The Moor Does Not Welcome Flotsams

III.

Eddy was to leave with his regiment the next morning, at 0800 sharp. The family sat in front of the dining table the night before his departure, each having their clamours thoughts concealed beneath a surface of perfect stillness. Old Billy sat at the head of the table as usual, having coryza again. Ma Susan bore the temperament of a grand duchess, poising herself with an air of defiant haughtiness, lips puckered up. With deliberate forced laughs she worked her fork and knife on fine china, a look and mood that Joan knew all too well. In the solemn atmosphere, a small heap of fire cracked in the old furnace languorously. Pam held hands with Eddy across the dinner table, squeezing fingers for assurance. They didn't look at another, but through their eyes they could see no one but each other. There was little talking, for nothing seemed appropriate in such a time. Even Eddy's usual elevated tone dimmed down as he spoke of his coming arrangements, his new comrades, his postings and officers. He was already in his beige uniform, nicely ironed and pressed. Pam brought his belongings with her on the way to the house, so that he could leave early in the morning, already packed. Wearing an army uniform hardly makes a boy a man, Joan thought to herself. But what was he now, at this moment? She was sure there would be many young creatures like him on the foreign soil, swallowed up by the earth underneath as offerings. She tried to avoid thinking of Eddy being swallowed up like that, even though she didn't know exactly how it would be executed. After moments of silence, ma Susan straightened up, looked around the room and said: "It is a time when we must be strong, be strong to face anything. And we must." She then turned her head to old Billy, staring at him. Old Bill stood up from the table, beckoning Eddy to leave with him for a moment. The two men left for the front porch. Joan told Pam and ma to go check if Eddy packed everything, and she would clear away the table. Pam shot up a tearful glance to her, nodded.

It was dead in the night when Joan came out to the porch. Old Billy and ma Susan retired to their room, while Pam was no where to be found in the house. Joan knew she would be in her bedroom, slipping down to the floor, crying, kneeling in front of the bed stand, praying for Eddy though she never prayed before. Joan found Eddy still leaning on the porch fence, fiddling with a pack of cigarettes clumsy. When he saw Joan, he smiled awkwardly and told her that old Billy gave them to him, and he thought it would be better to leave them here. Joan didn't reply at first, but strolled to the opposite end of the porch. She then said:"Take them with you. You might need them later on." Eddy looked up at her. She gestured him to keep them in his pocket. They talked about many things that night, about the past, about the adolescent remembrances. "You used to wanted to be everything. You could have been anything back then, but what will happen to you now?" Joan asked as she listened attentively to the whispering of the moor. Eddy laughed and said he didn't know. This war was going to take so much away from them. "I thought you always wanted a change," said Eddy. It was true. She wanted the world to be washed anew so that she could start from scratch, but this wasn't what she wanted. Joan revealed to him that she wasn't planning on staying here, and entrusted him to find her something to do. "You'll find me something, I'm sure." When asked whether she decided on this to contribute to the war efforts, she merely shrugged. It didn't matter, but she wanted to be in part of something. It was because the moor no longer felt welcoming to her. It was repulsive. When they were finished downstairs, Joan sent him back to Pam's room and blew the lights out, awaiting for the bloody sun to emerge from the restless horizon.