Chapter Text
“Oh, Mousseur Poy-ro!”
A stout lady in a squashed-looking brown hat was waving at him from across the other side of the women’s institute hall. That is not my name, Poirot thought waspishly, but did as he was bidden and limped over, wincing a little at the persistent pain in his thigh. He had no reason not to heed her call. Awful pronunciation aside, Mrs Teasdale had been particularly kind to him. She had taken on a big role - the head of the Refugee Reception Committee, organising billets and aide for les pauvre Belgiens, as the English so clearly thought of them, and for this, Poirot was most grateful.
He only wished that the villagers in Styles St. Mary had had the opportunity of a cosmopolitan education. One that included the romance languages, at the very least.
“Mousseur,” Mrs Teasdale said, clasping her little hands in front of her bosom, “I would like you to meet someone.”
“Oh?” Poirot raised an eyebrow. He expected the new person would be a vicar. It was always a vicar. Nobody in England seemed to care that Poirot was Catholic, at least nominally so.
“Yes - come here!” Now Mrs Teasdale had unclasped her hand and was waving again, this time at someone else. She had adopted the loud tone the English reserved for foreigners. Before this new person could shoulder his way past the assembled members of the WI and reveal himself, Mrs Teasdale had turned to him and said in a somewhat conspiratorial manner, “You’ll like him.” She smiled a sly, lopsided smile. “One of your fellow countrymen. I believe his name’s Pierre.”
Well this was good news. Poirot had been expecting more Belgians in the town. So far they had been trickling in in “dribs and drabs”, as the English said. He hoped the new arrival could play chess. Poirot was still too sore to walk much around the village, as the streets were rather steep in places, and he was dreadfully bored.
“Here!” Mrs Teasdale interrupted his thoughts. A man maybe in his late twenties or early thirties stood before him, nervously twisting a cloth cap in his hands. Something one of the locals had given him, perhaps. The fellow had sandy hair, untidily cut, freckled cheeks and worried-looking grey eyes. A recent wound was scabbing over on his brow. “Well then, speak to him!”
“Bonjour, mon frère,” Poirot began. “Je m’appelle Hercule Poirot, comment vous-appelle?” He extended his hand for a friendly handshake.
The man dropped the cap in his hurry to reciprocate the gesture, and then replied in the worst French Poirot had ever heard. “Bonjour. Je suis Piet.” At least this was what it sounded like. His thick Flanders accent was one you could cut with a knife.
Poirot tried not to let his face fall. He suppressed the urge to curse out the stupidity of the English in a flurry of French, for who knew who might be listening, and what they might understand? This Piet may well understand more than he can speak, and after all, it was not his fault he was Flemish. Poirot was not one to dismiss his neighbours to the north, no matter how much ill-will his fellow Francophones tried to stir up against them.
“Preferez-vous anglais?” Poirot said with what he hoped was a welcoming smile. “Je ne parle pas néederlandais, je suis désolée.”
“Oh, well you two seem to be getting along well!” Mrs Teasdale interrupted, beaming. “I’d best circulate the room, you know. There’s an awful lot of people to be saying hello to and I’m just desperate for a cup of tea!” She bustled off before Poirot could so much as enlighten her.
“She is a nice lady,” Piet said with a shrug. “She means well.”
“Are you settled? Do you have a place to stay?” Poirot deliberately avoided asking how Piet had arrived in England. He was young enough to have fought - either willingly, or under command from the occupying German forces. It was possible that the mark on his forehead was not the only injury. Poirot himself concealed a barbed wire tear, now healed but scarred, on his side, from when he had been forced to clamber over an abandoned fortification, and more seriously, a shrapnel wound in his thigh, which still troubled him. On his arrival in England he had been treated for the side effects of trench foot, and had been worried he would lose a toe, but now, a month later, his feet were almost back to normal. The ugly thoughts and unpleasant dreams were something else. Poirot had managed to find wild chamomile growing in the fields and verges, and had set about collecting it on his walks, marvelling at what a country-dweller he had become. But the resulting tisane helped to calm his fraying nerves, and no one sold it ready-prepared, not in Styles St.Mary at least. He also found solace writing in a little diary. If a thought troubled him so much it was unendurable, he wrote it down, and found it helped the memory to leave his head.
“I managed to get passage on a supply ship,” Piet said. “From there, a lorry to London. It took me five hours to find the embassy. I begged them for help, and they sent me here.” He shrugged again. The movement seemed less an expression than a tic; something Piet did to flick off painful memories, perhaps? Or merely when he did not know what to say?
“When did you arrive?”
“In this town? This morning.” There were deep shadows under Piet’s eyes; the man had not slept. “The lady - Mrs Teasdale - she said she would find a place for me, but it seems the town is quite full. I hear most of us are in a boarding house?”
“Oui, c’est vrai.” Poirot nodded. “At the moment we are two to a room. Poirot is in the attic. I chose it as many of the other men are too tall, and at least I will not be hitting my head on the ceiling beam. There is another bed there - perhaps before the war this was the servant’s quarters.” He eyed the other man. He was slight, but had a head on Poirot. “You are welcome to it, but you may not find it suitable for long term, owing to your height.”
“I have been sleeping in ditches,” Piet replied. “Anything would be better.”
At this moment, Mrs Teasdale returned, holding a cup and saucer, on the rim of which was balanced one of the contemptible rock cakes, made sans butter, sugar or eggs, no doubt, which would hardly improve the recette.
“Well, Mousseur, isn’t it lovely to be reunited with one of your own?” She patted Piet on the shoulder in a motherly fashion. “Poor Mr Pierre, you must be very tired. Now, I haven’t yet found you a bed but -“
“Forgive the interruption, my good Mrs Teasdale,” Poirot said smoothly, “but you mistake our young friend’s name. It is not Pierre, it is Piet. He is Flamand.”
Mrs Teasdale blushed a blotchy cerise. “Oh dear! I thought he was Belgian, just like you!”
“Mais oui,” Poirot continued. “He is a Belgian too. But our country is divided into two halves. One half, parlez le langue francais, and the top half, parlez le langue néederlandais. That is, they speak a form of Dutch.”
Her colour was echoed in Piet’s face. “It does not matter.”
“Oh no, Mr Piet - oh forgive me, I don’t know your surname -“
“Vervliet,” Piet supplied.
“Well,” Mrs Teasdale blustered, “On behalf of the refugee reception committee, I’m terribly embarrassed. We pride ourselves on finding places for people who speak the same language, you see, so one won’t be so terribly lonely in a new land that must seem quite strange to you.” She looked around wildly. “Mrs Wilcox?”
A grey haired woman wearing an apron stepped from behind the tea table and made her way over.
“Now, Mrs Wilcox, there’s been an awful mistake! This young man has been sent to the wrong village!”
“What on earth do you mean? The London society specified Styles St.Mary for him - even gave him a label for his bags.”
“But he’s not a Frenchie,” wailed Mrs Teasdale. “He should have been sent to Bieulieu!”
“With the Dutch?” Mrs Wilcox frowned. “It said in yesterday’s letter he’s a Belgian. Surely he should be with the other Belgians?”
Piet was looking back and forth between the two women, clearly worried. Poirot decided there should be an end to all this pointless blather.
“If I may interrupt,” Poirot said, stepping forward a little, “M. Vervliet here must be very tired. Would it not be suitable for him to spend some nights in Styles? If he must be transferred, well - so be it, but he is a fellow Belgian, even if he and I do not share the same tongue. I have a bed in my quarters; I should be glad to share it.”
Mrs Wilcox looked at him with an expression of shock. “Monsieur Poirot, we are not so hard up on accomodation that we need to place men top and tail in every spare cot!”
“Pardon, my dear Mrs Wilcox. I mean to say I have a bed that is spare. There is an extra bed in my room.”
“Oh, well that’s alright then!” Mrs Teasdale beamed. “All’s well that ends well, as we say. If Mousseur does not object, and Mr…Piet here agrees, I see nothing to worry about. At least until we can get you with your fellow Dutchmen in Hampshire!”
“You did not need to stand up for me,” Piet said quietly, stowing a battered looking kitbag at the iron feet of his bed. “You have only made things more painful.”
“Je suis désolée, mon ami. It is only that Poirot hates to be mistaken for something that he is not. If I have made things worse for you, truly I am contrite.” Poirot brushed off his hat and placed it on the windowsill. There was precious little furniture in the room, but at least it had good light, and a sill broad enough that he would not have to subject his hat to the floor.
“I am tired, that is all. I am sick of moving. I do not care where it is I sleep, I only want to rest.”
Piet slumped down on the bed, his head in his hands.
“But you find no rest in sleep?” Poirot said gently.
Piet nodded, still not looking up. “It is not polite to say in front of the ladies, but I have seen too many maimed and rotted men to sleep easily. When I lie down, it is as if I allow death to catch up with me.”
Poirot nodded in return. There seemed little else to say. “Reste-vous, mon ami. You will have an English meal with us tonight. Do not keep your hopes too high, the food is bland, but at least it is hot. Usually there is brandy afterwards. We can speak in English at the table. I have tried to encourage my fellow refugees to use the langue amongst themselves, so they grow used to it. Maybe being forced to use it will help.” He paused. “Do you need medical help? Is there some injury that troubles you?”
Piet shook his head. He appeared wan, but healthy. Merely tired. Poirot would do his best to make sure the man rested, and rested well, even if he himself woke on every hour.
“Dinner is at seven. They will ring the bell for it. And now, I will leave you.” Poirot knew there was nothing more tedious than having someone try to engage you every minute of the day. He picked up a simple English novel he had been trying to read, nodded to Piet and made his way cautiously down the awful, narrow stairs, shuddering to think of the lives of the poor maids who had been forced to scale them.
Poirot finished the last of his tisane, and went down into the cold, bare kitchen to wash the cup. The house never seemed warm. The English had a particular talent for this, he had observed. The rumours of draughty, cold buildings were well founded. It was not a case of lack of engineering know-how; more something in their character - the “stiff upper lip” he heard so much about. Why be comfortable when you can suffer? It was the very thing they accused the Catholics of. Bah. A Catholic house in Belgium or Austria or France would have doors without the gaps through which wind whistled, and would not be so foolish as to have the chimneys stuck to the sides of the houses where half the heat was lost to the night! He was glad of the slippers his sister Yvonne had worked for him in wool so long ago, even if they were now looking very worn.
He reflected upon Mrs Wilcox’s misunderstanding and snorted a little to himself. If he had been sleeping in the same bed with the Flamand, tucked tightly together like the tinned fish, at least they would both be warmer.
Poirot crept as quietly up the attic stairs as he could. The room had no curtains, and the cold light of the moon shone on Piet’s humped form, bundled under the blankets. Poirot paused and listened, and oui. He could hear the man breathing most steadily. He shuffled towards his own bed and tried to sit down without causing the creaking of the springs, to no avail. But even this horrid squeak did not startle his companion, whose face was still and almost angelic in the moonlight.
He took off his robe, hung it on the bedpost as neatly as possible, and tucked himself in. As he drifted off to sleep his thoughts wandered once again to Hastings. It was being in England that did it, he knew. The thoughts were both a comfort and a torment; they flitted between happy memories, and uncertainty as he imagined Hastings in some trench on the front, mud splattering his fresh, lovely face. Or worse, blood. Sometimes, as he slid in the netherworld between wake and sleep, his thoughts galloped ahead like a runaway cheval, and in these thoughts, Hastings did not have a face at all.
He did not know all those years ago that a man can be without a face and still live. He knew it now.
Poirot put his mind to prosaic things. When sleep evaded him, he imagined arranging the books in an enormous library, or furnishing the apartment he aspired to one day have. How he would put the leather chair just so, have the console table in the hall for letters. A mirror to bring light to a dim space. He drifted into sleep, imagining the calm of his future rooms, and slumbered for several hours, until he was woken by a strangled yelp.
This was no longer unusual. He was sure on occasion he too cried out in his sleep, but had not had anyone attest to this. That, or there was the mutual understanding that any sounds one made in the throes of the nightmare were to be politely ignored.
Poirot shifted in bed, and tried to settle his mind back to the upholstery of his imaginary canapé, when he heard the soft sounds of crying coming from the other bed.
He had trained himself to sleep through many things, but he could not abide the sounds of tears. One could not help but contemplate the sadness unsoothed, of the one weeping.
“Mon ami?” Poirot whispered, his voice harshened by the thickness of sleep. There was no reply from the other bed. He struggled upright, limbs still heavy, and winced as blankets shifted and exposed him to the chill of the room. Padding over to the other bed, he sat down carefully, hoping not to cause the springs to sing. “Pourquoi vous pleurez?”
Piet’s eyes were closed. In the darkness, Poirot could just make out the shining of the tears on his cheek. He could not tell if the man was asleep, or merely pretending to be, but some friendly impulse inspired him to reach forward carefully, and stroke his hair, murmuring that it was alright, that all would be well, that Piet was safe here. Only half of these sentiments were lies.
Gradually the man’s breathing evened out, and he slowly opened his eyes, wiping at them with the back of one hand. Realising Poirot was there, his eyes widened and he let out a gasp of surprise.
“Has something happened?”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Poirot said soothingly. “You merely cry in your sleep, that is all. But I am sure you knew that.” He patted at Piet’s shoulder, which felt warm against his hand - now grown somewhat icy in this detestably cold room. “Poirot has come to see that you are alright.”
“Yes, yes, it’s fine,” Piet said, sounding somewhat disoriented. “It’s just - you know, the old business.”
“Non,” Poirot said. “I do not. Mais oui, I can guess. If you wish, you can tell it to Poirot?”
Piet shook his head. “Better not to bring it up.”
“And yet you sleep poorly. Perhaps you should try. It might improve things.” Poirot hesitated, and an idea struck him. “You can even tell it to me en néederlandais. I will not understand, of course, but I will listen.”
“Alright,” said Piet hesitantly. “I think I could do that.”
Poirot made to stand up. “D’accord. But first, let me get my robe. It is contemptibly cold in this room and I would not like to catch the chill.”
Piet turned and clutched at his arm, stilling him. “Can you hold me?”
“Comment?” Poirot raised an eyebrow.
Piet turned back the covers. “I will tell you all, but can you hold me while I do?”
Most irregular, Poirot thought, but he was making an ask of the Flamand. It should only follow that he might have his own requests. At least he could now test his theory - if it should be more comfortable for two men to jam themselves into the same narrow bed than it would be for one to sleep alone and face the cold. He carefully eased himself into the bed and let Piet nestle against him. After some hesitation, he wrapped his arm around the other man’s narrow chest and held him as requested.
Piet began. It was strange. From the context they all found themselves in, Poirot could tell that he was speaking of the most appalling things, but Piet’s soft guttural murmur, low and unceasing, was almost relaxing, if he didn’t think too hard about the probable meaning of the words. If he tried, he could hear the odd friend with English or borrowed word, which turned the story into fragments. My mother….Three men in the village…all dead now of course….I walked…two Germans…Lost…Albért…From Amiens…
“It is alright, it is alright,” Poirot murmured in French, idly stroking the man’s hair.
It was common in his Belgian circles to chide and ridicule the sound of Flemish speech, but Poirot saw no sense in criticising a man’s native tongue, when it was the most natural and true way he could express himself. The bed had warmed him. Despite himself, he began to fall asleep, lulled by Piet’s no doubt awful recollections. He only hoped that Piet now could rest.
It must have been a few moments when he awoke with a start. Piet had said something en Anglais, and fool that he was, he had missed it. It might have been important - some clue to helping the man.
“Je suis désolée, je n’écouté pas, répète vous s’il vous plait,” Poirot murmured hurriedly.
Piet had shifted in his arms, and was now looking at him, a funny, twisted smile on his face. His tears had long-since dried.
“I said,” Piet replied, “That I can suck your cock. If you like.”
Truly Poirot must have found himself in the strangest dream. He struggled upright, Piet heavy on his chest. “Pourquoi vous dis ça?!” He said crossly.
Piet let out a chuckle. “Your face! You should see it now.”
Poirot bristled. “Do you say this to shock me!?” He could feel himself glowering, and worst of all, flushing very hot, despite the chill of the room.
“Well has it worked?” Piet said innocently, and now the moonlight glowed so pure and white that he could see the fellow flutter his eyelashes in a manner most provocative -
No! Poirot could not even contemplate this! He had merely been attempting to comfort a man in his hour of distress, and this, this, could not be conceived as any form of comfort! He would not have even made the offer himself, believing that the pleasures of the flesh could not be muddled in this way!
“I am not offended, if that is what you ask,” Poirot replied stiffly. “Nor am I born yesterday, as l’anglais have a habit of saying.” He cleared his throat, feeling now very conscious of the placement of their limbs, of the press of le Flamand’s back against his chest, of the curve of his rear tucked against -
Non! Poirot reminded himself sternly. “While I appreciate the offer,” he said, trying not to sound self-conscious, “It is not a good idea.”
“Au contraire,” replied Piet in his accent most mauvais. “It is a fine idea.” He began to shift against Poirot in a manner that began to seem rather provocative. Poirot willed his brain to stop his body, but he could not prevent the sudden rush of sensation at the grind of the man’s cul and before he knew it, his body was betraying his convictions with its baser interests.
Piet turned and gave Poirot a wicked smile. “You cannot say that you aren’t interested.”
Poirot sighed. “Very well.” He shook his head slightly. “I have not the idea why you are in such a tearing hurry to do this - why here, why now - but if this is so very important to you -“
Piet grinned wider. “I shan’t make it so very horrible.”
As the dawn light began to replace the moon, and early birds began their singing, Poirot found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, the heat of arousal now warding off even the most lingering of the chill. Piet was kneeling before him, his hand expertly undoing drawstrings, knuckles brushing Poirot’s sensitive thigh through his nightclothes.
“I shall keep my hands to myself,” Poirot said quietly, through breaths that were embarrassingly heavier than he would have liked.
Piet shook his head slightly. “You can touch me. I do not care if you are rough with me, even.”
Poirot shook his head in response. “That, I will not do.”
“Fine.” Piet smiled, and bent to kiss Poirot’s bare stomach, pushing up his pyjama shirt with one hand. His lips were soft but Poirot still shivered at the touch as if he had been branded. Then expert hands tugged at his pants and Piet put his mouth to other purposes.
At the first touch of his tongue, Poirot bit his lip to stop himself from gasping. He watched the man’s lips part and take him in, feeling Piet’s gaze upon him the whole time, eyes full and teasing. There was nowhere to hide. He whimpered a little, feeling the heat of his mouth, the teasing dance of his tongue on the underside of his sexe, the contrast of the gentle rake of teeth with the softness of lips and tongue, and the drag and slurp as he sucked him.
Poirot did not know what to do with his hands. He tried to clench them on the bedspread, but the tension was unbearable, and despite his will to passively still himself, he could not help the buck of his hips and the driving of his sexe into Piet’s willing, pretty mouth. He had the horrible thought that he could ruin him, but Piet merely smiled around his cock and gulped, his slender neck moving as he swallowed. The temptation to grab his head with both hands and fuck and fuck and drive at him like some bête rose unbidden. He settled on placing a hand carefully on Piet’s head, stroking at his cheek and hair, and murmuring softly to him that he was good and douce and tres gentil.
Unfortunately for Poirot’s self-control, the position of his hand caused him to feel the bulge of his cock as it struck the inside of Piet’s cheek, and he found himself letting out a shockingly loud moan. Heart hammering, he bit it off too late, and watched as Piet slid free for a moment, his saliva slick around his parted lips, glistening on Poirot’s throbbing cock.
“Good?” The man said, resting his cheek for a moment against Poirot’s thigh, and dragging his tongue against the underside of Poirot’s shaft agonisingly slowly.
Poirot nodded dumbly. He could feel himself gasping for breath. “I will try to be a little more quiet. Please to continue.”
Once again Piet parted his soft, slick lips and swallowed Poirot down, this time moving more rhythmically and fiercely and taking him so deep that Poirot was scared of him choking. He was making obscene little wet gulping sounds with every bob of his head, and fixing his eyes on Poirot all the while, as he struggled to keep himself in check, but no use, his hand was clenching tight in Piet’s fair hair and his hips were jerking and he was biting at his own hand to stop his cries as he released inside the other man’s mouth with a rush that was overwhelming.
Piet remained there for a moment, eyes now closed and face red, his throat working as he swallowed, and then he slid free, gasping a little, but grinning and grinning as if he had somehow won.
“Merci,” Poirot gasped, feeling the foolishness and the inadequacy of the word.
“I told you,” Piet said, straightening up a little from his bent position, “that it would not be so awful.”
“Oui,” Poirot replied. Now that his orgasm had passed, he was beginning to feel a little more of his usual composure. “And I have neglected to tell you, that Poirot, he is good at this too.”
“Oh?” Piet’s eyes were alight in a way that Poirot had never seen from him. The dull, sad expression of earlier had gone, replaced by a blazing fervour.
“It has been said,” Poirot said, with an ironic attempt at modesty. “Now please to sit, and let Poirot take care of you.”
Here again was a man who tried not to make noise, but he was gratified to have driven a little gasp from the other man, and had seen his face redden and scrunch and his neck tense in the beautiful agony of his release, which came shooting so thick and hard that Poirot had very nearly struggled to take it.
“Now,” Poirot said, finding it a good deal more difficult to get to his feet than it had been to perform the act in the first place, “you must tell to Poirot why this was so important.”
Piet shrugged, the red flush of orgasm still colouring his neck and chest. “Does one need a reason?”
Poirot sat himself on the bed next to Piet. He had almost worked out the art of not making the springs creak. “I do not flatter myself to think that a man as handsome as yourself offers me this entirely without reason. But,” he shrugged himself, “I admit, the reason, it eludes Poirot.”
“It happens that I have already told you,” Piet said quietly, now looking at the floor.
“In a language that you knew that I would not understand.”
“Yes.” He admitted.
“Perhaps,” Poirot said, looking deliberately out of the window at a magpie, clattering its way through the coming dawn, “you could tell it to me again.”
Piet cleared his throat, and rose from the bed. He walked towards the window, absently glancing at the objects Poirot had arranged so carefully on the sill. The hat. The vase of early wildflowers Poirot did not yet know the English names of. The English book he had been trying to read. His own cloth hat, so English.
“I have worked out that it is the only way that I can sleep.”
“Comment?” Poirot said quietly.
“It happens,” Piet continued, his voice low and weary, “that this is the only time my mind is blank. The only thing so absorbing that I cannot think of anything else. And so,” he turned to face Poirot, and gave him the same strange lopsided little smile that now Poirot realised was less to do with teasing, and more to do with Piet struggling to understand himself, “I do it often.”
“Ah, the psychology, n’est pas? Very well. I will try to understand.” But it must have been clear from Poirot’s furrowed brow that he did not.
“I’ve found many men to be very willing, especially as I do not expect them to return the favour.” Piet shrugged again. “How do you think I managed to get onto the supply ship?”
“I never had the cause to wonder, mon ami.” Poirot sighed. “But a word of advice, if I may?”
“Suit yourself.” Piet turned again to face the window.
“In England this is a crime. They call it the gross indecency, although what is so indecent about l’amour between men, I fail to see, when there are far greater evils in the world, not least of which is the ugliness of war.” Poirot sighed again. The excitement had left his body, and he now felt a bone-aching weariness that could not be explained by the usual need to recover from amorous labours. “So, you must be careful.”
“Are you telling me I should stop?” Piet glared out the window as if the English view had done him many wrongs.
“I am suggesting to you, mon ami, that you should perhaps try to find another way to cope.”
“You don’t think I haven’t tried?” Piet erupted angrily, causing Poirot to hurriedly try to shush him. “I know that this is - well, I’m not ashamed of it but others would be. I know it’s not safe. I know I’ll probably end up in some kind of trouble. But what am I supposed to do?”
Poirot stirred his tired, creaky limbs and walked over, patting Piet on his bare shoulder. “I do not know.”
“Well then you can’t help me.”
“Je suis désolée, mon jeune ami.” Poirot shook his head. “Perhaps you need the company that I cannot give.”
Piet raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to say something about women, aren’t you? Marry a nice girl and all that. Start over. Forget the war. Forget that - oh, hell.”
“No. This is not what Poirot was going to say.”
He took his robe off the bedpost and fastened it.
“We can arrange to have you moved, mon ami. To be with your Flamandes, to speak with them in your own language and take comfort together. They can offer you the camaraderie that perhaps the Walloons and the English cannot give.” He paused, and again touched Piet on the arm. “Would you like this?”
Piet gave a tiny nod of his head. “Maybe.”
“Very well.” Poirot began to gather his things in preparation of his daily wash, taking up his sponge bag and the rather mean towel l’anglais had given him. “I will make this happen.”
As he made his way hesitantly down the stairs, he felt an intense wave of longing overcome him. The memory of his home, and the thought of his own cher Hastings, who also tried to strangle down the noises of his pleasure. It was a cruel irony that he was here and not in Belgium, when Hastings was very likely in Belgium, and not in his own green and pleasant land. He had never felt further away from what he wanted. Everything, just outside his reach.