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Sitting on the bench, indifferent towards the cold and the damp seeping from the swollen wood into the fabric of his trousers, he traced the lines of his palm with his thumb. He came out here to give himself time to think, and yet he was simultaneously trying not to think of anything at all. Germany, the War, Hansel, any of it.
The boy came in with the news, and they all celebrated a few hundred more deaths, a few hundred men who can’t hurt our boys any more, a few hundred more men now just floating in the North Sea. No. Not his Hansel. Guthrie thought for a moment, envisaged his face, Hansel’s beautiful face, staring down at the seabed. His deep brown eyes, which shone as he sang, and turned sharper than glass when criticized. Those eyes that regarded him, that filled with tears as he read him that poem the night before it all went wrong. They couldn’t be empty, the light couldn’t be gone. It was impossible.
Fuck, thought Guthrie, as the image turned his stomach, his mouth pooling with acidic saliva. Digging his nails into his palm, he staved off the nausea with a deep breath and whisper recited the first stanza of Willkommen und Abschied under his breath:
Es schlug mein Herz, geschwind, zu Pferde!
Es war getan fast eh gedacht.
Der Abend wiegte schon die Erde,
Und an den Bergen hing die Nacht;
Schon stand im Nebelkleid die Eiche
Ein aufgetürmter Riese, da,
Wo Finsternis aus dem Gesträuche
Mit hundert schwarzen Augen sah.
He didn’t utter the rest. He couldn’t put those words on his tongue. Not now. Not anymore. Not now they meant something. It was a blessing (perhaps), that at that moment Robert slipped out from the hall and made his way over in his wandering, roundabout sort of way.
He planted himself in front of Guthrie, and then made a demand. ‘Walk with me.’
‘To where?’ he asked, looking up at the gentleman’s narrow shoulders and solemn face.
‘The destination isn’t the important part. Please, just walk with me.’ Robert refrained from holding out his hand, and simply took a step back and waited for Guthrie to rise, which he duly did.
They walked slowly, and Guthrie dug his nails further into the flesh of his hands, anticipating a tense, painful discourse. He expected Robert to offer words of superficial consolation, or comment on the atmosphere following the news – a feeble attempt at sympathy. He prepared himself to say something in return; something short, without sounding ungrateful, and yet making it incontrovertibly clear that the conversation was unwanted and unhelpful. But no words were exchanged, not for the moment.
Guthrie kept his head down, wondering why on earth he had agreed to this. He should have declined the offer and taken himself home for a nightcap, and perhaps a release. Now he was silently wandering towards Thacker’s Lane, where the Beck ran just shy of the copse of sycamores, still and gentle. The water here was patient, well behaved. The calm before the storm of the millwheel just slightly downstream. What could Robert possibly want with him? Oh God. Not that – surely? Now the regret truly was palpable. How had he not thought of that?
Thacker’s Lane drew closer, and still Robert hadn’t so much as uttered a word. He led Guthrie to the bench that perched on the bank, the wood black with damp and the iron warped with age. Sitting down, he bid Guthrie do the same with a gesture. Still, no words. He did as he was told, and was struck with the realisation that he hadn’t turned around yet. Why?
The water provided a mask for the silence. The minutes accumulated, and just as Guthrie was about to make his excuses and head back home, Robert opened his mouth. He braced himself.
‘Tell me about him,’ he said, looking down at his hands, neatly folded in his lap. When Guthrie didn’t respond, he tried again. ‘Henry. Tell me about him. What is he like?’
‘Was,’ Guthrie responded, blankly.
‘Henry, he might still—’
‘No. Don’t hold out hope. It’s futile. A waste.’ Guthrie spoke softly, like his words were floating, completely unattached to anything at all.
‘Then what was he like? What was his name?’
‘Hansel,’ Guthrie replied, the name grating at the back of his throat as he said it. ‘He had such a wonderful voice. A very talented young man.’
Robert shuffled minutely closer. ‘Tell me about him. You sound as if you are dictating an academic reference. What about him?’
Guthrie looked across to him, his glistening eyes well concealed by the countryside darkness. He found himself scratching the palm of his hand again with his fingers, rubbing the red skin rawer still. ‘Er hatte solche freundlichen Augen,’ he said to himself. ‘He had such kind eyes. Wir liebten uns.’
Robert heard him make a noise, somewhere between a sob and a cough, and thought perhaps he could shuffle closer still, maybe rest a hand on his shoulder. Before he followed through with his intentions, however, Guthrie rose sharply.
‘You must excuse me now, Robert. But thank you. Thank you.’ His gratitude fell flat on the last word. He couldn’t bring himself to say any more. He hadn’t the energy. He picked up Robert’s hand, squeezed it gently, then let go, turned around, and made his way home.
‘Henry, if you ever need anything…’ Robert began, looking behind him at the figure in the road.
Guthrie raised a hand in recognition, but he didn’t turn around, lest Robert see his tears.
***
On the way back, he made himself whisper the rest of the poem. Hansel loved it so very much, and he hated leaving things unfinished.
Der Mond von einem Wolkenhügel
Sah kläglich aus dem Duft hervor,
Die Winde schwangen leise Flügel,
Umsausten schauerlich mein Ohr;
Die Nacht schuf tausend Ungeheuer,
Doch frisch und fröhlich war mein Mut:
In meinen Adern welches Feuer!
In meinem Herzen welche Glut!
Dich sah ich, und die milde Freude
Floß von dem süßen Blick auf mich;
Ganz war mein Herz an deiner Seite
Und jeder Atemzug für dich.
Ein rosenfarbnes Frühlingswetter
Umgab das liebliche Gesicht,
Und Zärtlichkeit für mich - ihr Götter!
Ich hofft es, ich verdient es nicht!
Doch ach, schon mit der Morgensonne
Verengt der Abschied mir das Herz:
In deinen Küssen welche Wonne!
In deinem Auge welcher Schmerz!
Ich ging, du standst und sahst zur Erden
Und sahst mir nach mit nassem Blick:
Und doch, welch Glück, geliebt zu werden!
Und lieben, Götter, welch ein Glück!
The words rung in his head, as if Hansel were singing them just behind him. After closing the door behind him, he shuffled to the piano tucked away in the corner of his front room. He blinked to clear his vision, and took a deep breath. Lifting the lid, he placed his fingers on the keys, poised and ready and played Schubert’s Lied Willkommen und Abschied. The staccato shocked his fingers as well as his ears, and he had to concentrate much harder to play the right notes in the right order. The eddying accompaniment whirled and he let Hansel sing the melody, his voice rich and controlled. He heard him again, but this time allowed himself to listen properly. Mein Hansel. Mein Lieb. Ich werde ihn vermissen.