Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [69]
He stood alone amid the burning color of the tulips, crimson and purple and hot scarlet. Kerr had been satisfied when he had finally gone, perhaps because he no longer felt alone in his responsibility. That was what Joseph had promised himself when he had first committed his life to being a chaplain in the war. He would try to do what he could for everyone, regardless of their need. He could not cure, he could not even share physical or emotional pain, but he could be there. At least he would not run away.
But had he turned away inside himself? By trying to be all things to others, had he ended being nothing to himself? He had said what he thought Kerr needed to hear. He was thinking of Kerr’s weakness, his very apparent confusion. He was doing the same for Hannah, thinking of her fear of change, of losing the familiar that was so sweet.
In all that he said and did, where was his own passion, his integrity, that part of mind or spirit that was so rooted in belief that it would anchor him no matter what storms blew? What would he live or die for? What would hold him upright if he faced the ultimate storm and there was no one else to consider, no single voice that cried “help me!” and gave him something to do, a direction to consume his thoughts so he had no time and no need to examine himself?
If he faced the silence, where was his inner strength? What color was the chameleon itself? No color at all? Nothing, except as reflected by others? That would be a kind of moral suicide, the final emptiness. Is that what he was doing to himself?
He prayed with all his heart. “Father, do I stay here and pick up the task Kerr can’t and won’t do? These are my people, too! Or do I go back to the trenches, the mud and the stench of death, and be with my men there? What do you want me to do? Help me!”
The starlings wheeled back and settled in the elms. The light was deepening, the colors in the sky growing hotter. The silence was total.
CHAPTER
* * *
EIGHT
Hannah walked away slowly from the women gathered in the street around the casualty notices. There had been one man killed from Cherry Hinton, another missing from Haslingfield, but no one from St. Giles. Relief welled up inside all the people standing together. They could look each other in the eye for a while longer. There were hesitant smiles, the freedom to think of ordinary things: mending and sewing, shopping, work, the upcoming Easter weekend. But voices were quiet, hushed with the weight of knowing that just beyond that sloping hill, the copse of trees, the spire of the next village church, was the loss that next time might be here.
Hannah walked homeward slowly in the still, damp morning. The sun broke through in misty shafts, making everything silver and green, shining through the raindrops on twigs and grass heads. Some of the early blossoms had blown off and lay in white petals on the path.
She was a couple of hundred yards from the corner when she met Ben Morven coming out of the ironmongers’. He was wearing a corduroy jacket over a crisp white shirt and gray slacks. His face lit up with pleasure seeing her. It was really out of all proportion, but his smile suddenly lifted her spirits also, and she found her step lighter and a warmth inside. She remembered how he had worked at the railway station in Cambridge, the intensity of his concentration trying not to jolt the injured, to be quick and gentle, and how he had ignored his own bruises.
He fell into step beside her, matching his stride to hers.
“The news is not very good,” she said, biting her lip. “Apparently someone has been arrested bringing a vast number of guns into Ireland. As if we hadn’t enough trouble there already.”
He shook his head. “I heard. It’s insane! The last thing we need is more turmoil in Ireland! They can’t win, we can’t afford to let them! It’ll just mean more bloodshed.” He glanced around at the peaceful, almost deserted street, the tension gone, the people dispersed. A little brown dog scampered along the footpath. Two young girls stood absorbed in conversation. An old man