Regeneration

by Pat Barker

  ‘Probably. Because I’ve been brought up the same way as everybody else. But I hope I’d have the sense, or – whatever it is – the intelligence to see how unjustified it was.’

  Prior was shaking his head. ‘Not possible. The hoop’s there, you jump through it. If you question it, you’ve failed. If it’s taken away from you, you’ve failed.’

  ‘No, I don’t see that. If it’s taken away, it’s out of your hands. You didn’t ask for permanent home service. You were given it, on the basis of Eaglesham’s report. Not my report. There’s nothing in your psychological state to prevent your going back.’

  Prior didn’t answer. Rivers said gently, ‘Everybody who survives feels guilty. Don’t let it spoil everything.’

  ‘It’s not that. Well, partly. It’s just that I’ve never let the asthma stop me. I was ordered to stay out of those gas huts, I was quite prepared to go through them. Even as a – a child I was determined it wasn’t going to stop me. I could do anything the others did, and not only that, I could beat them. I’m not suggesting this is peculiar to me, I – I think most asthmatics are like that. My mother was always pulling the other way. Trying to keep me in. I shouldn’t criticize the poor woman, I think she probably saved my life, but she did use it. She wanted me in the house away from all the nasty rough boys. And then suddenly here you are…’ He raised his hands. ‘Doing exactly the same thing.’ He looked at Rivers, a cool, amused, mocking, affectionate, highly intelligent stare. ‘Probably why I never wanted you to be Daddy. I’d got you lined up for a worse fate.’

  Rivers, remembering the manny goat, smiled. He was rather glad Prior didn’t have access to his thoughts.

  ‘Thanks for putting up with me.’

  This was muttered so gracelessly Rivers wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

  ‘I was an absolute pig.’

  ‘Never.’

  Prior hesitated. ‘Would you mind if I looked you up after the war?’

  ‘Mind? I’d be delighted. Though I don’t see why you have to wait till after the war. You can always write to me here. If – if I’ve moved on, they’ll know where I am.’

  ‘Thanks. I will write.’

  At the door Rivers turned. ‘If I don’t see you again before you go, good luck.’

  It was an effort to talk at dinner, partly tiredness, partly, Sassoon’s empty place. By now it was clear he’d deliberately skipped the Board. He’d left the Sampsons at six o’clock, but hadn’t yet returned to the hospital. It was possible he was having dinner at the Club, putting off the moment when he’d have to face Rivers, but he was impetuous enough, and perhaps desperate enough, to take the train for London and launch himself into some further crackpot scheme to stop the war. Rivers knew the full extent of the dilemma that would face him if Sassoon had deserted and did make another public protest. He would be asked to take part in declaring him insane; they would never court-martial him. Not now. The casualty lists were too terrible to admit of any public debate on the continuation of the war.

  Rivers roused himself to take part in the conversation to find Major Huntley riding one of his hobby horses again. Racial degeneration, this time. The falling birth rate. The need to keep up what he called ‘the supply of heroes’. Did Rivers know that private soldiers were on average five inches shorter than their officers? And yet it was often the better type of woman who chose to limit the size of her family, while her feckless sisters bred the Empire to destruction. Rivers listened as politely as he could to the major’s theories on how the women of Britain might be brought back to a proper sense of their duties, but it was a relief when dinner was over, and he could plead pressure of work and escape to his own room.

  He’d left a message with Sister Duffy that Sassoon was to be sent to him as soon as he got back, no matter how late that might be. It was very late indeed. He came in, looking penitent and sheepish.

  Rivers said, ‘Sit down.’

  Sassoon sat, folded his large hands in his lap, and waited. His demeanour was very much that of a keen, and basically decent, head boy who knows he’s let the headmaster down rather badly, and is probably in for ‘a bit of a wigging’, but expects it to be all right in the end. Nothing could have been more calculated to drive Rivers to fury. ‘I’m sure you have a perfectly satisfactory explanation.’

  ‘I was late for tea with Sampson.’

  Rivers closed his eyes. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would have been quite impossible for you to telephone Sampson, and tell him that you were going to be late?’

  ‘It didn’t seem… courteous. It —’

  ‘And what about the courtesy due to Major Bryce? Major Huntley? Don’t you think you at least owed them an explanation before you walked out?’

  Silence.

  ‘Why, Siegfried?’

  ‘I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Now that does surprise me. Juvenile behaviour I might have expected from you, but never cowardice.’

  ‘I’m not offering excuses.’

  ‘You’re not offering anything. Certainly not reasons.’

  ‘I’m not sure there are any. I was fed up with being kept waiting. I thought if I was going to die, at least other people could make the effort to be on time. It was…’ A deep breath. ‘Petulance.’

  ‘So you can’t suggest a reason?’

  ‘I’ve told you, there aren’t any.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Look, I’ll apologize. I’ll grovel if you like.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your grovelling. I’d rather you told the truth.’

  Sassoon wriggled in his chair. ‘All right. I’ve had this idea floating around in my mind, for… oh, for five or six weeks. I thought if I could get myself passed fit and then go to London, I could see somebody like… Charles Mercier.’

  ‘Dr Mercier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to see him?’

  ‘For a second opinion. He’s all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, yes, you couldn’t do better. Except that… if you’d just been passed fit by the Board – why would you need to see Mercier?’

  ‘So they couldn’t say I’d had a relapse, if I went on with the protest.’

  Rivers sat back in his chair. ‘Oh, I see.’

  Silence.

  ‘And had you definitely decided to do that?’

  ‘I hadn’t definitely decided anything. If you want the reason I walked out, that’s probably it. It suddenly struck me that in a few hours’ time I’d be packing and I had no idea where I was going. And then at the back of my mind there was the idea that if I went to Mercier I’d be…’

  Rivers waited.

  ‘Doing the dirty on you.’

  ‘You could’ve had a second opinion at any time. I’d no idea you wanted it. People whose psychiatrists tell them they’re completely sane don’t usually ask for second opinions.’

  ‘That is what they’d do, though, isn’t it? Say I’d had a relapse?’

  ‘Yes. Probably. I take it you’ve definitely decided not to go back?’

  ‘No, I want to go back.’

  Rivers slumped in his chair. ‘Thank God. I don’t pretend to understand, but thank God.’ After a while he added, ‘You know the real irony in all this? This morning I had a letter from the War Office. Not exactly an undertaking to send you back, but… signs of progress.’

  ‘And now I’ve gone and ruined it all by having tea with an astronomer.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose you have. I’ll write to them tonight.’

  Sassoon looked at the clock.

  ‘Well, we don’t want him hearing it from Huntley, do we? By the way, late as it is, I think Major Bryce would still like to see you.’

  Sassoon took the hint and stood up. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’

  ‘No idea. Roast you, I hope.’

  19

  __________

  Prior had never broken into a house before. Not that he wa
s exactly breaking into this one, he reminded himself, though it felt like it, standing cold and shivering in the back yard, in a recess between what must be, he supposed, the coalhouse and the shithouse. He wrapped his coat more tightly round him and craned his neck to see the sky. Light cloud, no moon, stars pricking through, a snap of frost.

  He was waiting for the signal of the lamp at Sarah’s window, but she was a long time coming, and there was a chill inside him that had nothing to do with the cold. The darkness, the nervousness, the repeated unnecessary swallowing… He was back in France, waiting to go out on patrol.

  He remembered the feel of No Man’s Land, the vast, unimaginable space. By day, seen through a periscope, this immensity shrank to a small, pock-marked stretch of ground, snarled with wire. You never got used to the discrepancy. Part of its power to compel the imagination lay precisely in that. It was the difference between seeing a mouth ulcer and probing it with your tongue. He told himself he was never going back, he was free, but the word ‘free’ rang hollow. Hurry up, Sarah, he thought.

  He was beginning to wonder whether she’d met her landlady on the stairs, when a light appeared at the window. Immediately, he started to climb, clambering from the rusting washer on to the sloping roof of the scullery. Nothing difficult about the climb, the only hazard was the poor state of the tiles. He shuffled along, trying not to make too much noise, though if they did hear they’d probably think it was a cat.

  Sarah’s room was on the first floor. As he reached the main wall, he stood up, cautiously, and hooked his fingertips into the crack between two bricks. Sarah’s window was perhaps three feet away, but there was a convenient drainpipe. He swung his left foot out, got a toe-hold on the drainpipe – fortunately in a better state of repair than the roof – and launched himself at the dark hole. He landed safely, though not quietly, colliding with Sarah, who’d come back to see why he was taking so long. They froze, listening for any response. When none came, they looked at each other, and smiled.

  Sarah was carrying an oil lamp. She set it down on the table by the bed, and went to draw the curtains. He was glad to have the night shut out, with its memories of fear and worried sentries whispering. She turned back into the room.

  They looked at each other, not finding anything to say. The bed, though only a single, seemed very big. Their imminent nakedness made them shy of each other. In all the weeks of love-making, they’d never once been able to undress. Prior was touched by Sarah’s shyness, and a little ashamed of his own.

  With an air of unconcern, he started to look round the room. Apart from the bed, there was a bedside table, a chair, a chest of drawers, and a washbasin, squeezed into the corner beside the window. A camisole hung from the back of the chair, and a pair of stays lay on the floor beside it. Sarah, seeing the direction of his gaze, kicked them under the chair.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m not tidy.’

  The sound of his voice released them from nervousness. Prior sat on the bed, and patted it for her to come and sit beside him.

  ‘We’d better not talk much,’ she said. ‘I told them I’d be late back, but if they hear voices they’ll all be in.’

  He couldn’t have talked much anyway; his breath caught in his throat. They stared at each other. He reached up and unpinned her hair, shaking it out at the sides of her head. Then they lay down side by side, still gazing at each other. At this distance, her eyes merged into a single eye, fringed by lashes like prehistoric vegetation, a mysterious, scarcely human pool. They lay like that for ten or fifteen minutes, neither of them wanting to hurry, amazed at the time that lay ahead.

  After a while Prior rolled over on to his back and looked at the photograph on the bedside table, moving the lamp so he could see better. A wedding group. Cynthia’s wedding, he thought, and that rather fat, pasty-faced soldier, smiling sheepishly at the centre of the group, must now be dead. People in group photographs look either idiotic or insane, their faces frozen in anticipation of the flash. Not Sarah’s mother. Even in sepia, her eyes jetted sparks. And that jaw. It would’ve been remarkable on a man. ‘Your mother looks like my doctor,’ he said. He looked at the photograph again. ‘She’s not smiling much, is she?’

  ‘She was smiling at the memorial service.’ She looked at the photograph. ‘I love her, you know.’

  ‘Of cou…’ He stopped. Why ‘of course’? He didn’t love his father.

  ‘I’m glad you’re not going back.’

  Without warning, Prior saw again the shovel, the sack, the scattered lime. The eyeball lay in the palm of his hand. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She would never know, because he would never tell her. Somehow if she’d known the worst parts, she couldn’t have gone on being a haven for him. He was groping for an idea that he couldn’t quite grasp. Men said they didn’t tell their women about France because they didn’t want to worry them. But it was more than that. He needed her ignorance to hide in. Yet, at the same time, he wanted to know and be known as deeply as possible. And the two desires were irreconcilable.

  ‘Do you think your mam’ll like me?’

  They’d arranged to spend part of his leave together.

  ‘Not as much as she would if you were going back.’

  ‘Tell her about me lungs. That’ll cheer her up.’ He felt he knew Ada already.

  Sarah rolled over and started to undress him. He pretended to struggle, but she pushed him back on to the bed, and he lay there, shaking with laughter, as she got into a tangle over his puttees. At last she gave up, rested her head on his knees, giggling. ‘They’re like stays.’

  ‘Don’t tell the War Office. You’ll have a lot of worried men.’

  They stopped laughing and looked at each other.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, there’s no need to say that.’

  ‘Yes, there is. It’s true.’

  She took her time thinking about it. At last she said on an indrawn breath, ‘Good. I love you too.’

  ∗

  Owen and Sassoon sat in a corner of the lounge at the Conservative Club. They had the room to themselves, except for one other member, and he was half hidden behind the Scotsman. After the waiter had served the brandies and departed, Sassoon produced a book from his pocket. ‘I’d like to read you something. Do you mind?’

  ‘No, go ahead. Anybody I know?’

  ‘Alymer Strong. Given to me by the author. He brought me a copy of Lady Margaret’s book and – er – happened to mention he wrote himself. Like a fool, I made encouraging noises.’

  ‘Not always disastrous. Why am I being read it?’

  ‘You’ll see. There’s a sort of dedication. In one of the poems.’

  Siegfried, thy fathers warr’d

  With many a kestrel, mimicking the dove.

  Owen looked blank. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘What a philistine question. I hope this isn’t the future pig-keeper speaking. I believe it to be a reference to the persecution of the Jews.’

  ‘But you’re not a Jew.’

  ‘I am, actually. Or rather my “fathers” were.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Owen contemplated the fact through a haze of burgundy. ‘That’s why you’re called Siegfried?’

  ‘No-o, I’m called Siegfried because my mother liked Wagner. And the only thing I have in common with orthodox Jews is that I do profoundly thank God I was born a man and not a woman. If I were a woman, I’d be called Brünnhilde.’

  ‘This is our last evening and I feel as if I’ve just met you.’

  ‘You know all the important things.’

  They looked at each other. Then a rustling of the Scotsman’s pages returned their attention to the book. Sassoon began reading extracts, and Owen, who was drunk and afraid of becoming too serious, laughed till he choked. Sassoon had begun by declaiming the verse solemnly, but when he came to:

  Can it be I have become

  This gourd, this gothic vaccu-um?

  he burst out laughing. ‘Oh, I
love that. You might like this better.’

  What cassock’d misanthrope,

  Hawking peace-canticles for glory-gain,

  Hymns from his rostrum’d height th’ epopt of Hate?

  ‘The what of hate?’

  ‘Epopt.’

  ‘No such word.’

  ‘There is, you know. It’s the heroic form of epogee.’

  ‘Can I see?’ Owen read the poem. ‘This man’s against the war.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Sassoon’s lips twitched. ‘And particularly devastated by the role the Christian Church is playing in it. The parallels are worrying, Owen.’

  ‘I’m worried.’ He made to hand the book back. ‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, look inside.’

  Owen looked at the flyleaf and read: Owen. From S.S. Edinburgh. Oct. 26th 1917. Underneath Sassoon had written:

  When Captain Cook first sniffed the wattle,

  And Love columbus’d Aristotle.

  ‘That’s absolutely typical,’ Owen said.

  ‘It does rather encapsulate his style, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You know what I mean. The only slightly demonstrative thing you’ve ever done and you do it in a way which makes it impossible to take seriously.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to be serious tonight?’

  ‘For God’s sake, I’m only going to Scarborough. You’ll be in France before I will.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘No news from the War Office?’

  ‘No. And Rivers dropped a bombshell this morning. He’s leaving.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘I don’t look forward to Craiglockhart without either of you. I did mention you to Rivers, you know.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That you were an extremely gallant and conscientious young officer…’

  ‘ “Ooob”. Who needed no one to teach him his duty. Unlike dot dot dot. And there were no grounds at all that he could see for keeping you at the hospital a moment longer. I think he was a bit put out about being asked to overrule Brock.’