A Year of Marvellous Ways Read Online Free PDF Page A

holidays and the impending Royal Wedding, no talk of war any more. Funny how life had moved on. He pushed ahead of the amblers and boarded the train for Victoria for a night back in London before heading south-west. Just one night, he thought, it couldn’t hurt, could it? Just one night in the old neighbourhood to see what damage had been done.
    He entered a quiet compartment, occupied by three men and a woman. He lifted his suitcase on to the overhead rack and took off his hat and raincoat, careful not to disturb anyone. He sat down and sucked on a strong peppermint as the train jolted into motion. He felt his stomach ease, the flush of colour return to his face. He leant his cheek against the cool glass as the sea began to retreat from view, as the train trundled across the pier towards the junction, as his eyes closed to the rumble of wheels travelling across the sweet safe unmoving earth.
    By the time the guard came round to check on tickets he felt as if he had slept for hours. He looked at his watch: thirty-five minutes that’s all. He took out the ticket from his inside pocket and handed it over. When the guard left, he shifted back into his seat and was about to doze again when the woman opposite bent down and picked up something by his foot. Yours, she said, handing over an envelope. He thanked her and noticed immediately the familiar writing, the smudge of French soil, the address pointing to Cornwall. Nearly three years he had waited to deliver the thing. Always there at the back of his mind, thumping like a bell hammer, the tinny sound of guilt. All this way to lose it on a Kentish train. Genius, Drake. You’re a fucking genius. His hands were shaking as he slipped the letter back into his inside pocket. He kept his hand against the letter and felt the racing beat of his heart. He closed his eyes and thought about things that made him feel good: always came back to a pint of beer, a full plate of food, women’s legs – not necessarily in that order. He opened his eyes and the countryside passed by in a quick succession of blurred browns and greens, and he tried to focus on a tree here and a barn there but nothing was in focus ’cause his mind was back to that day in Normandy, a week or so after the landings of ’44.
    It should have been easy, the march into Caen, but it wasn’t. They’d found themselves in Bocage country, and the front line was a battlefield of hedges and ditches and constant heavy mortar fire, terrifying dashes between islands of cover, German snipers everywhere. That’s what had made the men jumpy.
    Battalions had become groups of ragged, scared individuals, disillusioned and exhausted. Men had begun to inflict wounds on themselves just to get the fuck out.
    The six of them had still been friends then, hard to believe now. Maybe it was the last battle that had undone them, peeled them like oranges, made them bitter. Maybe what came later had germinated then? Hatred doesn’t need much watering or care. Just a nudge.
    They had been waiting in the ruins of a newly abandoned farmhouse and the scattered belongings of a family remained. Christ! Here’s mine! said Johnno, holding up a photograph of an aged overweight woman. The men jeered and whistled but Drake ignored them and looked away. Beyond the broken window he found the yellow of summer everywhere: in the sun, in the corn, in the small flowers that bloomed across field and meadow.
    There was little for them to do in the waiting except smoke and sleep and he was heavy and dull with both, so he took himself off for a walk before the next push forwards. It wasn’t long before he came across a field hospital at the edge of an orchard. Flies were abundant, joyful amidst the splintered limbs and pooling blood.
    Don’t just gawp, make yourself useful, said a nurse, rushing past. Him over there, she said, pointing. He followed her direction and came to a soldier lying on a stretcher, all but his face covered by a blanket. Drake sat down on