My Dear I Wanted to Tell You

by Louisa Young

  Rose passed it over. It was beautiful. Jarvis had chased a pattern in spirals round and round its length.

  Purefoy nodded his thanks.

  Jarvis said, ‘You’re welcome.’

  Have they always been kind? Riley wondered. He drank his eggflip through the brass straw that night, and used it to rinse his mouth in the bathroom afterwards. Don’t forget the sulcus. You have a sulcus now. It’s the gap between the flesh of the lower lip and the mandible. Keep it clean.

  *

  One of the anaesthetists was going up to London in his motor-car, and dropped Riley at Euston station. ‘Good luck, Captain,’ he said, and Riley nodded.

  He had his wound stripes, his pips and a scarf. He wound it high.

  He glanced around. City streets. Crowd. Jesus Christ, what a racket. What a mob. Jesus.

  He put himself with his back to the wall and breathed carefully. Here is the world. Here is London. Here are the people. The war is over. He knew absolutely nothing about it. You’re twenty-two years old, Riley, and it all starts here, like this.

  Only as the train pulled into Wigan North Western did Riley think he should have written to her. He’d scare the daylights out of her. Even if he looked all right, just turning up out of the blue would give her a shock … Damn. He should write now, deliver the letter, stay somewhere, wait till he heard from her …

  The town was busy. He came out into the street: men, women, wagons, girls, children. Mill chimneys loomed beyond, and the air was metallic. He’d never been in the north before, but the accent he knew well: the great troops of scrawny tough boys in big caps, with dirty jokes and big hands, railwaymen and miners and factory hands. Ainsworth’s voice had been something between the Manchesters and the Liverpool Irish.

  ‘La la la la ba ba ba,’ Riley murmured, behind his scarf, and crossed the road to the Swan and Railway. Beautiful stained-glass panels: a swan, almost embracing a steam train in its snowy wings. Like Leda and Zeus, he thought. Now who was that by … Burne Jones? And that one at the British Museum … It was a strange, surreal pairing. He liked it. He breathed deeply as he entered the fuggy room, and went up to the bar. He took out his notebook – a new one – and wrote:

  Brown ale please. Do you have rooms?

  He tore out the page and passed it across to the waiter, who was polishing a glass. The waiter glanced down at it, then at Riley, and said: ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’

  Riley stared at him. A feeling of cold rose up his body. He leant forward, putting his elbows on the bar, and resting his precious chin carefully on his hands, the scarf wrapped round it. The cuffs of his sleeves, with their assorted pips and stripes – his promotions, his wounds, his years overseas, his pre-1915 – were right there for the fellow’s information. Does he not know there’s been a war?

  The man was grinning at him.

  ‘Well, do you want a drink or not?’ he said.

  Riley glanced down at the note, and back at him.

  ‘I can’t read,’ the man said, with a smirk, eyeballing. ‘You’ll need to take that scarf off and talk, like a human being.’

  It was all Riley needed. His arm snaked out across the bar and punched the little squit in the face.

  Warmth flooded him.

  Concentric circles.

  The man reeled.

  Stop.

  Riley stood back suddenly, holding his arm as if to restrain it. He was breathless. He wanted to say sorry. He felt a light come into his eyes, and an unaccustomed feeling across his cheekbones, which he identified as a smile.

  ‘Right,’ said the waiter. ‘Get out.’ He touched his jaw. ‘Piss off.’ He had picked up a glass, cowering, aggressive.

  It’s not his fault; he doesn’t know, Riley thought. Then: He ought to be able to tell.

  Riley felt his eyes smiling, his cheeks stretching. Sorry, he thought. But you asked for it. And now I will know the truth. He took off his hat, and put it on the bar. His hair was a little longer than the army would normally prefer, but the curls didn’t hide the shining scarred stripe over the back. He unwrapped his scarf, keeping his eyes steady on the waiter.

  As the scarf dropped, the man gasped. His hands fell suddenly, heavily, to the bar. The glass bounced and shattered on the wooden floor. He was saying, ‘Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ.’ With one finger, Riley pushed the note towards him, then went and sat down at a small table at the front of the room. He dug in his bag, and pulled out his straw. He played with it between his fingers, and he felt like a twat. Well done there, Riley. Good work. Just the ticket.

  A few minutes later a different man brought over the beer; older, barrel-chested. The landlord, at a guess.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Flat feet. Never went. ’Asn’t a clue. Anything I can do for you, sir, just say. Will you be all right with that?’

  Riley gave a little twirl of his straw in his fingers, like a sergeant major’s baton in parade. I’m the fucking Phantom of the Opera. I shouldn’t be allowed out. I have to speak again. I cannot be out here in the world and not speak.

  Riley gestured to the man to sit, and nodded thanks to him, looking him in the eye. This was going to be exhausting. At Sidcup, everyone knew what to do. The routine bore them along. He had been ricocheting between routine and crisis for years. Here, there was neither.

  He wrote:

  If you could direct me to Poolstock Lodge, Poolstock

  The landlord, having read the note, put his hand briefly to his mouth, and said: ‘Is it Sybil Ainsworth you’re after, lad?’

  Riley nodded.

  ‘Does she know you’re coming?’

  Riley shook his head.

  The man was thinking.

  ‘Were you alongside Jack Ainsworth?’ he asked.

  Riley nodded.

  After a moment the man said, ‘If you can wait till closing, I’ll take you over myself. Likely she’ll offer you a room there. If she can’t there’s a bed for you here, on the house, as long as you’re staying.’

  Riley looked for a moment as if he might demur, but the landlord said gently, ‘Don’t be too proud, lad.’

  Riley nodded.

  *

  Sybil was broad-faced, full-figured, small-waisted, strong. The house was clean and comfortable within its means. The landlord had gone in first.

  ‘Come in, Captain,’ she said. ‘You’ll take us as you find us. Please sit down.’ She took his greatcoat. The scarf was tucked into his tunic. Two studio photos of Jack stood on the mantelpiece: one in uniform, hat on, standing beside Sybil as she sat, a curtain behind them, formal. The other, clearly taken at the same time, Jack hatless, standing alone, a cloudy backdrop behind him, looking very handsome, and just like himself. His big ears.

  He wanted to say, ‘Mrs Ainsworth, your husband …’

  He took off his hat, sat on the edge of the little armchair she offered him, and pulled out his notebook.

  He couldn’t even think what he wanted to say because he had to write it, and it was different: it was formal; it was permanent; it had no tone of voice to carry it over its own inconsistencies; it had … He had to learn to talk again. Or to write. So much to learn.

  ‘Would a cup of tea be nice?’ she asked. ‘Mr Sutton’s told me about your face – if you want to keep it covered that’s all right with me, but if you’d like tea I can look the other way, or you can do whatever you need to do. I wouldn’t mind the sight of you, if you’re concerned about that. But perhaps when the children come in from school …’

  There was so much he could say to that. He wrote:

  A cup of tea, thank you. I drink through a straw, it’s tidier and not too frightening I don’t think. I’ll be gone before the children come.

  ‘You will not, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Jack wrote very highly of you, Captain, and the children would like to see you …’ She stumbled for a second over ‘see’. ‘They’d like to meet you. Arthur and little Sybil hardly knew their dad. Alice and Annie remember him better.
They’d be sad if I let you go.’

  She hadn’t sat down. She went next door to make the tea. Riley could hear her moving about. She could have come back into the front room, the company room, but she didn’t.

  He went across to the little desk opposite the fireplace, and started to write her a letter.

  Dear Mrs Ainsworth,

  It’s easier to write to you now, having seen your face. My previous letter written from France was full I know of all the weaknesses that such a letter always must have. I have come now because I want to tell you how Jack died, but more importantly how he lived, and how much he meant to me.

  He died bravely – they always say this but it is true. He was blown up by a shell near Hébuterne; well, he was sent flying, and he died of a head wound that day. They were able to bury him in the village cemetery, where in times of peace I am told daisies grow. Prayers were said, and the CO read the prayer of yours that he carried with him always.

  He lived, as a soldier, with kindness, odd though that may sound. He was kind. He was older than many of us, and his kindness meant a great deal to a great many of

  Riley had to stop a moment, his memory sabotaged.

  Sybil came back in, carrying a tin tray, flower-patterned, with two cups of tea. ‘Sugar?’ she said, and he nodded, and handed her the letter he was halfway through.

  She read it, and nodded a couple of times, and she folded it and put it in her pocket. As she did so, Riley reached into his inner pocket and took out his Small Book, and from it, her prayer. He passed it to her, and she took it, and read it as if she had never seen it before. She stood a few seconds in silence, holding it. ‘Did he give it you?’ she said, finally.

  Riley nodded, and scribbled:

  Indirectly. It came on to me in hospital.

  ‘I wondered what had happened to it,’ she said. Then there was a moment of embarrassed confusion as she tried to give it back to him, and he wanted to say, ‘No, no, it’s yours,’ but she said: ‘He gave it you. It’s yours.’

  He put it back in his book, back in his pocket, and he wrote:

  Thank you.

  And then he wrote,

  Mrs Ainsworth, what is good cheer?

  She smiled then. ‘Remembering that things will change,’ she said, ‘and maybe for the better.’

  He wrote:

  Look on the bright side?

  She curled her lip. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘some think that sounds like claptrap from a simpleton. And you know what the war’s done to me and my children. But bitterness never helped anyone and that’s God’s truth.’

  ‘Na,’ he said. The scarf was loose around his face.

  ‘You, for example,’ she said. ‘Will you talk again?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Likely you will if you want to,’ she said. ‘Who do you want to talk to? And don’t say Jack.’

  He smiled. ‘Ya,’ he said.

  ‘Me?’ she said. ‘All right.’

  She didn’t know it was his first word.

  *

  Mr Sutton from the Swan joined them for supper, and told stories of Jack’s boyhood, and their times together at the railway coach-builder’s. Sybil gave Riley his food beforehand, on his own, and he thanked her for the courtesy. The children stared. They warmed up after Riley sketched each of them in his notebook, and tore the pictures out to give to them. Young Annie was very like her father.

  ‘It’s very good,’ she said. ‘It looks just like me.’ She looked at him. ‘But I can’t see what you look like. Why’ve you yer scarf on at supper?’

  Sybil didn’t tell her to hush, though Alice did. Riley put his finger up, to ask them to wait a moment, and scribbled her a note. She read it out loud. ‘“I was hurt badly at the battle of Pass-, Passchen-, Passchendaele” – oh, yes, I know that one – “and now my face is very frightening so I cover it up.”’

  She stared over at him. ‘Is it really, really frightening?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Is that why you don’t talk?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Have you not got a mouth any more?’

  He kind of shrugged.

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Annie!’ cried Alice. Arthur stared, agog with appalled hope. Sybil was still silent, watching. Mr Sutton said, ‘Oh, dear God, child.’

  Annie turned and said, ‘Don’t swear, Uncle.’ Then: ‘Can I see?’ she asked again. Her face was kind and curious.

  Riley looked at Sybil.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ she said. ‘You can’t shelter the little ones too much.’

  He looked pensively at Annie. Eight years old, her father’s daughter. Then he wrote:

  If it gives you nightmares, you can come and kick me in the morning. And remember, I have a very pretty heart.

  She read it out, and laughed, and settled down to stare at him. The others were motionless, except for Mr Sutton who started refilling his pipe. Alice looked at the table.

  Riley unwrapped his face.

  Silence of anticipation.

  There.

  My half-healed face naked in a room of strangers.

  Such handsome eyes, thought Sybil. The expression in those eyes, the fear, the apologetic concern for the feelings of those looking, the expectation of revulsion, filled her with tenderness towards him. The eyes transfixed her before she saw the rail of scars, the crooked, still swollen jawline, the strange rebuilt mouth.

  Poor lad, thought Mr Sutton. Dear God, no wonder Bert dropped a glass.

  ‘Eyurrgh,’ cried Arthur, fascinated, and only six. Alice shushed him, and would not look. Little Sybil’s mouth was wobbling. Riley glanced at her sadly, and Alice smiled at him with a tiny gulp and took her out into the kitchen. They could hear as she started to howl.

  ‘That is quite scary,’ said Annie, in an observational tone. She squinted at it, and moved round to look at it from the side. ‘I quite like it, though. Can I touch it?’

  Riley felt the tightness across his cheekbones again: a little snort of utterly unexpected laughter, trying to find a place to go. He nodded, and watched her until she went out of focus as she came up close and carefully prodded different places on his face.

  ‘But you have got a mouth,’ she said. ‘I bet you could talk.’

  He said, ‘Ad da da.’

  She grinned. ‘See?’ she cried. ‘You must take honey and hot water, and whisky, for your throat.’

  He reached round her for the notebook. She passed it to him.

  He wrote:

  The surgeon at the hospital made me a new jawbone out of rubber, and brought the skin from my head to cover it. They are going to get me teeth. They say I might be able to chew and eat again. I think I’ll always be a messy eater, though.

  ‘Arthur was a messy eater,’ she said kindly. ‘He grew out of it. He practised eating tidily because Mam said to. Did they cut you and stitch you?’

  yes

  ‘Do you remember, Mam, they did that to Jean’s dad after the fire in the engine house?’

  Arthur and Mr Sutton were still staring. Sybil said, ‘They did that, Annie.’

  ‘It’s clever how they can do that,’ Annie said. ‘And it’s not that frightening, you know. I suppose because your eyes are kind.’

  His pupils shrank away, tiny, black in the grey fields. He blinked several times. Then he groped for his notebook. Sybil passed it. Riley wrote:

  Thank you. What you have said makes me feel much better about my face.

  She read it, smiled at him, jumped up and patted his cheek. ‘Best do the dishes now,’ she said.

  *

  Riley lay flat on his back in Arthur’s little bed, opening and shutting his mouth. Opening and shutting, opening and shutting. He held his nose, and tried to breathe through his mouth. ‘Nga, nga, nga,’ he said. ‘Na da da la la la na na na dee nadee nadine.’

  He fell asleep weeping.

  Sybil heard him. Lying beside her, so did Alice. Each wished there was some way under God’s sun that she could go nex
t door and comfort him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  London, December 1918

  Peter was at the Forty-Four, trying to locate relief in his body. His booth was by the tiny dim dance-floor, lit with the pink twinkling gleam of gas lamps. On his small table were a dark, glowing whisky and an ashtray, semi-full. The club was almost empty except that on the bandstand Mr Sidney Bechet, the new saxophonist from the Southern Syncopated Orchestra, was doing a cocktail-hour turn.

  Peter’s long torso was curled around a cigarette, and the line and swirl of the smoke rising from it looked to him like the line and swirl of the saxophone line that encircled him. He felt the smoke inside his lungs, moving and sighing. This was one the joys he was counting in his mind. The feel of the smoke in his lungs. The fact that nobody was going to interrupt this cigarette. The thrill of the vestige of whisky on his lip. The beautiful pure clean liquid-honey sound of this glorious instrument. The smooth dryness of his socks. The soft clean wool of his vest. His face, still fresh from this morning’s excellent shave: hot towels, essence of Jamaican lime, only a small attack of the shakes when the barber opened the cut-throat razor to strop it. He hadn’t drunk very much tonight and he wasn’t going to. Things were pretty good, really. He was doing all right today. When he felt all right enough, he was going to go home to Julia.

  The sounds inside his head had been very, very bad but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. A tightness in the hollow under his cheekbone, perhaps. The saxophone was unravelling it.

  A woman sidled up to him, sweaty green satin dress, poor choice of lipstick colour. ‘Quelquechose à boire?’ she said, with a powdery smile. Her eyes were made up huge and round, and looked like pansies.

  He shook his head quickly. This was his third whisky. He didn’t want more. More didn’t work any more. No doubt he would try more again, and it wouldn’t work again – but not today. Today had been all right.

  ‘Quelquechose à boire pour moi?’ she said, a little louder over the music.