The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [345]
“He visited us a lot, in Puxty. He used to laugh and laugh with Mother.”
Robin Wellwood said “He’s a good man, in his way.” He added casually “Randy, though.”
“I think he was—that is, I think he is—my father,” said Robin Oakeshott.
“So do I.”
They considered each other, with mutual relief and embarrassment. Robin Wellwood went into the shelter, to fetch cigarettes. There was a singing howl, and a shell exploded in the trench. A splinter of it took off most of Robin Oakeshott’s head. Robin Wellwood took one look, and vomited. Men came running, stretcher-bearers, men with a blanket to cover up what they could, men with buckets and mops to cleanse the dugout. Robin Wellwood sat and shook. And shook.
He developed a permanent tremor down the right side of his face, in his neck, along his arm. His hand shook as he cleaned his gun. The commanding officer considered sending him back behind the line, to recover. Robin said tersely, in an unrecognisable voice, out of a constricted throat, that he was fine, thank you.
Two days later he stood up, in his new-fangled tin hat, which like most of the men he wore at odd angles, on the back of his head, like a halo. He was not the first, or the last, to be killed by the very skilful German sniper behind the stump of a ruined tree.
Later in the war, it was decided that brothers should not serve together, just as all the men of one village should not serve together.
Marian Oakeshott came again—by train and fly, this time—to see Olive Wellwood. Olive made tea. Tea for survivors who were not surviving well. Both of them thought, but neither of them could say, that grief felt different when it had to be shared not only with each other, but with mothers all over Britain. Marian Oakeshott had gone to see Frank Mallett, with the telegram in her hand. “The English don’t howl,” she said to Frank Mallett. “Maybe they should,” said Frank Mallett. So Marian Oakeshott cried out, at the top of her voice “My son, my son, my son,” and the church echoed it. Then, a little rigid, she went back to being a kindly schoolmistress. She went to visit Olive, but hoped to see Humphry. Humphry was shut in his study. Olive said “My letter says he was killed instantly.”
“So does mine. So do they all.”
And indeed, their letters turned out to be identical, with the same phrases of admiration, affection, for their boy, of sorrow and regret for his death.
“Go and talk to him,” Olive said to Marian.
Marian stood outside the study door. From inside came sounds of sobbing. Marian tried the door, which was locked.
Harry Wellwood was twenty in 1915. His reaction to Robin’s death was to say that he must join up. Olive, who had not wept for Tom, who had not wept for Robin, suddenly began to weep with extraordinary violence. She repeated two words. “No” and “Why?” Over and over. Harry, a gentle creature, scholarly and, since Tom’s death, rather silent, said that everyone was joining up, he felt horrid sitting at home. Humphry, who had gathered himself together enough to go back to writing articles on the conduct and misconduct of the war, gave his son some figures. British casualties were so great that it seemed likely that conscription would be introduced, probably early in 1916. Harry would have to go then. He could wait. “Your mother needs you,” he said, looking at Olive’s wet, mottled red face. Harry did not reply “My country needs me,” though the Kitchener posters were everywhere. He said “People look at me. People who have lost their sons. It doesn’t feel right to stay here and be comfortable.” Humphry said almost