We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [18]
Mason said nothing. In spite of himself, the ache in his throat was too tight and hard for him to swallow.
Oldroyd blinked. “Of course we lose sometimes. What has that to do with anything? It’s not winning or losing that says who you are, it’s the courage that makes you stand fast, with your eyes forward, and fight for what you love. Never let go of hope. Real victories happen one by one, and they’re over the enemy inside. If I didn’t teach you that, boy, then I didn’t teach you anything.”
Mason put his hand up and pushed the heavy hair off his forehead. “You sound like the chaplain in the Cambridgeshires at Ypres, and an ambulance driver I know.”
“Woman driver?” Oldroyd asked him quietly.
“Yes.” Mason was surprised. Judith’s face was as clear in his mind as if they had parted only days ago rather than after the court-martial last year.
“Thought so.” Oldroyd nodded. “Women are as brave as any man. They die to save their own without a second thought. But then that’s love, isn’t it? Loyalty. Women never give up, not when it’s someone they love. Many a child wouldn’t be here if they did.” Oldroyd sipped his cider. “But a good woman’ll fight for anyone that’s hurt. It’s someone’s need that draws them, anything vulnerable.”
That was just what Joseph Reavley would have said. Mason knew it as he sat there in the crowded tavern with the voices and the laughter around him, the smell of ale, the sawdust, the light gleaming on pewter tankards hanging above the bar and horse brasses on the wall. That passion was what Judith looked for in a man because she had seen it and understood it in her brother. She had felt it herself and had carried its burden for years.
Then quite suddenly he realized that for all its weight, that passion was far less crushing than the doubt and sorrow he carried himself. He was looking at what he had lost, not at what he had won. It was not only Judith he had lost; it was something of the best in himself. No matter how difficult it was, or what comfort of surrender it cost him, he must change himself. He must become who he wanted to be: a man he could look at in the mirror with some sense of respect, at least for his aspirations, if not his accomplishments.
“Yes, you’re right,” he said aloud.
Oldroyd blinked again. “Of course I’m right, boy,” he said gently. “Except I was a bit above myself when I thought I could teach you, or anyone. You can tell people, that’s all. Life teaches, or it doesn’t. Be damn grateful you got the chance to try a bit harder. Where are you off to now?”
“Back to Ypres,” Mason replied without hesitation. “I have things to do there, before the end. Would you like another cider?”
Oldroyd pushed his glass across. “Seems like a good idea. Don’t mind if I do.”
Matthew Reavley crossed the English Channel on the night of October 13. He had told Shearing only that he was pursuing information about a British collaborator with the Germans, which was part of his job anyway. It would be time enough to speak of the Peacemaker if Schenckendorff really did provide proof of his identity.
The weather was overcast with a sharp wind and a choppy sea, but the physical discomfort was small compared with the constant danger of torpedo attack. Even at this late stage when surrender was only weeks away, the war at sea continued. Ships still went down. He stood on the deck staring toward the dark coast of Belgium ahead and willed himself not to think of it.
They disembarked at Dunkirk near dawn. He waited in a cold railway station until the first train eastward to Ypres. It stopped several miles short, where bombing had destroyed the tracks. He was tired and cold and very hungry, but rations were short and he was grateful for a tin mug of hot tea given him by an army cook at the railhead.
He was in uniform but had removed his insignia