stretches of limestone, but mostly granite of varying dimensions. Just a stone wall, no different from the others to be found winding about these hills, except that this one he knew like the back of his hand. The three largest stones were arranged next to one another about half a mile out. Bill, his brother, had liked to sit astride the wall there, whittling at pieces of wood with his penknife. And here, on this stone, at the base of the wall, covered now by grass, two sets of initials, carved a lifetime ago. His own, and a girl’s whose name he no longer recalled, but with eyes of vivid green.
Sunlight caught the wall, coaxing fire from brumal stone, morphing jut and thrust into rose and a deep, burnished amber. He pushed on, panting now from the exertion, a stooped, solitary figure among his beloved trees. Just ahead, there, by the Baldwin that had taken seven years to bud, a man had once run, his young son bouncing on his shoulders, his hands gripping the child’s legs. Laughter, the man’s and the boy’s, echoing through the trees. Had it been him and his father? Or was it him carrying Jim? The Major paused for a moment, unsure. It didn’t matter, he decided, chary of probing the memory any further and risking it crumbling to nothing.
He quickened his pace through the thinning mist, going as fast as he was able, reclaiming these scattered bits of his life as they revealed themselves to him, piecing together as if from broken glass a picture of the person he once had been, of the life lived before.
Before the war, before France, before everything.
At last he faltered, the ache in his leg too pronounced to ignore. He leaned against the wall for support, waiting for the spasm to ease. Slowly he turned back towards the house, an imprint of his hand left in the snow that topped the stones.
He came around to the kitchen, breathing heavily as he unlaced his boots. The familiar creak of the armchair as he lowered himself into it. He leaned his head against the backrest, the tranquillity of the morning still held close inside him. There he sat, hardly moving, watching the sun swim across the surface of the mirror, the last strands of fog clinging futilely to the apple trees before vanishing into the day.
The morning grew steadily clearer, the sun holding firm court over the skies. It buoyed Jim just to look at it – the wash of light over the hills, sweeping aside shadow, restoring palette and definition to a smudged, undertone world.
He whistled as he brought in the backlog of mail – bills, a catalogue from Monkey Ward, and newspapers of nearly a week – whistled as he walked back up the drive, snow melting around his boots. A dark sweep of wing over the roof line – a barn swallow, in solitary, joyous flight. He looked up, squinting against the sun and was reminded in an instant of Madeleine, the way that she’d stood just about here, the tilt of her head as she’d looked up towards the roof. His carefree whistling stalled, and in its stead came a nervousness that he was entirely unaccustomed to, at the thought of seeing her again.
It was this feeling of being slightly off kilter that made him approach his father once more. He’d noticed that the Major had risen early, but Jim had given him a wide berth all the same, still hurt from being so profoundly shut out all these days. Now, however, he hesitated behind the Major’s chair.
‘I’m headed out this evening,’ he said. ‘There’s a gala.’
So startling was the notion of this boy of his – rough-hewn, given to solitary wanderings – attending an evening soiree that the Major temporarily forgot the mirror, swivelling around instead to look directly at his son.
‘A gala,’ he echoed, astonished. ‘Where?’
Jim cleared his throat, tapping the roll of newspapers in his hand. ‘The Garland place.’
There was a silence and then the Major nodded. ‘Douggie Garland.’ The springs of his chair creaked as he turned away.
‘Madeleine –
Sunlight caught the wall, coaxing fire from brumal stone, morphing jut and thrust into rose and a deep, burnished amber. He pushed on, panting now from the exertion, a stooped, solitary figure among his beloved trees. Just ahead, there, by the Baldwin that had taken seven years to bud, a man had once run, his young son bouncing on his shoulders, his hands gripping the child’s legs. Laughter, the man’s and the boy’s, echoing through the trees. Had it been him and his father? Or was it him carrying Jim? The Major paused for a moment, unsure. It didn’t matter, he decided, chary of probing the memory any further and risking it crumbling to nothing.
He quickened his pace through the thinning mist, going as fast as he was able, reclaiming these scattered bits of his life as they revealed themselves to him, piecing together as if from broken glass a picture of the person he once had been, of the life lived before.
Before the war, before France, before everything.
At last he faltered, the ache in his leg too pronounced to ignore. He leaned against the wall for support, waiting for the spasm to ease. Slowly he turned back towards the house, an imprint of his hand left in the snow that topped the stones.
He came around to the kitchen, breathing heavily as he unlaced his boots. The familiar creak of the armchair as he lowered himself into it. He leaned his head against the backrest, the tranquillity of the morning still held close inside him. There he sat, hardly moving, watching the sun swim across the surface of the mirror, the last strands of fog clinging futilely to the apple trees before vanishing into the day.
The morning grew steadily clearer, the sun holding firm court over the skies. It buoyed Jim just to look at it – the wash of light over the hills, sweeping aside shadow, restoring palette and definition to a smudged, undertone world.
He whistled as he brought in the backlog of mail – bills, a catalogue from Monkey Ward, and newspapers of nearly a week – whistled as he walked back up the drive, snow melting around his boots. A dark sweep of wing over the roof line – a barn swallow, in solitary, joyous flight. He looked up, squinting against the sun and was reminded in an instant of Madeleine, the way that she’d stood just about here, the tilt of her head as she’d looked up towards the roof. His carefree whistling stalled, and in its stead came a nervousness that he was entirely unaccustomed to, at the thought of seeing her again.
It was this feeling of being slightly off kilter that made him approach his father once more. He’d noticed that the Major had risen early, but Jim had given him a wide berth all the same, still hurt from being so profoundly shut out all these days. Now, however, he hesitated behind the Major’s chair.
‘I’m headed out this evening,’ he said. ‘There’s a gala.’
So startling was the notion of this boy of his – rough-hewn, given to solitary wanderings – attending an evening soiree that the Major temporarily forgot the mirror, swivelling around instead to look directly at his son.
‘A gala,’ he echoed, astonished. ‘Where?’
Jim cleared his throat, tapping the roll of newspapers in his hand. ‘The Garland place.’
There was a silence and then the Major nodded. ‘Douggie Garland.’ The springs of his chair creaked as he turned away.
‘Madeleine –
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