The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  With mordant humour Henry joined a ward of fellows nicknamed the Gargoyles. Henry’s facial disfigurement was comparatively mild requiring repairs to his jawbone, nose and right temple. Some of the other fellows had lost all semblance of humanity and Gillies did what he could to try and restore some sense of order to what was often just a faceless series of holes. Mirrors were not allowed, as it was understood that the psychological despondency that might ensue should a man become aware of his disfigurement would plunge them into dark despair. Visitors were discouraged. At some point they would have to face wives, girlfriends and children and attempt to get work. However, in this hospital, all were alike in their unsightliness and no faces expressed any shock.

  Doctors, nurses and fellow patients became inured to this procession of Calibans, gorgons and beasts. It would be when returning home to loved ones that they would experience that looking glass shock. Henry did what he could to enliven the mood amongst the Gargoyles. He would play some lively airs and jigs on his violin, which had survived the vicissitudes of his military career. Those who could sang along. He steered away from any sad refrains for fear that reminders of nostalgia, memories and reality might induce intolerable despair.

  A series of operations culminated in a rudimentary reshaping of his features and an almost-recognisable Henry began to re-emerge. His blue-grey eyes had been left intact as had his indomitable spirit. Before the end of 1917, with reconstruction and convalescence he was able to reflect that he was still alive, improving in mobility and relatively intact.

  The Gargoyles were tended by a group of nurses who were saintly in demeanour when faced with the horrible effects of war. In civilian life, one could easily be repulsed by a prominent birthmark or simply a collection of ugly facial features. In Henry’s ward, every man was frightening. However, the nurses – who had volunteered for this particular ward – had trained themselves not to register shock at the monsters who looked back at them, but to treat the human being still inside the broken husk.

  Henry had a particular fondness for Nurse Frith.

  “You can call me Myrtle,” she had whispered to him. She was the daughter of a good local family and she had decided to do her bit for the war effort. A plain girl in civilian life as a nurse, she was, to the men in the ward, transformed into a beautiful caring angel.

  Recognising that nursing was as much about mental restoration as it was about physical repair, Myrtle would spend time simply sitting by sickbeds holding hands and talking. She had an especial fondness for Henry as they talked about art, books and, most particularly, music. She would gravitate to his bed on the night shift and they would, in a low whisper, discuss their childhoods, their dreams for the future, the futility of war, those who would never come back and those who did come back but would never be the same again. Myrtle would hold Henry’s hand as they talked and he felt a stirring inside him as she reawakened the spirit of his masculinity. Myrtle sensed the subtle shift.

  *

  One evening, all was quiet on the ward. Doses of morphine coupled with exhaustion had tranquillised the patients and Myrtle sat next to Henry’s bed and they stroked each other’s hands. Looking at him and smiling she rose to draw the curtains round his bed then resumed her seat. Across the bedclothes she stroked the outline of his leg. Henry lent back, his eyes closed, exhaling slowly at the sensation. Reaching under his bedclothes, she began to stroke his body. Myrtle felt him stir under her searching fingers and slowly began to coax him into stiffening. Henry let out an almost imperceptible moan. Unhurryingly and watching his face with pleasure she lingeringly brought him to a climax, manipulating every drop out of him with a gently calculated stroke and grip.

  “My God, Myrtle,” he whispered, “I haven’t felt that for… years. Thank you, but I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “There is no reason to worry yourself,” said Myrtle. “It is our secret. You could say it is just another way to rehabilitate you in any case,” she said, smilingly. “We are taught to tend the whole man and not just the wounds. Besides,” she gave him a coquettish smile, “I liked it!”

  Such nocturnal visits became a regular feature of Henry’s last weeks in Sidcup. Although taking extreme care not to be compromised and waiting until she was the only nurse on the ward, Myrtle did progress to hitching her uniform above her thighs and letting Henry see and touch her intimately as she ministered to him. Along with this pleasure, the two of them talked of meeting up outside hospital when Henry was restored to as full a capability as possible. Progressively, they fell in love and, sotto voce, planned their future together.

  “Well, you’re no Adonis any longer, but I suppose you’ll have to do!”

  “And you,” said Henry, “are the reason I am going to get out of here, onto my feet and into the family firm so that I can marry you and support you, and our children!”

  *

  One morning in February 1918, Myrtle did not appear on her normal shift. Henry enquired about her with the Ward Sister taking care not to excite too much attention to his enquiry.

  “I think she’s just under the weather,” said Sister Ida. “There is a bug going round and we nurses are in the firing line for a change, and we wouldn’t want it spread on the ward.”

  After several more days of absence, Ida stood at the end of the ward in her starched hat, Red Cross uniform and sensible brogue shoes.

  “Sadly, men, I have some devastating news to report. You all, of course, know Sister Myrtle. Very unfortunately, she succumbed to the Spanish Influenza that is sweeping the country. This affects different people in different ways from a mild fever to something much worse. I am afraid Myrtle seemed to have taken a very bad dose and there was little that could be done for her. A lovely colleague who I know will be sadly missed by all of you. Thank you and I am sorry to have to relay this very sad news.”

  Henry was stunned but could not show his grief. He took to his bed, a deep depression enfolded him and he was unable to speak or eat. Fellow patients recognised that the black dog had come to visit Henry as many of them had suffered similarly. They were unaware of the real reason for his grief.

  But Henry’s young body continued to heal and Dr Gillies had restored his face to something approaching normality. By early 1919, he had recovered enough physically to be transferred to Rauceby Hall, a Gothic stately home near Grantham staffed by the Voluntary Aid Detachment where the regime was more relaxed with food, rest and fresh air being the main medicaments. With its limestone elevations, ornate chimneys, terraced gardens and rosery, it was considered to be a congenial staging post back to civilian life. Henry’s shattered face and body continued to mend, but his heart was broken. His parents, who had been steadfast throughout and proud of their only son, came to visit him regularly at Rauceby Hall as the country also began the road to recovery in the summer months of 1919.

  Henry’s father had a business in Stroud, SHERIFF AND MONAGHAN QUALITY GENTS’ OUTFITTERS. However, the economies necessitated by the war, the reduction in young men, and the illness of his partner, Monaghan, had caused Henry Senior to close the business. Henry Junior had had expectations of moving into the business and of growing it, but that opportunity had now closed. The Golden Boy who had been captain of rugby, victor ludorum, Cambridge graduate and Royal Flying Corps Officer was now a man broken in heart, body and spirit, whose assets were his Silver War Badge and a few pounds a week in war pension.

  On his formal discharge from Rauceby Hall, Henry gravitated back to Sussex and found lodgings on the coast at Goring-on-Sea, where he had spent happy times at weekends whilst studying at Dover College. He took rooms in a hotel, overlooking the esplanade in the hope that the view and the sea air might lift his melancholia. Many times, in the school discipline in which he had been brought up and educated, he told himself to ‘pull your socks up and stop feeling sorry for yourself’. Yet the dark clouds of depression would close in again and would not lift however
he strove. He began to sit in his rooms, neglecting to eat and taking more whiskey than was sensible. Desultory walks and café meals were the only punctuation to his day.

  *

  The weeks went by and became months and then years. By 1922, the heroes of the Great War who had been left with physical and mental scars were no longer lionised. Time moved on. Some went back to their trades, perhaps a loving family, a fiancée. Whereas others disappeared from view, wearily losing themselves in the long grass of oblivion as normal life had become untenable. Henry was one of this lost generation, measuring out time and sinking quietly.

  It took almost as much bravery to write to Florence at Dover College as it had taken to pilot his ramshackle aircraft in the dark nights during the war. Correspondence had ceased some years earlier and it was a leap into the unknown making contact again. He played down his injuries only noting that the crash had ‘rearranged my features as if I had been at the bottom of a particularly vigorous scrum. Some may say it might have resulted in an improvement.’ He mentioned that he was living close by at the Sussex seaside and that he may be dropping in at the school to renew old acquaintances. The Head, Dr Hammersley-Pope had written to all old boys, particularly those who had seen service, to call into the school at any time, take tea and recount their experiences and their future plans. In his letter to Florence, Henry did not mention anything intimate, nor did he mention Harry.

  After a week or two, a pleasant if formal letter came back to him. It referred to the passing of time with Florence saying that ‘we all have no doubt been much changed over the last few years.’ Of course, if he were to be at the school then it would be ‘agreeable’ if he were to call in. Henry wished that she had written ‘delightful’ or ‘pleasurable’. Perhaps that was expecting too much after the lapse of time and lack of contact.

  He had his uniform washed and pressed and his hair cut. He examined himself in the mirror in his lodgings and felt that, despite the scars and the walking stick, which was now his invariable brace, he was looking more like his old self. Perhaps now, as a more mature officer who had seen service for King and country, it might be more appropriate for him to renew acquaintances with Florence and that matters might progress.

  A car took him to the doors of Dover College. The headmaster met him at the great oak doors, a date and time having been agreed with the bursar. As he took tea and sandwiches in the head’s office, Henry felt as if he were home again in familiar surroundings. Politics, wars, catastrophes, Dover College would continue in its unchanging way with its cloisters, its Honours boards, the dark wood panelling, the respectful procession of boys moving between lessons. He recounted the story of his war and made light of his heroism and his injuries. There was talk of those that had not returned. When asked how he saw the future, Henry equivocated and said that he had a number of business opportunities he might pursue or perhaps go into the law or finance. Dr Hammersley-Pope nodded his encouragement.

  After an hour or so, Henry announced that it was time he should leave.

  “Well, Headmaster, I am sure you are a busy man and I have taken enough of your time.”

  “Not at all, old man. We are honoured that you have been able to stop by.”

  “There is one other pleasant duty I must perform whilst I am here. I always promised your daughter, Florence, that I would look in should I ever pass this way.”

  “Well, I am sure that you can find your way across to the house. Following her tragic loss – you will remember that, of course – she expressed a wish to stay at Dover College and I am pleased to say that she has become an admirable teacher of the pianoforte. No doubt she will be pleased to welcome you if she is in. Now thank you, sir, on behalf of your school and your country for your sterling service. And may we wish you well for the future, wherever life takes you.”

  Henry made his way slowly across to the cottage. He lingered, taking in the timeless atmosphere, hearing the distant sound of a cricket match, smelling the pinks and the wallflowers lining the walkway. Perhaps this was where he was meant to be. A host of possibilities crossed his mind as he made his way to the familiar front door. It was opened by Florence, smiling in surprise at the visitor, wiping her hands on her pinafore.

  “Hello again, Henry. You said you might drop in. Wonderful to see you again,” she said as she shook hands with him.

  “And wonderful to see you too, although I think a handshake is a little formal!”

  “Let me look at you,” said Florence examining his face. “A few scars but you are still recognisably young Sheriff,” she laughed. “Do come in, I have just been baking so you must tell me all about your war over a Bath bun.”

  Her tone, thought Henry, was courteous but formal and a little distant, unlike his last visit when their bodies had touched and the electricity had flowed.

  He recounted his experiences modestly and in that self-deprecating way that public schoolboys are taught to speak of themselves. Henry noted the changes in her. The black glossy hair had lost its lustre and was a little unkempt. The chin line, neck and cheekbones that his fingers had traced in the late afternoon sun as they lay in a dream after making love had been subsumed into a plumper face with loose skin under her jaw. The laughter creases by her mouth and between her eyes had deepened and coarsened and there were permanent lines on her forehead. He remembered how her skin had resmoothed after every expression and turn of the head but now time had graven characteristics into every angle of her. More importantly, her former zest for life and sensuality seemed to have been lost and suppressed in a haze of conventional pleasantries and commonplaces.

  A verse of a poem came to mind:

  And was it a dream, and was there a place

  And is it a hundred years to there?

  Did my lips taste your lips, did my hands cup your face

  And were there flowers everywhere?

  How cruel the passing of time. And how the features of a person change from winsomeness to caricature. Perhaps it is also happening to me? he thought.

  Their conversation was a discourse between strangers, each with a half notion that they may have met before in another life.

  Henry steered the conversation to Florence.

  “I hear that you have become a teacher here. Do you intend to stay and make a career of it?”

  “Oh certainly,” said Florence. “Here is where we are and here is where we stay.”

  “Didn’t you once tell me,” he said with a sly smile, “that you wanted to experience all that life has to offer – travel, play music, make love?”

  She winced a little and pulled a face.

  “All in the past now. I am quite content, quite content. I am happy to stay within the warm confines of Dover College with my family – oh look! Here they are!”

  The door swung open and a portly Mr Greygoose came through in a three-piece suit and an academic gown. He was accompanied by a tall, slim boy with dark hair and blue-grey eyes.

  “Mr Greygoose, you will remember Henry Sheriff, I am sure. He has paid Dover College a visit and has done me the honour of calling in here. How long since you were house captain, Henry? Twelve years. Is it really? Time has a habit of evaporating like the mist in the morning. Do you know we have spent so much time hearing of Henry’s news that I have quite neglected to tell him that I have remarried. Well there you are, Henry, now you know. And may I introduce my son, Harry.”

  The boy stepped forward and proffered a hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. The fellows often speak about your exploits. Your picture is in the Great Hall. Were you not part of the 1910 unbeaten Dover College 1st Fifteen?”

  “And weren’t you a flyer?” enquired Mr Greygoose.

  “Indeed I was,” said Henry, looking for any flicker from the boy or Florence at this surreal encounter.

  Henry turned to Harry.

  “And is flying something you wish to do?”


  “Well, sir, not in a military sense but I will certainly travel the world. Mother and Mr Greygoose,” he said with an ironic smile, “only venture out of the college gates when absolutely necessary. Once I have finished with my education I will go to Africa, Australia, America, so many places,” he said excitedly.

  “One step at a time, young man,” cautioned Florence, giving him a look of mock-reproof. “Let’s get you through your examinations and university first and then we will see if you still have that wanderlust. And indeed tell me how you intend to pay for it all?”

  Henry sensed that to stay longer would be an intrusion.

  “Well, Mrs Farquharson…”

  “Greygoose,” she corrected.

  “Mrs Greygoose, Mr Greygoose, young Harry, now I must take my leave of you. The afternoon has been,” he hesitated, “both delightful and enlightening.”

  He shook hands with all three but gave Harry a particularly searching look.

  “And you, my boy, will go out into the world and do great things I am sure.”

  “Thank you, sir. I intend to make my mark.”

  “Oh, and before I go – indeed one of the main purposes of my visit – was to return this, rather belatedly but with my deepest thanks for the loan.”

  He reached into his kitbag and pulled out the violin.

  “Mrs Greygoose, you were so kind to let me borrow this. I have taken good care of it, in fact it has survived the war somewhat better than I did.”

  “Do you know,” said Florence, “that I had totally forgotten that you had Mr Farquharson’s fiddle. So thank you for returning it. Young Harry here is in the early stages of learning but seems to have an aptitude for it. It is a fine instrument, as I recall, so it is right that it passes down through the years.”