into his son’s buttonhole. It was the one from his own jacket.
‘I have got one somewhere,’ Daniel said, feeling a mixture of annoyance and humiliation.
‘In case they don’t have any at the airport,’ Philip said.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘And guess what DVD I’ve rented,’ Philip added in that slightlyloud voice people use when talking to one person for the benefit of another.
‘ Finding Nemo ?’ Martha said from behind him.
‘ Finding Nemo .’
‘Cool! Thanks, Grampy.’ Martha warmed her hands on the bonnet of the car. ‘Bye, Mum,’ she shouted. ‘Have a nice time.’ She clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized what she had said.
Nancy hadn’t noticed. She spent the short journey to Heathrow examining her nails. The windscreen wipers were on full speed. As the traffic slowed and thickened, Daniel wondered if he and Martha had left anything out of the packing they had done on Nancy’s behalf. He was sure he had packed everything they would need, yet still he felt edgy. Was it something he’d forgotten? Phone numbers? No, he’d left them. He hadn’t taken the pill he always took to counter his anxiety about flying. That must be it. He would take it once he had parked, once he had told Nancy what was really happening.
At Terminal 5, when he mounted the ramp marked DEPARTURES , Nancy waved her hands out in front of her, limp at the wrists, used her tongue to push out the flesh below her mouth and made a Nnnugh! sound.
‘Bugger,’ Daniel said, ‘we need to go to arrivals, don’t we?’ Nancy slapped her forehead in reply.
‘Do you think I can park in this disabled bay while you check what time their plane lands?’
‘Why not? I’m sure mental disability counts.’
Daniel pulled over to one side of the slipway and cut the engine. ‘The airline details are in the glove compartment.’
When the two passports fell out of the envelope, Nancy stared at them blankly. She pulled out two plane tickets to Quito and looked at Daniel with confusion in her eyes. Next came a small guidebook to the Galápagos Islands. She blinked and looked up at Daniel again. He was holding his iPhone up, pointing its camera lens at her. He was about to say ‘Happy anniversary,’ when he became distracted by a blue van parking ahead of them. The hitchhiker he had seen earlier was getting out of it, his shape blurred by the slushon the windscreen. The man waved his thanks and strode off towards the revolving entrance door of the terminal. The only sound was the soft percussion of icy rain on the roof of the car.
CHAPTER THREE
Ypres Salient. Last Monday of July, 1917
PRIVATE ANDREW KENNEDY CANNOT UNDERSTAND WHY THE MEN marching ahead of him have stopped singing mid-song. There is something in the ditch – a carcass. Its lips are pulled back as if baring its teeth and its bloated belly is moving, making one of its hind legs shudder. It looks as if it is rising from the dead. As the soldier draws alongside he can see it is not the horse moving but the rats feeding inside it. One emerges from a leathery slit and stares impassively back at the column.
Half a mile farther on, the 11th Battalion, Shropshire Fusiliers, get their first sight of Dickebusch – ‘Dickie Bush’ – camp: smoke rising from dozens of fires, hundreds of tethered horses and mules, a long scaffold from which straw-filled sandbags dangle on ropes like executed prisoners, crates of chickens, a confusion of chugging, honking, backfiring trucks, motorbikes and staff cars, and soldiers – thousands and thousands of soldiers assembling for roll calls, eating from mess tins, arm-wrestling, digging latrines, dealing cards, shining boots, lying on their backs, playing leapfrog, writing letters, smoking pipes. As the column approaches, the noises and smells intensify. A small steam train clatters into a makeshift junction, followed by dozens of open cattle trucks packed with yet more troops. They look precarious as they jostle each other and hang
‘I have got one somewhere,’ Daniel said, feeling a mixture of annoyance and humiliation.
‘In case they don’t have any at the airport,’ Philip said.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘And guess what DVD I’ve rented,’ Philip added in that slightlyloud voice people use when talking to one person for the benefit of another.
‘ Finding Nemo ?’ Martha said from behind him.
‘ Finding Nemo .’
‘Cool! Thanks, Grampy.’ Martha warmed her hands on the bonnet of the car. ‘Bye, Mum,’ she shouted. ‘Have a nice time.’ She clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized what she had said.
Nancy hadn’t noticed. She spent the short journey to Heathrow examining her nails. The windscreen wipers were on full speed. As the traffic slowed and thickened, Daniel wondered if he and Martha had left anything out of the packing they had done on Nancy’s behalf. He was sure he had packed everything they would need, yet still he felt edgy. Was it something he’d forgotten? Phone numbers? No, he’d left them. He hadn’t taken the pill he always took to counter his anxiety about flying. That must be it. He would take it once he had parked, once he had told Nancy what was really happening.
At Terminal 5, when he mounted the ramp marked DEPARTURES , Nancy waved her hands out in front of her, limp at the wrists, used her tongue to push out the flesh below her mouth and made a Nnnugh! sound.
‘Bugger,’ Daniel said, ‘we need to go to arrivals, don’t we?’ Nancy slapped her forehead in reply.
‘Do you think I can park in this disabled bay while you check what time their plane lands?’
‘Why not? I’m sure mental disability counts.’
Daniel pulled over to one side of the slipway and cut the engine. ‘The airline details are in the glove compartment.’
When the two passports fell out of the envelope, Nancy stared at them blankly. She pulled out two plane tickets to Quito and looked at Daniel with confusion in her eyes. Next came a small guidebook to the Galápagos Islands. She blinked and looked up at Daniel again. He was holding his iPhone up, pointing its camera lens at her. He was about to say ‘Happy anniversary,’ when he became distracted by a blue van parking ahead of them. The hitchhiker he had seen earlier was getting out of it, his shape blurred by the slushon the windscreen. The man waved his thanks and strode off towards the revolving entrance door of the terminal. The only sound was the soft percussion of icy rain on the roof of the car.
CHAPTER THREE
Ypres Salient. Last Monday of July, 1917
PRIVATE ANDREW KENNEDY CANNOT UNDERSTAND WHY THE MEN marching ahead of him have stopped singing mid-song. There is something in the ditch – a carcass. Its lips are pulled back as if baring its teeth and its bloated belly is moving, making one of its hind legs shudder. It looks as if it is rising from the dead. As the soldier draws alongside he can see it is not the horse moving but the rats feeding inside it. One emerges from a leathery slit and stares impassively back at the column.
Half a mile farther on, the 11th Battalion, Shropshire Fusiliers, get their first sight of Dickebusch – ‘Dickie Bush’ – camp: smoke rising from dozens of fires, hundreds of tethered horses and mules, a long scaffold from which straw-filled sandbags dangle on ropes like executed prisoners, crates of chickens, a confusion of chugging, honking, backfiring trucks, motorbikes and staff cars, and soldiers – thousands and thousands of soldiers assembling for roll calls, eating from mess tins, arm-wrestling, digging latrines, dealing cards, shining boots, lying on their backs, playing leapfrog, writing letters, smoking pipes. As the column approaches, the noises and smells intensify. A small steam train clatters into a makeshift junction, followed by dozens of open cattle trucks packed with yet more troops. They look precarious as they jostle each other and hang
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