The Lost Bookshop

Chapter 52

Chapter Fifty-Two

OPALINE

London, 1946

I nspired by The Count of Monte Cristo , I spent months searching for information and came across a newspaper article about a soldier’s family who believed he had been wrongly executed for cowardice. They named the unit. It was my brother’s. I had my lead, all I had to do was follow it.

I uncovered damning court martial papers from two trials held in Ypres, where fifty men had been sentenced to death by firing squad (or murdered, depending on your viewpoint). Just days before the Armistice was signed and in full knowledge that the Germans were about to surrender, my brother had ordered two more men to be shot. I took the papers to a Mr Turner, a journalist working with The Times , and he agreed to investigate further.

From the trial record, it was clear that they were suffering from shell-shock. In Lyndon’s own hand, he wrote that shell-shock was a regrettable weakness, not found in good units. ‘There is insufficient evidence for a conviction,’ he’d written, yet he recommended a death sentence in order to send a message to the battalion, who had suffered great losses the day before. There was no mention that it was the general’s military strategy that had led to these wasted lives. One was an Irish soldier, Frank O’Dowd, who was shot for refusing to put his hat on because it was wet through from the endless rain. He was drugged by a doctor to get him through the final hours in the death cells. Mr Turner had been able to contact the medic, who confirmed that O’Dowd was a volunteer soldier. ‘They couldn’t see brave men when they were standing there in front of them,’ the medic had told him. He also confirmed that, once the firing squad had finished, my brother gave the Irishman the final coup de grace, a bullet to the head.

* * *

I spent the night at the Great Western Royal Hotel in Paddington. Unlike so much of London, it had made it through the war relatively unscathed, with some minor air-raid damage to the roof. It was strange being back home. I no longer felt a part of the fabric and the people seemed strange to me, different somehow. The war had robbed them of so much. In that, I should have felt a kind of solidarity, but my war had been a very different one. I met with Mr Turner for lunch and he handed me a copy of the article they would print in the paper the following day.

I read the article. It was powerful. Turner was an exceptional journalist and, rather than making a pantomime villain out of my brother, or a monster capable of terrible evil, he presented him as a very real man who had chosen brutality over human decency. This somehow made him more real, more accountable for his crimes.

‘No going back now,’ he said, tipping his hat to me before disappearing into the crowd on the street.

* * *

‘There is an old saying, Before you set out on a journey of revenge, you must dig two graves ,’ said a woman’s voice, deepened by time and wisdom, yet unmistakably that of my old friend Jane.

‘Jane!’ I cried, embracing her tightly. I had written and asked if she would meet me in the hotel lobby.

‘Confucius said that,’ she warned, fearing the endeavour would somehow destroy me too. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’

‘I need to own my story. To take back my power.’ I realised now that I shared another commonality with the families of those dead soldiers. I was shamed into silence. Ashamed of what happened to me, of how I had somehow ‘let’ it happen to me and of how people would look on me now, as some sort of damaged woman. I felt tainted by it. Other than Josef’s quiet and humble company, I had isolated myself from the world because of it. Was I ready to return? Maybe not, but then, does one ever feel truly ready? All I knew was that, in that moment, I had suffered enough in my silence. At least the pain of speaking out might bring me courage.

‘The world needs to know who Lyndon Carlisle really is. I offered up my own story - Commanding Officer Carlisle, The Reaper, had his own sister locked up in an asylum for the insane. ’

‘Good grief! Will your editor print it?’ Jane asked.

‘It’s something of an old boys’ network at The Times . What Lyndon did to me doesn’t count, apparently.’

‘That’s absurd!’

‘Mr Turner was of the view that any hint of mental weakness could tarnish my reputation and detract from the “real story”. His words.’

‘Perhaps he has a point,’ Jane mused, chewing her lip. ‘Lyndon might use it to his advantage.’

‘I suppose you’re right. One last sacrifice to see justice done.’

I had set events in motion now; there was no turning back. Was I scared? Of course I was. Yet the story had now become so much bigger than me, I felt responsible to act on behalf of all those who would never have the opportunity to get justice for what my brother did to them. I would restore some integrity to the Carlisle name. I felt it was what my father would have wanted also. The time had come. I had to confront him face to face.

* * *

As the evening grew dark, I made my way to my erstwhile family home. The air was still and quiet, my footsteps on the pavement the only sound, save for the blood pounding in my ears. I came to the front gate of the house. How much smaller everything looked.

I knocked on the door, and in the moments while I waited, I tried to imagine myself as a very tall, strong-rooted tree. I let the muscles in my shoulders release and focused all of my energy into the centre of my belly. That’s where the fire burned, and I knew I would need to draw on it now, with precision and fierceness. A woman answered.

‘Mr Carlisle,’ I said, plainly.

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘If he is not, then he is a fool.’

The woman looked puzzled, then went to deliver the message. I didn’t wait for an invitation into my own home. I closed the door behind me and followed her across the parquet hall to the parlour.

‘Excuse me, Madam, you must wait here.’

‘I’ve waited long enough,’ I said, pushing past her with ease. He was having his supper at the table and almost choked on his soup when he saw me.

‘What the devil—’

‘Surprised to see me, Brother?’

He didn’t speak another word. He hated being seen to be at a disadvantage. He would wait to see the lie of the land before planning his counter-attack. I was not prepared for how much older he would look – older than his years. He had become frail, his skin papery and thin and frightfully red around his scars. His hands were arthritic, curling into themselves, and he was practically bald.

‘You’re wondering why I am here and not in my cell at St Agnes’s?’

He patted the corner of his mouth with a napkin and placed it on the table. The woman who had answered the door still hovered around me like a fly in summer until he waved her away.

‘ How did she do it? you must be thinking to yourself. And what of Dr Lynch? He still takes your money every month, does he not?’

He narrowed his eyes and stood up from the table. For all his weakness, he could still command himself like an officer. It took all of my will not to step back.

‘How dare you show your face here.’

I could almost feel his breath on my skin, he stood so close to me.

‘I am not afraid of you any more. What more could you do to me?’

‘Shall we find out?’

I held his gaze. I wanted to strike out, but I had something greater than violence in my armoury.

‘You wanted to erase me? That little girl, Father’s favourite? Well, allow me to congratulate you. That girl no longer exists. The woman that stands before you now is a very different creature, one who is also bent on destruction. Namely yours.’

‘Am I to be moved by this spectacle? Because I assure you, I am not.’

I paced around him like a lioness around her prey.

‘Within hours, the whole world will know what you have done. The ink is soaking into the paper as we speak.’

‘What paper? What are you talking about, woman?’

‘ The Times . They were very interested in your past. Especially your nickname, The Reaper.’

I saw a flicker of concern.

‘Paper will take any ink, regardless of its veracity. And you will only reveal yourself as a dim-witted fool who belongs in a sanitorium.’

‘Ah yes, you have me there. Unjust as it is, I knew my story alone wouldn’t be enough to ruin your reputation. Tarnish it, perhaps, but not the annihilation I seek. No, Lyndon, the morning papers will be full of your crimes on the battlefield and those men you murdered under the guise of cowardice. Most of the records were destroyed, but I have gathered enough evidence of your despicable acts to make you a pariah in the eyes of everyone you know and an enemy to everyone else.’

His eyes widened momentarily.

‘Those pitiful excuses for men did not deserve to wear the uniform. They were a disgrace to their families, to their country.’

‘I have proof that the men you shot were not deserters. Witnesses who are prepared to go on record that you murdered those men. Their families deserve justice.’

‘I gave them justice!’ His voice boomed like a cannon from his ribcage.

‘It’s just as I suspected. You are truly mad.’

We were all just pieces on a chessboard to him. Inconsequential pieces to be moved around at his will.

‘Well, it takes one to know one. Besides, they were conscripts, not real soldiers.’

I knew he was baiting me.

‘Some of them were just boys, did you know that? So yes, perhaps they panicked in the face of all that death, but they were not deserters.’

‘Oh, please, Opaline, do tell us more about your experience of life on the battlefield. Enlighten me with your knowledge of such matters.’

‘I know that it is not my right to be judge and juror over someone else’s life.’

‘Shall I tell you of the thousands that died of exposure that winter? Still more from cholera. The indescribable suffering of millions of the Empire’s best men, lying in those mud trenches for weeks, in rain, cold, wind – hungry and weary under the constant rain of the enemy’s bullets. The terrible booming and slaughter that carried on ceaselessly. The dead and wounded cleared away for new soldiers to face an enemy better armed and better prepared. Showers of black mud raining down on the wild, primitive countryside. Twenty thousand men were killed on the first day at the Somme. It was as if the last day had come, and every man had to face it with only the comrade at his side for support. In the trenches they ate when food could reach them, starved when it could not. There they killed and were killed, were buried in shallow graves, half eaten by rats. And they were the lucky ones.’

I hadn’t expected this. He had never spoken about the war before now and if he had, perhaps things could have been different.

‘Still, it doesn’t excuse—’

‘None of us could escape the horror of it. We had to defend King and country. So I did what I had to do.’

‘What? Killing your own soldiers before the enemy could?’

‘By making an example of their cowardice. Armies are ruled by fear. Do you think those men that volunteered understood the carnage that lay ahead of them? Don’t you think that every man out there wished with every fibre of their being that they could leave that hellish place? What do you think keeps men marching forward to their death?’

I didn’t know.

‘Duty. Honour. Those weasels that you now seem so bent on protecting had neither of those things. They were out-and-out cowards.’

‘If you truly believe in honour, then you will know, somewhere in your heart, or if you do not possess one, which I doubt you do, then in your conscience, that you were wrong. The families of those men have carried the shame for too long and for what? Even if those men felt fear in the face of a formidable enemy, is it a crime punishable by death? You could have pardoned them. Most Commanding Officers did. But not you. Why must you crush anyone who does not meet your exacting standards? Why must you humiliate and torment—’

‘Enough!’

He walked away from me and poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter. I tried to steady myself, although my legs were shaking and I longed for a drink also.

‘It’s always your pain, your suffering. You never think about anyone else.’

I didn’t even bother replying. There was little point.

‘Can’t you imagine for a moment the suffering I have endured from this?’ He pointed to the side of his body that was burned. He took various bottles of pills from his pockets and threw them on the table. ‘They barely touch the surface,’ he said, calmly now. ‘I did my duty out there. I put my body on the line and what did I get in return?’

‘They gave you medals, didn’t they?’

‘Hah! Medals. I wanted respect. I wanted a future. A family. No woman would come near me when she saw this. I could no longer provide a wife with children, in any case. A useless specimen. I had to beg for a job. Do you know how humiliating that was? The one thing I asked you to do.’

‘Marry Bingley?’ I asked.

‘And there you were, flaunting your freedom in front of me. The freedom I paid for!’

‘Lyndon, if only you had spoken of this before, I could have helped.’

‘What could you have done? You were only good for one thing and you wouldn’t even obey me in that.’

‘Obey you?’ I almost laughed at the thought. What right did he have? He always acted like he had authority over me and I suppose our age difference normalised his behaviour. Not any more. ‘You make it sound as though I owe you something and believe me, Brother, I owe you nothing.’

‘You owe me everything! You would be dead if it weren’t for me.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Your mother wouldn’t keep you. To this day, I still can’t be certain you’re even mine. French slut.’

It was as though I had wandered into someone else’s conversation. His words didn’t make any sense to me.

‘My mother?’

He walked to the sideboard, picked out a cigar from a silver box and lit it with a round marble lighter. His eyes narrowed as he sucked and eventually blew smoke into the still air.

‘You may as well know, now Mother and Father are both dead. Your grandparents.’

I shook my head. None of this sounded right.

‘I’m not going to listen to this madness,’ I said, turning to leave.

‘Not so keen on the truth now, eh?’

I stopped dead.

‘I thought you were here to set the record straight, to bring all of my past transgressions into the light? Well, you may as well know all of it then.’

I felt nauseated. There was a sickening feeling creeping up my veins and into my chest. I realised I knew what he was going to say; had somehow always known somewhere deep inside of me, but never allowed myself to see it.

‘And when that cheap rag of a newspaper prints your version of events tomorrow, you will know that you have betrayed your own father.’

I turned around and looked him dead in the eyes.

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head again. ‘You can’t be.’

‘We were touring Europe, the summer of 1900. My grandmother – your great-grandmother – paid for the trip. I was with some friends from university, doing the Grand Tour, as was the custom for a young man. I was twenty years of age, much like yourself when you made your own escape to the continent.’

I hated that he was comparing us. I was nothing like him.

‘We were visiting the French Riviera. She made herself available to me—’

‘Shut up!’ I covered my ears with my hands. It was too much. But he came towards me and pulled my arms down by my side.

‘It’s the natural order of things, Opaline. Young men must sow their wild oats. But girls like her, they know an opportunity when they see one. Before I left, she came to me, saying that she was pregnant and couldn’t afford a child. I told her she would get nothing from me, but she had my name and must have found our address. A year later, she showed up at our door and left you like an unwanted gift on the doorstep.’

I was crying, but he kept on.

‘I suggested an orphanage, but Father, being the weak-willed man that he was, insisted on keeping you. I wanted nothing to do with it. I had my career in the army. So they brought you up as their own and you have been the thorn in my side ever since.’

I had stopped struggling and so he let my arms go, then walked back to the sideboard and poured two large glasses of brandy from a decanter. When he handed it to me, I drank it down in two large gulps.

‘Father wasn’t my real father?’

We stood in silence for a time, the dust settling on our words.

‘What was her name?’

‘Who?’

‘The woman. My … mother.’

‘How the devil should I know? It’s over forty years ago. Celine, or some such. Or was it Chantal?’

I threw the crystal glass at him, but it hit the sideboard and shattered.

‘You really are despicable. You have no feelings for anyone but yourself. You locked me up in that … that place for all those years. Did Dr Lynch know that you were my father? My God, it all makes sense now.’

‘I did you a favour. I could see you were heading the same way as your mother, getting pregnant without a ring on your finger. So I got rid of it for you. And what thanks do I get?’

I was so angry and overwhelmed that it took several moments before I could process what he was saying.

‘How did you know I would lose the baby?’

‘What’s that?’

‘The baby. She was stillborn. You said you got rid of her, but there’s no way you could have known that would happen.’

He poured himself another drink.

‘Lyndon, what have you done?’

‘I should have put her in a bag and drowned her like the unwanted kitten she was.’

I felt a rage inside of me that almost blinded my sight. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands. I wanted to kill him.

‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’ I said in a low voice I hardly recognised as my own.

‘But she was worth more to me alive. A boy would of course have earned more, but as it was, she made a tidy sum.’

He looked up at me and smiled. Laughed at my ignorance. Just as he had when we were children and I, the younger sibling, always slower on the uptake.

‘You had no idea, did you?’ He took a swig of his drink, looking victorious. ‘Good old Paddy kept that secret to himself.’

I grabbed a knife off the dresser and lunged for him.

‘God help me, Lyndon, if you don’t tell me the truth right now I will carve your eyes out.’

‘Steady, old girl, you could injure someone with that.’ He casually sat back down in his carver chair. ‘I sold her. To a couple who were desperate for a child. Lynch arranged the whole thing. Done it before, apparently.’

‘She’s alive?’ I could hardly breathe and leaned on the back of one of the dining chairs for support.

He made no reply. Something was not playing out as he had predicted.

‘You sound relieved.’

‘God, you really have no clue, do you?’

‘About what?’

‘About what it means to love!’ I steadied myself for a moment, then realised the extent of his inhumanity. ‘You sold your own granddaughter.’

I threw Mr Turner’s copy of the article on the table, then turned to leave.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me where she is?’

‘Would you tell me if I did?’

He smirked to himself.

‘You know me well, little Opale.’

The term unsettled me. Only Armand had called me that.

‘After tomorrow, everyone will know you for exactly what you are.’

I walked out of the room and somehow, kept myself upright. I passed the housekeeper in the hall, who gave me a queer look. I was lost in an endless maze of emotions and memories that no longer seemed to fit anywhere. My daughter was alive. That was all I needed to hold on to.

On reaching the front door, I heard the loud report of a gunshot. I halted. Then I heard a woman’s scream. I didn’t turn back. I commanded my feet to move, one in front of the other, until I was out in the street, taking the air into my lungs. I knew I had a choice. I could let this awful series of events become my new story – a story I would be condemned to carry with me for eternity – or I could let it die with him. It was a choice I would have to make every day for the rest of my life.