Not long after this, and I was driving to the train station once again

Not long after this, and I was driving to the train station once again. The car was cramped, as once again, we had all piled into it, to see another Allard off. Thomas was driving, still wearing his suit, and not yet the uniform that would later become his standard wear. I was glad for this. If he were in the uniform, driving that car, it would be so real, too real. The War beyond, in France, would have come straight home to me, whereas right now, I could make believe that he was just going on holiday, or somewhere – anywhere but the front lines. I could pretend that we were going for a nice drive in the country. I knew what was going on, of course, and I understood, but I wished that I didn’t. I was wearing the travelling suit I had arrived in, as an eighteen year old girl; a lifetime seemed to have passed between now and then.

I said nothing to anyone, that trip over, instead choosing to look at my hands, clasped neatly in my lap, pressing each other together, my knuckles white with the pressure. It was a quiet trip; everyone was occupied with their own thoughts. Mair was sitting in the back, having declined the passenger seat, and was humming to herself some Welsh song that I didn’t know, and watching the farms pass by. If anyone spoke that trip, it was she, making some inane comment about the amount of cows a certain farmer had – she seemed to know all of them from our town to the station on a first-name basis – or saying what a lovely day it was, how nice that it didn’t rain. Thomas did not reply. He was leaning over the steering wheel, staring intensely at the road ahead of him. He seemed overly large in that car, shoulders hunched and head bent. When, I wondered, was the next time he would drive me anywhere in this old car? When we be sitting here again, just as we were now? Should this experience – such an ordinary thing – ever be repeated? I felt as though we were on the brink of a precipice, in the last throes of normalcy before the great dive into the unknown.

I looked out of the window to avoid looking at Thomas. I watched the countryside pass by, the cool green of the pastures, calm and indifferent to our collective suffering. The sun itself was mocking us, reflecting off the rear-view mirror, whispering that what was happening to us was of not consequence, and that whatever happened – whether Thomas was with me or not, dead or alive, the world would continue, and the sun would always rise and fall, as it always had. The earth still rotated round it. In fact, the only constant that would change was my intake of breath, which was uneven, and slightly sharper than before, quick, gasping intakes, and slow exhales. We were the condemned man, walking towards his own execution, knowing that he was going to the end, knowing that Thomas would die, because everyone else had. No one vocalised this, however. No one said that this was the last of the Allard brothers to go to war, and that if he returned, he would be the first of his family to do so. My last impression of Paul, before his death, had been against the backdrop of the train station.

Thomas stopped the car outside of the station, pulling the keys out of the ignition, which jangled as his hands shook, and he passed them over to me. I realised that I would have to drive back in his place. I took them and put them carefully in my pocket, still without looking at Thomas. I slipped out of the car. He led us to the station, and I walked behind him, staring at his shoes. Mair was beside me, but I could not face her, either. Her head, I could tell, was firmly upright, and I could hear the gnashing of her straight, yellow teeth, the muscles in her jaw tense and alive with movement. At first, I envied her strength. I wished that I could be so commanding of my own emotions, so impassive, so together – but it occurred to me to wonder whether this was strength, or a mere concession to what she knew already was bound to happen.

We walked to the platform together. There were a few minutes to spare before Thomas had to leave, just enough time to say good-bye to him. His mother spoke to him first, as she had with Paul, leaving me those precious last few minutes. I studied her eyes. Were those the same eyes, that a year ago, had been so full of laughter and life? They were certainly sad now. Not downcast, but the crow’s feet no longer crinkled as she spoke and smiled, and they seemed dull. They darted worriedly across his face, and her slender hand, which seemed frail to me now, and old, touched his arm. She had to reach up to do so; his height had evidently been a gift from his father. I saw her lips move, telling him something, but the station was crowded, and I could not hear. Only the bustling of the people around me met my ears, and meaningless snippets of conversation. The heat of so many people gathered into such a small space touched my face and made my cheeks flush. I felt my eyes sting, but I held back any tears that might have otherwise come. If Mair could keep her composure, then so could I.

The woman stepped back, and Thomas strode towards me. I looked at his shoes, and said quietly, more breathlessly than I should have chosen, ‘Goodbye, Thomas.’ He took my chin in his right hand – his left held a small suitcase – and drew my head up so that my eyes were forced to meet his, concerned and frowning and grey. My lips wavered, and I said nothing, because if I had opened them, my reserve would have dissolved. He did not say anything either, but despite his deference to propriety, he dropped the suitcase, and embraced me, hugging me so closely that I was enveloped in his smell, that of the bookshop, sweet cologne and tobacco, and I could practically inhale him. I could feel his heart beating against my own chest, and ever so slightly, I could feel him still shaking. I squeezed him in return, and we both stayed that way for some time, afraid to let go, and when at last we broke apart and kissed one final time, both of our faces were wet.

Not a word passed between us after my lame good-bye. There was nothing to say that had not been said on some prior occasion, no expression of farewell that could express everything that we meant; not, at least, in human vocabulary. Words, in our relationship, had seldom been more than obstacles to overcome. Words were meant for books, to tell the sorrows of other people; not us. Now, we stayed as we were – and closing my eyes, I could pretend we were not as we were, I could think once again that we were elsewhere. We stayed, pinioned together, revelling in that moment of intimacy and closeness, that moment, that despite all the people around us, was ours alone.

And then he was gone. I stood beside Mair, watching the train disappear. Proud women beside me waved handkerchiefs, ready and willing to sacrifice their heroes to the defence of the motherland, and of Europe; stupid women. Who could be proud of a world like this one? Who could stand there and smile when we were sending our men off to be killed? This was the kind of thing that should bring us shame, the fact that the human race had degraded to such a point that we were willing to kill each other, and to then, as a remedy for this, kill each other some more. I stood and fought back tears, because Thomas had gone to die, and all the women beside me could do was smile and wave, because their men were going to die.

I was lost. I felt as though I was wandering in the dark, with nothing to guide me but my own feet, and it scared me. I was felt alone, for the first time in my life, and more alone than I had in the three years I’d known Thomas, and no one with me but this little Welshwoman and that scared me. I was helpless to stop the events around me; I could only watch as he left me, could only hope and pray that he might come back to me – but what would that do? I was helpless and I was hopeless and I don’t know which scared me more.

Mair was still beside me, watching with eyes that were accustomed to what they were seeing, weary eyes, eyes that now I was sure were despondently accepting of the events they had seen. She adjusted a knitted shawl that was draped over her floral-patterned dress, apparently shielding herself from an unfelt coolness. We were both staring at the last space we had seen the train occupy, as though by concentrating hard enough and by willpower alone, we could bring it back. After some time, she turned to me, patting my elbow, and giving me a bitter smile. It was a smile that should not have ever touched her face, but it did, and it aged her. She spoke to me in a plain, simple way, but in a way that pained me, for her tone clearly conceded defeat.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘now I’ve given everything I ever loved to Britain. Let’s see if she discards this gift as quickly as she discarded the others.’

There was concession there, yes, but also the touches of anger, a sense of injustice. I said nothing, and she turned quickly away from me. Together, we left the train station, and I sat where Thomas had sat and drove us home.