Yes, she supposed so; yet in a way he might as well be dead; in fact, inside himself she knew he felt he was.
They were both glad when the holidays were over and they had returned to the normal routine. Automatically they listened to the one o’clock news and the six o’clock news. At these times the war came into the house; yet once they had switched off they could have been on another planet. Their time was taken up with the child, the household chores and an added one outside when, weather permitting, they endeavoured to prepare part of the garden as a vegetable plot.
The break in the routine came on the days Maggie travelled to the hospital to visit Joe. But it wasn’t until June of that year that she saw any real improvement in him; this was when he first spoke to her. To her amazement, he said, ‘You didn’t come last week.’ When she could answer, she said, ‘I’m sorry, but I had a cold.’ She knew she couldn’t say, ‘The baby wasn’t well and I was afraid to leave him.’
What was more heartening, too, was that since the news that the second front had been launched everything and everybody seemed to have bucked up, with one exception; and Maggie kept this exception hidden in her mind, as a small niggling fear told her that there was a change in Lizzie. Her manner and voice might still be the same, but the briskness had gone from her body: she would sit for long periods in a chair either inside the house or outside in the summer house, her head drooped on her chest, dozing as she called it. The first person Maggie voiced her fears to was Joe. It was late September and he had, during her past three visits, appeared utterly normal, not chattering all the time now and, although when he talked it was mainly to answer questions, they were sensible answers. And on this day he proved his return to normality by making an observation. They had been sitting together in the grounds for almost half an hour when he said, ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight, Maggie.’
She smiled at him and, in a return to her old perky manner, she said, ‘I thought you’d never notice.’
And to this he answered, ‘Well, I did, before, but didn’t like to remark on it…Are you all right?’
‘Oh yes, I’m all right, Joe.’
‘Aunt Lizzie? You’ve…you haven’t mentioned Aunt Lizzie today.’
She looked away from him and then, her voice merely a mutter, she said, ‘I’m…I’m worried about Aunt Lizzie, Joe.’
‘Is…is she ill?’
‘No, nothing you can put your finger on, but she seems to be sleeping most of the time, and, like me, she’s lost weight, only she looks like a bag of bones now. And…and it isn’t through the rationing’—she smiled faintly—‘we get more than enough…more than our share.’
‘Have you had the doctor?’
‘Some time ago, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with her.’
It was at this point that she turned to him eagerly and said, ‘Joe, why don’t you come back now? She…she would love to see you; she’s always talking about you.’
The effect of her words was to drop a screen between them, and for him to edge a little way back from her along the bench: his expression altered; the light went out of his eyes; and his voice a mumble now, he said, ‘No, no,’ as if in protest; ‘I’m all right here. I…I don’t want to leave. I’m…I’m settled…safe.’
For a moment she felt angry and her feelings were expressed in her voice as she exclaimed, ‘Do you intend to stay here all your life, then?’
‘Oh, Maggie.’ He shook his head from side to side.
‘Never mind “Oh Maggie”. You’re better now; you could be discharged, I’m sure you could, and you wouldn’t have to go back, I mean, into the camp, or anything like that. And if you have to recuperate any more you’d do it better at home. Joe’—she put her hand on his knees—‘face up to it, you can’t stay here forever.’
‘Why not?’ The words came as a whisper, but their reaction on her was to cause her to repeat almost on a shout, ‘Why not?’
At this she put her hand over her mouth and looked about her at other groups scattered over the grounds; then leaning towards him and her voice almost a hiss now, she said, ‘Because it’s cowardly; you’re all right now. I know you are, except that you don’t want to face up to life outside, but get it into your head that you can’t go on being nursed all your life.’
‘I’m not being nursed.’ His voice sounded as angry as hers now.
‘Yes, you are.’
‘You know nothing about it. What do you know about how I feel? As for being nursed, you want to go through it. Nursed, indeed.’
He got to his feet now, almost glaring at her, and she, rising slowly from the seat, her head bowed, said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Joe. I’ll…I’ll go now.’
She was turning away when he put his hand out and touched her arm, and pleadingly he said, ‘Oh Maggie, try…try to understand. I’m still at sea, all at sea. It’s like this, Maggie; they tell me I’ve one more obstacle to face: once I can…well, face up to it, talk about it, I’ll be OK.’
She was looking at him now and her eyes were moist as she asked, ‘How long is it going to take, Joe?’
‘I don’t know, Maggie. Doctor Straker’—he gave her a twisted smile now as he went on—‘he’s the chief head-prober, he says not to worry, I’ll…I’ll have done it one of these days and without realising it. I mean, I’ll have got over the hump, so to speak.’ He looked down now towards the ground as he muttered, ‘I’d…I’d like to be with you and Lizzie again in the cottage. I…I often think about those times I spent there. Sometimes at night I fancy I’m back with you both.’
Maggie stared at him, her gaze still soft even as she repeated to herself: with you both. It would never be, with you, Maggie.
She turned from him, and he walked with her towards the lodge, and there they shook hands. She went out of the gates, and he returned up the drive to what had become for him a tomb, because for all his show of defiance he knew Maggie was right. He didn’t want to leave here, ever.
Four
But he did leave some three weeks later. Two visiting days had gone by and Maggie hadn’t put in an appearance; nor had there been any word from her until this morning, and then her letter said she was very sorry she had been unable to visit him because Aunt Lizzie was very ill; and she went on to say that she thought her end was fast approaching.
He stood with the letter in his hand, his heart beginning to race, and his mind telling him that if there was one person he liked in this world it was Lizzie; Lizzie had been a mother to him, a real mother …
It was his morning for seeing the psychiatrist and when he sat before Doctor Straker and the jovial-looking man said, ‘Well, how are we today?’ he answered calmly, ‘Very well.’
‘Oh, that’s a good start.’
‘Doctor.’
‘Yes?’
‘You said some three weeks ago that I’d only one hurdle to jump and that was the gate. Well’—Joe paused—‘I’d…I’d like to take it, the jump; I’d like to leave.’
‘Oh, yes? Well, I’m glad to hear that. Can you tell me what’s made you decide?’
‘A friend, a dear friend is very ill, she’s…she’s not expected to live and…and I’d like to see her.’
‘Then you just want to leave?’
Joe’s head drooped now and he thought a while before saying, ‘Yes, perhaps; I…I don’t know how I’ll feel once I’m outside.’
‘Oh, I should think you’ll be all right.’ The doctor now looked down at the folder holding the case history of Corporal Jebeau, Sir Joseph Jebeau, apparently, this strange young man who, he had decided, was so afraid of war and killing that he had transferred the whole onus onto his mother, with whom it seemed he hadn’t got on very well. It wasn’t an unusual case; nothing appertaining to the mind surprised him any more. Even without a war the grey matter was often taxed too much and would spew up from it hidden thoughts and desires. But when it was also carrying the load of war it often sank under the weight, as it had done in this young fellow’s case.
‘This business about your mother; it’s all cleared up now, eh?’
Joe realised that if he were to answer truthfully, it would have meant that no leave would have been granted, and so he simply said, ‘Yes,’ instead of, ‘No, because her deeds are still with me, and will remain with me, even though I’m looking at them in a different light now. The only other thing I want to do in connection with her is to find the gun, for only then will I know for sure that it is not all a figment of my imagination.’
But the doctor was smiling broadly at him now and saying, ‘Well, I’ll set the wheels in motion. But remember, if you feel any kind of strain, just come back.’
‘I will, and thank you.’
As Joe walked through the waiting room he glanced at his fellow inmates with a deepening sadness, as one might have done when about to leave a happy family. There was Ted and Gerald and Hookey and ‘Caruso’; only he had stopped singing of late and had become very quiet, even sad. His singing had got on everybody’s nerves but his sadness affected them more deeply.
He had the silly desire to go back among them and reassure them that he would return. Yet would they mind? Some of them were like children: their flights of happiness were ephemeral, their regrets without substance, and they were unaware of the overall sense of loss that pervaded them. These were the light cases; in the big block at the other end of the grounds were lives that were filled with protest and fear and the great void into which only the fortunate among them slipped.
The car deposited him at the station, and there the driver, used to such leave-takings, remarked, ‘Good luck, fellow. You sure you’ll be all right on your own?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
‘You should have had somebody come and meet you, they generally do. Sure you’ll make it?’
‘I’ll make it.’ Joe’s voice and a nod of his head conveyed a firmness that he was far from feeling: every nerve in his body seemed to be tingling; already he was finding the outside world strange; it was as if he had been away a lifetime; and he had, many lifetimes.
A few minutes later, standing on the platform, he was wondering why people weren’t looking at him: the strangeness of him; he must look odd, like a walking skeleton; all the flesh seemed to have dropped from his bones.
The train arrived and he took his seat. Opposite him were a couple who kept holding hands. Neither of them was in uniform, yet there was a tenseness about them, as if they were on the verge of parting.
It wasn’t until he had alighted from the train that he thought he should have written and told Maggie he was coming. When he had given the address of his destination to Admin. he had told them he would write and tell his friend of his coming, but he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? He knew why, because at the last minute he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to jump the hurdle of the gate and then they would have been disappointed.
Hereford looked the same as if he had been here yesterday except that, it being mid-afternoon, the invasion from the camp of the cinemas and bars hadn’t started yet.
On enquiry he found he had three-quarters of an hour to wait for the country bus that would pass through Madley to Hay, and so he sat on the green for a while, and then, making an effort, he went into a café and had a cup of tea …
As the bus approached Madley he experienced no feeling of either apprehension or excitement, but two miles or so beyond the camp, when he alighted, a feeling of excitement did rise in him, and it increased as he approached the cottage, touching on joy as he realised that he had made it. It was like a successful escape, for he had no desire to return to the confines of the womb; indeed, he felt like running the last few yards to the gate and up the path; the only thing preventing him being the thought of what his sudden appearance might do to Lizzie, her not being well.
He passed the front door and went round the corner of the house. The back door was open. Maggie was in the kitchen. She had her back to him and was bending over what looked like a baby in a high chair. He stared fascinated as he watched her scoop something out of a bowl and put it in the baby’s mouth; he heard a gurgle and a splutter and then her voice saying, ‘You’ve had enough? All right, you needn’t spit it at me.’
Fascinated, he now watched her bend quickly and kiss the baby on the top of its head; then she turned round, the bowl in her hand, and almost dropped it as she gasped, ‘Oh! Oh, Joe!’ and looked from side to side as if searching for some place to put the bowl. Then almost throwing it back onto the table, she moved towards him, her hands outstretched, and when she drew him over the threshold they stared at each other, both unable to speak.
When at last she did speak, she gabbled, ‘Well, of all the things to happen. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Good gracious! Sit down. Sit down. I…I don’t know where I am.’ She put her hand to her brow. ‘When did you leave? Have you had anything to eat?’
He put his hand out and caught hold of her wrist, saying quietly, ‘I’m sorry I gave you a start, and I know I should have told you, but there was so much to do, so many people to see, so many forms to sign.’
‘Oh, Joe.’ She pulled a chair up close to him now and, leaning forward, she gathered both his hands in hers, saying, ‘Oh, I am happy to see you out. Oh, I am, you’ve no idea.’
‘I’m happy to be out, Maggie…How is she?’
‘Not too good, I’m afraid. I’ll have to prepare her before you go up.’
He didn’t answer, but turned his head and looked at the child who was looking at him now and he asked, ‘Evacuee?’
‘No, no.’ She was looking down towards their joined hands.
‘No? Are you minding it for someone?’
‘No, Joe.’ He looked at her steadily; he could feel her hands being withdrawn from his; he watched her rise to her feet and go and stand behind the baby’s high chair; and from there she looked at him straight in the face as she said, ‘He’s mine.’
His face screwed up in disbelief and he made small movements with his head; then as the colour flooded over his face he whispered, ‘Yours?’
‘Yes. Does it surprise you?’
As he, too, rose to his feet he said, ‘Yes…well, it does in a way, Maggie.’
‘Oh.’ There was that old astringent note in her voice. ‘You think like the rest: I’m not made in the image and likeness, so therefore I’m not capable of bearing a child.’
‘Oh no, no, Maggie, nothing like that, only…well, I just…er’—again his head was moving—‘Doesn’t seem like you, somehow. Are you? I mean, have you…well, have you got married?’ His words ended on a high enquiring note and she answered flatly, ‘No, I haven’t got married. And I’m one of those bad girls; not so bad now, because there’s a war on and it’s happening all the time. No, I’m not married; he’s what you would call illegitimate, commonly known as a bastard.’
They stared at each other, her face as red as his now, and when he muttered, ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘So am I, Joe.’
‘Oh, Maggie.’
‘You’re shocked, aren’t you?’
‘No, no, I’m not shocked, I’m only…well…’ He could find no words to explain his feelings and yes, truth to tell, he was shocked. He searched round in his mind to name a father. The only man he could think of was Billings. He had forgotten that he had ever hit Billings. He could only remember that Billings had been fond of her and had made himself the butt of her sarcasm. But that often happened where affections were concerned; she had likely been trying to hide what she felt. And yet he had thought…What had he thought? That she was in love with him? Yes. Yes, he had. Well then, he had been mistaken, hadn’t he? Of a sudden he experienced a feeling of loss, and added to this he felt hurt, his mind telling him that she should have told him, that it wasn’t fair. Yet, when he came to think of it, she had never brought Billings up here.
Perhaps Billings was married. On the thought, he turned and put the question to her, ‘Is he married?’
She stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, and then
she added slowly, ‘No, he isn’t married.’
‘Then…then I think he should marry you.’
‘I don’t think he would agree with you.’
‘I…I don’t see why not; he…seemed very fond of you.’
‘What? Who? Who seemed very fond of me?’
‘Well—’ He lowered his head, his eyelids blinked rapidly, then he jerked his chin up to the side and, looking at her, said, ‘Well, er, Billings.’
When she made no answer he raised his head. She was still standing near the child and what she said both puzzled and amazed him, for her words held deep bitterness: ‘You know something, Joe? At this moment I could hate you, really and truly hate you.’ And on this she turned about and went out of the kitchen.
She stopped at the top of the stairs, her fingers gripping her throat. She drew in a deep breath in order to compose herself, for she mustn’t let Lizzie see how she was feeling.
When she went into the bedroom she made a gallant effort to bring into her voice the same note of happy surprise it had held when she first saw Joe at the back door.
Lizzie was propped up against the pillows. Her eyes were closed; she was dozing again.
‘Aunt Lizzie.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes, lass? I must have dropped off.’
‘I have a surprise for you.’
‘You have? They’ve doubled the rations?’ A weak smile spread over the wrinkled skin. The spirit of laughter was not yet dead in her.
‘No, something better than that; somebody’s come to see you.’
‘Ah lass, I’m past doctors. I know it and you know it; now let’s face…’
‘Aunt Lizzie, it isn’t the doctor; it’s someone you’d like to see.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It’s Joe.’
My Beloved Son Page 30