. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, and then another. Damn Grace. Damn her to hell for what she had done.
Inside Grace Manton sat at the back of the café, near the swing doors leading to the kitchen. An elderly waiter in a long white apron glided past, his tray held high on the tips of his fingers and thumb. How on earth had he retained such elegance? Didnât his back ache, his feet throb, or was he a better man than her? Never had her feet been as swollen, her back as sore, her knees so agonising. She sat back, enjoying this moment of rest. The
estaminets
were the lifesavers of the nurses and VADs, away from the noise and smell of the hospitals, and the coffee was just heaven, usually. Le Petit Chat didnât disappoint and sheâd already ordered one, and a beer for Jack. Both would be served on his arrival.
The waiter had told her when she arrived two weeks ago that the proprietor had bought many barrels from the cellar Rogiersâ for les Anglais before Christmas, as the war would not end for many months. She had replied, âIf there is money to be made and throats to slake, then one must.â As she had spoken in French she
He took to the road, thinking of war, not his meeting. It was easier. And another thought came to him. Those Lea End buggers could certainly throw, bowling out the Newcastle recruits within minutes at the winter cricket match. It had earned them beer from Captain Bridges. Not a good move because Jack and Simon, plus Eddie and Frank, who had come out in a January draft, both hewers, had had to round them up and herd them back to their billet and sit on them till morning, or have a raging fight on their hands, not to mention the whole lot on a charge.
Jack stuck to the verge as the ammunition carts rumbled onwards, to the station probably, or towards Ypres perhaps? The Front was so extended that every conceivable form of transport was used. The lorries with red crosses were as busy as ever, heading either to the Front or away towards Rouen and the base hospital, or Le Touquet, or even to the ships, if someone was lucky enough to have a wound that would get them back to Blighty. Taxis and buses had been called into service too and all around, carried on the wind, was the crump and muted roar of artillery, the stutter of machine guns. Often there was the crack of a solitary sniper. With every step nearer the Front the noise would increase, and added to it would be the sound of the men, and the blast of hand bombs.
He was striding on mud-splattered cobbles as he entered the village, splashing through swathes of surface water, even though it had stopped raining by nine hundred hours or thereabouts. Bloody hell, what about some warmth, and sun? But it was only March. Nuns were scurrying children along the edge of the road towards the church spire. Were they off for Mass? He didnât know and didnât care because God was a lot of baloney, but if it kept the poor buggers happy, so be it. It was their country being wrecked and how did one cope with that? He didnât dwell. Why would he when it dragged him down?
Cars and lorries revved. A horse neighed as its driver sat astride and urged it forward with its cartload of shells. Now he could see the church ahead, and the long line of children entering through its massive doors, being shepherded by the nuns. There was a market set up in the square, with people buying, talking, bartering. It was comforting, in a way, that life went on within the sound of warfare. It meant that one day sanity could prevail because some people would remember the sense of normal life. He couldnât, not any more.
He headed straight for the turning Aub had mentioned. It was shaded here and the cold penetrated deeper. He slowed, looking left and right, and there it was. Le Petit Chat. He stopped, feeling in his pocket for the package. Damn Evie. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, and then another. Damn Grace. Damn her to hell for what she had done.
Inside Grace Manton sat at the back of the café, near the swing doors leading to the kitchen. An elderly waiter in a long white apron glided past, his tray held high on the tips of his fingers and thumb. How on earth had he retained such elegance? Didnât his back ache, his feet throb, or was he a better man than her? Never had her feet been as swollen, her back as sore, her knees so agonising. She sat back, enjoying this moment of rest. The
estaminets
were the lifesavers of the nurses and VADs, away from the noise and smell of the hospitals, and the coffee was just heaven, usually. Le Petit Chat didnât disappoint and sheâd already ordered one, and a beer for Jack. Both would be served on his arrival.
The waiter had told her when she arrived two weeks ago that the proprietor had bought many barrels from the cellar Rogiersâ for les Anglais before Christmas, as the war would not end for many months. She had replied, âIf there is money to be made and throats to slake, then one must.â As she had spoken in French she
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