At Helwan, he was still laughing. Everything about his condition made him laugh. After the early days of no sensation at all, he became subject to the most ridiculous delusions. At times it seemed that his knees were rising of their own accord. He would look down, expecting to see the blanket move. Or he would imagine that someone was pulling at his feet. Once or twice this impression was so strong, he uncovered his legs to make sure he was not slipping off the end of the bed.
And then there was his treatment. His buttocks were always being lifted and rubbed with methylated spirits: ‘To prevent bedsores,’ the nurse told him. Every two hours he was tilted first on one side and then on the other, a bolster being pushed into his waist to keep him there. The first time this happened, he asked, ‘What’s this in aid of?’
The nurse giggled and said, ‘You’d better ask the physio.’
The physio, a young New Zealander called Ross, did not giggle but soberly told him that the repeated movements helped to keep his bowels active. Not that they were active. The first time a young woman had given him an enema, he had been filled with shame.
She had said, ‘We don’t want to get all bogged up, do we?’ Soon enough the enemas were stopped and suppositories were pushed into him. He became used to being handled and ceased to feel ashamed. He had to accept that his motions were not his to control but after a while, he recognized the symptoms that told him his bladder was full. His heart would thump, or he would feel a pain in his chest, and he must ask to be relieved by catheter.
Ross came in three times a day to move his knees and hip joints, performing the exercises carefully, with grave gentleness.
Everything they did to him enhanced for him the absurdity of his dependence. ‘You treat me like a baby,’ he said to Ross who merely nodded and tapped his knee.
The tap produced an exaggerated jerk of the leg and Simon, interested and entertained, asked, ‘Why does it do that?’
‘Just lack of control, sir. Your system’s confused — in a manner of speaking, that is.’
Once when his left leg gave a sudden move, he called for Ross, saying, ‘I must be getting better.’
Ross shook his head: ‘That happens, sometimes, sir. It means nothing.’
Even then, Simon’s laughter went on, becoming, at times, so near hysteria that the doctor said, ‘If we don’t calm you down, young man, your return to life will be the death of you.’
He was given sedatives and entered an enchanted half-world, losing all inhibitions. Seeing everything as possible, he asked the staff nurse to telephone Miss Edwina Little at the British Embassy and tell her to visit him.
‘Your girlfriend, is she?’
‘I’d like to think so. She was my brother’s girlfriend. I don’t know whose girlfriend she is now but she’s the most gorgeous popsie in Cairo. You wait till you see her. D’you think I’ll be out of here soon? I’d like to take her for a spin, go out to dinner, go to a night club . . .’
‘Better leave all that till you’re on your feet again.’
‘Which won’t be long now, will it, nurse?’
‘I can’t say. We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘You mean it’s just a matter of time?’
The nurse, making no promises, said vaguely: ‘I suppose you could say that,’ and Simon was satisfied. So long as he felt certain he would eventually recover, he could wait for time to pass.
Two
Now that 8th Army had left Egypt, a slumberous calm had come down on the capital: Cairo was no longer a base town. The soldiers that had crowded the pavements, wandering aimlessly, disgruntled and idle for lack of arms, had all been given guns and sent into the fight.
The British advance after Alamein had been impressive but no one thought it would last. Everyone expected a counter-attack that would bring the Afrika Korps back over the frontier. But this time the counter-attack failed and by January, the Germans had retreated so far away, they seemed to be lost in the desert sand.
The few British officers who still took tea in Groppi’s garden had an apologetic air, feeling they had been cast aside by the runaway military machine.
It was a pleasant time of the year. Winter in Egypt was no more than a temperate interval between one summer and the next. It did not last long and there was no spring though a few deciduous trees that dropped their leaves from habit were now breaking into bud again. They went unnoticed in Garden City, lost as they were among the evergreens and palms and the dense, glossy foliage of the mango trees. The evenings were limpid and in the mornings a little mist hung like a delicate veil over the riverside walks.
The mid-days were warm enough to carry the threat of heat to come. In the flat that Edwina Little shared with Dobson and Guy Pringle, the rooms that looked on to the next-door garden were already scented by the drying grass.
Dobson, who held an embassy lease, had a room in the cool centre of the flat. The others, in the corridor under the roof, were let to friends. Now only two friends remained. Guy Pringle’s wife, Harriet, had left Cairo to board an evacuation ship at Suez.
This ship, the Queen of Sparta, was bound for England by way of the Cape. It had sailed a few days after Christmas and now, in January, there was a rumour that she had been sunk in the Indian Ocean with the loss of all on board. Guy, when he heard it, refused to credit it. Rumours were the life of Cairo and usually proved to be wrong. Dobson and Edwina, also suspicious of rumours, agreed behind Guy’s back that, until the sinking was confirmed, they would not speak of it or commiserate with him.
He was glad of their silence that seemed to prove the whole thing was a canard. He began to feel it was directed at him because his wife had not wanted to be evacuated. He half suspected his friend Jake Jackman, a noted source of rumours, who had been fond of Harriet and may have resented her going.
Sitting with Jake at the Anglo-Egyptian Union, he said as though to justify himself: ‘You know, this climate was killing Harriet. I doubt whether she would have survived another summer here.’
‘Yep, she looked like a puff of wind,’ Jake agreed then, unable to resist his own malice, he sniggered and pulled at his thin, aquiline nose: ‘You know what they say: if you want to know a man’s true nature, look at the health of his wife.’
Guy was indignant: ‘Who said that? I never heard a more ridiculous statement.’
Jake, having delivered his shaft, was ready to be conciliatory: ‘You don’t believe these rumours, do you? Leave them be and they’ll die of their own accord.’
But they did not die. People who had friends or relatives on board the ship approached Guy and asked if he had any information. Dobson received a letter from a diplomat in Iraq whose wife, Marion Dixon, had sailed on the ship. He appealed to Dobson for news and at last the matter was brought up at the breakfast table, the one place at which the three inmates of the flat met and conversed.
Guy was the first to speak of it. He, too, appealed to Dobson: ‘You must have heard this about the Queen of Sparta being lost! If it’s true, surely you would have had official confirmation by now?’
‘Yes, in normal times, but the times aren’t normal. The ship had passed out of our sphere of influence so we might not hear for months.’
Edwina, eager to reassure Guy, said: ‘Oh, Dobbie, you would have heard by now. Of course you would!’
‘Well, we should have heard by now, I agree.’
Dobson’s tone suggested they might still hear and Guy, disturbed, left the table and went to the Institute where, by keeping himself employed, he could put his anxiety behind him.
After he had gone, Edwina said: ‘You know, Dobbie, Guy’s not a bit like himself. You can see he’s terribly worried but trying to hide it. If Harriet is dead — of course I’m sure she isn’t — I know she’d want me to console him. I feel I should, don’t you?’
Dobson, regarding her with an ironical smile, asked: ‘And how do you propose to do it?’
‘Oh, there are ways. I could ask him to take me out. He once took me to the Extase
when he found me crying because Peter hadn’t turned up. He was really sweet.’
‘And what did Harriet say about that?’
‘I don’t think she said anything. You know we were great friends. I was thinking we might go to a dinner-dance at the Continental-Savoy. I suppose Guy does dance?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never heard of his dancing.’
‘I’m sure he can. He’s very clever, you know. I sang in his troops’ concert and he was wonderful. He said I sang like an angel.’
‘I hope, in the midst of this mutual admiration, you won’t forget he’s married to Harriet.’
‘Dobbie, how could you say that? I’ll never forget Harriet. But when you’re doing a show together, a special relationship grows up. That’s what Guy and I have: a special relationship.’
Dobson laughed indulgently and Edwina remembered another special relationship. ‘You remember that nice boy Boulderstone who was killed, the one I liked so much? What was he called?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Well, now his brother’s been wounded. He’s in hospital at Helwan and I’ve promised to go and see him. It’s quite a journey, so if I’m late this evening at the office, you’ll understand, won’t you, Dobbie dear?’
Dobson laughed again and said: ‘Don’t worry. We’ll forgive you, as we always do, my dear.’
Edwina’s appearance in Plegics caused a wondering silence to come down on the men. Anyone who could move his neck, followed her as she walked the length of the long ward to find Simon at the farther end. She was wearing a suit of fine white wool and the heels of her white kid shoes tapped on the wooden floor. The whiteness of her clothing enhanced the gold of her hair and skin. Becoming aware of the intent gaze of the men, she shook her hair back from her right eye and smiled, kindly but vaguely, from side to side.
Simon, as she approached, shared the wonder of the ward. When she reached him and sat beside him, saying: ‘How are you, Simon dear?’, he sank back against his pillows, benumbed, without power to reply.
She put some white carnations on the table then leant towards him so he was enveloped both by the scent of the flowers and the heavy scent she was wearing. He remembered that Hugo had ordered him to buy perfume for her at an expensive little West-End shop: Gardenia perfume. For some moments its aroma was more real than her presence. Though he had been expecting her, he could only marvel that a creature so beautiful, so elegant, so far removed from the desert suburb of Nissen huts and sand, should come to visit him.
Misunderstanding his silence, she asked in a tone of concern: ‘You haven’t forgotten me, have you?’
‘Forgotten you?’ He gave a laugh that was nearly a sob: ‘How could I forget you? I’ve thought of no one else since I first saw you.’
‘Oh, Simon, really!’ His vehemence disconcerted her. That he was infatuated with her, did not surprise her, but she was not quite the girl she had been at their last meeting. She, too, had been infatuated, not with this poor boy but with a man, an Irish peer, who, having pursued their affair in a carefree, generous manner, had ended it by telling her he was already married. He had returned to the desert and she had lost not only him, but some inner confidence. And all the time she had been yearning for Peter Lisdoonvarna, this young lieutenant had been yearning for her! At the thought, she smiled sadly and he asked anxiously:
‘What’s the matter, Edwina? You aren’t cross with me for saying that?’
‘Cross? No, not a bit cross, but do you remember that colonel, Lord Lisdoonvarna? He was in the flat when you came to tell us about your brother’s death.’
‘You bet I do. Because of him, I got a liaison job. He put my name up for it. Jolly decent of him, wasn’t it?’
‘I didn’t know about that.’
Now, knowing, this act of kindness made her loss seem the greater. Tears blurred her eyes and she said in a breaking voice: ‘Oh, Simon, you’ve no idea how he treated me. It was dreadful. I haven’t got over it.’ She paused, shaking her head to control herself: ‘He deserted me. Yes, deserted. For months we went everywhere together. He simply appropriated me, so I never had a chance to see anyone else. Then, would you believe it, he felt he’d had enough and he wangled his return to his unit.’
‘That’s monstrous!’ Simon stretched out his hand and she put her hand into it. He had been outraged when he believed she had rejected Hugo, and he was outraged now because Lisdoonvarna had rejected her. He could only say, ‘I am sorry,’ but it was such heartfelt sorrow that Edwina squeezed his hand.
‘Dear Simon, what a comfort you are!’ She looked into his face that was so like his brother’s face and, seeing in it the same youth and sensitivity and absolute niceness, she was moved to something like love for him. She said: ‘Let’s forget Peter. There are other men in the world, aren’t there? You’re so sweet, you restore my faith in myself. I’d begun to think no one would ever find me attractive again.’
‘Good lord! Why, my brother Hugo said . . .’
‘Yes, Hugo,’ Edwina seized on the name that had been evading her: ‘Hugo was wonderful. You know, he was the one for me. I was just dazzled by Peter, that was all. He was a lord and a colonel and . . .well, I was silly, wasn’t I?’
Simon felt there was some confusion in this protest but said: ‘So you were Hugo’s girl, after all?’
‘Oh, yes, I was. Of course I was. And you know, Simon, you’re so like him. Your face, the way you speak, everything about you. Just like Hugo.’ She smiled encouragingly at him. Though good-looking officers did not offer much of a future, they were a lot of fun while they lasted.
Smiling back at her, Simon said: ‘We used to be mistaken for twins. My mother said that sometimes she couldn’t tell us apart.’
‘But how are you, Simon. You seem quite well. There can’t be much wrong with you. You weren’t badly wounded, were you?’
‘No, it’s nothing much. I was hit by a piece of flak. I’ll soon be out and about, and I wonder! If I got hold of a car, would you let me take you for a drive?’
‘I’d love it.’
The word ‘love’ spoken by Edwina quite overthrew him. He flushed as a thought came into his head, probably the most daring thought of his whole life. If he seemed to her so like Hugo, might she not feel for him as she had felt for his brother? After all, he was the survivor and the survivor was, by right, the inheritor. As his blush deepened, he had to explain that he was still running a temperature. Because it was winter, it did not worry him much but in summer it would be tiresome.
Edwina, not taken in, responded to his hopeful, aspiring gaze as she had responded to many other young men. She smiled a smile that was enticing and slightly mischievous, and seemed to Simon full of promise. He remembered that like Peter Lisdoonvarna, he was already married, but what did that matter? He had been married for only a week before he was sent to join the draft. Now that week had sunk so far out of sight, it might never have existed.
They were still holding hands but Edwina felt she could now loosen her fingers. As she did so, Simon gripped them tighter and said, ‘Don’t leave me yet.’
‘I’m afraid I must.’ Laughing, she slid from his grasp and picked up her gloves and handbag: ‘I’m a working girl, you know. I have to go back to the Embassy.’
‘But you’ll come again?’
‘Of course I will.’ She touched his cheek with her finger-tips: ‘Again and again and again. So, just for now: goodbye.’
Choked with gratitude for this promise, he could scarcely say, ‘Goodbye.’
Watching her as she walked away down the ward, his mood changed. His exaltation had reached its apogee during her visit and as she departed, his excitement went with her. He saw the men in wheel-chairs shift to let her pass and for the first time, he identified himself with them. He realized what sort of ward it was and why he was in it. Terror formed like a knot in his chest and he moved restlessly against his pillows, in acute need of reassurance.
For some time the only person who came near
was the orderly with his tea. Simon caught at his arm and tried to question him, but the orderly only said: ‘Don’t ask me, sir. Afore I come to this kip, all I’d ever done was shovel coal.’
‘Where’s the doctor? Why hasn’t he come round? I must see him.’
The orderly, a big, red-haired fellow, looked pityingly at him and said: ‘Don’t you get upset, sir. It’ll be all right. The physio’ll be here in a minute.’
Simon let the man go then lay, impatient for Ross to arrive. He realized that all his laughter, all his high spirits, had been a screen to divide him from the poor devils in the wheel-chairs.
He heard them singing an old troops’ song that they had adopted as their theme song. He had taken it to be, ‘Beautiful Dreamer, Queen of my song/I’ve been out in Shiba too fucking long . . .’
Now, hearing it again, he realized it was something different:
Beautiful Dreamer, Queen of my Song,
I’ve been here in Plegics too fucking long . . .
and this ward was Plegics — paraplegics, quadraplegics! They sang mournfully, going on to the next lines:
Send out the Rodney, send the Renown,
You can’t send the Hood for the bleeder’s gone down.
How long, he wondered, had some of them been in Plegics? How long was he likely to be there?
When Ross came to his bedside, Simon could appreciate his solemnity.
Ross, seeing his distraught face, made a noise in his throat as though acknowledging the change in him, but said nothing. With his usual gentle efficiency, he uncovered Simon’s legs and began to manipulate them.
Looking down at them, Simon could now see how strange they were. Not his legs at all. Having lost their sunburn, they looked to him unnaturally white; marble legs, too heavy to move; lifeless, the legs of a corpse.
The exercises finished, Ross pulled a pencil along Simon’s right sole, from heel to toe: ‘Feel that?’
‘No.’
As the blanket was pulled back over them, Simon imagined his legs disappearing into the darkness of death. He said: ‘Wait a moment, Ross. I want you to tell me the truth.’ He nodded towards the chairbound men who seemed in the sunset light to be moving in a limbo of infinite patience: ‘Am I going to be like them?’
Fortunes of War Page 43