by K. C. Finn
I’m sorry, Mum said again, but I have my orders.
I tried desperately to say ‘Who from?’, but there was a surge of heat in my face. My body slumped over against my will and soon-after I was gone.
***
Though I didn’t hear Mum’s voice again, the fever plagued me for over a week, which told me she had found a way to stop me from using my powers, however unfair it was. When Mam was in the room I felt clear headed and almost well, but any time that Blod or Idrys came to check on me I almost always went under the fever’s heated grip before I could answer anything more than their first question. I started trying to pass quick bits of the story to them before the fever could take me down, but I wasn’t sure if they were getting through.
“Bickers…” I slurred, my eyes half closed, “S’okay.”
Blod pressed me for more, but I couldn’t reply.
My days in the sickbed were degrading at best after all the progress I had made. I shuddered to think how weak I would be when Mum finally allowed me to come to again, if indeed she didn’t keep me raging like this until the end of the war. The rash gave me sore skin, Mam said she even thought it had got inside my throat and my fluctuating temperature meant that my head spun every time I even adjusted it on my pillow.
But most disturbing of all were my dreams. I knew, sometimes, that when I was half asleep I stepped into other people’s heads by accident, but in the delirium of the fever I couldn’t be sure that anything I saw between my waking moments was real. I thought that Blod was crying in her room at night, which might have been real, but I also had visions of a grim grey place where someone in horrific pain was biting so hard on their lip that they cracked it open. I could taste the blood when I woke. I saw the dark black tunnels under the POW camp, felt the cramped little walls closing in until I screamed myself awake, terrified that they were going to bury me there before I could get out. I dreamt of lying flat and being told not to move whilst the floor beneath me bobbed to and fro like I was riding a huge wave. I dreamt of people in a dimly lit café talking in a foreign tongue.
And I dreamt of running. There was so much running, day and night, a speed so fast that the buildings, fields and forests around me were nothing but colourful blurs. Aching lungs sagged like they were filling slowly with sand, but I kept on running, wild eyes searching in the blur for the next direction to take. A strong, hammering heart raged in my chest, thumping loud in my ears every time I stopped to hide. The hiding was never for long before I took off again, seeking the next target. When I woke from the running I could never remember enough; I lay frustrated and crying day after day.
Until the fever just stopped. It was night time when I opened my eyes and felt that the pounding in my head had finally abated. I sat up immediately, my limbs floppy and raw as they were finally able to obey my wishes. I didn’t have the strength for anything more, so I cupped my freezing cold hands to my face to call out for help. For the first time I noticed that the nipping frost of winter had set in on the dark windows, when I shouted out my breath followed in a stream of condensation.
It was Blod who heard me first; she burst into the room clutching a long letter on bright white paper. I smiled at her weakly and her sparkling eyes lit up. She rushed to sit down beside me on the bed and flapped the letter at me with a fearful, nervy smile.
“He’s home,” she said in barely more than a whisper, “This just got yur. Mam said he don’t have any family, see, so they wrote to us after they asked him.”
I didn’t quite follow her, but I nodded all the same, reaching limply for the letter. She held it up for me to read, her hand quivering so much it took me ages to make out the words. Steven Bickerstaff was in a military hospital in Llandudno, which was about as far north as you could go in wales without falling into the sea. He was recovering from undisclosed injuries and the doctors needed someone to bring him home to the village.
“I didn’t know he didn’t have any family,” I said sadly.
“Neither did I,” Blod answered, taking the letter back to read it again. Her eyes drank in the words and a wicked jealous moment hit me where I wished it was Henri coming home instead.
But then the scenes from the night in Africa replaced my selfish wish, I saw Bickerstaff’s silhouette illuminated by the light of the oncoming trucks, the gut wrenching sight of the remains of his leg flying yards away from his body. I could still hear him screaming. I looked at Blod again. Undisclosed injuries, the letter had said. She didn’t know what had happened to him.
“Mam says we have to pull together and help him,” Blod said with almost a giggle, “No complaints here of course.” She hugged the letter to her chest and gave me a secretive little look. “I’ve missed his surly, rotten face so much, you know.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t phrase it like that when you see him,” I advised.
***
I made a few difficult decisions between my first moment of feeling well again and the time that we got on the train to Llandudno. The first decision was not to go looking for Henri. Mum had perhaps decided that I had learned my lesson about staying out of the war and I hadn’t felt hot or headachy at all since the fever had left me, so I had a feeling it wasn’t a good idea to go looking for him right away, no matter how desperately I wanted to. The other thing that helped me resist temptation was the prospect of being allowed to go to the hospital with Mam and Blod to bring Bickerstaff home. Having seen what the poor man had been through, it seemed selfish to risk putting myself back in a sickbed when I should’ve been there to help him.
The other decision was to tell Blod what had happened to Bickerstaff. At first I hadn’t said a word, but she was so excited to see him that I knew she’d think I’d betrayed her if I didn’t tell her he was missing half a leg. Our friendship had never felt particularly secure and we’d only really come together once I’d offered to use my powers to help her. Besides which it was only right that she knew what she’d be getting herself into if she went to Llandudno ready to shower the bad tempered solider with affection. He had surely been through hell in the last ten days and even being back in Blighty couldn’t solve the problems he now had.
The hospital was what I had expected, a proper sterile space with that cold, clammy feel to it like rainclouds were forming overhead. It was absurdly busy; every corridor was full of people chattering away in English and Welsh, sometimes at the same time. I saw flashes of men in uniform, some visitors and some patients and several outside courtyards where men in pyjamas were gathered in clouds of cigarette smoke, their faces grim as they nodded to one another in hushed tones. When we reached the section we had been guided to there was a pretty nurse at a desk who gave Mam a pile of forms to look over before Bickerstaff could be released.
“While you do that, shall we go in and let him know we’re here Mam?” I asked as Mam sat down with the paperwork, a puzzled look on her rosy face.
“I s’pose so,” she muttered, leafing through the pages, “This might take a bit of time.”
Blod beamed at me, helping me out of my chair and onto my crutches. She grabbed the green grapes that Mam had paid a fortune for and led me off into the ward. I was smiling too until we crossed through the double doors, when a tidal wave of sadness seemed to hit us without warning. Faint cries came from behind screened sections as we passed the first few beds. A young woman passed us in silent tears. The men that were in full view were an atrocious sight, their once youthful faces marred by scars and burns. They had casts and splints and great metal contraptions that seemed to be holding their injured bodies together; one even had bandages all over his face. I feared what might have been underneath.
I spotted Bickerstaff at the very end of the ward by virtue of the fact that he once again had his nose in a file. I noted the empty tray at the end of his bed and supposed it was probably his own file that he was analysing. Typical. The ward was far too noisy for him to hear us coming, even with Blod clicking along in her best heels and me clunking my huge h
eavy crutches all the way down the perfectly clean path. He was in plain white pyjamas with the covers pulled up to his chest and as we got closer I saw once again the huge scar that marred one side of his face where the Iti blade had slashed him. All the same he looked rather well compared to the other men suffering around him, it was no wonder that they wanted to pack him off home.
“Oi,” Blod said once we were at the foot of his bed.
Bickerstaff’s blonde head shot up at the sound of her voice. His mouth dropped open a little and let his file fall into his lap. His eyes flashed to me briefly before they settled completely on Blod.
“I,” he stuttered, “I thought Idrys might come.”
“You’re stuck with us and Mam to get you home on the train,” I informed him.
He was still staring wide-eyed at Blod. “That’ll do, I suppose.” His scarred face expanded into a sheepish grin before he gulped nervously.
Blod pushed the grapes at me, which I barely caught without dropping my crutches, then rushed to sit beside him on his bed and threw her arms almost violently around his neck. Bickerstaff reached out and hugged her to him, looking at me awkwardly and then out into the ward.
“Steady on,” he said quietly, “What if your mother comes in?”
Blod mumbled something about Mam against Bickerstaff’s neck that I thought sounded extremely offensive. I ambled over and dumped the doctor’s grapes on his bedside table, waiting until Blod released him from her grip. When she came away there were tears collecting in her eyes. Bickerstaff wiped them away with his thumb, looking to me with a frown.
“You won’t know about Henri,” he said in a breathy tone.
“Did they recover him from the Italians?”
Bickerstaff’s mouth dropped open again, his blonde eyebrows dropping to frame the confusion in his eyes.
“No, they got away,” he said in disbelief, “How do you-?”
“But they haven’t found a body? There’s been no news of him since the ambush?”
I didn’t care what he thought of me or how suspicious he would be. Mum might have been able to stop my mind going to Henri’s, but she couldn’t prevent me asking these kinds of questions in person. Bickerstaff looked at me like I had three heads, but he replied all the same.
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head, “I think if they’d killed him we might have had a body back to bury. That particular team had a penchant for that sort of thing.”
I thought carefully. “They sent Carter back to you?” I asked.
At the mention of his fallen ally Bickerstaff dropped his head. “What was left of him,” he muttered. As he spoke Blod’s hand snaked across the bed to hold his. He clutched it tightly, giving her a small smile before he looked back to me. “How do you know all this?”
“I’ll let Blod explain it to you when we get home,” I replied, content at least that there was a fair chance Henri was alive. Where he was alive was now the problem. I found my eyes travelling down the bed to where one solitary foot was poking out of the covers. “You don’t have to explain what happened to you, either,” I added gently.
Blod’s hand moved out of Bickerstaff’s grip and touched his knee under the hospital blankets. “Mam doesn’t know anything, as usual,” Blod explained, “So we’ll keep it that way, and you’ll have to explain to her about your leg when she comes in.”
“But you know?” he asked, his face young and helpless. Blod leaned in and planted the tiniest kiss on his lips. Bickerstaff straightened up and took a deep breath, looking down at his hands. “In that case, it’s a good job I taught you to walk, Kit. I’ll be needing that chair of yours now.”
I was both put out and extremely pleased to be told I’d be sleeping in Ieuan’s room from now on. Knowing that the young RAF officer was alive and well in Toulouse had taken away the creepy atmosphere of his little room; it now felt as though I was keeping it tidy for him until he came home. It was also the room that Henri had used for the few weeks he’d stayed here, which was usually comforting, but sometimes very sad when I thought about the threat hanging over my head if I tried to contact him again. I was also daunted by the prospect of tackling the stairs every day, but Idrys promised he’d carry me if things ever got really bad again.
Leighton loved the idea that I was upstairs again, in London we had always had rooms next door to one another and now we were back to that arrangement. I, in truth, had been avoiding my little brother for fear that Mum was sitting in his head keeping watch on me, but now that I wasn’t using my gift I thought it couldn’t hurt to be around him again. I let him help me move my clothes and things upstairs to make Clive’s old sitting room look as little as possible like a teenage girl had been living in it before Bickerstaff wheeled himself in to inspect his new quarters.
“I can’t understand why he sold his house,” Mam said one morning before the doctor was up and about.
She was sitting at the table with Idrys and me as we cradled cups of steaming tea against the cold November wind that was cascading through every crack in the doors and windows of the little farm house.
“I don’t think he thought he’d be coming home,” Idrys supposed. I knew he was right but I said nothing.
“Poor soul,” Mam said, looking down at the table, “He’ll have to start all over again now. New house and everything.”
“Does that mean he’s out of the war for good?” I asked.
“I spect the home guard will give him a clerical job if he wants it,” Idrys mused, “I can’t see him going back into medicine after what he’s been through.”
Blod entered the kitchen quietly, apparently surprised to find us all sitting there so early in the morning. She went to the sink to fill a glass of water.
“What you up to, love?” Idrys questioned, giving her a careful eye.
“Steven wants some water,” she muttered, her cheeks flushed pink. She disappeared again swiftly, the glass dripping as she went.
“She’s been ever so good with him,” Mam said proudly.
“’Course she has,” Idrys added with a wry smirk, “He’s still a handsome devil even with that godawful scar down his face.”
“Don’t be daft,” Mam said quickly, but in the silence that followed I could see her mind turning things over behind her glassy blue eyes.
It was true that Blod had suddenly engaged in a life-changing transformation to take on the role of dutiful nursemaid but it didn’t seem to be achieving the effect she desired. Bickerstaff was more miserable than ever. Most days he wheeled himself outside despite the icy fingers of winter that were slowly getting a grip on Ty Gwyn and sat contemplating the pasture until someone came to bother him. The young doctor continued to dress in his old smart suits, one trouser leg hanging down limply from the front of the wheelchair, a great gaping hollow where his foot ought to be.
The kitchen was beastly hot where Mam was making dinner and I was too tired to brave the stairs to retreat to my room, so I hauled outside on my crutches intending to limp off in the opposite direction to the moody physician. But something caught my eye, specifically the arms and legs of a certain rag doll being waved in his face. Bickerstaff had his back to me in his chair, but as I approached I could see Ness standing in front of him talking his head off, Dolly flying in all directions as she used her to punctuate her speech.
“But Mam says I can’t have a house for Dolly ‘til I’m five,” she was explaining, “Bampi’s going to build it, but he wants to build me a farm.”
She crinkled her nose up at the notion.
“You don’t want a farm,” Bickerstaff said thoughtfully, “Dolly needs a proper house with carpet and curtains and windows.”
“Ie!” Ness said, bouncing on her heels. “Could you build it instead of Bampi?”
“We’ll see,” the doctor replied.
My crutch hit a heavy stone and alerted them both that I was nearby. Bickerstaff struggled to wheel around on the small cobbles with Ness attempting to push the side of his chair to help. What sh
e was actually doing was pushing the side of the chair into Bickerstaff’s side, but he didn’t tell her off.
“Afternoon,” he said, inclining his head a little. I did the same. He looked me over with a thoughtful frown. “Quite the reversal, this,” he added, sweeping a hand over what used to be my chair, “Are you having any problems just being on the aids all the time?”
“I have to sit down a lot,” I replied, wary that he seemed to have reverted to his surly doctor mood for the moment, “But actually it’s quite good. I didn’t know I had the strength until I was forced to do it.”
Half a sad smile pushed one side of his lip up. “It’s like that with a lot of things,” he mused.
“Are you going to try that fake leg the hospital sent you?”
Bickerstaff looked away. “I’m not sure.” A chilly wind whipped up around us and Bickerstaff turned to Ness, patting her gently on her crown. “Go inside for a bit and warm up.”
She took his gentle words with a nod and scampered off down the cobbles, falling over once on the way. We both made to go after her but Ness was a tough little thing, she picked herself up, giggled and ran off back into the house.