The Absolutist

  “I barely knew my father,” said Mrs. Bancroft quietly. “He was only twenty-three when he was killed, you see, and I was only three. My mother and he married young. I don’t have many memories of him, but those that I have are happy ones.”

  “These bloody wars have a habit of taking all the men in our family,” remarked Marian from her armchair.

  “Marian!” cried Mrs. Bancroft, looking quickly back at me as if I might have taken offence.

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” she said. “And not just the men, either. My grandmother—my mother’s mother, that is—she was killed in the Transvaal, too.”

  I raised an eyebrow, sure that she could not possibly have this right.

  “Don’t be so ridiculous, Marian,” said Mrs. Bancroft, putting the picture down again and looking at me with an unsettled expression. “My daughter is liberated, Mr. Sadler, and I’m not sure that’s entirely a good thing. I myself have never had any interest in being liberated.” I was reminded again of Mrs. Wilcox, disgracing herself over a Schlegel lunch.

  “All right, she wasn’t killed in the Transvaal exactly,” admitted Marian, relenting a little. “But she didn’t survive my grandfather’s death.”

  “Marian, please!” snapped Mrs. Bancroft.

  “Well, why shouldn’t he know? We’ve nothing to hide. My grandmother, Tristan, found herself unable to live without my grandfather and took her own life.”

  I looked away, certain that I did not want to be included in this confidence.

  “It’s not something that we talk about,” said Mrs. Bancroft, her voice losing its anger now and becoming more sorrowful. “She was very young, my mother, when he was killed. And she was only nineteen when I was born. I imagine she simply couldn’t handle the responsibility and the grief. I’ve never blamed her for it, of course. I’ve tried to understand.”

  “But there’s no reason why you should blame her, Mrs. Bancroft,” I said. “When these things happen, they’re tragedies. No one does something like that because they want to; they do it because they are ill.”

  “Yes, I expect you’re right,” she said, sitting down again. “Only it was a great source of shame for our family at the time, a terrible irony after my father brought us such pride with his actions in the war.”

  “Curious, isn’t it, Tristan,” asked Marian, “how we consider the death of a soldier to be a source of pride rather than a source of national shame? It’s not as if we had any business being in the Transvaal in the first place.”

  “My father did his duty, that’s all,” said Mrs. Bancroft.

  “Yes, and a fat lot of good it did him, too,” remarked Marian, standing up and walking towards the window, staring out at the rows of dahlias and chrysanthemums that her mother, no doubt, had planted in neat rows along the edges.

  I sat down again, wishing I had never been brought here. It was as if I had walked onstage into the middle of a dramatic play, where the other characters are already engaged in a battle that has been going on for some years but which only now, upon my arrival, is allowed to reach a climax.

  I heard the front door open and close; the dog sat up immediately, alert to a familiar presence, and I had a sense that whoever was standing outside the drawing room was hesitating before opening the door.

  “Mr. Sadler,” said Reverend Bancroft, entering the room a moment later, taking my hand in both of his and holding it there before him while looking me directly in the eyes. “We’re so glad you were able to visit us.”

  “I can’t stay long, I’m afraid,” I replied, aware how rude this sounded as my first response to him but not caring very much. I felt that I had spent enough time in Norwich by now and was anxious to return to the station and London and the solitude of home.

  “Yes, I’m sorry I was delayed,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I had intended to be here before four but I got caught up with a parish matter and time just escaped me. I trust my wife and daughter have been keeping you entertained in the meantime?”

  “He wasn’t here for entertainment, Father,” said Marian, standing by the doorway with her arms folded before her. “And I very much doubt whether he has received any.”

  “I was just about to ask Mr. Sadler about the letters,” said Mrs. Bancroft, and we all turned to look at her. “My daughter said that you were in possession of some letters,” she added, and I nodded quickly, grateful for the diversion.

  “Yes,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “I should have given them to you earlier, Marian. It was the point of my visit, after all.”

  I placed the packet on the table before me. Marian stared at it, a collection of envelopes tied up in a red ribbon, her neat handwriting visible on the outside of the uppermost one, but did not step forward yet. Her mother didn’t pick them up, either; she merely sat and stared at them as if they were bombs that might go off if she handled them too roughly.

  “Will you excuse me a moment?” said Marian finally, rushing from the room like a whirlwind, keeping her back to me the entire time, Bobby charging after her in pursuit of adventure. Her parents watched her as she left and bore stoic, mournful expressions.

  “Our daughter might come across as a little brittle at times, Mr. Sadler,” said Mrs. Bancroft, turning back to look at me with a regretful expression. “Particularly when she’s with me. But she loved her brother very much. They were always very close. His death has damaged her badly.”

  “She doesn’t come across as brittle at all,” I replied. “I’ve only known her a few hours, of course. But still, I think I can understand her pain and her grief.”

  “It’s been very difficult for her,” she continued. “Of course it’s been difficult for all of us, but we each handle adversity in our own way, don’t we? My daughter has a very forceful way of expressing her grief while I prefer not to allow my emotions to be on display. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, it’s simply the way that I was brought up. My grandfather took me in, you see,” she explained. “After my parents’ deaths. He was a widower, the only relative I had left. But he was not emotional, no one could accuse him of that. And I suppose he brought me up in the same way. My husband, on the other hand, is much more likely to wear his heart on his sleeve. I rather admire him for that, Mr. Sadler. I’ve tried to learn from him over the years but it’s no good. I think perhaps the adults we become are formed in childhood and there’s no way around it. Would you agree?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Although we can fight against it, can’t we? We can try to change.”

  “And what are you fighting against, Mr. Sadler?” asked her husband, removing his spectacles and wiping the lenses with his handkerchief.

  I looked away with a sigh. “The truth, sir, is that I am tired of fighting and would prefer never to have to do so again.”

  “But you won’t have to,” said Mrs. Bancroft, frowning. “The war is over now at last.”

  “There’ll be another one along in a moment, I expect,” I said, smiling at her. “There usually is.”

  She made no reply to this, but reached forward and took my hand in hers. “Our son was very keen to enlist,” she told me. “Perhaps it was wrong of me to keep his grandfather’s portrait on display all these years.”

  “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 aliv
e,” 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.”

  I nodded, acknowledging his truth.

  “But there are those people, you see, and our daughter is one of them, who must root around and root around, trying to discover the reason why things have happened. I’m not one of them and I don’t believe my wife is either. Knowing the whys and the wherefores doesn’t change a blasted thing, after all. Perhaps we’re just looking for someone to blame. At least …” He hesitated for a moment now and smiled at me. “I’m pleased that you survived things, Mr. Sadler,” he said. “Truly I am. You seem like a fine young man. Your parents must have been pleased to have you back safely.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” I told him with a shrug, a throwaway remark that shocked his wife more than anything I had said so far.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, looki
ng up.

  “Only that we’re not close,” I said, sorry now that it had come up at all. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not really something that I—”

  “But that’s ridiculous, Mr. Sadler,” she announced, standing up and looking at me furiously, her hands on her hips in an attitude of despair.

  “Well, it isn’t my choice,” I explained.

  “But they know that you’re well? That you’re alive?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’ve written, of course. But I never receive any reply.”

  She stared at me with an expression of outright ferocity on her face. “I fail to understand the world sometimes, Mr. Sadler,” she said, her voice catching a little. “Your parents have a son who is alive but whom they do not see. I have a son whom I wish to see but who is dead. What kind of people are they, anyway? Are they monsters?”

  I spent my final week before Aldershot debating whether or not I should see my family before I left. It seemed perfectly plausible that I would lose my life over there, and although we had not spoken in more than eighteen months, I felt there might be the possibility of a reconciliation in the face of such an uncertain future. And so I decided to pay a visit the afternoon before leaving for the training camp, alighting at Kew Bridge Station on a chilly Wednesday and making my way along the road towards Chiswick High Street.

  The streets blended together with a mixture of familiarity and distance; it was as if I had dreamed this place up but was being allowed to visit once again in a state of consciousness. I felt strangely calm and put this down to the fact that I had, for the most part, been happy here as a child. It was true that my father had often been violent with me but there was nothing unusual in that; after all, he was no more violent than the fathers of most of my friends. And my mother had always been a kind, if distant, presence in my life. I felt that I would like to see her again. I put her refusal to see me or respond to my letters down to my father’s insistence that she cut off all communication with me entirely.

  As I got closer to home, though, I found my nerves beginning to overwhelm me. The run of shops, with my father’s butcher’s at the end, came into sight. Next to it were the houses where Sylvia’s and Peter’s families lived. The flat where I had grown up was easy to spot and I hesitated now, taking refuge on a bench for a few minutes, pulling a cigarette from my pocket for Dutch courage.