“I didn’t realize you were such a Utopian, Will,” I say, a tone of mockery in my voice.
“Don’t patronize me, Tristan,” he snaps back. “I just don’t like the way he’s treated, that’s all. And I’ll say it again if I have to. The man talks a lot of sense.”
I say nothing now, simply stare ahead and narrow my eyes, peering forward as if I’ve noticed something moving on the horizon when, of course, we both know full well that I haven’t. I don’t want to pursue this conversation any further, that’s all. I don’t want to argue. The truth is, I actually agree with what Will is saying; I only hate the fact that he sees in Wolf a chap whom he respects and even looks up to, when I am no more to him than a friend to pal around with, someone he can talk to while he’s going to sleep and double up with when it comes to joint activities, for we are each other’s match in terms of speed, strength and skill, the three factors, according to Sergeant Clayton, which separate British soldiers from their German equivalents.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say after a long silence. “I quite like Wolf, if I’m honest. I just wish he wouldn’t make such a song and dance about things, that’s all.”
“Let’s not talk about it any more,” says Will, blowing into his hands noisily, but I’m pleased to note that he doesn’t say this in an aggressive tone. “I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Well, I don’t want to argue with you, either,” I say. “You know how much your friendship means to me.” He turns to look at me and I can hear him breathe heavily. He bites his lip, looks as if he’s about to say something, then changes his mind and turns away.
“Here, Tristan,” he says after a moment, conspicuously changing the subject, “you’ll never guess what today is.”
I think about it for a moment and know immediately. “Your birthday,” I say.
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“What did you get me, then?” he asks, his face bursting into that cheeky smile that has the power to dissolve all other thoughts from my mind. I lean forward and punch him on the upper arm.
“That,” I say as he cries out in mock pain and rubs the injured area, and I grin back at him for a moment before looking away.
“Well, happy fucking birthday,” I say, imitating our beloved Corporal Moody.
“Thanks very fucking much,” he replies, laughing.
“How old are you, then?”
“You know full well, Tristan,” he replies. “I’m only a few months older than you, after all. Nineteen today.”
“Nineteen years old and never been kissed,” I say, without really thinking about the words and ignoring the fact that he is not in fact a few months older than me but nearly a year and a half. It was a phrase my mother always used whenever anyone declared themselves to be a particular age. I don’t mean anything by it.
“Steady on, old man,” he says quickly, looking at me with a mixture of a smile and a hint of offence in his tone. “I’ve been kissed all right. Why, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” I say. Sylvia Carter had kissed me, after all. And there had been one other. Both utter disasters.
“Now if I was at home,” says Will then, stringing out the words for a long time, playing a game that we always indulge ourselves with when we’re on guard duty together, “I expect my parents would be throwing some sort of dinner party for me tonight and inviting all the neighbours in to throw presents at me.”
“Sounds very posh,” I say. “Would I be invited?”
“Certainly not. We only allow the upper echelons of society into our house. As you know, my father is a vicar, he has a certain position to uphold. We can’t just let any old so-and-so through the door.”
“Well, then, I should wait outside the house,” I announce. “And stand guard, like we’re doing here. It would remind us of this rotten place. I’d keep everyone out.”
He laughs but says nothing and I wonder whether my suggestion has seemed a little overwrought to him.
“There is one you’d have to let through,” he says after a moment.
“Oh yes? Who’s that?”
“Why, Eleanor, of course.”
“I thought you said your sister’s name was Marian.”
“It is,” he says. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”
“No, I only meant…” I begin, confused. “Well, who’s Eleanor, then, if she’s not your sister? The family Labrador or something?” I ask with a laugh.
“No, Tristan,” he says, sniggering. “Nothing of the sort. Eleanor’s my fiancée. I’ve told you about her, haven’t I?”
I turn and stare at him. I know full well that he has never once told me about her and can see from the expression on his face that he knows the same thing. He seems to be making a point of saying it.
“Your fiancée?” I ask. “You’re to be married?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking,” he says, and I think I can hear a note of embarrassment, even regret, in his voice, but I’m not sure whether it’s really there or whether I’m just imagining it. “I mean, we’ve been sweethearts for ever so long. And we’ve talked about marriage. Her family are well in with mine, you see, and I suppose it’s just always been on the cards. She’s a terrific girl. And not at all conventional, if you know what I mean. I can’t stand conventional girls, Tristan, can you?”
“No,” I say, digging the toe of my boot into the dirt and twisting it around, imagining for a moment that the soil is Eleanor’s head. “No, they make me want to throw up.”
I’m not entirely sure I know what he means when he says that she is not conventional, it seems an unusual turn of phrase, but then I remember him telling me he has been told that he snores something terrible and the phrase attacks me like a viper as I realize exactly what it is that he is saying.
“When this is all over, I’ll introduce you to her,” he says a few moments later. “I’m sure you’d like her.”
“I’m sure I would,” I say, blowing into my own hands now. “I’m sure she’s an absolute fucking delight.”
He hesitates for a moment before turning to me. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks quickly.
“What?”
“What you just said: ‘I’m sure she’s an absolute fucking delight.’ ”
“Don’t mind me,” I say, shaking my head angrily. “I’m just bloody cold, that’s all. Aren’t you freezing, Bancroft? I don’t think these new uniforms are all they’re cracked up to be.”
“I’ve told you not to call me that, haven’t I?” he snaps. “I don’t like it.”
“Sorry. Will,” I say, correcting myself.
An unpleasant tension settles over us then and we don’t speak for five, perhaps ten more minutes. I rack my brain for words but can think of nothing to say. The idea that Will and this miserable Eleanor tramp are somehow involved, have been for who knows how long, tortures me and I want nothing more than to be back in my bunk with my head buried in my pillow, hoping for the quick arrival of sleep. I can’t imagine what Will is thinking but he is so silent now that I imagine he feels awkward, too, and I simultaneously try to analyse the reason why and try not to.