The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [85]
‘I have to be back before long,’ I said. But all the same I sat next to him on the flat surface of the box tomb. Birds sang all around, threatening and warning each other: don’t let me catch you at that, don’t let me catch you at that.
Between us and the sun was a row of white headstones.
‘You know who they are, don’t you?’ said Mr Cromley. ‘I come here to pay my respects, because who else will, apart from their families?’ He pointed at a stone carved with a pair of wings in a laurel wreath. ‘Per ardua ad astra. The hard way to the stars.’
‘Royal Air Force?’ I asked.
‘Royal Flying Corps, when they joined up. These are men–boys, probably–who were learning to fly here in the Great War. Died before they made it to the front line. Some might’ve come down in that field beyond the fence.’
I jumped down to look. He was right, boys, most of them: you could see from the dates. Some headstones carried a message from their mams and dads. A pressure came in my chest, and my eyes prickled. ‘They never got to fight?’ I asked, climbing back onto the box tomb next to him.
He nodded. ‘I can see them, can’t you, carrying their kitbags into the barracks, with such hopes of glory? Maybe they’d weighed up their chances in a dogfight against a German ace. But a mistake on a training circuit? Nobody imagines he’ll go that way.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor sods. I find it inexpressibly sad.’
O wondrous peace, sang the congregation in the church, in thought to dwell on excellence divine; to know that nought in man can tell how fair Thy beauties shine.
‘Will there be another war?’ I asked him.
He blew air down his nose like an impatient horse. ‘Of course there’ll be another war. The Jewish financiers who run this country will see to that, whatever the old appeaser Chamberlain hopes. And another row of headstones. Another bad joke on the part of God. More brave souls, who hoped for glory and never touched it.’
‘You have souls on the brain,’ I told him.
He glared at me. ‘Maybe because it could be my soul hovering over a chunk of white marble. Everything will change, you know.’ Then he sighed. ‘I forget you’re so young, Heartbreaker. How fair thy beauties shine. Smoke?’
I shook my head. He selected a cigarette from a silver case and slipped it between his lips; he’d given up that silly pipe. There was the creak of the church door behind us, footsteps in the porch. The service had ended. As Mr Cromley took out matches and lit up, we could hear the congregation crunching down the gravel path, chattering away to each other. Goodness knows what they thought of us, silhouetted against the sinking sun like a courting couple.
‘I blame the Communists,’ I said, hoping to prove I knew something about politics. I’d heard Dad say that to Mam, listening to the news on the wireless.
Mr Cromley laughed. ‘There you go again, Heartbreaker. No, Mr Hitler’s the villain, and will have to be stopped somehow, or we’ll all be speaking German in ten years’ time.’ He took a pull on his cigarette, then blew a perfect smoke ring into the still air. ‘I don’t like dancing to the tune of our Semitic brethren, but that’s a far lesser evil than a mad housepainter in charge.’
A robin fluttered from a chestnut tree and perched on one of the white headstones. Mr Cromley twisted round to watch the last of the congregation pass through the lich-gate.
‘I hate it,’ he said. ‘All this pious bleating, hoping to save their souls. It achieves nothing. My father was a churchgoer, but it didn’t stop him being blown to bits the week the armistice was signed.’
‘How old were you?’ I asked.
‘Six.’ He sounded cold and dismissive, like I’d asked a stupid question. ‘War’s the great leveller, Heartbreaker. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. D’you know, where I’m lodging in Trusloe Cottages,