TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XLVIII

S T A V E

XLVIII

Green Bottle. What a Comfort. It Soothes. Releases. Flings out. What stands against Gin? Indeed, a contrary effect as the Drinker tumbles down the Circles of Hell to find a Monster. "What's that on your neck?" – Geordie. She's been drinking rum? In the hot kitchen her fescue's down on her shoulders and there, the red splotches. Is that where the bastard had his lips? "What are you talking about?" "There," he says. "These? Don't know." She rubs the bloody things and runs to look in a hall mirror. "Oh, these." A lie so graceful. "Bruises from hefting a trunk to the attic for Mrs. Grisham. We both have them. Too bad she's not here to show you hers. What's your dirty thinking?" "What should I be thinking?" "Don't know. Tell me." "I'll tell you," but he wouldn't say. Saying it would make it true and he'd die if it was true.

He heard of rumours, but never the rumours themselves. Officers come back to the lines like twittering birds.

"Our time," he'd said. "We've never been given a proper chance. This war must end so we can make a life."

"Make a life?" she said. "In the barracks? On Old Pye? Be glad for what you have."

"I've nothing and you've a room, clothes, and money."

"Which I earned." Her voice more powerful than his.

On your back.

She threw up her hands. "Did I ask for this?"

"What are you saying?"

What was she saying? "D' you think I want this to end? It frightens me too. I don't want to cause you pain."

"Cause me pain? I should say such thing to a rebel I slay."

"Enough," she said and escaped to the parlour, him following like a dog. She stopped. "What are we, connected to the hip?"

"What . . . are – you – saying?"

A pause – infinitesimal. Then the Knife. "It died." A hush. "All things die . . . Grace died, Jaruesha died, Billy died – What do you want me to do, die along with it?"

"I sold my soul for you."

She took a breath. "You did . . . God, you did. And that's too much to bare. I cannot have it . . . You're weak, MacEachran. Weak – " A nod to put a point on it. "And that's not safe for all your affection." He shook his head. "This is what war has taught me," she pronounced. "I can live on my own. Look at this –" She pinched the frill on her green bodice. "Bought this with my own cash." She picked up the empty bottle. "I drank it and can buy another. Last night I dined with General Robertson. I've just come from tea with General Howard . . ." Is this what man looks like shot? She dared to take his hand. "We're of different worlds . . . Do what you do best . . . what I love you for . . . Let me go . . ."

Geordie asprawl in a hulk of a building, gutted, roofless and charred. Fire Victim – that it was even standing. Might suddenly fall in. That's the plan. He stared at the bottle. His face distorted in the glass. Through the broken casements, the twilight and with it, his Coat afire with evening light. He tore off a button, the Thistle and Cross of St Andrew, and flung it 'cross the room. Piss on it. In his pocket, in an oil skin – strands of her Hair. He took it out and held them tight between his fingers. Do it, his pain demanded –

They had stood when no more could be said. She, in a seductive, albeit, unconscious manner, took his arm and led him to the door as she would lead him to bed, even put her head on his shoulder. At the threshold, a kiss. She stepped back in with her hand on the door and looked at him so quizzically. "Billy'd never do this," she said. "Goodbye, my Deorsa."