‘Peter is in splendidly high spirits!’ exclaimed Agnes, for once approving. ‘And after all he has gone through, too!’
Privately Mercy thought that there was a forced note to Peter’s joviality. As the evening wore on she was more and more convinced that she was right. For all he continued to joke and be amusing she sensed he was having to work hard at his light-hearted mood, and that it was a strain.
Then she realized how foolish she was being. Peter had been wounded and had doubtless had a rough time, no matter how little he tried to make of the affair. Now he was home it was only natural that he should need to adjust.
That night, after Agnes had gone to bed, they went up the stairs together. At the top Peter made as if to sleep in his old room again.
‘There’s no need,’ said Mercy in surprise. ‘You didn’t use that room on your last leave.’
‘Perhaps it would be better, all the same. I’m such a restless sleeper these days I’d only disturb you. Good night, my dear.’ He bent and kissed her on the cheek then walked off along the corridor.
Hurt, disappointed and humiliated, she made her way to her own room and to the huge empty bed. Things had not been perfect during his last leave, but she had felt that they had made a big step forward towards being reconciled. And she did want to be reconciled; she was surprised how deeply she felt about it. It was as if the dangers and difficulties of the war years had reawakened her earlier feelings for him and caused the old rift between them to fade.
Mercy knew he was not sleeping well at night. When he came down to breakfast at nine or ten o’clock his face was pale and his eyes were heavy with weariness. He was restless when he was awake, too, seeming unable to settle, setting out on walks or picnics and excursions, only to be overcome by exhaustion.
‘You are doing too much,’ protested Mercy one day, when he slumped into an armchair, white with fatigue after having walked miles along the cliff top.
‘For heaven’s sake, I’ve only got a wounded arm!’
‘Which is still a part of the rest of you, thank goodness! The whole of your body had to stand the shock when you were wounded, you know, not just that one limb. Give yourself a chance.’
‘It is a simple enough injury, I ought to be able to cope with it.’
‘I wouldn’t call that a simple injury.’
‘It is compared to what a lot of other fellows suffered!’ He gave a sudden grin. ‘All the same, perhaps you’re right. Maybe I’m expecting too much of myself. My arm’s given me a good bit of pain, naturally, though not nearly as much as the time I dislocated my elbow playing tennis. That’s probably why I’m not taking it too seriously.’
‘I’m not suggesting that you make a career of being an invalid, just that you relax more, and don’t push yourself so hard.’
‘Very well, I’ll do as you say, Nurse. I’ll be ever so good.’
‘See that you do!’ she said, pretending to be stern.
She was pleased to see that for a day or two he did make an attempt to follow her advice and he seemed more calm. Then gradually his restlessness returned. She felt her own anxiety creep back, a certainty that something was wrong. Never once did he suggest returning to her bed, and she was disappointed. It was strange, because during the day he was polite and cheery and considerate, even affectionate. Only at night did a barrier seem to come between them. It had been her great hope that on this furlough the final divisions keeping them apart would be broken down. She wanted to be his wife properly, and her great fear was that Peter would go back to Flanders without knowing how much she wanted his love again.
She lay, tense and miserable, in the vast expanse of bed for what seemed an age; then she could stand it no longer. Getting up, she put on her robe and went to Peter’s room. He was sitting up in bed reading when she entered.
‘We must talk,’ she said.
‘What about?’ he asked.
‘Us. Things are wrong between us, and I want to put them right before it’s too late.’
He did not reply, but simply put down his book and looked up at her. Feeling absurdly nervous she sank on to the edge of the bed. There was one shadow she had to dispel.
‘I had news of Gunther von Herwath a while back,’ she said tentatively. ‘At least I think I did.’
‘Aren’t you sure?’
‘I think it must have been him, everything fitted. One of the patients at the Town Hall heard from his brother who is in a prison hospital in Germany. The German doctor who treated him said he had once worked in Torquay in a chest clinic.’
‘I suppose it could be von Herwath.’ Peter sounded guarded. ‘I dare say the Red Cross could make inquiries for you.’
‘It would do no good. He was killed in a car accident.’ There was a brief silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Peter quietly. ‘You… you cared for him very much, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mercy, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘It was over some time ago, though.’
‘Was it? I was never sure.’
‘We had no future together, even if the war had not come along. I think I realized that from the beginning.’ ‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘I told you for a purpose.’
‘You did?’
‘Of course I did. I wanted you to know that Gunther wasn’t between us any longer. He is what’s keeping us apart, isn’t he?’
‘Yes… No… Partly…’
‘Then what else is it? For heaven’s sake tell me so that I can do something to put it right! I want us to be together again. I hate this coldness between us. I know I’m to blame as much as you for the start of it, but when you were home last time I thought you wanted me again and that everything was going to be all right. But it isn’t is it? And I want to know why? What can I do?’ Emotion surged up in Mercy, spilling over as tears cascaded down her cheeks. ‘What can I do to put things right?’ she repeated.
‘Nothing!’ Peter pushed back the bedclothes and stood up. He strode to the window, his back to her.
‘Don’t do that,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t turn your back on me. There must be something I can do so that we’re happy again.’
‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ he protested. ‘Now, for pity’s sake go away!’
‘No!’ She was adamant. ‘Not until I find out what’s wrong. Don’t you want to make love to me any more?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then why do you keep away from me?’
‘You wouldn’t understand!’
‘I could try!’ she cried desperately. ‘Can’t we sleep together again? That doesn’t seem much to ask.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Peter. ‘No! No! I’ve told you, I’m far too restless, I’d keep you awake. Now go away, please!’ There was a desperate pleading in his voice, and she noticed he was clutching the curtain with his good hand so tightly the knuckles had gone white.
A hint of understanding swept through Mercy.
‘Is it memories of when you were shot keeping you awake?’ she asked gently. ‘You mustn’t be ashamed of that. It’s only natural for it to stay with you for a long time. It does with most men. I’ve seen it in the hospital. It will go in time. Until it does please let me be with you. Don’t be alone.’
Still he did not turn towards her so she slid her arms about him, resting her head against his back.
‘Don’t be alone,’ she repeated. ‘I’m here.’
Peter turned to face her with an abruptness that almost overbalanced her. Only his good arm, about her so suddenly, prevented her from falling. For a long, long time they stayed in each other’s embrace, neither moving nor speaking. When at last Peter spoke his voice was tight with emotion.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said with an effort. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. It’s just impossible to forget. I try to shut it out, but it’s always with me. There’s no escaping it, even over here. The bombardment goes on and on, you see. Ceaseless noise which seems to get right inside your head. There was so much destructio
n, Mercy! So many good men mown down like so much corn at harvest time. And for what? Can you explain it to me? Fifty men I lost in one day. Fifty decent fellows with families and loved ones at home! How can their deaths have made the world a better place? What is it all about? What is it all for? I wish I could understand… Dear God, how I wish I could understand…!’ Now that the barrier was down the words came out of him in a stream – the horror, the suffering, the squalor, the all-pervading mud.
Mercy listened appalled. She had heard the patients at the hospital talking about their experiences often enough, and so she had a better idea than most of the conditions at the Front. Even so she was shocked by what she heard, shocked at what Peter and others like him were being forced to endure. She continued to listen without interruption. She held him more tightly, offering him the silent comfort of the warmth of her body.
Somehow, she was not aware when or how, they had slipped on to the bed. With one arm still about Peter, she pulled the covers up over them both, cocooning them in comfort and security. Slowly, painfully, the nightmarish litany came to an end as exhaustion overcame him. The tight grip of his hand on hers was painful. Her arm, trapped now by the weight of his body, was agonizingly cramped. She would not move, though, for fear of disturbing him. Not until his anguished shuddering breaths had grown deep and regular, and she knew for certain he was asleep, did she stealthily ease her aching limbs. Then, curling her form close to his, she too fell asleep.
It was dawn when she awoke. In the half-light she turned her head, to find him looking at her.
‘You’re still here,’ he said softly.
‘Of course. I said I would be.’
‘I’m glad. I’m sorry you had to listen to such rubbish. It wasn’t fit for your ears. I should never have burdened you with it. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself.’
Mercy propped herself up on one elbow and gazed down at him.
‘Did it help, talking about it?’ she demanded. ‘Do you feel better for having got it out of your system?’
‘Certainly I do, but—’
‘Then there is no but about it. You bottled up too much horror! You must never do it again. There’s little enough I can do for you, goodness knows! At least share your troubles with me. It’s not much to ask.’
‘Yes it is. It’s asking a great deal to burden you with all that. Nevertheless, you are right. It’s too much to hold in at times.’ Gently he pulled her back on to the pillow. ‘It’s gone now, though. The nightmare’s gone for the present. Let’s think of more pleasant things.’
‘Such as?’ she asked, her finger tracing the outline of his cheekbone.
‘Pleasant things that should have been occupying us throughout this leave. We’ve wasted so many opportunities!’ With his good hand he was trying unsuccessfully to undo the tiny pearl buttons on her nightgown.
‘Drat these things,’ he said softly. ‘I had to tackle fiddly little buttons like this on our wedding night, I recall. You should have learned better by now.’
Smiling, Mercy came to his assistance, not only unfastening the buttons but pulling off the garment completely.
‘Then maybe we should make up for lost time,’ she said.
The last part of Peter’s leave was a golden time. Their days were long and sun-soaked, their nights were filled with love-making. It could not last, of course. Wonderful as it was it had to end.
There were many families saying farewell on Torquay Station. Separate little groups clustered round kit-bags and suitcases, isolated from each other yet sharing their fears, their hopes, their dreads.
The clatter of the railway signal made Mercy’s heart grow cold. The London train was coming. Peter was leaving. The puffing arrival of the engine prompted a surge of activity on the platform, farewell kisses, last desperate embraces.
‘I’ll be back,’ repeated Peter. They exchanged one long lingering kiss through the train window, then slowly and relentlessly the train pulled away.
‘Hello, stranger!’ Nurse Chapman greeted Mercy when she returned to work. ‘It must be nice to be some people, taking long holidays.’
‘It’ll be the last I get for an age. I’ve mortgaged my days off for the next hundred years, I think.’
‘But was it worth it?’
‘Yes, oh yes!’
‘In which case I won’t inquire any further, me being a pure and innocent spinster. It’s back to work for you, my girl. Just you wait until you see how many bedpans and bottles are waiting for your attention.’
At first it seemed strange being back in the hospital again. Mercy felt disorientated and disorganized. The routine soon came back to her, however, and before the month was out Peter’s leave had assumed a hazy glow of unreality.
Newspaper reports of the war continued to be optimistic. There was talk of ‘the end being in sight’. This cheery attitude made no difference to the numbers of casualties. They continued to stream in at a distressing rate. The food shortages were becoming severe, and to make matters worse flu epidemics were sweeping in waves across the country.
‘I was just boasting that I’d escaped this latest bout,’ gasped Mercy, emerging from the lavatory where she had just been sick. ‘Talk about pride coming before a fall.’
‘You might still come out of this with your pride intact,’ said Nurse Chapman. ‘It’s the third time you’ve lost your breakfast recently. How long is it since your husband went back? Have you considered that you might have nine-month flu?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ protested Mercy. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘Come on, when did you last have the curse?’ demanded Nurse Chapman cheerfully.
‘I can’t remember… A while ago… Ages ago! Oh my goodness, you could be right!’
‘I’m always right!’ said Nurse Chapman with a self-satisfied grin. ‘Oh drat! That means we’re going to lose another good nurse!’
Mercy scarcely heard her. She was too busy grappling with this latest revelation. She was pregnant again!
Chapter Sixteen
His foot hurt! It caused the bile to rise in Joey. His foot had gone, blown to smithereens by a shell at Ypres, and yet it still caused him agony. Even when it was not paining him he could often feel it. Then he would look down and see his shin ending in nothing, only the surplus inches of his trouser leg turned up and secured by a safety-pin to keep them out of the way. He lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. Think of something else! Not the pain! Anything but the pain! Think of the future! Make plans!
In those dark early days, when his life had been an alternate blur of agony and morphine-induced torpor, he was convinced he had no future. He had seen himself begging for pennies at the roadside, the words ‘Crippled ex-soldier’ scrawled on a card round his neck. But that had been in the early days. With recovery had come a smouldering anger, and with it a grim determination to shape his own destiny.
At every step of his life so far fate seemed to have dealt him a loser’s hand. Surely he was worthy of more? Well, he was not going to let circumstances trample him in the dirt, he was going to fight back! He was intelligent enough. And now he had the determination, thanks to the bitter fury which gnawed away inside him.
But how? It was one thing having the desire, achieving it was very different. There was one advantage of his present condition, it gave him plenty of time to think. He had long ago discovered thinking and planning were by far the best opiates for the anguish he was suffering, in his leg and in his heart.
Slowly and deliberately he turned the various options over in his mind, searching for something to give him a start. Eventually, exhausted by pain and his mental efforts, he fell asleep.
Queenie was in the room when he awoke.
‘There, you’ve had a lovely sleep,’ she said, smiling fondly at him.
Her smile irritated him. She was enjoying fussing over him and pampering him. Sometimes he thought she was glad he had been disabled, because he needed her, it made her feel indispensable.
‘I wasn�
�t asleep!’ he snapped. ‘Can’t I close my eyes without you thinking I’m asleep?’
She flinched at his tone, and at once he felt ashamed. She meant well, did old Queenie. She could not help it if she got on his nerves. He would have managed very badly without her. She attended to his every need, nursed him, cared for him. ‘You’re right, I was having forty winks,’ he admitted more gently, i just didn’t want you to catch me at it.’
The smile came back to Queenie’s face.
‘I don’t know why you feel that way. Sleep’s the best thing you can do.’
‘Sleep seems to be the only thing I do these days.’
‘That’s not true. You’re always reading or busy with something. If you’re rested now, how about a little airing? Just as far as the beach and back. It’s a lovely afternoon.’
He gritted his teeth at her choice of words. A little airing! It made him feel like a babe in arms, or else some senile old duffer in a bath chair. With great self-control he contained his irritation.
‘That’s a good idea, if you’re sure you can spare the time,’ he said.
‘Of course I can spare the time, if it’s for you,’ replied Queenie.
They made their way at a steady pace, Queenie pushing the wheelchair. Joey hated this mode of transport, but it was either that or stay indoors all the time. He was working hard at getting about on crutches, often pushing himself beyond the bounds of his still fragile endurance. In spite of his efforts his mobility was limited, and he knew it would be a time yet before he was able to go any distance.
The way to the beach was fortunately level, through Victoria Park, then down Torbay Road with its modern houses and shops.
Halfway along the Esplanade Joey said, ‘This seat will do fine. Have a rest.’
Somewhat thankfully, for she was rather out of breath, Queenie put the brake on the wheelchair and settled herself on the seat. To Joey’s relief she did not begin talking, for the moment he was quite content looking at the view. The warm russet-pink of the sand seemed to glow against the clear translucent green of the sea and the pale blue of the sky.
To Dream Again Page 33