The Solider's Home: a moving war-time drama Read online

  The Soldier’s Home

  George Costigan

  Copyright © 2021 George Costigan

  The right of George Costigan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018

  Republished in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  Other than those in the public domain all characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-913942-85-4

  Contents

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  Foreword

  SIMONE

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  ENID

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  About the Author

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  Also by George Costigan

  The Single Soldier (B00k 1)

  The Single Soldier and The Soldier’s Home, took close enough to twenty years to write. It wasn’t a chore, I wasn’t affected by deadlines or any imperative other than the desire to finish it. So I never thought about the length of time. I think my wife did.

  To her, for patience and love above and beyond, this book is dedicated.

  Foreword

  The Soldier’s Home is the sequel to The Single Soldier, and is a continuation of that story, but can also be enjoyed as a stand-alone book. Or two stories, as it is split into two parts; Simone and Enid.

  The Soldier’s Home finds the work Jacques was engaged in during The Single Soldier – re-building his house – finished.

  The house used to stand seven kilometres away, at Puech. The other side of the village of St. Cirgues.

  It has taken Jacques the eight years since 1944 to dismantle the house, move it and re-build it.

  He began when Simone left France with their infant son, via the refugee escape route over the Pyrenees, and eventually to the USA.

  SIMONE

  1945

  Prologue

  1952

  One volet hung loose.

  He’d lost one of its metal pins. It would bang in a wind. But his son’s chimney was in place.

  I’ll read and sleep and I’ll go to Maurs. He settled his back into the wall.

  1

  Dear Jacques,

  It’s over, then.

  I’ve seen pictures of the bombs. So many died and we three have lived.

  Everyone here is very proud. Of the bombs.

  I have six students – they come here or I go to their houses. Well, their rooms in a house. Apartments, they’re called. Only the rich, like you, own an actual house. I pay a baby-sitter to sit here with your son. She’s nice. ‘Neat’, they say here. Susie. Jacques likes her. I have three French students, and, of course, I’m learning English. And so will he. But we talk French and he’ll talk with you one day. I tell him about you and where he comes from and who he comes from and the house and you haven’t told me anything.

  Tell me about Arbel. And Jerome. Did they live? Are they home?

  Sara? Zoe? Tell me about the life I left. But most of all, you.

  I make just enough money. The rent isn’t much and trolleys are cheap. Jacques, you’ve never seen a trolley! I’ll send you a picture. If I told you about all the shops – you would not believe it were possible. Some days I still don’t.

  People tell me the winters are cold and we’ll need heating. You’ve got all that beech, so you’ll be good.

  I am so grateful every day for our lives here and for our life together. We’re a million miles apart and when I look at him you are here with me.

  What are you ‘taking down?’ You owe me two letters.

  We send our love, Your family.

  2

  Dear Jacques,

  You are the worst letter writer in the world.

  What do you mean ‘Arbel came.’? You make it sound like a trek! And then you don’t tell me even what sex their baby is! I want to know.

  But Arbel came home! I thought so often of Ardelle and her misery and what a relief for them and what a present life has rewarded them with. I’ve written to them.

  Did Jerome live? And how’s Sara? And him over the lane – misery – what was his name?

  Tell me everything! You write in riddles, my man. Love from The New World.

  They call France and Europe The Old World. I think it’s all one world. They don’t.

  Simone.

  3

  DEAR Mr. Mysterious,

  Jacques – get a piece of paper – now! – and write ‘Dear Simone – Ardelle’s baby is called _ _ _ _.’ Do it! Have you? You hav
en’t, I can tell. I know you. Have you now? Shall I not write again till I get your reply?

  Why are your letters post-marked Maurs? I wrote to La Poste and that angry postman (can’t remember his name either) asking for an address for Sara – since I don’t get information from you. No letter from Ardelle but she’ll be too busy – I know!

  I think teething is a flaw in nature’s plan. I can’t understand why our child should be in quite so much pain.

  A tear fell and his hand moved it away and smudged her ink. He panicked. Held the paper over the fire till it dried. He knew the letter by heart, but still...

  But all pain passes, doesn’t it?

  He moved the paper sharply to miss the next tear.

  Write!

  With love, all of it.

  Simone.

  4

  Dear Jacques,

  Janatou?

  What are you doing? What have you done?

  I got a printed card from La Poste with this address. There’s nothing there.

  Tell me, immediately – everything. Oh my God – it’s winter.

  Jacques – you’ll freeze. Where are you? What did you take down?

  Live, my Jacques. I can’t write through worried tears. Simone.

  P.S. I can’t believe I’m adding this – but it’s nearly December now – and with the time the post takes...

  Jacques.

  Happy Christmas.

  5

  Dear Jacques,

  Why?

  Simone.

  6

  A favourite.

  Jaqcques, I believe in Hope, too. And now I believe in Promises. I never made any because I couldn’t. I make this one. We will see our house, in your paradise. Build it, brother-man – build it. I want to see it. Seeing is believing.

  Simone.

  7

  A postcard. Never forget what a postcard can bring…

  I’ll wait. Keep safe. I’m on a subway. Going to work. I’ll wait. He’ll wait. Keep warm! Letter tonight. Happy New Year! A fortnight late – and February, probably when you get this! Our Time is crazy.

  S.

  8

  Jacques – you loved me much too much, you know that now, don’t you?

  No-one could love you too much, but you thought I was an angel – dropped into your life.

  Did you go mad, dear man?

  Is the work healing you?

  If it is – we’ll see it – somehow.

  If it isn’t – then sell, beg, steal – borrow (from Jerome’s Mother!?) – but come here and let me heal you.

  I’m the wound – I’ll be the nurse.

  Jacques. A boat – you could work your passage.If I can get here you can. Come here. You never made me cry – come here and dry these tears. It’s only money – sell Janatou!

  Think what’s best – just this once – for you, Jacques Vermande. I care with all my being for yours. And I promise I always will.

  Your son has a cold.

  Have you a roof?

  Talk to me gentle, please. We love you

  Simone

  9

  I’m writing to The Mairie now – I’m afraid of your silences. I freeze over.

  10

  Dear Jacques,

  The Mayor wrote here to say you’re ‘Very much alive but silent.’ I’m glad you’re alive. I knew you were silent.

  If anyone has the right to know the things inside your silence it should be me, no?

  And you have the right not to tell me. But that’s not you. Not you and me. Is it?

  Have you sat down to read this? Surrounded by stone and snow and shivering? Suffering?

  Consider this – you are my man, so long as you live. But write. Only connect.

  Simone.

  11

  Dear Jacques,

  What do I tell your son?

  You could write him again. At least. He loved that letter.

  I read it to him till I wore it out – and we both knew it by heart.

  The days are bright here – but I live cloudy not knowing... Move your hand and write to me.

  Your friend and much much more

  Simone.

  12

  Dear Jacques,

  On a subway cross-town today I forgot about you. For an hour. I was reading a magazine article about something stupid – oh! – doesn’t matter what – and I forgot you.

  I was ashamed. And now I’m angry.

  In the end you needn’t write to me.

  If you’re black as hell that I left you – took him. If that’s it or a part of it, fine.

  But, as I sit here, writing, you are A Bad Father.

  He needs. He asks and I lie. You said once your mother never taught you to lie. Tell him some truth and don’t teach me to lie.

  Simone.

  He rolled a cigarette. Lit it. Laid another piece of pine across the glowing ashes.

  Smoked his way back to Galtier’s replacement delivering that letter.

  A warm day. Spring. Only the foundations and one wall of the caves done. The dog still there. And his reply.

  ‘Simone,

  You didn’t leave. I sent you. I’m re-building myself. Too. It takes time. Writing takes Time I can’t seem to want to spare, even though there’s no end to it. But there must be. Some way. Also writing hurts. But I will.

  Jacques.’

  13

  Forgive us,

  Simone.

  P.S. You remember it’s his birthday very soon?

  14

  Dear Jacques,

  When my parents were killed, I died. You brought me back to Life.

  I never did come to Janatou, did I? I will.

  Jacques – we’re both in shock and I wonder if we’re not both in guilt.

  I bought a new coat today – when I think of you and look at it, it’s repellent.

  I’ve no idea what I’m reaching to say so I’ll just keep scribbling and maybe it’ll come. I always had that space with you.

  I think of us – and I know I’ve escaped. Not from you – but to this bustle. I said once none of us know the future – that the present was madness enough. Well, in my present I’m not suffering. I’m enjoying the struggle.

  He’ll be in nursery (what we call Maternelle) by the next letter.

  No-one ever says he looks like you (he does) because no-one knows you – and I’ve no photos. There’s an album in my mind, but... When I say ‘no-one’ – that’s a bit grand. The four who’ve asked.

  All women. All different nationalities. All in this building. They’ve formed something they call The United Nations and I feel like it’s this house. America is The United Nations! I’m learning Spanish on my doorstep!

  He has a good soul.

  And he’s serious so his smile is sunlight.

  He loves me as much as you do and I feel guilty because I’m so lucky.

  Are we Casualties of war? We mustn’t be. Don’t be. Build.

  Tired. More tomorrow.

  Simone.

  O.K. Morning headache hangover honesty before he wakes. I feel most guilty because I can feel a future here. And I feel bad for thinking that and not sharing it with you and I feel worse now for saying it but I never had secrets from you and I’m lost for my response and in my responsibility. Responsibilities. They circle round my head and this solitary drinking doesn’t still it. I’m a little confused as to what solitary drinking does do. You don’t know, do you?

  15

  Dear Jacques,

  I talked to a priest. He sent me to a doctor and he gave me pills that meant I couldn’t do a damned thing but sit. I threw them away and went back and he sent me to a psycho-something and he listened – much better than the Priest or the doctor – but he cost me money! To tell him I’m sad! So, I’m talking to you. Who always listened.