whitequeenasitbgan

[whitequeenasitbgan]

I just realised I danced in a solo “ruining” my makeup like he does. A coincidence? I don’t think so

Matthew And The Atlas - ‘Calling Long Distance’

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog Cap 12.

Schofield was back from from the front. His family welcomed him warmly. He couldn't bear to go home, but after what he had been through, that leave felt different. He still didn’t like it, but he disliked it less. He felt the taste of everything a bit more: the smell of the house, the talc powder on his daughters’ neck, fresh and clean before dinner time, his wife’s dress fabric as he touched her body, full of life. He made that dress: he was a tailor, before the war.

-A nurse called from the hospital this morning. I forgot to tell you- his wife said, as she was collecting the dishes after dinner. Will usually washed them: she loved it. -Called for what? -She said a man named Blake was asking to see you -Will stared at her. -Lieutenant Blake?- He asked. -No, she said Lance corporal, if I remember well. I’m quite sure she said Lance corporal. -That's impossible- Will answered -Lance corporal Blake is dead. But his brother was one of the men we saved. -I guess he wants to properly say thanks. Poor fellow, if he ended up in a hospital god knows what happened to him. You should visit him. -I will, first thing tomorrow morning-. -I don’t think so: first thing tomorrow morning you’ll do what you do last thing every evening. -what is it? -Make love to your wife- she whispered in his ear -I’ve left your new tobacco in the living room. Don’t be late- she said, as she walked away. -I won’t… Are you sure the nurse said Lance corporal?- -Maybe I just got it wrong, but yes, I’m quite sure ‘No, he can’t be alive. He stopped breathing in my own arms’

-Here is the phone, but make it quick. Many others need it -the nurse said, leaving behind the curtain. Tom missed some privacy. -Thank you - he answered. He picked it up, laying on his left side. The wholes is the right one still bothered him, but at least he was able to get up and walk. He was so slow that by the time he had reached the bathroom at the end of the corridor, he already felt the need to use it again. He calle the operator and asked for number 244, Limmeridge.

-George! The phone is ringing, I’m busy!- Mrs Blake ranted from the living room. -Busy at what? -Drinking tea! -Well I’m busy in the orchard. I’ve got mud on me boots! I can’t come inside! Mrs Blake stared at Mrs Evans -he’s not working in the orchard, he’s probably just hiding there smoking a cigar, cause he knows I hate it. Excuse me for a minute. Erin, take one more biscuit, dear -I already had three of your shortbreads! -I insist: you need to gain some weight, dear. A woman too thin doesn’t age well. Erin stared at her mother in confusion, as Mrs Blake went away, then whispered -Am I prematurely ageing? Am I too thin? -A bit. You should put on some weight, maybe your bosoms would grow -Thank you, so I basically am an hybrid between an old broom and a table. Very well. -I didn’t say that…- Mrs Blake screamed. Mrs Evans rushed to the studio, where she found her friend breathless and speechless, trying to stay on her feet, her weight sustained by a single arm on the desk. Her eyes wide open, like her mouth, gasping for air. -Oh my god! What happened? - Mrs Evans asked. Mrs Blake pointed at the phone and whispered -Tom phoned… - -But that can’t be possible… -It was him! I recognised his voice and he called me mom! Erin rushed at the phone, asking - You broke the phone?- and checking. Silence. -She broke the phone- she announced. -Mary dear, are you sure it was really him? Maybe it was just someone who sounded like him…- Mrs Evans asked. She genuinely thought her friend had gone mad. -He called me mother. it couldn’t be Joe, he’s got a whole different voice. No, it was my Tom. I’m sure of it. -Where was he calling from?- Erin asked, still on her knees, by the broken phone. -I don’t know… but the phone girl surely does! The phone company has an office in town. It’s just two miles away. But let’s keep this from mr Blake, his poor heart couldn’t bear to hope and then be deluded. -You hardly managed to, Mary -They surely know where the incoming call came from! Let’s go, Mrs Blake -I’m right behind you The three women thundered off. Mr Blake noticed, hiding his cigars behind his back, and asked his wife -where are you going, my dear? -To the Evans’ -What for? it’s dark already! -For… dinner! Mary forgot to tell you!- Mrs Evans answered. Bad liar. But Mr Blake was a good believer. -what time? -At 6:30 -Should I bring the car or… -THE CAR IS BROKEN, GEORGE, I’VE BEEN TELLING YOU TO FIX IT FOR A WHOLE WEEK! DO IT!  SEE YOU LATER!- Mrs Blake ranted at her husband, closing the gate behind her back. -Hurry up, girls. The office is about to close!

-Mum! Mum! Can you hear me?- Tom kept screaming at the phone. No answer. He felt ridiculous. He like modernity, but modernity didn’t seem to like him. His fellow from the next bed stared at him. -Your ma’ is not coming out of that phone to hug ya’, son -I just said “hi”, then she screamed and after that nothing. -She probably got emotional and threw it away. Bloody phone got broken. -You don’t know my mum. She never gets emotional. -You don't have kids. Don't worry: she’ll find out how to reach you. You’re not going anywhere soon. Good night, boy -Good night, sir- Tom answered, laying down, his head heavy on the pillow, full of thoughts.

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog Cap 11

April 7th, 1917

Smoke. Fog. The House. 

Where was he? Oh, yes. The farmhouse. He was stabbed there. Was he dead? he couldn’t tell. he felt a pain in the gut. The dead don’t feel the pain. But ghosts do. He looked at his watch. 5:30 am. The awakening of the day. Was his brother alive? ‘Scho’, did you make it?’, he whispered.

He woke up again. It was dark again. He was in pain. Someone was touching him. No,not someone. A crawl.

-Stop the truck! Stop it!- a voice said. A woman’s voice. Erin. Tom felt a hand on his face, then like a caress it moved over his mouth, waiting for a breath of life. -He’s still alive- the woman said -Come on! We have to take him to the hospital, NOW! The light of the day was bright again. He laid there for three days. -He’s going to die, look at him. Must have been here for days! -So what? We’re not going to leave him! Erin. -Hold on, Corporal! Hold on!

-Erin- Tom whispered. -Sedate him, he’s waking up- a man said. Lights. Metal. And pain. Tom opened his eyes. Someone was putting his hands in his guts, through the whole left by the blade when he was stabbed. He screamed as someone put a gas mask on him and strong hands fought to keep him still.

-Tom- Erin said, smiling at him, all dressed in white, surrounded by cherry trees. She was calling him. He tried to reach her, but he couldn’t. -Tom, what are you waiting for? It’s been so long! He stretched his arms further. She was turning into fog and smoke. The cherry trees were gone. She was fading away, leaving him at the farm.

-NO! Erin!- He screamed. His eyes wide open. He wasn’t at the farm anymore. There was a grey ceiling over his head. Beds all around him. He was in a church. People’s laments echoed in the building, where once white voices used to sing. -Calm down, Corporal- a woman said. -Erin… -No, I’m not Erin- she said -My name is Vera Brittain, I’m a nurse. I’m serving in the Voluntary Aid Detatchment. And you have been asleep for a long time. -I was stabbed… wha…what day is it?- Tom said, catching his breath. -2nd of May, lay down now. -What happened?- Tom said, obeying to the nurse. -I’ve found you at a farm near Ecouste -Bloody farm- Tom said, before realising he was swearing in front of a woman -sorry… -No need to apologise. I’m used to much worse than that. And by the way..It was a bloody farm. A German pilot was lying not far from you, shot to death. -His plane was on fire, got him out, and he stabbed me in return. Bastard. -Help is hard to recognise  when it comes from an enemy- said the nurse, checking Tom's bandages Tom remembered about the letter -Schofield! -Who is Schofield? -My mate, OUCH!- he screamed, trying to get up, but failing miserably. -Lay down, you’re going to brake your stitches! Calm down! -We had to deliver a letter to the 2nd Devons. My brother… Lieutenant Blake! Is he still alive? -I don’t know, stay down -I need to know if he’s alive! He and 16 hundred men… aargh -THE STITCHES! What are you talking about? -We had to prevent an attack, Colonel McKenzie… -Colonel McKenzie ordered to withdraw a month ago! -What day? -April… 7th I think. We had few incomes, you were one of them. The attack was shut down. -So he did it! -Who did it? -Schofield! -Who the hell is Schofield? Tom laid down on his pillow, happy, at last.

Few days had passed and Tom was beginning to lose his mind. He couldn't get up without help, he couldn't stretch his legs walking outside the building and even in bed there was nothing he could do to get distracted from the pain around him. One day they put a man behind him. His hands and half of his body were scolded, he desperately wanted to write to his family, so Vera managed to find some paper and Tom offered to write it for him. That didn’t last for long. The next day when he woke up the man was gone. Wether he was dead or simply moved to another room he didn’t know. Then Vera brought him a book, but it was in French. And it was a book of holy hymns. He was in a Church after all. -Can't sleep?- Vera asked, one night, walking across the room at the end of Tom’s bed, noticing he was still reading. -busy trying to put as much distance as I can between me and god. the more I read these hymns, the closer I feel to the Devil. -Have you written to your family? -I did. I didn’t mention all this of course. -Of course. Do your friends know you’re here? -I imagine so, Schofield must have told them. If they’re not here, it means they’re busy at the front. Poor bastards. -I’ll try to find you something else to read. You might be transferred soon. Overseas. Back to England. Not happy?- Vera asked, noticing Tom didn’t seem pleased by the news. At all. -No, I’m thankful, I believe. I just feel like… I’ve got used to the trenches. Spent the whole winter there. Part of the autumn. It’s weird to think I’ll be back home as all this is going on. -You’re not having fun. You were stabbed and you are recovering. -I suppose I just have to adjust to the idea. -You’ll get well soon. Better home than here, in France. Give yourself time. For now, I’ve got this- she said, taking a newspaper out of the huge pockets of her nursing dress. -Thanks. Miss Brittain… Can I ask you something?- Tom asked, leaving the news on his lap. -What is it? -Why are you here? I mean, in France. Doing this. -May I ask why? -You said you were a pacifist, I’ve been wondering why.… -Why do you want to know? Truly. Get to the point. If you want the right answer, you need to ask me the right question. -The thing is… I feel like a fool for joining the war. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Nobody knew either, everyone was proud of me. I was proud of myself for what I was about to do. Everyone but… a girl… -That Erin you kept screaming about? -Did I? -You don’t remember. Go on. I’ll pretend you didn’t call her just “a girl” in a pathetic attempt to lie- She said, sitting at the end of the bed. -Well she and I were supposed to marry, but I enlisted and she got angry at me. She was a pacifist, like you. I’m trying to understand her and your point of view. I want to know, I NEED to know. Vera took a deep breath, settled herself against a very uncomfortable footboard, like those of hospital beds, as if by doing that she could get more comfortable with the thoughts inside her head. -They call us traitors. Defeatists. We just think kings and men of power shouldn’t solve their issues by sacrificing other people’s lives. -Are you a communist? -Pacifism is apolitical. The truth is I wouldn’t be here if my Roland was still alive. But he isn’t. We were supposed to get married, too. All this was supposed to be over by Christmas at that time, I was angry, but things were different back then. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into. Nobody did. And I was more focused on my studies than on this war. One by one, all my friends and affections, even my brother died. And then I lost him. I left Oxford to come here. Cause I hoped to find him, to find out that he was not dead, but just wounded. What a fool. That hope went aways soon. Now I’m here because I just need to be here, cause each of my patients could be someone else’s Roland. -I’m sorry for you- Tom said, noticing she was sad. Not crying but sad. -How are things with Erin, now?- she asked. Genuinely interested: as if she was living the lives of the others -I’ve written to her. She wrote me, not to answer. Just her own decision. And we were both sorry. I’m waiting for an answer, now. Or maybe I should answer first. -They’ll send you back to England, for a while probably. You could ask her to come and visit. -The mail takes ages to reach England. -But the phone doesn’t. -She doesn’t have a phone. Her father hates phones. -Oh, er… We’ll sort this out. Maybe a telegram… whatever! As soon as you get to England try to reach for her. Don’t waste a single moment. And get married. Don’t wait for the sake of public opinion. For god sake, don’t. -She has just forgiven me, do you think she would say yes? -I don’t think it. I know it.

Cap 12

https://whitequeenasitbgan.tumblr.com/post/613333952655196161/the-house-of-smoke-and-fog-cap-12

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog Cap 10

May, 1917

Erin was walking around the garden early in the morning: she had lost weight, she was as pale as a corpse and her appetite was gone. She vomited every time she tried to content her mother and eat. She was nauseated by herself: she couldn’t even bear to look at herself in the mirror. He was dead. He probably died not knowing how sorry she was for not saying goodbye to him: he never answered her letter, after all; how could she be sure he knew. Not knowing how he had died was a torture. Did he suffer? Was he scared? Did he lay in the mud alone for hours before it all ended? She knew nothing. If only he could have relied on her, in his last moments. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference, he would have suffered just the same, but she felt like she failed him. Every human beings need to know they were loved when their life is about to end. He needed to know that he was loved. He needed her. But she wasn’t there. 

She heard a horse galloping down the alley. When she turned, she noticed the horses were two and on one of them she recognised Joe. He greeted Mr Evans, they exchanged a few words, a pat on the shoulder. Then Joe came towards her. -Would you like a ride? -I’m not in the mood, Joe… but I’m happy to see you home, safe. -Tom wouldn’t be happy to know I’ve left to go back to France without talking to you. Tom. Everything reminded her of him. Erin exhaled loudly -I hate all this- she said as she took the reins from Joe. -Erin! you’re not in the right attire for riding! Your knees will be showing!- Her mother screamed. She didn’t care. Female propriety couldn’t have bothered her less. -Don’t worry, Mrs Evans. I’ll make sure no one will see her - Joe said, as he galloped to reach Erin.

They rode silently through the woods. Erin stopped at the clearing where Tom used to teach her how to ride. Joe left the horses browsing on, then sat by her side, against Tom’s favourite tree. -She used to sit hear and scream at me ‘look forward! Heels down!’ all the time- she said, breaking the silence -He taught you well - silence. An awkward silence. Tom used to fill it with a joke. -My mom said you might have wanted to know… more. -About? -How he died Erin turned at Joe, astonished -You know? How? -I wasn’t with him, but I met a soldier. Name is Schofield. He was with him. -What happened, then? He told her everything. About the mission, the Letter, Erinmore, a guy named Leslie who warned them, the German trenches, the dugout, the rat, how Tom saved his mate as the earth was about to bury them, about the cherries.. and finally about the farm. -He had to help him. Bastard Boche- Joe said. He was crying. His voice was calm as usual, his breaths were regular, but tears were falling down his eyes. He cried like Anne. -So that’s where he left him? at this farm, near Ecouste? -Yes… I imagine they took care of him, but we don’t know if we will ever get the chance to.. well, bury the body. -I understand. Did he suffer? -I don’t think so -You’re like Anne… -Anne who? -My best friend, Anne Shirley -Last time I saw her was ages ago -She’s changed a lot since then. We all are. But she never learned how to lie. Neither you did. -My mom doesn’t know. I think my dad does, but she couldn’t bear it. -I can. I want to. He was stabbed, Joe. I know what that means. He bled to death. -Not for long. -Not quickly enough, though. -And there’s more- Joe said. He was embarrassed. Visibly. -What else? -Schofield said he had just received mail, before he left. One from mom right before Erinmore summoned them. And one from you, the night before. Spent all night talking about it with Schofield. He had so many things to tell you… I know this is a bit private and that Tom would have said all this way better than me… Anyway the point is: he felt like there was nothing to forgive, it was all his fault… -it wasn’t. We were two fools. No, two morons, definitely morons Joe laughed, struggling to keep going -he wanted to tell you the he was sorry about what happened cause it made you skip a year in college and he encouraged you to go ahead, follow you dream, cause the last thing he wanted was to stop you from doing what you wanted with your life. He said he was looking forward to meeting you. And that he loved you. He always had and he always would have. Erin was relieved, but not as she expected to be by the news. She had dreamed of it: she had dreamed to receive an answer to her letter, sooner or later, in which he said those things. She even dreamed he was still alive once and that she still had a chance to be with him one more time. But now that she knew that yes, he had forgiven her and that he still loved her, knowing for sure that he was dead made it all even more cruel. They remained silent, for a while. -What are you going to do, now?- Joe asked. -King’s Scholarship Examinations, I suppose. Then, if successful, I’ll attend training college for two years. -Sounds great…Have you thought where? -Westminster Training College -London? Your parents? -They don’t like the idea of me going to London alone. But knowing I’ll be with Anne has finally convinced them to let me go. They would have had to face Anne’s fury if they didn’t. -This is… Men are so privileged I’m disgusted by my own gender -A feminist, ladies and gentlemen! -And I also support the suffragettes. Every man should. How could a non represented woman give birth to a free mind -Don’t ever get involved with politics -Why I’m not good at it? -No, you’re great at it. People like you usually get killed. You could start a revolution. -I’ll just help you with yours, as much as I can- Joe said, turning to look at Erin. She looked thoughtful -what is it? -Nothing -Erin… -Ok… It’s just that my world has turned upside down: I.. I was meant to be married by now. Tom should have been with me, in London. I don’t feel as invincible as I felt before. I know it sounds pathetic, but I just miss Tom and how he made me feel safe and powerful. -It’s not pathetic -It is -Erin said. She wasn’t comfortable with her weaknesses. She tried to cheer up the conversation -Not to mention that it would have been much better if my parents knew Tom was always with me there to ‘guard me’ Joe started laughing. It was a genuine belly laugh -Tom?! He needed surveillance himself! God knows how many times I had to take him home dead drunk from the pub. Mum never found out. -You were very discrete…- Erin said, closing her eyes to catch a glimpse of sun, before he got back playing hide and sick with the clouds -Thanks for this, Joe -You’re like a sister to me, you know that. Anything you’ll ever need, I’ll be there. I mean this. I owe this to Tom. -Just be careful, that’s all I need - Erin said. Placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder and gently squeezing it. He felt nothing like his brother. He was way more muscular and rough than Tom. Had they been dogs, Joe would have been a majestic and elegant Great Dane. Tom wasn’t a pure breed, he had the energy of a Dalmatian and the hard working attitude of a Shepard. He was good looking but not in a rough way: he was sweet. He looked at you like a stray dog, as if he was asking ‘can I believe in you or will you just let me down?’. He he did look at you as if he deeply believed in you. He really did. -Time to go home - Erin said. -Sure I can’t do anything else for you?- -You know what? Actually there is something You could do for us -Us who? -Anne and me. You could take us to London on your way to France.

‘This is it’ Erin thought as the train was running towards London, leaving the countryside behind ‘this is the future’. Anne was right in front of her, talking to Joe. And Joe looked bewitched by her. What a fool: he wondered around London for so long until he ended up in the trenches that he missed to notice there was an extraordinary young woman right under his nose. She was a girl when he left, no corset, no hair… and he was Tom’s big brother, of course he didn’t notice. How much time did they lose. They all did. Erin smiled, contemplating happiness, then she turned at the window again. It was open, so she got closer to it and lifted her head to catch the breeze. The sun was warmly kissing her. ‘This is the future, Tom. You are in everything. And all that I’ll do will be for you’.

Cap 11

https://whitequeenasitbgan.tumblr.com/post/613333193352953856/the-house-of-smoke-and-fog-cap-11 

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog Cap 9.

April 24th, 1917

-Mrs Blake said her son is coming home- Mary was surrounded by all the girl in the class. Since her finals, Erin kept attending class, to help Miss Stacey with the lessons, providing assistance to all the students for homework. Her best friend Anne was very helpful. She was her age and should have been in college already, but her parents didn’t like the idea: ‘if you really want to go, a year will be nothing’, they said, hoping she would reconsider, maybe meet a boy and stay home, like everyone else. What boy? They were all in France. Erin and Anne were kindred spirits, they were lucky to have each other at such a hard moment. When one of them was tired, all they had to do was to look at each other. Anne could give Erin one of her ’We’re going to go to college together’ look and it was enough to keep going for her, and give Anne a ‘Everything will be all right’ look, in return. That gloomy afternoon, after a morning spent with the Limmeridge Women Committee at the library, preparing tea for the elder women, who had decided to organise a fundraising for the war widows, Erin looked at her friend across the classroom. Anne looked terrified. Erin looked like she was about to throe up. -Which one?- Prissy Davies asked, concerned about her sister. She was now happily married, but she was sure Emmeline would have always loved Joe Blake. Such a pity Joe Blake never did. Poor boy, he was not to be blamed: Emmeline was the most snob girl he had ever known. -I don’t know. I hope it’s Tom- Mary answered. Anne stared at the girl from across the room, then at Erin, not listening to the 6th grader she was helping with maths. Her eyes meant ‘what did she just say?’. -He’s free now, I’ve heard- Mary whispered, giggling. -Shhhhh! Miss Evans will hear you!- someone said -That pacifist. She’s a disgrace: she abandoned him at the time of need. She should be ashamed of herself. -I bet you have plans when he comes home. Are you going to take care of his broken heart? -It’s not broken. Cracked, maybe. But yes, I am burdened with glorious purposes. Anne was staring at the girl with her mouth wide opened. She stood up and came across the room to talk to Erin, who was cleaning the blackboard, pretending she didn’t hear a thing. -It’s all alright, Anne. Really. Maybe it’s Joe. -Maybe Anne stood there silently for a while: Erin knew she had feelings for Joe, but she never confessed. it was he secret. And she respected it. All of a sudden Anne said - You know what? After vote for women, feminism should start working so that women can, as well as men, have the right to punch each other without going to jail. Boxe for women. -Who would you sparring partner be? -Mary, of course After school, Anne followed Erin home for tea. They both didn’t want to be alone. -I don’t know how could I go through all this without you, Erin - Anne said, walking towards her best friend’s home. -I’d die lonely and depressed without you- Erin answered, her head on Anne’s shoulder. -Should we start digging our graves? Cause I kinda feel one of us is going to have a seizure by tomorrow and the other will follow. -We definitely should Anne and Erin were entertaining Erin’s parents with one of their theatrical performances. They were laughing. Happy. Mrs Blake felt cruel as she watched them from outside. Cruel, cause what she was about to say would have ended all that happiness. Anne was the first to notice her, while turning around the room in a clumsy waltz with Erin. She froze when she saw she was wearing a black dress. -What, what is it?- Erin asked, still laughing, looking at her friend Mrs Evans rushed at the door. Mrs Blake whispered something to her, then she turned to look at her daughter, not knowing what to do. She then exchanged a quick look with Anne and closed the door behind her, hugging Mrs Blake. -No… Mom, no! -Erin screamed.

All Erin remembered of what came next was confused. She learned her mother accompanied Mrs Blake back home: there she found Mr Blake sobbing. Mrs Blake was like a ghost, as if she wasn’t even there. Like a boxer who had just got hit in the head, she hanged around the house in semiconsciousness: still standing but finished inside. she crumbled down later, in the kitchen. Mrs Evans stayed at the Blake’s until dawn, by her friend’s side, just like Anne did. She met Mrs Evans at the door, as she was leaving. -Thank you, Anne -Oh, Mrs Evans… How is Mrs Blake? -Anne asked -Not well. You look tired, dear… Erin? -Not well. She will never forget herself… Erin heard her friend’s words, finally half asleep after a whole night of tears. Then she drifted off, thinking of Tom.

Cap 10

https://whitequeenasitbgan.tumblr.com/post/612402408993292288/the-house-of-smoke-and-fog-cap-10 

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog Cap 8

April 6th, 1917

The rat let go of the bag and fled into the wire. A flash of blinding light, then almost simultaneously -BOOM! Impossibly loud. Blake was flung backwards against the wall of the dugout. He began to pant, trying to catch his breath. He felt his head, reached for his torch on the ground, his eyes scanned the room. Where Schofield was standing before the explosion, a pile of rubber. Panic streaked across his face. Then there was a sound. Schofield was buried. Blake was on his feet. He frantically began to dig. Lips. Schofield’s mouth wide open, filled with pale grey dirt. Still. -Sco’! Wake up!- Blake screamed at him, tearing the chalk aways from his mouth. Schofield suddenly heaved into life, coughing up dirt, sawing in breaths. Blake grabbed at Schofield’s arm and with all his might wrenched him out of the dirt. -Stand up! The whole thing is coming down! As Blake looked, the chalk dust swirls in the air, drawn towards the tunnel entrance, sucked out by the backdraft. Their way out. Blake stood, half-dragged Schofield to his feet. Schofield could hardly see out of his dust-filled eyes. Blake pulled him over to the tunnel entrance. -You keep hold of me!- Blake screamed at his mate. Schofield coughed and convulsed, grasping on to Blake, towed along in his wake.The tunnel splited, one fork has been destroyed, Blake pulled them forward the only way they can go. -We need to keep moving. Come on!- -I can’t see! I can’t see!- Schofield screamed. Blake stopped suddenly -Stop! Stop! He had kicked a bucket that sits on the lip of a mineshaft. The bucket dropped into the hole, pulleys spinning ferociously. -Stop. It’s a mineshaft -he explained to Schofield as he looks for a way round it. It had been blown by the Germans -We’ll have to jump. Come on! Blake jumped across it. Schofield was frozen -You’re going to have to jump! Just jump. -I can’t… I can’t see!- Schofield panicked. Blake wheeled around and shone his light on Schofield. Schofield’s eyes streamed with tears and debris, he was paralysed, blinded. Between them was nothing but a gaping hole in the floor, fathomless blackness. The walls around them groaned under the strain. The place was coming down. -You need to trust me. Jump! Schofield teared in a breath then leaped forwards towards Blake, took off, jumped across the hole and landed hard. His back foot slipped down the side of the mineshaft, but Blake grabbed him, and heaved him up. Blake pushed forward, Schofield clinged to him. -Don’t let go of me! Don’t let go!- Blake said The sound of earth collapsing suddenly fills the tunnel. The dugout behind them had collapsed in. Ahead there was a fork in the tunnel. Blake spotted something to his right - a blue haze. Daylight. He pulled Schofield towards it -Light! There’s light! They scrambled forwards. Light began to flood the passage way. They reached the end of the tunnel and stumbled out into the light. Blake scrambled down a small incline, scanning for enemy. They were in a large sunken ditch. Schofield stood, bent double, at the mouth of the tunnel, trying to catch his breath. Both of them were covered with chalk dust. Erin’s voice coverd the echo of Blake’s panting. it coverd everything else. there was nothing but her voice -You look like a pale ghost. Are you a ghost?

-And I wish you’d picked some other bloody idiot. - What? -Why in God’s name did you have to choose me? -I didn’t know what I was picking you for. -No, you didn’t. You never know. That’s your problem. Blake was stung -Alright then, go back. Nothing’s stopping you. You can go all the way bloody home if you want- At the mention of home Schofield turned on him sharply. Blake knew the laws that ruled their life as an old married couple. No mention of Schofield’s home. A beat. Schofield put the tobacco tin back in his pocket -Don’t. Blake had crossed the line. He was calmer now -Look, I didn’t know what I was picking you for. I thought they were going to send us back up the line, or for food, or something. I thought it was going to be something easy, alright? I never thought it would be this. So do you want to go back? Schofield looked at him, softening - Just fire the fucking flare. Blake smiled, loaded and lifted the flare, and looked back towards the British lines. He whispered under his breath -Up yours, Lieutenant -then fired it straight up. The light streaked through the sky. Blake tossed the flare gun, lowered his hand to Schofield and helped him up, meaning ‘I’m sorry’. Schofield caught it, meaning ‘me too’.

-Cherries - Blake looked at one of the trees. He reached down, picked a blossom, held it up -Lamberts. They might be Dukes, hard to tell when they aren’t in fruit -he states as They begin to walk through the felled trees. -What’s the difference? Blake was a little wry, sensing Schofield softening. He had just unwillingly made him think about home again, talking about a medal. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was just a bit of tin. A bit of tin. Erin. Again. That’s what he said when he apologised for the necklace he gave her for Christmas years ago, a thing he himself had crafted, tied up to her neck with a ribbon: he felt stupid when he gave it to her, the girl he would’ve wanted to cover in gold. But she answered ‘It’s got a ribbon on it’. Talking about medals she would have probably been with Schofield.   -Well people think there’s one type, but there’s lots of them: Cuthberts, Queen Annes, Montmorencys. Sweet ones, sour ones... -Why on earth would you know this?- Schofield wonders -Mum’s got an orchard, back home. Only a few trees. This time of year it looks like it’s been snowing, blossom everywhere. And then in May, we have to pick them. Me and Joe. Takes the whole day. A pang of homesickness creeped into Blake as he and Schofield clambered over a downed tree. He noticed Blake was not there, but he knew his friend. He knew the only way to keep going for him was to talk about home. So he made him talk: how different they are and yet, Schofield would have followed Blake everywhere. .So, these ones all gonne? -Oh no, they’ll grow again when the stones rot. You’ll end up with more trees than before. ‘Always so optimistic’ Schofield said to himself. A large wall borders the lower end of the orchard, still intact. Schofield arrives at the gate. Ahead of them, visible through the gate was a small valley. In the valley laid the remains of a French farmhouse, abandoned. It was utterly derelict now - the roof was just a skeleton of beams. Next to it was a clapboard barn, ragged with shell holes. Blake wondered who might have lived there. Were they newlywed? Or an old married couple? How many kids did they have? Were they happy? How long were they gone? How painfully did they leave when the Germans occupied the area? He imagined the house before the war. It must have been beautiful. ‘Maybe they will come back and fix it, when all this is over’ he told himself. Everything was still. Schofield looked anxiously at the farmhouse. -It looks abandoned - Blake says, breaking the silence -Let’s hope so -We have to make sure

Cap 9

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[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog

Cap 7

April 6th, 1917

-Blake, if we’re not clever about this no one will get to your brother.

-I will- said Blake.

Schofield was wise, he had a point. ‘But it must be done, it will be done’ Blake kept repeating himself, ‘If I don’t do this, no one else will’.

Schofield kept telling him to slow down, to wait. He reminded him of Erin. Everything of him reminded him of her, to the point he sometimes believed it was her he was talking to, instead of Schofield. They were so similar: they both wanted to keep him alive, that was sure. He felt cruel towards his friend. He had a wife and two daughters back hime. ‘I should’ve picked someone else’ he thought.

-was it like this before Thiepeval?

-I don’t remember

-You don’t remember the Somme?

-No, not really

‘Why should he?’ Erin said. Blake was dreaming with his eyes wide open. She was there, talking to him, but he couldn’t see her. It was always like this, wether he was asleep in the mud of the trench, or wide awake. ‘You didn’t even answer to my letter, why are you bothering me?’ he muttered, Schofield almost heard him. He was so angry with her for not saying anything. 4 months had passed and not a word from her. ’Because I don’t want you to die, and you know it’, Erin answered. ‘I’ve been dying a bit each day since you disappeared from my life. I needed you, I need you now more than anything’ Blake answered. ‘It was you choice, not mine’ she said. Blake knew it. He was the one that got away, he was the one to blame, he knew it. He could be angrier with her as time passed by, waiting for an answer, but he could’ve never loved her less.

-you sure?

-Yes

Schofield grabbed Blake by the shoulder to stop him. He was ready to go. -Age over beauty- he said, meaning ‘I’m sorry for doubting you, I trust you. I’m with you until the end of the line’.

-Your hand alright?- Blake asked. The German trenches were really empty, they were safe. for now. It was a comfort to know Gen. Erinmore was right about it.

-Put it through an effing German

-Patch it up. You’ll be wanting again in no time.

-Wrong hand- Schofield answered.

At least he had his memories to blow off steam. Blake didn’t. He never regretted waiting. ‘If you want, I trust you’ Erin once said, meaning she was ready to give him something more than a kiss. Many times it had been hard to stop. They slept together many times: he used to let her light on for him, so that he could see it from his house, get silently out and spend the night with her, her parents unaware of it. They weren’t early birds: they risked to get caught more than once. But they were night owls. When they were together, they could stay up all night talking, laughing, whispering, kissing. Touching. Erin knew nothing of men. She learned how ‘sex and reproduction’ worked from a medical encyclopaedia at the library. He learned everything from one of his brothers friends. He visited him when he was in London for college. He had a date with a certain girl, for tea. He took him to a luxurious house in Chelsea. The girl had a sister. She was married, way older than Blake. Her husband was away. His brother and the girl disappeared. The woman kissed him, leaving Blake petrified. He was 14 at that time.

-What is it?- the woman asked him, noticing he wasn’t answering to her kiss.

-I don’t want to get you pregnant- Tom said, terrified.

-What? Who told you that’s how you make a baby?

-My brother…

-How kind- the woman said, getting up from the couch and walking to the other side of the room, towards a mirror.

-And you’re married…

-My husband can have extramarital affairs. Why shouldn’t I?- asked the woman, adjusting her dress to expose her décolleté, leaving Blake to question why social inequality had always favoured men over women in that matter -Your brother told me you have a girl

-Oh, no… she’d not my girl

-But you’re asking him sex, cause you’re planning something

-I don’t…

-Listen boy- she said, as she started to undress herself -I need a distraction and you need to learn. We can both help each other. If you don’t want to bugger everything up with this girl, you need to know how to do things right. Your brother had the decency to take you here, instead of booking a girl or two for you at a brothel, like fathers usually do. He’s saved you from syphilis and gonorrhoea. there’s no better way to learn than this. You don’t want to mess everything up on your first wedding night, do you? What if you hurt her?

-You have a point.

He liked it, but he felt like he was missing something -You’ll understand what it is once you get to this point with your girl. You won’t miss a thing- the woman said.

-Did I hurt you?

-Not at all

-Was I… good at it?

-Honey, you were great. And there’s margin for improvement. Your girl is a lucky one- she said.

Blake got lost in his thoughts, as Schofield was patching up his wounded hand. He remembered Erin, asking him to stay with her for the next time: ‘Do you think you could lie next to me and not need to go further?’. Then he remembered feeling her, how he needed to touch her and how she wanted to be touched. It was hard to stop, even harder when she told him she was ready to go beyond. ‘I want to do things properly’ he said. ‘Me too, but if you dare to leave me like Joe did with Emmeline Davies, to go have fun in London, I swear I’m going to eat your heart for breakfast’ she replied. He kissed her and tucked her warm in bed by his side, ‘first thing first, Joe left Emmeline cause she was a boring, classist bitch. Second… I’m not your brother. Kiss me good night, now’.

Schofield stood up. Blake came painfully back to reality. As the German trench reappeared in around him, flashes of Erin’s face in his arms, the feeling of her body began to go away. He never saw her naked, but she touched her and she touched him. The memory of her moans as he kissed her breast and caressed her inner thighs, her gasp as his fingers slid inside her, the feeling of her hands around him, her eyes as she sucked him, their pantings after they gave pleasure to each other, the peaceful sleep… it all faded away. A brazier full of spent white coal dust appeared instead. ‘Let’s see when these Huns went away’, he thought. He kicked it out of frustration,

-They’re not long gone- Schofield said.

Cap 8

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[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog

Cap 6

April 6th, 1917

-where’s Erin?- asked Mr. Evans, reading the newspaper while waiting for the breakfast to be served.

-Still asleep- replied his wife, with a raised eyebrow. A sign of disapproval. -She’s been studying all night. She’s gonna ruin her eyes. You need to talk o her, a good sleep is essential. And she’s getting thinner, cause she often forgets to have lunch when she works at the library. She lives life like a candle: burning. She’s gonna get weak, then sick, then sh’s gonna get pneumonia, or tuberculosis and then she’s going to DIE!

-People don’t die of pneumonia just because they miss a few hours of sleep: if they did, you and I would be long gone.

-Oh, stop joking. I’m serious.- said Mrs. Evans, throwing the pudding on her husbands plate.

-Darling, listen. She had a plan. She should have been in college, according to that plan. Do you remember how wasted she was after Tom left?

-Do you see this as a recovery?

-She’s going on with her life. It’s better than crying, isn’t it?

-She’s not crying but she’s not well.

-She will be.

-Why are you so happy about this college thing all of a sudden? you didn’t like it so much when she came up with it.

-I didn’t like the idea of her alone, cause that’s how educated women who want to build a career for themselves like a man usually end up. I was terrified by the idea. I gave her my permission only when I learned that Tom was going, too. But now… another year of war has passed…- Mr Evans stopped waving the spoon as he always used to do when he was discussing about something at the table. He let it sink in the pudding as he said -every family in the village has a relative at the cemetery, every family but the Blakes, who are afraid to see me cause they think I’m gonna tell them that one of their boys is dead. Our generation was so enthusiastic of this conflict, we all thoughts this war would have been a precious occasion for our sons to show their value. ‘It will be over by Christmas’, we used to say. I used to think ‘My daughter will be the wife of a hero’. I, her own father, already saw her as nothing more than Tom’s wife. Where is that boy now? Hopefully, in France. Probably in danger. Maybe dead.

-Oh, don’t say that

-I have to face reality, just like Erin did. And even if he survives all this who knows how is he gonna be. Do you remember the Smith’s son?

-The one who came home on leave and didn’t say a single word?

-Exactly. do you know what happened to him? He shot himself.

-Why are you bringing this up, now?- barked Mrs. Evans, crossing herself.

-Because Tom might be gone forever already, even if he’ll come back. I won’t be relieved to see Erin marry him. I would be worried. Doctor Sewell told me..

-Oh, you always listen to that fool… he drinks too much

-But he’s the best doctor I’ve ever seen. He’s read an article about a chronic syndrome, these shell shocked guys stop talking, walking, eating, taking care of themselves, while others look normal at first site, but at night they have nightmares and panic attacks, suffering of a form of alienation… one of these men strangled his wife cause he thought she was a Bloche!

-the great majority of these so called shell shocked are cowards.

-There seem to be many exceptions, though.

-Whatever…

-All I’m saying is I hope she’ll go to college and forget about Tom, the war and just live as if we had made no mistakes.

-What mistake?

-Mistaking a war for something glorious.

Someone rang the bell.

-Are you waiting someone- Mrs. Blake asked.

-It��s Mrs. Blair- said Mr. Evans, greeting his colleague. Mrs. Blair had taken her husband’s job when he left for the front. -What do you have for us, dear Mrs. Blair? May I tempt you with some pudding?

-Oh, no thanks. I’m on a rush. Here…- said Mrs. Blair, taking out a wrinkled letter - this one has come a long way.

Mr. Evans took the letter: it was clearly from the front. It couldn’t be Tom. Erin had told her parents not to expect any mail from him or to burn anything from France.

-is it from Erin? is it Tom? She said to burn any letter from the front- asked Mrs Evans as Mrs Blair went away.

-oh, I’m going to regret this: ERIN! YOU’VE GOT MAIL !!!

Erin opened her eyes. Did her father just screamed ‘you’ve got mail’? Or was it just a dream?

-ERIN, DID YOU HEAR ME?

She rushed downstairs, slipping on the last step. Could it be just one of her friends? No. They were all from Limmeridge, why writing if they could just visit. She opened the letter, then got closer to the window: it was all wrinkled, and the ink was almost faded, as if it had caught a lot of rain.

25th December, 1916

Never look away. I’m sorry.

Love, Tom.

it wasn’t an answer to her letter. She had written to him to apologise at the beginning of January. It took her two months to write exactly what she meant. It was way longer than the one Tom had written to her, but he wrote her first.

‘You made me wait for you for three days before you left, a whole year since you disappeared from my life, but you had to say sorry first. You can’t help doing it. It’s your style’ she told herself smiling, as if Tom was right there, outside the window, smoking in the garden. ‘Never look away, my love’. She whispered.

Cap 7

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[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog

Cap 5

November, 2016

Blake emerged from his memories: Crawley’s body was still there. He had been a fool, he should’ve listened to him. He should’ve written to Erin. He checked his pockets. He had no paper. He had asked his moms to send him some, but the mail was bloody slow.

It was raining cats and dogs, anyway. He remembered Crawley had a drawing album, a small one, hidden in his pocket, where the heart was. He dragged him down. His brain was coming out of his smashed skull. He laid him down gently, covered his head with the helmet, then took off the album from Crawley’s pocket.

-leave him- ranted an officer.

-I was just covering his face, Sir. Can I carry him to the sidelines? He was my friend.

-where?!

‘He’s drunk. This guy is bloody drunk’ Blake told himself. ‘Our superior officers drinks wine like a trunk drinks gasoline’

-to the sidelines, Sir. To the trains, he’s going to go home to rest now, isn’t he?

-of course, the Archbishop of Canterbury will officiate the funeral and the whole royal family, dogs included, will be present to comfort the widow. WAKE UP, lad. He’s going to a mass grave, just like everyone else. He’s lucky to be here. A couple of metres further and we would have left him to the crawls... fucking babies. Fresh from training. What did you expect?

-but we have his body, we should send him back home, the military code...

-SCREW THE MILITARY CODE. Whoever wrote it has never seen a trench. If you die in this trench, you don’t get to go back home. You die here, knowing there’ll always be a corner of a foreign land that is forever England. These are the orders.

-orders from who? -Blake dared to ask. ‘Over my dead body I’ll let them bury you in France’

-orders from who...?!

-From who... Sir - said Blake. ‘Fucking military ranks’

-FROM UP ABOVE YOU BLOODY IDIOT, FOR I AM YOUR GOD NOW. YOU DON’T EVEN PISS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION NOW, YOU GET TO BREATHE ONLY CAUSE I LET YOU DO IT, UNDERSTOOD?- the officer spat as he ranted at Blake,

-Yes, Sir.

-Lieutenant White?- a gentle but firm voice broke the tension.

-what is it, Schofield?- the officer asked, his eyes still on Blake.

-May I suggest that we let this poor fella’ take his friend to the sidelines? The rats will banquet on that corpse and by tomorrow morning you will wish you had gotten rid of it.

-how much water do we still have?

-about that, Sgt. Barnes just told me to go get some. And get the chow. It’s almost soup time. A good meal will cheer up the morale. It’s been a long day, Sir.

-the last of a long Battle. The Somme- the officer kept talking at less than an inch from Blake’s face. He could smell his rancid breath -you may have seen the end of it, but had you been here from the beginning you wouldn’t have been this soft. Now that I think about it, such an idiot would have never survived. I doubt you’ll see the end of the next battle. Or the next day... take him with you, Schofield. And take that bloody corpse away from me. It stinks already.

-this way- Schofield said.

-why are we going to the hospital?- Blake asked

-you’ll see.

Schofield stopped at the entrance of a field hospital. He went in and talked to one of the nurses, a noun. He pointed at Blake, then she walked outside the tent, towards Blake.

-is it this one? Poor fella’ I’ll take care of him. I’ll make sure he catches the next train home.

A smile appeared on Blake’s face -Thank you, sister...?-

-Sister Michael, and as your tag says, you must be Lance-corporal Blake.

-yes Ma’am.

-go fetch your chow, now. Both of you.

-we need water, too.

-ask to those guys, they’re from the artillery. They always have some for the horses

-thanks, sister. Take care.

-you more. I’m not sleeping side by side with the Boches.

As they walked away, looking for the artillery guys Sister Michael talked about, Blake asked how did Schofield know that noun would have helped.

-Sister Michael? She’s the granny of the regiment. If God had a problem, He would ask her how to solve it. Plus, she still has a heart.

-So do you. Thanks for what you did. I’ll write to Crawley’s family about you.

-No need, spare the paper. You need it- said Schofield, pointing at the albums in Blake’s back pocket.

-I wasn’t stealing it.

-I’m not accusing you. He’s dead now. You need it more. Are you writing to someone?

-My mum.

-Nobody would steal an album from a corpse to write to his mom. You’re writing to a girl.

-I didn’t steal it. I just needed some paper. I’ll send it back to his family as soon as I get some.

-I was just joking, mate... so, how is your girlfriend? Blonde? Dark haired? Or red? I like red heads. I married one.

-She’s not a red head. And she’s not my girlfriend.

-Oh, an unrequited love. That’s interesting- Schofield exclaimed zigzagging among the tents, the wounded men waiting to be taken care of, the munitions, soldiers on their way to somewhere.

-It’s complicated.

-How much?

-This much- Blake said, mimicking ‘a lot’ with his arms. Mimicking was something he took after his mother.

-If that’s the size of your balls, then you don’t need paper, my friend. You need a brothel

Blake stared at him, a cheeky grin on his face.

-No, that’s the sized of my cock.

-Well then that’s why she’s not your girlfriend. If you screwed her, she would die - Schofield said, laughing as Blake punched his arm playfully.

-Enough, now. I’m really fond of her. I respect her. And I’m a gentleman. I would have waited for our wedding night.

-Are you a virgin?

-I’m a gentleman, not a monk.

-Just asking. A vergin in the trench is bad luck. I don’t give a shit about this stuff, but the others do. So, why isn’t she your girlfriend?

-She was. But she, ehm... got angry, when I enlisted. So she’s not anymore. She felt like I had betrayed her. I did, somehow. She’s a pacifist, you know. Of course she’s got to keep it quiet: pacifism is a synonym of treason in a small town, like Limmeridge

-even in a big one like London. My wife almost got arrested once. She’s a suffragette. Pacifism is the second love of her life.

-The first being you?

-No. Vote for vomen. Then our daughters, our two dogs and a cat. I’m somewhere in between her cat and her favourite teapot.

-Sounds like she hates you.

-She does. Women can hate us more, but they cannot love us less. For luck. Cause we’re bewitched body and soul by them. God, how I love that woman. I’m getting melancholic. No more talking about my wife. Let’s get back to your girl. Where were we?

-At She felt like I betrayed her... with a rifle.

-Well, you’re a brave man, mate. What you just did for your dead friend was brave, considering Lieutenant White is despicable when he’s sober and deadly when he’s drunk. But I’m afraid your also an idiot.

-Why?

-You’re here.

-So are you!

-I’ve never said I wasn’t. I’m twice the idiot you are. I enlisted two years before you did. Well, I bet your friend would be happy if you used that paper to write to this girl of yours. What’s her name?

-Erin.

-If Charlton asks you, lie.

-Why? Who is he?

-Private Robert Charlton. Cocky little bastard. He loves singing dirty songs about other soldiers’ wives. His girlfriend left him for a medical officer... How long have we been walking?

-Ehm -Blake checked his watch -5 minutes more or less.

-5 minutes! Where the hell are the guys from the artillery? We’ve been walking for ages.

-I pity your wife if 5 minutes is like ages for you.

-How fun... I can smell the horses but where are they?

-That way, on your left.

-Oh- Schofield exclaimed, surprised. Blake had spotted a single man from far away -you have good eyes, uh?

-I could shoot a duck at 100 yards, if I wanted to. But ducks did nothing to me. I’d rather hunt Bloches.

-It’s nice to know I have a good sniper watching my back.

-I can teach you, if you want. It’s not about sight. Once you spot the target it’s all about breathing.

-Is there something you can do for the spotting part. It’s not that I don’t see well. I just don’t spot well.

-Nothing, sorry.

-I suck at shooting. I’m great with grenades, though. You should have seen me in my good old rugby years...- they were approaching the artillery, the men resting under a tent -Ask them about the water.

-Why me?

-Because you’re nice, and I am tired.

-I’m tired too

-ask for the water: I’ll get you some food

-now we understand each other

-You know what? I think we’ll get along, you and I.

-It’s Schofield, right?-said Blake, offering his right hand to shake. How curious: they spoke so easily they forgot about manners. But who cared about manners in the trenches?

-William. Will. And you’re Blake.

-Tom. Nice to meet you, man.

-Me too, mate. Now go ask for the water.

-we already sound like an old married couple

-we’ll have time to work on this- said Schofield, waving his hand on his way to the field kitchen.

Cap 6

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[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog

Cap 4

November, 1916

During the Somme battle and through the winter months, the Germans created a fortification behind the Noyon Salient that would be called the Hindenburg Line. This line of fortifications ran from Arras south to St Quentin. British long-range reconnaissance aircraft first spotted the construction of the Hindenburg Line in November 1916

-follow me- Crawley said. And Blake followed, as if Crawley was his big brother. He missed Jow more than anything now.

It was their first mission. They didn’t know it, but they were in the middle of what History would have called the Battle of the Ancre. It was the last big British operation of the year, Blake thought: the weather would have kept both sides occupied for a couple of months. He didn’t want to disappoint anybody. He wasn’t happy to be there, but that’s where he wanted to be: it felt strange, as if his body and his mind always wanted opposite things.

The first attack on Serre failed, although a brigade of the 31st Division, which had attacked in the disaster of 1 July, took its objectives before being withdrawn later. After 5 days, Blake and Crawley were following their mates: their unit was ordered to support the Canadian 4th division. They had conquered Regina Trench. Their next target was Desire Support Trench.

-always look ahead, keep your eyes opened for the Boches.

-never look away, got it- Tom said. Erin’s face coming to his mind: ‘never look away’ was how she said goodbye to him every time they parted.

Good luck, Tom.

Good luck, Cro

-silence now- whispered the Sargent Barnes.

That’s how it began.

By the end of the battle, Blake was sitting in the mud, covered in blood. He couldn’t even know if it was his blood or someone else’s: the barbed wire had trapped him right after they went out of their trench. He almost got killed because of it. He almost immediately lost Crawley. When they finally got the Desire Support Trench, the Canadians moved forward. The commanders ordered to go ahead and gain as much land they could. It was a massacre. They met a fortification, trench made of solid concrete. The Hindenburg Line. They withdrew, and finally rested as the day was coming to an end and the rain started falling.

-they knew it was there, they knew about the line, they must have seen it from the planes, they’ve been flying over it for days. What was the purpose of moving forward? We’ve lost more men trying to Go back here, then conquering two trenches. Bloody bastards

Soldiers were complaining all around Blake. He was unusually silent. Unusually dark. Unusually lost. Crawley’s body was right in front of him. His face deformed by a bullet that ended his life. He had never lost Blake. He was always there right behind him. ‘Sorry, mate. I can’t fallow you where you’re going now’, he whispered.

His memory went back to when he told him about Erin that past summer, while they were in training, smoking Crawley last cigars under an incredibly uncomfortable tree.

-what happened then?- Crawley asked -how did you get from I love you to not even writing to each other.

He genuinely wanted to know. And Blake told him everything

-on 1916 some politician came up with this Military Service Act, which would have introduced conscription later on that same ear. No one else wanted to volunteer anymore. The government had finally realised they were running out of men. I was running out of time, instead. It was my last chance to enlist and prove I was no less than my brother, no less than those who were fighting. My last chance to prove I wasn’t a coward. How was I supposed to go to college , go on with my life and get a job? Who would have ever employed a coward? And without a job I had no future, nothing to offer to Erin. Nothing. So I enlisted. You can imagine how my mother reacted. She rushed to Church in tears. She spent the whole day there, praying. I guess she met Erin on her way back home from school. She noticed something was wrong. My mom tried to dissimulate, but she’s always been a bad liar. She’s like an open book. Erin followed her home. I had just finished to pick up the last cherries in my mother’s orchard. I used to do it with Joe. It was our thing. I wanted to finish it before I left. And then I heard her voice, like a whisper behind me. She wasn’t crying she sounded more as if she was breathless. As if her lungs were collapsing under a weight she couldn’t bear.

-it’s true, then. You really did it- she said.

I couldn’t bear to look at her. She was so beautiful, even in anger. Her white dress and the cherry blossoms were one whole. She was there, right in front of me, all dressed in white. I didn’t want to leave. I only wanted to take her to Church and marry her. But I couldn’t.

-I knew it - she kept saying. I tried to approach her, but she pulled me away.

-I knew three years would have been too much for you. I expected you to fall for some other girl, I could have understand that. I’m not a beauty and I am not easy, I’ll give you that. But I’ve never imagined you would have given up on me for rifle. A. BLOODY. RIFLE- she screamed, hitting me. She wanted to hurt me, I think but at the same time she did nothing too harmful. She could have gone for the head. Kick me in the ass. Punched me. I would have never reacted and she knew it. But she didn’t truly hurt me. She was just venting her anger.

-I hope you will survive, Tom Blake. And that you will spend the rest of your days on this earth with your precious baionette, cause if it’s mental you prefer, then metal you shall have. I’ve never thought you could have the courage to kill a man, and I admired that. But I suppose I was wrong, you’re just like everyone else. I thought you were just being a bit of a blowhard when you talked about how much you’d have enjoyed to kick some boches’ asses and get your big brother home again. But you weren’t. You were serious. Just like everyone else. Go then. Get married with your rifle. I hope it will take care of you in the years to come, cause I won’t for sure. I will go on with my life, just as planned, wether peace will come or not. I will live. Not survive, waiting for someone who picked death over me. And when you’ll be there, in the mud of a trench, among the rats Joe talked to you about, don’t you even dare to think about me. I won’t be there with you, you won’t be in my thoughts. I won’t wait for you, looking at the horizon like a pathetic shell of a woman you can read a bout in a shoddy novel. For three years We kept telling each other to keep our eyes on our future, to keep going forward, you even like when I tell you ‘never look away’ more than when I say ‘I love you’... you lied to me, you BASTARD! You’ve been looking away the whole time. To bloody French trench. I am so angry with you for not saying anything... you should have told me you wanted to enlist. You should have told me

-And then? What happened then?- Crawley asked.

-she caressed my cheek one last time. She struggled, as if I was fire. She almost couldn’t touch me. And then she walked away. I tried to follow her, but she told me to not to. And the way she did it hurted me more than anything else, cause I was hurting her just by being there. As if my presence was stabbing her. I followed her from afar, then. She didn’t notice me. I made sure she reached her home safe. I watched as she disappeared behind he door. That was the last time I saw her. I went by her door every night, before I left, hoping to see her shape in the backlight of her bedside table’s lamp. She used to leave it on for me, sometimes, as a sign. And I used to climb over the porch, get in by her window and sleep with her. But this time she didn’t turn the light on.

-I see... did you ever think about writing to her?

-all the time. There’re so many things I’d like to tell her

-but ?

-but she doesn’t even want me to think about her, how on earth could I dare to write her? She asked me not to, and I must respect that.

-you must... uhm. What did she mean by ‘you even like more when I tell you to never look away, than when I say I love you’?

-it was just a thing I had... I didn’t like to say I love you. I meant it, but I didn’t want to say it.

-You lost me

-how can I explain it... everyone says I love you. It’s on war postcards, unknown women working in helmets factory write it on an old piece of newspaper and hide the note inside it, lovers at the train station, actors in movies, characters in books, everybody says I love you. Many times they’re lying. Or faking it. You can even find it on Valentine’s pralines. I don’t want to express my feelings for Erin by saying something you can chew. We had our secret tongue, Erin and I. One day she was comforting me, cause I had panicked for my finals, I felt like a good for nothing and she told me ‘when you’re scared, think about all the amazing things that are waiting for you. Keep your eyes on your future. How could you be a good for nothing? You can succeed at something everyone else’s failed: making me happy. Remember: Never look away’. And it just clicked my mind. From then on that’s how I told her I loved her.

-just write her that

-she would burn the letter.

-mate, I’ve been married for a decade. Listen to me. Write.

Cap 5

https://whitequeenasitbgan.tumblr.com/post/611703492595335168/the-house-of-smoke-and-fog

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog

Cap 3.

December, 1916

Erin knocked at Mrs Blake’s door. She opened, always happy and cheerful, just like her son.

-Hello, Erin! My dear girl! Come inside, George! Erin is here, come!

Erin was quite surprised from this invitation. She hadn’t visited the Blakes since Tom told her he had volunteered. Since they argued. She wasn’t even at the train station to say goodbye. She expected his mother to close the door on her face. But there she was serving tea and biscuits. Mr. Blake was smoking his pipe, reading the newspaper loudly to the two of them.

-Well, according to the news, the frontline hasn’t moved for days- said Mr Blake, putting down the newspaper to pick up one of his wife’s famous shortbreads.

-And this is a good thing or a bad thing?- Erin asked, in a clumsy attempt to hide her curiosity.

-Good, isn’t it?-said Mrs. Blake

-I suppose

-George! Who else in this house is supposed to know? You’ve been at war. You should know!

-first thing first, it was a totally different kind of war. We weren’t fossilised in trenches. We kept moving, it was a totally different strategy. Second, I was in the cavalry. And last but not least, when I left for war, I was young.

-My husband seems unable to reassure us, Erin. He has no respect for my nerves

-you’re wrong. I respect them. Truly. They’ve been my best friends for the last two decades. I don’t wanna tell you a lie, that’s all it is.

-Thank God the boys keep me updated, they write quite regularly.

Erin felt a sting of embarrassment. Mrs. Blake almost mentioned her youngest son.

-oh, ehm... are they alright?

-Yes, Joe has been promoted. He’s a lieutenant now. Tom finished his training with the rank of lance corporal and has been deployed to France in November.

Deployed. He was fighting, then. Erin hoped for the war to end before he had to. Christmas was close. The end of the war wasn’t, though.

-you must be proud- Erin said, in a clumsy attempt to hide her worries. Yes, they argued, but she cared for him. How couldn’t she.

-are you alright, dear?

-Yes, of course.

Mrs. Blake didn’t seem to believe her: she exchanged a quick look with her husband, meaning he had to leave the room, so that she could talk to their guest in private. Erin remembered Tom and she had developed the same secret tongue: just a quick look across the crowd and they managed to leave, unnoticed, to spend time together. A stab in her back. She hated how those memories tortured her, but still she was thankful for them. She treasured every moment.

Mr. Blake got up from his favourite armchair, -I need to collect some wood for the fire, darling. Would you excuse me? My wife gets hysterical when she’s cold.

-of course I do, there’s only one thing you have to do, now that the boys are away and still you forget about it. I am not your servant. I love you, darling -Mrs. Blake said, mad at him.

-Goodbye, Mr. Blake- Erin said, trying to smile.

As he left, Mrs. Blake closed the door behind him and went to sit on the couch, by Erin. She took her hands and asked her:

-what is it, darling?

Erin never cried. She hated to. She was fighting against her tears. When Mrs. Blake pulled her close and hugged her, she surrendered. Her embrace was warm and comforting. She really was Tom’s mother: he reacted the same way, when Erin was crying. He just hugged her. Every time. He was always there for her, but not this time. His mother felt different, but Erin was thankful for that hug.

-I’m so sorry Mrs. Blake...

-for what, my dear?

-for what happened with Tom. For being angry with him. For yelling at him in your orchard, you must have heard everything...

-You should have heard me, when Mr. Blake told me he had volunteered before we got married. Like father, like son. You were kind, compared to my fury. My dowry was ready. His position at the bank was secured. It was just a matter of time. I was almost 24. One more year and I’d have been perceived as a spinster, a failure. Imagine how under pressure I felt. And this fella’ came to me, galloping on his brand new Irish drought he bought with the money he had saved for the wedding, all dressed up in his military suit, he got off the horse and he said: ’I’m going to war’, smiling from ear to ear.

-what did you do?

-I punched him in the face. When he came back years later he apologised. His mother told him I had refused any other suitable proposal. So he came to me, seeking for atonement. Two months later we were married and Joe was on his way to this world.

-I thought he was born prematurely.

-that little bull? No way!- Mrs Blake laughed, pleased by her ability to manoeuvre the village’s public opinion. It was her talent. She could have made people believe elephants filed. She would have been a successful politician. -you won’t tell anyone my little secret, won’t you? Poor Joe would be appalled.

-of course, it will be buried in my grave

-did I cheer you up?

-a bit- Erin smiled.

-there’s nothing to forgive. Men seem to love war more and more these days, but they’ll never love us less. They’ll always come back to us. Everybody was enlisting. There were men risking their lives at the front, his brother among them. Tom felt he didn’t have the right to do any less than those men. How could he walk on the streets, passing by mothers, sisters and girlfriends of those women. He felt he wasn’t worthy of you. Not until he proved it on the battlefield.

-prove what? I know his value...

-to prove that he had done what he had to do, that he’ll be able to stand proud in this curious society of ours, walking with you, a beautiful woman by his side, knowing people will say ‘he deserves to be happy, cause he fought, he didn’t stay home like a coward’. He loves you deeply. Before he got on the train he told me to look after you. He didn’t expect you to come, though he kept looking for you among the crowd.

-I wasn’t even there. I was so angry.

-I know.

-I expected him to come and see me again before he left. For three days. But he didn’t.

-I’ve tried to convince him, but the last day he got angry at me. He’s gets angry easily, but never with me. I didn’t realise I was exasperating him. He wanted to see you again. But he knew he would have never had the strength to see you and leave the next day.

-what if he...

-no, dear! Don’t think about that. It doesn’t help. Think about what you can do now. Write to him. Tell him how you’re feeling. Don’t leave anything unsaid. Whatever happens.

It was almost dark when Erin took her way home. She met Mr. Blake at her gate. He had visited her family. It wasn’t curious. He and her father were close friends.

-oh, Erin! I completely forgot to tell you, the tea obscures my old mind, I believe. Tom was asking about his horse in his last letter...

Joy. Tom’s horse. The one he used to secretly teach her how to ride. The one he used to walk back to school, until they reached the hills behind it, jumped on the saddle and galloped away. Another stab.

-I have noticed he’s getting a bit fat. I really don’t have the time, not the physique du role to exercise him properly. Nor Mrs Blake. I know Tom wouldn’t trust anyone else but you around his horse. I was discussing this matter with your father and... apparently he agrees it would be good for you to get some fresh hair and go for a horse walk every now and then.

-how did you convince him?

-oh, I didn’t do anything. Goodbye!

-goodbye Mr. Blake. And thank you!- Erin said, trotting home excited.

-you’re welcome, come anytime you want, you know the barn right?

-Yes, Tom showed me everything! How about tomorrow, Mr Blake?

-sounds good to me!

Tom. That was the first time she said his name, since they argued. Her mother was waiting for her on her doorsteps, a big smile on her lips.

-did he tell you- she asked.

-how did he convince dad?

-he just told him he noticed sadness didn’t suit you- Erin was left petrified by that revelation. He thought she was good at faking. She didn’t want her parents to worry. She didn’t tell them about Tom. She thought she managed to keep it secret. She was wrong. -we knew it, Erin. Mrs. Blake told me everything the day Tom left. Come in, now. Dinner is ready.

The next morning Erin gave her dad a letter for Tom -thanks, papà.

-oh, don’t tank me, thank you mother. I couldn’t bear to see you sad as a widow anymore and she suggested this. She was right, I suppose, she always is. Give me a kiss, now... and off you go. I’ll be late. And be CAREFUL.

Erin took the horse on top of a hill. She had this silly idea that if she could set her eyes on France, somehow This would have helped Tom. She kept telling herself ‘don’t look away. Look at France. Keep your eyes where he is’. She reached the top, but the all she could see was clouds

-Sorry, Joy. I made you climb this hill like a monkey for nothing. Clouds. I was only hoping for a thin black horizon. Not that I expected to really see France from here. I’m not that mad.

Then she remembered. Tom. Talking to Joy. Looking at her. Smiling. ‘I’m not mad. I promise. I just love talking to him. He’s a good listener’. Joy was almost asleep. His eyes closed, his breath calm, Tom softly caressing him, holding the horse’s face in his arms, almost like a baby. ‘He’s sleeping, you know that?’ Erin said, getting closer to Tom. ‘I didn’t say he was good at answering. That’s your forte’. And he kissed her.

Another stab.

She was getting used to it: to the pain.

‘Be careful out there, my love’, she whispered.

Cap 4

https://whitequeenasitbgan.tumblr.com/post/611701976132206592/the-house-of-smoke-and-fog

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog

Cap. 2

Crawley sat silently by the tree, listening to his friend.

Blake started recalling his childhood, his teenage days, in every happy memory she was there.

Erin. The smartest, most elegant and charming girl he had ever seen. She wasn’t just pretty. Indeed, there were prettier girls than her in Limmeridge, the village where they grew up. But all these girls didn’t have Erin’s bright mind, her genuine enthusiasm for life, her kind of... magic. That’s what made her the most beautiful girl in the world for Blake. He couldn’t bear to spend a single day without listening to her voice. She was supportive. She had faith in him. She believed in their future. ‘We will rebuild Camelot’ she used to say. They had been playing that game since grammar school. He was King Arthur. She was Guinevere.

On Christmas’ Eve 1913, they went to Church together, at night. The Mess was crowded, too crowded for their family to notice they weren’t attending it. They were by the river, under the falling snow, exchanging their Christmas presents. They could hear the choir echoing from the Church. It felt like a dream.

She gave him a bracelet: nothing luxurious, she wasn’t allowed to spend much. She was just 16 and had to rely on her parents for everything. Her father was a postman, she was an onlychild, she had everything a girl could wish for, but she felt guilty asking for their money. She wanted to be independent. To have her own money, from her own job. But girls weren’t allowed to work in Limmeridge, nor to vote. The bracelet was just a simple tag, with a chain. But Blake loved it. He gave her a pendant. He made it himself. A galloping horse. She loved horses. Her father didn’t want her to ride: his sister died in a horse riding accident, but Erin was born for it. They used to go out on Tom’s horse: there was a wide clearing in the forest near the Blake’s farm, and she would ride there, as Tom laid down by a tree, watching her, her happiness bewitching him body and soul. He couldn’t get his eyes away from her. He usually brought a book, cause she worried he might get bored. He had never read a single page. The Stendhal sindrome people experienced in front of a work of art was nothing compared to what he felt. He tied the pendant to her neck with a ribbon on that Christmas’ Eve.

-I wanted to buy you a real one, but I’m afraid your father would’ve killed me.

-for sure. I love it, Tom.

-it’s just a bit of tin.

-no! It’s much more than that.

-you had a silver bracelet made for me!

-out of an unpaired tea spoon from my late Aunt Mary’s belongings, which is technically part of my dowry, it was mine to give to whom I will... like my heart.

She said those last words in a whisper. He almost didn’t hear it. But as soon as he did, he kissed her. He just pressed her lips to hers at first. He didn’t know what to do. His brother was no help with girls. He used to say “you’ll know what to do, just be gentle”. She stood still. She didn’t know what too either. Their lips parted, they looked at each other in the dark, so close they could feel the warmth of their bodies in the cold, and breathe the same air. She placed a hand on his cheek, he wrapped one arm around her waist, the other reached for her hand on his chest.

-I love you-he said. They kissed again, she answered this time.

They stayed like this for almost an hour, missing the track of time. The Christmas melodies from the Church has ended. The Mess was about to end. It was time to go home

-I want to stay like this forever- Tom said.

-I hate even the idea of coming back. Of behaving as if what we just did never happened for the sake of female propriety- Erin replied, her face buried in Tom’s neck

-I hate being two years older than you. Just three more years, we’ll wait for your 18th birthday, then I’ll ask for your hand.

-you won’t last for three years. You’ll get tired of me by 1916.

-not an option. How could I breathe without you.

-with your lungs- she teased him.

-No, I will wait, and when you’ll be my wife I’ll cover you in horses

-will you let me go to college?

-better, I’ll go with you. I’m considering law school. My brother says he’ll help me so that dad won’t have to pay for everything.

-It’s gonna be a wonderful adventure.

-and of course I’ll give you a pendant like that, but made of gold, as soon as I’ll earn some money.

-no way!

-as I said, it’s just a bit of tin, I want only gold for my wife.

-your wife will be content with tin, cause you made it with your own hands and I wouldn’t change this, not even for a Fabergé Egg, never.

-for the last time. It’s just a bit of tin.

-for the last time, it’s not. It’s got a ribbon on it

Cap. 3

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog

Cap 1.

April 6th, 1916

-FALL OUT!!!!

The soldiers were happy to finally brake ranks: two months passed by marching, cleaning buttons and boots, ‘LEFT, RIGHT, REST, ATTENTION’: what was the purpose of all that?

-why so grumpy? - Crawley asked, walking towards the barracks. He was a good man: he kept talking about his daughters all the time, Blake liked him. He was smart and hard working, reliable and loyal. Blake valued loyalty more than anything else.

-I’m tired of marching. We are ready for the fight, my brother is out there! I should be with him.

-You will, Tom.

They left their rifles by their beds, then Blake rushed out of the barracks and lighted a cigarette. Crawley followed him. He lighted his cigar, and waited for his friend to start talking. Blake was made of fury and passion, he was young and full of ideals. Crawley was used to his anger: it reminded him of his wife. Finally Blake broke the silence.

-I hate this... routine. Wake up, clear the barracks until you can eat on the floor, parade, eat shit, parade, eat shit, sleep. The enthusiasm I was filled with when I enlisted is dead, suffocated by all this. They’re not teaching us to fight. They’re teaching us that a shiny button is more important than our ideals, more important than the reasons that brought us here.

-I miss my wife’s cooking, too

-I could bear to eat shit for a good reason, but this... bloody WAIT! I can’t stand it. Why are they keeping us here? My brother has written to me: do you know what the Germans did in Belgium as we were here?

-I read newspapers, too: ‘ The Rape of Belgium’. Blake, forget about It. Whatever happened there since 1914, it’s not on us.

-it’s on our commanders, though!

-stop shouting! We’ll be punished if they hear you! Blake, a foreign land’s occupation is a terrible thing, but terrible things happen. There’s nothing you can do.

-it will be over before we get there. I could never bear the shame, not in front of men who fought bravely for years like my brother.

-you’re eager, Blake.

-and you’re not. Sometimes you look like you don’t care about Britain at all.

-I do, I don’t want the Germans hanging around my yard, playing with my daughters, thank you very much. But I know what a war can do to a man, my father fought in the Second Boer War. I’m not as eager as you are cause I know I might die

-so do I

-you seem to forget about the little detail, my friend way too often for a man who want to go back home when this ends. Of course I want to fight. I’m a volunteer: I- want- to- fight. But I’m not a fool.

-you sound like Erin

-who the hell is Erin?

-Never mind... what I mean is that you sound like... like a coward. I know you’re not, Cro, I know you. You’re my friend. But sometimes it seems to me that patriotism, all the values and principles of this war mean nothing to you.

-I’m a father, Blake. I can’t afford to have principles. We’ll be deployed soon. We will fight and we will win. Then we will go back home.

Blake took a deep breath, taking his time to finish his cigarette.

-my mom has invited you for Christmas in her last letter, by the way.

-it would be amazing to go south for Christmas and not north for once. One more Christmas in the highlands with my wife’s family and I’ll froze to death. These Scotts are never cold! And her relatives are mainly nationalists, so I’ve to pay attention to whatever comes out of my mouth. Politics is their favourite subject when I’m among them. Bloody Scotts!

-you married one

-The things we do for love... I’d be happy to accept, if we’ll be home by Christmas.

-of course we’ll be home by Christmas!

-I don’t know, Blake. My cousin was wounded in the Battle of the Aisne on September 1914. He said the Germans dug galleries and trenches on the ground to defend themselves all along the Chemin des Dames ridge, north of the river Aisne. Machine gunfire, heavy howitizers, our soldiers were unable to penetrate the German positions. He was there when this war descended to a stalemate where neither side could advance

-The first trenches.

-the whole western front is now made of trenches, and as the propaganda keeps saying we’re gloriously resisting, bravely attacking, that’s not what we’re doing. Men on both sides are dieing for a couple of metres of No Man’s land.

-thanks for this amazing lesson of contemporary history. What are you trying to tell me?

-I’m trying to tell you that it’s useful to be afraid. You should try. It wouldn’t make your a coward. There’s a thin line between cowardness and cleverness. And you’re way too smart to cross it. There’s a very thick line between cleverness and romantic ideals that will have you killed, instead: you don’t seem to see it. You’ll get yourself killed.

Blake stood silent. Crowley was wise. Of course he was right. He spoke like his brother, Joe.

-I’m not romantic, Cro. And I’m determined to stay alive, if that comforts you.

-even those who know rest at the cemetery were determined, Tom. You’re young. You’re smart. But so are the Germans.

-Bastards.

-Smart bastards. I doubt we will be home for Christmas.

-what about Easter, then- Asked Blake. His smile was back. Always so optimistic. Crawley appreciated his resilience.

A bell rang: dinner was ready.

-oh, not that shit again! - Blake said, giving Crawley a genuine belly laugh.

After the meal, soldiers were given some free time. Blake was always up for jokes but that night he wasn’t in the mood. Crawley noticed and went to sit by a tree like him. Blake was a master at finding the best trees for napping.

-still grumpy, I see. What is it?- Crawley asked

-I don’t know.

-are you homesick?

-no... something like that. I feel like a ghost, sometimes. As if a part of me was still there, home I mean; as if I had some unfinished business back there, and here there was nothing but an empty corpse, an imago of myself. There’s nothing I can do to change this, cause I can’t go back and...

-what is this unfinished business of all about?

-Erin

‘I knew it’ Crawley giggled at that revelation. He took out his last two cigars and gave one to Blake.

-it’s your last cigar! I can’t accept it.

-My wife will send me more before we leave for France. Take it. And tell me about this Erin.

Cap. 2

[whitequeenasitbgan]

The House of Smoke and Fog

Title: The house of smoke and fog

Author: @whitequeenasitbegan

Warnings: SPOILERS, +18

Pairings: Blake x reader

Author’s note: I’ll try to be as much historically accurate as I can be. It’s not gonna be short, but I’m a constant and disciplined writer. I won’t let this die, even if nobody is gonna like it. Nobody asked for this. I’m a clown.

Plot: Erin Wright was Tom Blake’s childhood friend. They were very fond of each other: their bond was made of all their long days at school, their games among the cherry trees in the Blake’s orchard, their adventures up and down the forests, their hard work, studying Latin and Greek for their finals, their Shakespeare’s rehearsals for the school’s theatre, their singing on Sundays at Church, their dancing at the local fair... it was just a matter of time. They fell in love. But war was upon them.

When the conflict began, their bond came to an end: Erin was a fervent pacifist, while Tom was a stubborn supporter of the war, the “hygiene of the world”, as his brother liked to call it. They argued, and when Tom left for training in West Sussex, Erin was not even at the station to bid him farewell. And then he left for France...

Cap 1

[whitequeenasitbgan]

Why 1917′s Score is Phenomenal

So I’ve seen a lot of appreciation posts for 1917, especially the acting. And don’t get me wrong those rats did an incredible job, but I want to write a post about something I feel hasn’t been getting enough love: the score. Thomas Newman did such a phenomenal job and I want to talk about it so…here we go!

Disclaimer: This post contains all the spoilers

Disclaimer Pt. II: I do throw a little bit of shade at other movie scores (especially Dunkirk), but I do still love these movies and it’s all in good fun.

Disclaimer Pt. III: I didn’t mean to make the post so long but here we are, sorry

 -Variety in Tension

1917 very obviously has a lot of tense moments and scenes, as most war movies do. It’s the job of the composer to add to that tension through the music, but Newman does it in a way that differs from other war films. For example, Dunkirk’s score creates tension, but it falls flat for me. Why? Because there’s a lack of variety; all the tense musical moments are incredibly similar and the music just ends up blending together (which is weird because Zimmer is usually an articulated composer). On the flip side, the tense moments in 1917 have defined pieces backing them up that make each situation feel new and unique. The best example of this is how tension is created with “Up the Down Trench” and “Tripwire.” The majority of the tension in “Up the Down Trench” comes from utilizing percussion and dissonance. Strings and other instruments have clashing notes and will sometimes frantically have a short melodic line that creates a sense of nervousness and urgency. Meanwhile, “Tripwire” takes an entirely different approach by using a 1:41 long glissando that has a gradual crescendo before the end of the song. Percussion and strings only enter near the end of the song but are only adding to the two elements that the song started with. This variance in the tense pieces isn’t common for war movies so I love that Newman manages to pull it off throughout the whole film.

 -The Emotional Journey

This is probably the thing I like the most about this score because so many film scores don’t do this even though it’s how it should be. The score doesn’t tell the audience what to feel, it tells the audience what the characters are feeling. So, so many movies are guilty of trying to emotionally manipulate the audience through the music but 1917 doesn’t do that. It present’s Schofield’s journey through music and lets the audience decide for themselves how to feel about it. I love that it follows Schofield’s emotional journey because it makes me even more invested in the character and the mission. This is especially evident where there is a lack of music (which I’ll touch on in my next point). There are many points in the movie where a piece starts because Schofield begins to think or has a revelation. The best example of how music shows Schofield’s thoughts and emotions is “Sixteen Hundred Men.”  This piece softly begins when Schofield is sitting, leaning on a tree and realizes that he’s found part of the 2nd Devons. It then becomes louder and more intense as Schofield becomes more desperate to reach Mackenzie, until the piece climaxes with our protagonist running across the battlefield, the pounding drums emulating his racing heartbeat. There are several pieces in the film that follow Schofield so well in a competent manner and it’s just amazing.

 -Use of Silence

The moments in between music are just as important as the notes themselves. Newman and Mendes did such a good job knowing when to leave out underscoring. The best use of silence is during Blake’s death scene. During the whole scene there’s not a single note played. The music only picks up again when Schofield gets on the truck and has a moment to think about what just happened. When Blake is stabbed, both the audience and Schofield are grounded in shock (unless it’s your fourth time seeing the movie because same), which comes across through the lack of music present. There continues to be no music the entire time Blake is bleeding out and I think this was a phenomenal choice for two reasons. The first is that the film doesn’t try to emotionally manipulate the audience into crying over Blake; it lets Dean Charles Chapman and George MacKay’s acting stand on its own two feet. The acting is so strong, there doesn’t need to be any music. The second reason I like the choice of no music while Blake is dying is because that’s how death is. There’s no sad violins, no moving piano line, just a soldier dying in his friend’s arms. It makes the scene more grounded and reminds the audience that World War I was very real and so many living, breathing men died; it’s not just a story to be told on a screen.

 - Complexity and Emotion

Newman managed to write a score that is not incredibly complex, but it helps the storytelling and emotional impact. In all honesty, Newman’s score is somewhat simple. However, it uses this to its advantage. When a score is too complex it runs the risk of distracting from whatever is happening on screen. For example, I love Lord of the Rings and its music with all my heart, but sometimes I’ll stop processing what’s happening because I start focusing on the music (maybe that’s just a me problem, idk). In 1917, I’m able to enjoy the music without getting distracted. The score is additionally able to maintain emotion through simplicity. It does this through unison parts and solos. There are three moments in the movie where the music was able to heavily emotionally impact me on my first viewing, with all parts having a relatively simple composition. The first moment was with the song, “The Night Window.” I got literal goosebumps during this part, yet the scoring wasn’t complex. The unison swells and chord changes under the simplistic, almost arpeggiating melody are what creates the strong emotion. The next moment was the climax of “Sixteen Hundred Men,” which creates emotion through the strong unison brass line. I won’t go in-depth as I’ve already touched on that one in a previous section. The final song that affected me emotionally though it had a lack of complexity is “Come Back to Us.” When I first heard the solo cello come in, I felt like I had been punched in the chest. That solo melody on a cello embodied the state of mind that both the audience and Schofield are experiencing at that moment. It’s so sad and tired, yet beautiful and almost comforting. And it’s able to convey that even though it’s not super complex. And that’s hard to accomplish.

 There we have it. Those are the main points as to why 1917’s score is so brilliant. I may repost with some additions later, but for now this is it. And if anyone has any thoughts on it/additions, I wanna hear them!

[whitequeenasitbgan]

I will wear high heels so you can hear my footsteps on the cobblestones and have time to repent.

Polly fucking Gray

[whitequeenasitbgan]

it’s been a long, long time