Jennifer Johnston - How Many Miles to Babylon?

PENGUIN BOOKS
HOW MANY MILES TO BABYLON?

Jennifer Johnston is accepted as one of the finest Irish writers and has an international reputation. Her books include The Captains and the Kings, The Gates, Shadows on Our Skin, zwhich was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1977, The Old fest, winner of the 1979 Whitbread Award for Fiction, The Christmas Tree, The Railway Station Man, Fools Sanctuary and The Invisible Worm. Many of her books are published by Penguin. Jennifer Johnston lives in Northern Ireland.

The next morning we stood to in the breaking dawn. An east wind carrying hail made the men restless. Major Glendinning with Barry at his shoulder spoke a few words.

A sorry lot.

There was a very long pause. Some poor bastard tried to stifle a cough, and it was as much as I could do to prevent my fingers tearing at the backs of my legs.

Canaille, I think our allies the French would say. The ah onus is on us to show the world that appearances arent everything. Yes, Sergeant Barry?

Yes, sir.

Barry glared round, obviously hoping to find some dissenter in the ranks.

Believe me, I understand your exasperation your impatience. The apparent futility of inactivity has to be borne, and you will bear it, and when it comes to fighting, which it will do, you will fight. Anyone who thinks otherwise will have me to reckon with, and I warn you all, here and now, that I have no scruples about meting out the ultimate. Understand. No scruples whatsoever. Ultimate. He enjoyed using that word. I hoped that the men realised, as I did, that he was not a man to throw idle threats around. We leave for the front at ten. Mr. Bennett and Mr. Moore will make sure that no packs are jettisoned for any reason. The fools tended, if the going got too hard, to drop what they considered to be the least important articles in their load in the nearest ditch.

A cock crew. An absurdly normal sound. The clouds were low and moving fast over our heads. As the darkness melted I could see that they were still green and snow-filled.

The Major tapped his cane against his boot.

Now, he said, almost as if he meant it, if anyone has any questions He left the words hanging on the air with the steam that burst from between his lips as he spoke.

Jerry stepped forward a pace and saluted.

Whos this? Whats this?

Barry leaned towards him and muttered in his ear.

Private Crowe, sir. You know.

Quite. Ah yes. Crowe. He stared at Jerry as if he were seeing him for the first time. Speak up, man.

I wondered, sir, would it be possible like, to transfer into the horse lines?

I blushed.

Am I to take it, man, that you are in some way dissatisfied with He gestured abruptly with one hand. The mens faces were expressionless.

Its not that, sir. I only feel I could be better occupied there. I seen the horse lines, sir. Theyre in a bad way. I could help out. Horses His voice faded. They both stared at each other.

They need someone like me there, he said finally. His voice was very firm, very contained.

Might I ask what you were doing in the horse lines?

I just went there, sir. Its like I said, I have an interest

In finding an easy billet?

I beg your pardon, sir, nothing was further from my mind.

In that case, Crowe, or whatever your damn name is, you wont mind staying where you are.

Jerry didnt speak, merely nodded slightly.

What was that you said? Speak up, man.

I said nothing, sir.

Ive had my eye on you for some time as a potential trouble-maker. Well, I warn you. Yes.

He seemed to have finished. The cougher tried once more to smother his cough. Sergeant Barry bit fiercely at the corner of his moustache.

Yes. He turned to Barry. Keep an eye on this soldier.

Yes, sir.

Nothing would give him more pleasure.

See the men are ready to leave at ten, Mr. Bennett.

Sir.

The Major turned and walked away, the cane twitching in his hand as if it had a life of its own.

Bennett fell the men out and we went for breakfast.

God, Jerrys a fool.

There were sausages and fried corned beef and potatoes for breakfast. The condemned mens belly full. I had received a letter from my mother which I was endeavouring to read. She always writes with the thinnest of nibs and the words have the look of live insects grappling with each other all over the white pages rather than decipherable words. The paper was thick and square and was faintly scented, a smell from her hands rather than anything more obvious and possibly vulgar. The corned beef was vile.

Ummm.

Youre not listening.

The corned beef is vile. They might have found us an egg or two for our last meal.

Bennett shouted across the room to OKeefe who was sitting with the men at another table.

Any eggs there for Mr. Moore?

Eggs? Whats eggs?

A damn fool. Bennett lowered his voice as he turned to me. Hey? Dont you think so?

It might have worked.

Not for a second. Hes got himself labelled now, and whats more, Barry doing heavy breathing round every corner.

the Daly boy came home on crutches, he had a hole blown in his leg, somewhere near you I suppose. He seems remarkably gay about the whole thing. Henry Townsend is missing. You are all so brave. Several of the girls from round about have gone to join the V.A.D. Soon there will be no young people left round here at all. Maud stayed for three weeks. Nice as she is I found it a little too long

You know the theory of the scapegoat?

It is too long since you have written. We all long to hear whatever news you can tell us. I, in fact, feel wounded by your silence. Everyone else seems to have time to write

Hey?

Shut up for Gods sake, Bennett. Im trying to read a letter from home.

He leaned across the table, over the cooling plates of corned beef and the steaming tea. His rum bottle was by his cup I noticed. I hadnt yet got into the way of rum for breakfast but it was presumably only a matter of time. He pulled the letter from my hand.

What is home? A rhetorical question which I will answer myself. The unreality of unrealities. The likelihood is that neither you nor I nor Jerry will ever see home again. If we do we will see it as different people. Therefore news from home is meaningless.

Oh, come

He tore my letter into small square pieces, a frown creasing the pale skin of his forehead as his hands moved and moved again. I just sat quietly and watched. He threw the paper scraps behind him on to the floor. Confetti. The soldiers at the other table watched with indifference. He smiled at me suddenly and reached out his destructive hand towards me.

Why dont you hit me?

I dont know.

For a moment he looked as if he were going to tell me, and then thought better of it. He picked up his cup instead and drained it down his throat. Then he got up.

Look sharp, he said across his shoulder to the men as he left the room.

I listened to his boots on the stone stairs. They struck sparks in my head as he climbed. The table at which we ate, drank, wrote, sprawled, waiting, was pale and furrowed with age and the scrubbing brushes of several generations of pride-ful women. The patterns of the wood and wearing lay gracefully on it, almost like the work of some artist. We had stained it with our mugs and glasses, brown rings and grey and, at one end, a cluster of cigarette burns. One damn fool had cut his initials deep into it with a knife. K.D., wounding, with three heavy lines scored below. Someone had spilled a blot of ink and then turned the blue stain into a crawling creature. We hadnt long left. Bennetts feet above my head were urgent. I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket, and my pen, and began to write to my mother. I wrote a detailed description of the table at which I sat. At that moment it seemed very important.