more than half a dozen, which satisfied me, for I felt that it would be very difficult for us to talk if the room was completely full and noisy, and equally difficult if it was empty and our conversation could be overheard.
Dear Miss Bancroft,
Thank you for your reply and your kind words. You owe me no apology for the delayed response. I was happy to get it, that’s all.
The 16th is fine for me. Yes, I do work but I have some holiday days due to me and I shall take them then. I look forward to meeting you. Perhaps you could suggest by reply where and when might be convenient.
Sincerely,
Tristan Sadler
The door opened and I looked up, amazed by the fright the noise gave me. My stomach was rolling with anxiety and I suddenly dreaded this encounter. But it was a man who had come inside, and he looked around, his eyes darting left and right in an almost feral fashion, before taking a seat in the far corner, where he was hidden behind a pillar. I thought he looked at me suspiciously for a moment before moving away from my sight line, and I might have thought more of it had I not already been so preoccupied.
Dear Mr. Sadler,
Shall we say one o’clock? There’s a nice café along Cattle Market Street, Winchall’s it’s called. Anyone can direct you there.
Marian B.
I picked up a container of napkins from the table for something to do. My right hand immediately broke into a fresh spasm and the box fell from my grasp, spilling the napkins across the tablecloth and on to the floor. I cursed beneath my breath and reached down to pick them up, which was why I failed to notice when the door opened one more time and a lady stepped inside and made her way towards my table.
“Mr. Sadler?” she said breathlessly, and I looked up, my face flushed from leaning over, then stood up instantly, staring at her, words failing me now, words failing me.
WE’RE DIFFERENT,
I THINK
Aldershot, April–June 1916
I DON’T SPEAK TO Will Bancroft until our second day at Aldershot Military Barracks but I notice him on our first.
We arrive in the late afternoon of the last day of April, some forty of us, a group of untidy boys, loud-mouthed and vulgar, stinking of sweat and bogus heroism. Those who already know each other sit together on the train, talking incessantly, afraid of silence, each voice competing to drown out the next. Those who are strangers hide in window seats, their heads pressed against the glass, feigning sleep or staring out as the scenery rushes past. Some make nervous conversation about the things they have left behind, their families, the sweethearts they will miss, but no one discusses the war. We might be on a day trip for all the nerves we dare show.
We stand around in groups as the train empties and I find myself next to a boy of about nineteen who glances around irritably, taking me in and dismissing me again with a single look. He wears a carefully coordinated expression of resignation mixed with resentment; his cheeks are fleshy and raw, as if he has shaved with cold water and a blunt razor, but he stands erect, staring around as if he cannot quite believe the high spirits of the other boys.
“Just look at them,” he says in a cold voice. “Bloody fools, every last one of them.”
I turn to look at him more closely. He’s taller than I am, with a neat haircut and a studious appearance. His eyes are a littlenarrow-set and he wears a simple pair of owl-rimmed spectacles, which he removes from time to time to massage the bridge of his nose, where a small red indentation is clear to the eye. He reminds me of one of my former schoolteachers, only he is younger, and probably less prone to outbursts of gratuitous violence.
“It’s a lot of nonsense, isn’t it?” he continues, sucking deeply on a cigarette as if he wants to draw all the nicotine into his body in one drag.
“What is?” I ask.
“This,” he says, nodding in the direction of the other recruits, who are talking and laughing as if this is
Dear Miss Bancroft,
Thank you for your reply and your kind words. You owe me no apology for the delayed response. I was happy to get it, that’s all.
The 16th is fine for me. Yes, I do work but I have some holiday days due to me and I shall take them then. I look forward to meeting you. Perhaps you could suggest by reply where and when might be convenient.
Sincerely,
Tristan Sadler
The door opened and I looked up, amazed by the fright the noise gave me. My stomach was rolling with anxiety and I suddenly dreaded this encounter. But it was a man who had come inside, and he looked around, his eyes darting left and right in an almost feral fashion, before taking a seat in the far corner, where he was hidden behind a pillar. I thought he looked at me suspiciously for a moment before moving away from my sight line, and I might have thought more of it had I not already been so preoccupied.
Dear Mr. Sadler,
Shall we say one o’clock? There’s a nice café along Cattle Market Street, Winchall’s it’s called. Anyone can direct you there.
Marian B.
I picked up a container of napkins from the table for something to do. My right hand immediately broke into a fresh spasm and the box fell from my grasp, spilling the napkins across the tablecloth and on to the floor. I cursed beneath my breath and reached down to pick them up, which was why I failed to notice when the door opened one more time and a lady stepped inside and made her way towards my table.
“Mr. Sadler?” she said breathlessly, and I looked up, my face flushed from leaning over, then stood up instantly, staring at her, words failing me now, words failing me.
WE’RE DIFFERENT,
I THINK
Aldershot, April–June 1916
I DON’T SPEAK TO Will Bancroft until our second day at Aldershot Military Barracks but I notice him on our first.
We arrive in the late afternoon of the last day of April, some forty of us, a group of untidy boys, loud-mouthed and vulgar, stinking of sweat and bogus heroism. Those who already know each other sit together on the train, talking incessantly, afraid of silence, each voice competing to drown out the next. Those who are strangers hide in window seats, their heads pressed against the glass, feigning sleep or staring out as the scenery rushes past. Some make nervous conversation about the things they have left behind, their families, the sweethearts they will miss, but no one discusses the war. We might be on a day trip for all the nerves we dare show.
We stand around in groups as the train empties and I find myself next to a boy of about nineteen who glances around irritably, taking me in and dismissing me again with a single look. He wears a carefully coordinated expression of resignation mixed with resentment; his cheeks are fleshy and raw, as if he has shaved with cold water and a blunt razor, but he stands erect, staring around as if he cannot quite believe the high spirits of the other boys.
“Just look at them,” he says in a cold voice. “Bloody fools, every last one of them.”
I turn to look at him more closely. He’s taller than I am, with a neat haircut and a studious appearance. His eyes are a littlenarrow-set and he wears a simple pair of owl-rimmed spectacles, which he removes from time to time to massage the bridge of his nose, where a small red indentation is clear to the eye. He reminds me of one of my former schoolteachers, only he is younger, and probably less prone to outbursts of gratuitous violence.
“It’s a lot of nonsense, isn’t it?” he continues, sucking deeply on a cigarette as if he wants to draw all the nicotine into his body in one drag.
“What is?” I ask.
“This,” he says, nodding in the direction of the other recruits, who are talking and laughing as if this is
Similar Books
