“It wasn’t, Julia,” said Reverend Bancroft, shaking his head. “You’ve always been proud of your father’s sacrifice.”
“Yes, I know, but William was always fascinated by it, that’s the thing. Asking questions, wanting to know more about him. I told him all I could, of course, but the truth is that I knew very little. I still know very little. But I worry sometimes that it was my fault, William signing up like that. He might have waited, you see. Until they called him.”
“It would only have been a matter of time, anyway,” I told her. “It wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“But he would have been in a different regiment,” she said. “Been sent over there on a different day. The course of his life would have been altered. He might still be alive,” she insisted. “Like you.”
I took my hand back and looked away. There was an accusation in those last two words, one that struck me to my core.
“You knew our son well, then, Mr. Sadler?” asked Reverend Bancroft after a moment.
“That’s right, sir,” I said.
“You were friends with him?”
“Good friends,” I replied. “We trained together at Aldershot and—”
“Yes, yes,” he said quickly, waving this aside. “Do you have any children, Mr. Sadler?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, a little surprised by the question. “No, I’m not married.”
“Would you like some?” he asked me. “One day, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, unable to meet his eye. “I haven’t given it a lot of thought.”
“A man should have children,” he insisted. “We are put here to propagate the species.”
“There are plenty of men who do their share of that,” I said light-heartedly. “They make up for the rest of us shirkers.”
Reverend Bancroft frowned at this; I could tell that he wasn’t pleased by the flippancy of the remark. “Is that what you are, Mr. Sadler?” he asked me. “Are you a shirker?”
“No, I don’t believe so. I did my bit.”
“Of course you did,” he said, nodding. “And here you are, safe at home again.”
“Just because I wasn’t killed does not mean that I didn’t fight,” I said, annoyed by his tone. “We all fought. We put ourselves in terrible places. Some of the things we saw were horrific. We’ll never forget them. And as for the things we did, well, I need hardly tell you.”
“But you must tell me,” he said, leaning forward. “Do you know where I was this afternoon? Do you know why I was late?” I shook my head. “I thought you might have overheard us. This morning, I mean. At the cathedral.”
I lowered my head and felt my cheeks redden a little. “You recognized me, then. I wondered if you had.”
“Yes, immediately,” he replied. “In fact, this morning, when you ran off, I had a very clear idea of exactly who you were. My daughter had already told me of your impending visit. So you were very much to the fore of my mind. And you’re the same age as William. Not to mention that I was sure you had played a part in the war.”
“It’s that obvious, is it?”
“It’s as if you aren’t entirely convinced that the world you’ve returned to is the one you left behind. I see it on the faces of the boys in the parish, the ones who came home, the ones Marian works with. I act as a sort of counsellor to some of them, you see. Not just on spiritual matters, either. They come to me looking for some kind of peace that I fear I am ill equipped to provide. Sometimes I think that many of them half believe that they died over there and that this is all some kind of strange dream. Or purgatory. Or even hell. Does that make sense, Mr. Sadler?”
“A little,” I said.
“I’ve never fought, of course,” he continued. “I know nothing of that life. I’ve lived a very peaceful existence, in the Church and here with my family. We’re accustomed to the older generation looking down on the younger and telling them that they know nothing of the world, but things are rather out of kilter now, aren’t they? It is your generation who understands the inhumanity of man, not ours. It’s boys like you who have to live with what you have seen and what you have done. You’ve become the generation of response. While your elders can only look in your direction and wonder.”
“This afternoon,” I said, sitting down again, “you wanted to tell me where you were.”
“With a group of parishioners,” he said, smiling bitterly. “There’s a plan to erect a monument, you see. To all the boys from Norwich who died in the war. Some type of large stone sculpture with the names of every boy who laid down his life. It’s happening in most of the cities around England, you must have heard of it.”
“Of course,” I said.
“And most of the time, it’s organized through the Church. The parish council looks after the fund-raising drives. We commission a sculptor to come up with a design, one is chosen, the names of all the fallen are collected and soon, in a workshop somewhere, a man sits down on a three-legged stool beside a mass of rock and, with hammer and chisel in hand, cuts lines into the stone to commemorate the boys we lost. Today was the day when the final decisions on this were being made. And I, of course, as vicar, was required to be there.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding quietly, already able to see where he was going with this.
“Can you understand what that is like, Mr. Sadler?” he asked me, tears filling his eyes.
“Of course not,” I said.
“To be told that your own son, who has given his life for his country, cannot be represented on the stone because of his cowardice, because of his lack of patriotism, because of his betrayal? To hear those words spoken of a boy whom you have brought up, whom you have carried on your shoulders at football matches, whom you have fed and washed and educated? It’s monstrous, Mr. Sadler, that’s what it is. Monstrous.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said, aware as the words left my mouth how impotent they were.
“And what does sorry do? Does it bring my boy back to me? A name on a stone, it means nothing really, but still it means something. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes, of course. It must be difficult to bear.”
“We have our faith to sustain us,” said Mrs. Bancroft, and her husband threw her a sharp look, which suggested to me that he wasn’t entirely convinced that that was the case.
“I don’t know much about that, I’m afraid,” I said.
“You’re not a religious man, Mr. Sadler?” asked the vicar.
“No. Not really.”
“Since the war, I find that the young people are either moving closer to God or turning away from him entirely,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s confusing to me. Knowing how to guide them, I mean. I fear I’m becoming rather out of touch with age.”
“Is it difficult being a priest?” I asked.
“Probably no more difficult than it is holding any other job,” he said. “There are days when one feels one is doing good. And others when one feels that one is of no use to anyone whatsoever.”
“And do you believe in forgiveness?” I asked.
“I believe in seeking it, yes,” he said. “And I believe in offering it. Why, Mr. Sadler, what do you need to be forgiven for?”
I shook my head and looked away. I thought that I could stay in this house for the rest of my life and never be able to look this man and his wife directly in the eye.
“I don’t really know why Marian brought you here,” he continued, after it became clear that I was not going to reply. “Do you?”
“I didn’t even know that she was planning on it,” I said. “Not until we were already on the street outside. I presume she thought that it would be a good idea.”
“But for whom? Oh, please don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Sadler, I don’t mean to make you feel unwelcome, but there isn’t anything you can do to bring our son back to us, is there? If anything, you’re just a further reminder of what took place in France.”