The Edge of the Fall by Kate Williams Page A

well.’
    â€˜Were you in France?’ she said, cutting him off. The birth was so hot and new in her head. She wanted to talk about something else. ‘Tell me about France.’ He could have been anywhere, of course, Belgium, Mesopotamia like Smithson, Greece, but all the men she met had always been in France. She was a pull for them, she thought, even though they didn’t know it, they saw the same thing in her.
    â€˜I don’t know where to start.’
    â€˜Start anywhere. Before the war, if you like.’
    And he did, began talking about his life before, a student at London University (failed to get into Cambridge, father still disappointed), joined up in early 1915, long days of training, then out to France, to wait, sit there, counting the rats, and it was for such long stretches of time between waiting and something happening, then it was all rush and shouting and blood and violence.
    â€˜Too dreadful to talk about to a lady like you,’ he said.
    â€˜I don’t know much about it,’ she said.
    She did. She thought about the letter the family had received after Michael’s death, about the lie it told, written because an officer higher up knew Michael from Cambridge and felt sorry for him, didn’t want to tell his family that they’d taken Michael out and shot him.
    Celia remembered screaming when she was told. She remembered Jonathan trying to calm her, taking her home. He’d written three times since the end of the war and she hadn’t answered.
    Come to New York , he said in his last one. My father could help you with the fare. My sisters would like to meet you . She couldn’t bear it, she didn’t want the story of Michael’s death to be true. Her parents’ proud, perfect boy, the Cambridge student, army officer – shot like a dog because he’d stayed back in the trenches, afraid, weeping, hiding.
    Gilligan looked nothing like Jonathan, who had been blond and wide-faced. But still, he reminded Celia of him. He exuded the same confidence, an expectation he’d always be listened to as he talked on about the weather, the mud, losing the men beside him. She smiled, nodded. He broke off, sometimes, to tell her how grateful he was that she listened to him, that she understood. Because now that they were back, people didn’t want to talk about it, said get over it, we have! But it was easy enough to get over things if you just had to read the news, wasn’t it? People like him had actually seen it. And you can’t forget that, anyone who said they had was lying. They were lying to fit in. But why should anyone do that?
    He leant across, grasped her hand. ‘You understand, don’t you, Miss Smith?’
    She nodded. ‘People haven’t really forgotten,’ she said. ‘They’re just pretending.’
    He raised his head. ‘That’s what makes me angriest, the pretending. Why not tell the truth? We’ll never recover!’
    She nodded. The crowd was thinning out. A rowdy group of men stood up, laughing, slapped each other on the back, threw her and Gilligan sideways looks.
    â€˜I should go upstairs. Thank you, Mr Gilligan.’
    â€˜I shall escort you.’
    â€˜No need, sir, I insist.’
    He clasped her hand. ‘I’ll pay for it.’
    She shook her head. ‘It can go on my room.’ She blushed at the thought of her father seeing the account for sherry.
    â€˜Please let me escort you.’
    â€˜I really am fine, Mr Gilligan.’
    â€˜Please. It’s Peace Night, Miss Smith. You shouldn’t be alone.’
    The waiter was coming towards them.
    She seized her hand back. ‘I can’t. Maybe I’ll be here with my family tomorrow.’ She dashed towards the stairs, her heart beating hard.
    She rushed up, two steps at a time, face burning. How stupid of her. She thought she could just listen to him talk, and then what? She should have guessed; that he’d