Chapter 7 Heroism
London could be particularly magnificent in the summer, with the sun bright and a soft breeze rustling through the trees. Ned strolled towards Hyde Park, the weight of a small book in his pocket, equipped should he wish to stop in a pub for a drink. There was no better way to spend his afternoon.
Lost in these thoughts, Ned turned tightly around a corner towards the park’s main gate and almost tripped over a beggar on the pavement.
Perhaps beggar was the wrong word. The man had a thin sheet laid out in front of him with a collection of odds and ends for sale. Mostly mementos and souvenirs from the war: carvings in limestone, vases and etchings made from shell casings, lines of medals. Heroism for sale.
As Ned righted himself, an object at the edge of the sheet caught on the edges of his peripheral vision.
A gas mask.
Ned hated gas masks. Hated the way they smelled, of rubber and sweat and somehow of shit. He hated how the lenses fogged up, reducing his vision to shadows. Even when he hadn’t been wearing the mask, he’d hated the constant weight thumping against his side as he ran over the top.
Where was his mask? Had he forgotten it at home? Ned searched his pockets frantically, throwing his book to the ground. What use was that?
Gas! Quick, boys, quick! There was hardly any time. Ned wouldn’t let himself end up screaming and floundering on the ground as the green clouds crept across the fields.
GAS! Ned needed a mask. Once, he’d taken a mask from a corpse when his own had cracked.
Ned began to choke on the toxic fumes. He was too late. He squeezed his eyes shut even as he knew it would do little to protect him against the acidic air that would blind him.
Ned couldn’t imagine a worse way to die. No enemy to fight, no opponent to outsmart, nowhere to run. Only the wait for your body to be burned and destroyed.
“You alright?” A soft Irish accent penetrated through Ned’s terror. “I think you dropped your book.” The slim volume was pressed into his hands. Did the man not understand? Ned didn’t have his gas mask.
“I think we best sit down.” The hand gripped Ned’s elbow and guided him to a stone kerb, where Ned collapsed, his legs sprawled out in front of him. “Can you feel the sun on your face? Seems like summer is finally here.”
Sun. Yes, Ned could feel the sun. He nodded.
“And if you listen real closely, you can make out the birds in the park.”
Ned couldn’t hear the birds, but he could hear the traffic of the busy streets around him, the whirls of motors passing.
Ned was in London. He knew that. Hesitantly, he let himself take a breath. No smell of horseradish or onion. He took another short breath.
The voice beside him said, “Wellington House is right in front of you, with its fancy columns and big windows. Must cost a bloody fortune to heat that place.”
“Don’t ever accept an invitation from the Duke of Wellington for dinner,” Ned managed to croak out. “He’s cheap on coal and you are lucky if the soup isn’t frozen by the time it gets to you.”
The voice chuckled. “Aye, I’ll take that under consideration the next time the invitation comes in the post.”
Tentatively, Ned cracked open his eyes to see the street peddler sitting beside him.
Up close, Ned realised they were probably around the same age, although the other man’s beard and layers of clothing made him look older.
The souvenirs had been wrapped up; a balled white sheet tucked into the man’s other side. “You a bit better?”
“Yes, thank you.” Ned's voice was still hoarse. Mortification swept through him as he realised what a fool he must have made of himself. Ned moved to push himself off the ground, to at least be standing, but his hands shook too badly to find a grip.
The peddler placed a gentle arm on Ned’s. “No need to rush anywhere.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Care for one?”
Ned nodded and accepted the thin white tube, as well as the lighter. He breathed deep, letting the tobacco do its job, his heartbeat slowing. The cigarette had nearly burned all to ash before Ned spoke again. “I’ve a friend that smokes this brand.”
The peddler took a deep breath of his own cigarette. “A man of taste, then.”
“You could say that.” Ned watched a young woman in a nanny’s uniform push an elaborate pram through the iron gates of Hyde Park. “He’s a hatmaker.”
“Fancy, fancy,” the peddler replied, carefully tucking away the stub of his cigarette into his coat. “My mother always loved to look at the windows of the hat shop in Ballymena, with their ribbons and nonsense.”
“Been in London awhile?” Ned asked, the banal rhythm of the conversation soothing him.
“Two years or so? Thought I would give the Big Smoke a try. At least here a man can make his own job if there are none available.” He cocked his head towards his sheet.
“People still buy stuff like that?” Ned probably shouldn’t have asked.
“Enough.” The peddler shrugged.
What did it say about a country where a man in the prime of his life was spending his days hawking trinkets on the street just to earn enough for a warm meal? Never mind that this country owed a veteran a better future than eking out a living on the streets.
Before Ned could think, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out his card and a pencil, quickly writing a few names on the back.
“This is a list of theatres in Covent Garden that are looking for stagehands.
It's odd hours, and physical work, but any of these jobs are yours if you show them this card.”
The man’s eyebrows leapt when he saw Ned’s full title on the card. “I don’t have enough pride to say no to this, but I’m not a charity case, either.”
“Neither am I.” Ned met the man’s eyes square on, a wordless reminder of how exactly they had ended up sitting on the ground together, and who was in whose debt.
Although, to be honest, Ned’s knees were starting to hurt from the hunched position. Gingerly he stood up, followed by this companion. Ned extended his hand. “Edmund Pinsent,” he said and, after a slight hesitation, added, “Kensington Regiment, 1st London Territorial.”
The peddler returned a firm grip. “Billy McLean, Royal Ulster Rifles, Ulster Division.”
???
Two days later, Ned still felt raw from his gas mask episode. His shell shock wasn’t as common as when he had first returned from Flanders, but he hated that he could be reduced to a hysterical mess so unpredictably.
Pushing the memory out of his mind, Ned picked up his pace, darting in and out between other pedestrians on Brompton Road's wide pavement, as if he could outrun his own weaknesses.
Ned hoped that Billy had followed up on the card.
Ned knew the Royal Ulster Rifles, and they had been tough bastards.
Perhaps Ned could organise a few friends to make similar offers to other veterans, help get men off the streets and into work.
Maybe his mother could organise some sort of fundraiser?
Or he could persuade his father to arrange a debate on the subject in the Lords.
Ned almost stopped dead in his tracks. What on earth was he thinking? He had tried to be a hero once and look where that had gotten him. He hadn’t made a damn bit of a difference. Watched a lot of men die. Drove away the man he loved.
“Never again,” he whispered, repeating the words to himself like a prayer as early evening began to descend upon London.
Ned reached the Victoria and Albert Museum as the sun set, the last of its rays revealing the massive red-brick building in all its glory, its decorative patterns, spires, and large clock lit against the darkening sky.
On its wide, sandstone steps stood Charlie, the breeze blowing his curls in all directions.
Charlie had invited him to go to a museum. He shouldn’t assume it was anything more than the tentative friendship that started at the Charing Cross pub and continued at Claridge’s.
Ned took a deep breath, trying to ground himself in the present and hide his nerves. If he wanted Charlie in his life, he couldn’t go about falling apart at random war memories.
Charlie waved to him. “Hurry up,” he called out. “I already got us tickets, and it looks like the galleries will be fairly quiet tonight.”
???
They ended up in the Indian galleries, surrounded by ornate, curved daggers, sculptures of dancing elephants, and embroidered patterns of swirling ferns. Charlie wasn’t lying about the galleries being quiet; they were the only two people Ned had seen in the wing.
Charlie leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “This whole place reminds me of the hidden caves with buried treasure from the Boy’s Own stories.”
Ned chuckled, the observation too perfect. “Treasure Island was always my favourite. Broke my mother’s favourite lamp jumping from sofa to sofa pretending I was fending off natives.”
Was that where he’d first gotten his taste of wanting to be a hero? A childish fantasy.
“I broke a clock,” Charlie said, “Mum never believed the risk the pirates posed to her dining room. I trust you to have my back if those elephants come to life and attack us.”
“Armed only with our wits, yet I’m confident we will resist.”
“Spoken like a true Jim Hawkins, without whom the whole adventure would collapse.”
“If I’m Jim, who does that make you?” Ned asked even as he reminded himself that this was not flirting.
“Long John Silver, obviously. Swarthy and not to be trusted.”
The problem was, when Charlie teased him like that, it was all too similar to when it had meant something more.
Ned needed to get them, needed to get himself, on safer ground.
Which was probably why he allowed the ridiculously stupid words out of his mouth next.
“You didn’t need to bring me to a museum, you know.
I would have been perfectly happy with a pint at the pub.
” He expected relief on Charlie’s face. A few jokes about Ned’s poshness.
Instead, Charlie backed away, the cosy chucking of only a minute before shattered.
“Oh, fuck off, Pinsent.” Charlie turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Ned dumbfounded amongst the pillaged treasures of India.
Ned gave himself a mental slap up the side of the head before he trotted after Charlie.
Like all Victorian buildings, the V it wasn’t as if he hadn’t earned his punishment.
That being said, talking to Charlie was never a burden, especially when he was passionate and animated. As well as shockingly knowledgeable. “When did you learn all of this?” Ned asked, hoping that the question came out as honest admiration, and not judgemental.
“I knew a few of the chaps from India in Flanders, Aussies and Kiwis too. Got curious to learn more when I got back to London.” Charlie’s tone was relaxed and casual, as if talking about the war was something one could just do whenever one wanted.
“Where would you want to visit? If you could just snap your fingers and go? Or if one of those carpets over there could fly?” A silly question that Ned couldn’t imagine ever asking Freddy or Hugh with a straight face.
Charlie didn’t laugh, though. He was thinking, as if giving Ned a proper answer was important. “I want to say the Canadian Rockies, but also Victoria Falls? And Bombay?”
“This is a single destination magic carpet, I’m afraid.” Ned didn’t know why he was doubling down on this gambit.
“Harsh negotiator. In that case, Istanbul.”
“The crossroads of continents.”
“See a bit of everything.”
Ned had never done a grand tour, never wandered the capitals of Europe with the ambition of becoming cultured, but he had the money and time. He could book train tickets today and be in Venice by next Monday. Leave London behind and take Charlie with him.
The dull ringing of the closing bells echoed through the halls, shattering his daydream in the process, while reminding him that not everything was a mirage.
“I have an idea of where we should go the next time you have an evening off,” Ned said as they turned to walk towards the exit. “A pub with darts.” Not quite Istanbul, but still spending time with Charlie.
“You want to get yourself hustled?” Charlie’s surprise alone was worth the risk of the proposal.
“It's a game of skill! One that I’m quite good at, I’ll have you know. I used to fleece the rest of the officers’ corps.”
Charlie made a disparaging noise. “Officers. We’ll see. Next Friday then?” Charlie's casual acceptance made Ned’s heart race.
“Deal.”