Chapter 21 Bernard Pemberton
Charlie had never understood the romantic views that other veterans held of France.
When he overheard them reminiscing about wine and women, he would shake his head, wondering if they had fought in the same war.
Other than mud, spectacularly rude people, and inedible cheese, Charlie couldn’t remember France offering much else.
Which really did beg the question why Charlie found himself once again drinking bitter beer in an overly crowded French pub.
His Royal Legion group had arrived in Arras in the afternoon and immediately decamped to the nearest drinking establishment. Despite being a supposedly sombre group of middle-aged veterans, they were acting as raucous as their twenty-one-year-old selves when on leave for the first time.
Charlie had always felt uncomfortable at these types of gatherings.
He hadn’t pawned his medals, but he had never taken them out of their box either.
Celebrations like today were for other men—men who didn’t feel as conflicted as Charlie did about their service.
Who hadn’t given up trying to be heroes.
He really should have just left. Wandered around the old town.
Found something decent to eat. Checked into the hotel and slept.
He had resolved to do exactly that—had paid for his drink and was straightening his jacket—when a voice cut through the loud din of chatter that filled the rooms of the bar.
“You can’t tell me Mosley is all wrong!”
Charlie knew that accent, that posh arrogance.
His gaze found the man who had once been Lieutenant Pemberton, smushed into a corner table, surrounded by empty wine glasses and a half dozen other veterans.
Middle age had settled on Pemberton like a stone; he was meaty, with skin that looked too tight.
His suit pulled awkwardly, the tweed all distorted and the buttons barely containing the man within its seams.
Pemberton’s overly loud voice continued in the way of a man who was not on his first, or even his tenth, drink of the day. “Take that Hitler fellow in Germany. Our own politicians could learn a thing or two from him.”
Give. Him. Strength.
Charlie looked around at the others who were listening to Pemberton’s spewing about the red scourge and need for military might with varying degrees of interest. Was no one correcting this nonsense?
“Never knew you to be so concerned for the woes of the working man.” Charlie spoke loud enough to cut Pemberton off mid-sentence.
Pemberton’s eyes locked with his, and his mouth sneered with recognition. “I’ve been to a few speeches. Mosley wants to bring glory back to the country for everyone. None of these undignified inheritance taxes.”
Ah, Pemberton’s aristocratic family had been forced to pay their fair share? That would explain the poor quality suit.
“Still probably better to be paying taxes to cover the war debt than to be on the losing side?”
Let that fucker have a taste of some of his own condescending medicine.
This debate across the bar was starting to attract attention of the rest of the BEF veterans.
Charlie found that he didn’t much care.
“The Weimar Republic! Even more disgraceful than what England’s turned into.” Pemberton shoved himself up out of the seat such that he was standing, taking his time to appraise Charlie, as if he had the right. “Charles Villiers. Now there’s a man I didn’t expect to see.”
“That because you abandoned me on the battlefield?” Charlie had drunk just enough beer and was annoyed enough about having to breathe the same air as this bastard again to be reckless.
The rest of the chatter across the bar dried up, everyone focusing on this exchange. Charlie leaned back on the bar, keeping his gaze fixed on the soft, fat jowls of the man in front of him.
“That’s what it was written up in your file as?” Pemberton forced a harsh chuckle. “Tomorrow is supposed to be for proper British heroes.”
“I thought we were here to honour our fallen friends.” No one, and certainly not Pemberton, got to cheapen what tomorrow would be about.
Pemberton took a long swig of his red wine. That should have been Charlie’s warning. He’d always liked a dramatic pause to make sure he had the attention of the room.
“Who’d want to be honoured by a man like you?”
Charlie’s brash stance crumbled. With Pemberton’s smug and knowing tone, he was back to being Corporal Villiers, a toy for Pemberton’s amusement. He was drowning in memories of sitting in a YMCA tent, drinking gin, while Pemberton taunted him with threats to Ned.
That second of hesitation gave Pemberton momentum. “Should have known in ’16 what you were. Should have guessed when you took field punishment for Pinsent. Perversions, the lot of you. What exactly did you do to convince him…”
Pemberton had no chance to finish his sentence. A fist to the jaw had him sprawling backwards into the gathered crowd.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Each word was pronounced with an accent so sharp it could kill, from a man tall enough that his shadow filled in the space between Charlie and Pemberton at the bar.
Ned was there. Not five feet from Charlie, his face in a deep frown as his eyes blazed with fury at the man he had just punched.
The years had been good to Ned. Ned had always been someone with natural authority, and that had matured into pure confidence, with the crowd having literally parted for him.
There was no lip tint, of course, but Ned’s haircut was an edge bolder than Charlie was used to seeing.
Ned’s hair also had the beginnings of grey strands that, if anything, added to his projection of a man in power.
However, now was not the time or place to be noticing how dashing Ned’s sober black suit made him look. And yet Charlie was like a moth to light, hypnotised as he absorbed all of Ned’s little gestures: the frown of distaste, the way he shook out the tension of the hand he had used to punch.
Pemberton pushed himself upright and stepped so close to Ned that there was barely an inch between them.
“It means, that I’d have let Villiers bleed out like a dog in No Man’s Land. Although perhaps a street mutt was to your tastes.”
Ned's response was to lean back and slam his first into Pemberton’s jaw again. This time the patrons jumped out of the way, grabbing their drinks protectively.
Pemberton snarled and lunged forward with a sloppy attempt to tackle Ned to the ground, but Ned was able to help hold him back with his own wrestling hold. This was no evenly matched fight, even if Pemberton had been sober.
Ned dodged Pemberton’s attempt at a punch and responded with one of his own.
Something crunched on Pemberton’s face and blood flew.
Then Ned was in with a kick to Pemberton’s leg and a knee to his groin.
The two men were rolling around on the floor now, the crowd now cheering and hollering at the chaos.
However, others did seem to have some reservations about Ned beating Pemberton to a pulp, or at least cared enough to want the fight to stop before the barman decided to evict the English for the evening.
“Sir, I think he’s done.” Andrew tugged at Ned’s arms as another man with a face Charlie almost recognised pulled Pemberton up from the floor, while also trying to hold his arms behind his back.
“He’s so drunk he probably did more damage to himself than to Pinsent,” Andrew said to Charlie as he peered at their bloody, struggling and cursing former junior officer.
He jerked his head towards where Ned was trying and failing to blot his own bloody face.
“Go clean Pinsent up, we will take care of this one.”
Charlie grabbed Ned’s elbow and began making for the door, slightly surprised at how easily the other man followed him.
“I did what any man worth his name would have done!” Pemberton shouted as Charlie dragged Ned out of the bar before they were thrown out on their arses.
???
Charlie steered Ned to sit on the stone edge of a mediaeval fountain in a quiet courtyard away from the main bustle of the Grand Place.
Wetting a clean handkerchief that Betty must’ve put in his jacket pocket, he began to dab the cuts on Ned’s face.
“You’re out of practice. Pemberton got in more hits than I thought. ”
“Fucker had a ring on him, that’s what did the damage.” Ned spoke around a cut lip. He would probably have a sunrise of a black eye the next morning. “I’ve owed him that fight since Ypres.” He winced as Charlie started to wash out his skinned knuckles.
Charlie stepped back to look at his handiwork. Ned was no longer actively bleeding, and didn’t seem to have any serious injuries. “Still a damn stupid thing to have done.”
His breath hitched as he waited for what Ned would say next. Had he heard all of Pemberton’s ranting? Would he ask about Charlie’s field punishment?
Ned simply rolled his shoulders before saying, “I didn’t know you would be here!”
Ned extended his hand for Charlie to shake. Their palms were sweaty. Or maybe just Charlie’s.
“Andrew Matthews insisted I come.” Charlie’s answer felt limp. “That the memorial was in our honour and all.”
“He’s absolutely right. I had to help oversee the building of the damn thing, I should know.
Think the gate turned out well enough, although if I never have to work with Edwin Lutyens again, it will still be a day too soon.
” Ned spoke as if the construction of a massive memorial was just everyday business. Perhaps it was for him.
“He’s difficult?”
“Extraordinarily eccentric with an ego to match.”
“So you get on like a house on fire, then?” Charlie couldn’t help himself, not when Ned left himself open like that.
Ned chuckled and leaned back on his hands. “Did I really get into a pub fight in front of the whole Legion? How am I going to explain that to the Prime Minister?”
“Blame France.” Charlie shrugged. “Worked for the past thousand years of English history.”
Ned laughed again. Because it felt like the natural thing to do, Charlie sat down beside him on the fountain’s edge.
“There’s a lot of irony in that statement,” Ned said. “I was thinking just this morning how we all spent four years in this country and most of us never got to see more than mud and shell craters. Now we’re back…”
“For a battlefield memorial,” Charlie completed Ned’s thought.
“Seems like a wasted opportunity.” There was a wistfulness in Ned’s words.
Charlie knew all about those, which was probably why he let himself say what he did next. “You and I should go exploring tomorrow. For old times’ sake.”
“I’m supposed to have lunch with the mayor tomorrow afternoon, and then…” Ned didn’t sound like he was looking forward to any of it.
“I promise I’ll return you in time to attend the luncheon. Just a morning of fun.”
Charlie took a gamble that if he didn’t push too much, the temptation would be enough for Ned.
Ned stood up and pulled on his jacket, and Charlie realised with a start that he remembered Ned would often fuss with his clothes when sorting through his thoughts.
Ned was adjusting his cuffs when he turned to Charlie and said, “Amiens Cathedral is supposed to be spectacular. Shall we meet there at nine tomorrow morning? I should have a motor available.”
Charlie decided not to examine the smug feeling of victory in his chest too closely.