A Last Goodbye

by Dee Yates

  ‘Of course I am. It’s grand to see the horse again, that’s all.’

  He stepped into the wagon, swinging his bad leg in after him. In truth it was still a lot more painful than he was letting on, but he had had enough of the military hospital with its full complement of wounded men who would never make it back to normal life. The aura of sickness that surrounded him was dragging him down, back into the well of despair, out of which he was trying to lift himself.

  How good it was to see the hills again. Even apart from the mud, the unremitting flatness of the land in which he had spent the last year and a half had been depressing. He covered his face with his hands and dug his fingers into his eye sockets, massaging the tiredness. He must stop dwelling on the scenes he had left. He was home now.

  The touch of a hand on his arm made him jump and he spun round violently, almost knocking Netta off the seat. Ellen snatched back her hand and looked at him uncertainly.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s hard to get rid… It’s hard… to believe I’m home again.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it soon enough when we’re back at the cottage, won’t he, Netta? We’ve left a special dinner of rabbit stew and dumplings cooking in the oven, and we’ve baked a cake in your honour.’

  ‘Eh, lass. That sounds more like it. Better than the restorative gruel we were fed in t’ hospital!’

  It was almost dark now but Tom could sense the smoothness of the road along which they were travelling. With a sickening jolt he remembered the work that was going on in the valley. He focused his eyes on the fields and could just make out the glint of metal rails. He let out a bitter sigh. So, the Germans were still here, contaminating the valley with their evil. Would he never be free of them?

  ‘Nearly home now.’ Ellen’s voice was cheerful.

  ‘What?’ he spoke sharply. ‘What did you say?’

  He heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘Nothing,’ she muttered.

  What a mistake he had made. He should never have come home, he knew it now. Once again, he would be face to face with the enemy, defacing and spoiling his land. It made him sick!

  He tried to push the thought to the back of his mind when he entered the cottage. Ellen had gone to great lengths to welcome him: stringing paper chains across the ceiling, cooking his favourite meal, drawing his chair in front of a hearth full of crackling, pine-scented logs, fetching a stool on which to rest his injured leg. So solicitous to his every need, in fact, that he was beginning to wonder whether she had something to hide.

  *

  Putting his hands behind his head, Tom stared into the blackness. It was luxury to lie in a comfortable bed. Those in the hospital had been insufferably hard but, even so, they were the first beds he had known for many months. But to lie in his own was a pleasure he had thought would never again be his.

  He listened to Ellen’s breathing, sure she was not asleep, but he made no effort to approach her unmoving body. One failure was enough.

  He had known how it would be. It was what he had feared all along. Although the manner of its failure he did not expect. Pictures constantly and unwittingly swam into his mind when he least expected or wanted. This time it had been that woman in the barn… that lovely dark-haired woman whose curls had tickled his face and who had been able to make him mad with desire, even in the midst of all that desolation and slaughter. He groaned. The lorry carrying him and his wounded colleagues away from the battlefield had passed through her village on its way to the coast. The farm and the other cottages lining the road were burned. Razed to the ground. He had stared in disbelief. How could it have happened?

  Now, it was one more in a long parade of images to convince him that the world in which he was living was a sham. He was sleepwalking. But he no longer believed he would wake up.

  By his side, he felt Ellen stir and get up. His eyes followed her, the pallor of her nightdress dimly visible in the darkness. He thought she had risen because of the need to relieve herself, but, no, she tiptoed softly to the window and, pulling up a chair, drew back the curtain and sat down. She rested her elbows on the windowsill and stared out at the night. The moon turned her nightdress to silver. It caught her dishevelled hair in its beams, giving her pale face a halo of light.

  Tom lay watching her. There was no denying that she was lovely. In the time he had been away, she had matured from girl to woman. But there was something too that had not been there before. A distance. A secret self locked away in the inner recesses of her being. She had always been so open, so easy to read. But she was different now, remote, withdrawn. What was the reason for this? He looked at her again, so unmoving in the darkness. Could it be that the suspicions aroused during his last visit were real?

  ‘Ellen! What are you doing there? Come back to bed.’

  She spun round at his words. ‘Tom! You made me jump. I… I couldnae sleep, that’s all. The moonlight is beautiful tonight. Look. Can you see it?’ She pulled back the curtain and the light fell onto the bed.

  ‘Why can’t you sleep? Aren’t you glad to have me home?’

  ‘Of course I am. It’s strange, that’s all.’ She pattered round the foot of the bed and climbed in beside him.

  ‘You’re frozen through,’ he said, pulling her towards him.

  ‘Tom. Why did you no’ write to me? You don’t ken how worried I was not to hear from you.’

  ‘You know why. I were angry that you had taken that prisoner into our house when you know I would never have agreed to it.’

  ‘And I explained why I’d done it. I don’t think you believed me though.

  He sighed heavily. ‘I didn't … and I’m right sorry.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘So, there’s been none of the Hun near this place since I was last home?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And you’ve not been near them, I take it?’

  ‘Well, Netta and I have to walk past them when we visit Margaret Murdie. We’ve been a few times, with Iain being away, ken.’

  ‘Well, just make sure it stays that way, do you hear me?’

  He rolled away from her, staring through the uncurtained window at the distant moon.

  *

  He rose late, irritable and tired. He hadn’t slept at all, even when Ellen had climbed out of bed to begin her day’s work. He had lain listening to her as she raked the ashes of the fire and clattered the breakfast pots in the kitchen, smelled the aroma of tattie scones, newly baked. He heard the cheerful chatter of his daughter and the deeper, intermittent voice of his father-in-law, registered the slam of the door as Duncan left the cottage and strolled down the slope to the barn, his boots crunching on the frosty ground outside the bedroom window.

  The sounds should have been comforting, welcoming. Instead they annoyed him, made him feel excluded. He lay there, wanting to be comforted but knowing that his irritation would spill over to wreck the homely atmosphere.

  The door to the bedroom opened softly and Ellen came in with a tray of breakfast.

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered. I were getting up,’ Tom said grudgingly.

  ‘Nothing but the best for the wounded soldier!’

  ‘No need to remind me,’ he replied, pulling himself up and watching as she settled the tray in his lap and turned to go.

  Later, when she came back, he smiled at her.

  ‘That was good.’ He swung his injured leg over the side of the bed and his smile changed to a grimace.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Ellen put the tray down on the dressing table.

  ‘Nowt. It’s this knee. It feels stiffer. Happen I need to get going on it. Don’t fuss though, woman. It’ll be right.’

  He sat in front of the fire that day while she worked, dozing but never properly falling asleep. He ate little. He tried to play with Netta, but she, still wary of him, toddled off into a corner and sat watching him from a distance, playing alone.

  That night he slept… and dreamed. He was in the muddy water, up to his waist in it. He had dropped his rifle in th
e shell hole and, groping in the mire, he encountered body after body but no weapon. Suddenly they were under attack. ‘Forward, men!’ the order came from the captain. ‘Forward!’ But he couldn’t go forward. He was sinking now; the water was up to his chest. All around his head bullets whistled and he flung himself backwards and forwards in an attempt to dodge them. He was caught like a rat in a trap, like the rats that were waiting for him to die…

  ‘Tom! Wake up! You’re dreaming again. Wake up!’

  He struggled up from the depths of his nightmare and sat forward, eyes staring ahead, body quaking with fear. Ellen was kneeling on the eiderdown, her hands holding his arms, stilling him. His shirt was soaked with sweat.

  Gradually it began to register that he was safe. The hammering in his chest slowly settled. He wiped his wet face on the sheet.

  ‘I’m sorry, lass.’ He looked at her, but his eyes were still glazed, unable to tear themselves away from the scene of the battlefield. ‘It was the drowning, the drowning. That’s what I feared. That’s what happened.’

  ‘But they pulled you out. You’re safe. You’re home.’

  He looked round the familiar room. It felt as though he were seeing it for the first time.

  ‘Here, help me to change into a clean shirt. I’ll catch my death in this one.’ He looked at his wife and said grimly, ‘If not in battle, then out of it.’

  *

  ‘I’m going to get some fresh air,’ Tom said the next morning, hobbling to the door where his coat had been hung.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘I can manage.’

  ‘But what about your crutch?’

  ‘I’m not taking it.’

  ‘But the doctor said to use it till the end of this week.’

  ‘It is nearly the end of the week, so stop nagging. Besides, all this resting isn’t doing it any good. It’s getting worse, not better. And I shall go mad sitting here’

  Before he had gone many yards, Tom was sweating with the effort. By the time he had been out for fifteen minutes, the wounded leg was excruciatingly painful. When he limped round the corner of the cottage, Ellen had on her coat and scarf and was pushing Netta through the doorway in the perambulator.

  ‘Oh, Tom. You startled me.’ Ellen flushed and then said quickly, ‘That’s you soon back.’

  ‘Why, were you going somewhere special?’

  ‘No, of course not. Just giving Netta some fresh air.’

  ‘Well, go on then. I’m not stopping you.’

  ‘Are you all right, Tom?’

  ‘No, I’m not all right. It shouldn’t be this painful. There’s summat wrong wi’ it, I know there is. Any road, get along with you. I’ll sit here. The day’s not the problem. It’s me.’ He eased himself painfully onto the wooden seat in front of the window and leaned back, eying Ellen and his daughter morosely.

  ‘If you’re sure, Tom. We won’t be long.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure. I’m sorry, Ellen. I don’t mean to grumble. It’s that painful.’ He stroked Netta’s hair. ‘Daddy will wave to you when you reach the road.’

  That evening, Tom struggled to stay awake, though his eyes kept drifting shut. He wanted a good night’s sleep, convinced that the lack of it was causing his pain, and didn’t want to jeopardise his chances by retiring too early. Ellen seemed unsettled and jumpy.

  ‘What’s the matter, Ellen? You’re making me nervous. Come and sit down.’

  ‘Aye, I will. Let me put some more logs on the fire and I’ll join you.’

  He followed her actions as she went to the basket and carefully loaded the wood onto the embers.

  ‘You’ve let it get too low.’

  ‘Aye, I ken. But it’ll soon catch.’

  As if to confirm her words, a spark from the warming logs flew out with a loud crack… and then another. A sound from her husband made her turn in alarm. He was shaking and his hands were clamped over his ears.

  ‘No! Not again! I can’t stand any more. Let me get some peace. Just let me die!’

  ‘Tom! Tom! Wake up. You’re here on the farm with Netta and me. You’re safe.’ She shook him and abruptly he stared at her. Another spark flew upwards like a pistol shot and he gasped and stared into the fire.

  ‘It’s only the logs, Tom. Nothing more. You’re safe now.’

  Tom flopped back in his chair and let out a huge sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I’m no good to you like this, am I?’

  Ellen cradled him tightly in her arms. ‘Of course you are. You’ve no’ been well, that’s all.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘You get to bed and I’ll make you a drink of cocoa to help you sleep.’

  When she carried the cocoa through, Tom was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Look at this, lass.’

  The knee of his right leg was even more swollen and an area of angry redness had developed around the scar caused by the entry of the shrapnel.

  ‘It’s nae wonder you don’t feel right.’ She looked up. ‘I think you need to get to the hospital tomorrow and ask their help.’

  ‘I'll not go back to one of those places again. I’ve had enough of hospitals to last a lifetime.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ Ellen’s eyes flashed. ‘I can’t deal with this, as well you know.’

  ‘Oh? I thought you were the expert at nursing the wounded. Or does that skill only extend to the enemy?’

  Ellen stood up quickly and walked from the room, slamming the door behind her. Tom put his head in his hands. He had done it again. He didn’t intend to say that. The words just came out. He swung his throbbing leg onto the bed and lay back on the pillows. The cocoa chilled. He couldn’t face it anyway.

  The minutes ticked by… an hour passed. Still Ellen didn’t return. Eventually he crossed the bedroom and opened the door. She was not in the room. A wave of panic swept over him. But, no, she would have gone to her father, like she always did. He had been keeping to his own side of the house, to give the two of them time alone together. He snorted. Much good it seemed to be doing!

  A cold draught was coming from the corridor and, hobbling across the room, he found that the door was open. He could see her outside, motionless. She hadn’t put on her coat or her hat but seemed oblivious to the cold. He came slowly towards her but she gave no indication that she had heard him, her eyes fixed on the distant road.

  ‘Ellen!’

  She wheeled round and faced him.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’ His voice was contrite. ‘I’ll go to the hospital in the morning. Come in now. Come to bed. It’s nearly twelve.’

  She came slowly towards him. Her face was impassive. Tears glinted on her cheeks. He didn’t know what to say.

  She lifted the latch and gave a last drawn-out scrutiny of the dark valley. Then she shut the door and followed her husband into the bedroom.

  28

  No Change at All

  The cottage hospital was entirely eclipsed by trees. Whether these had been planted to help the residents of the village forget the ill and suffering collected on their doorstep, or in an attempt to aid the patients to good health by an appreciation of nature, was not clear. But by the time of Tom’s visit, the shade of the surrounding vegetation had lent a gloom to the place that no amount of optimistic words could dispel.

  Ellen had brought Tom in the wagon. It was a distance of some fourteen miles and Netta, who had accompanied her parents, was weary with sitting still. Her restlessness increased as they found themselves in a slow-moving queue waiting to see the doctor.

  ‘You take her into the village,’ Tom said. ‘Come back for me later.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me with you?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Quite sure.’ He leaned back wearily in the chair. ‘All her noise and fussing is getting on my nerves. I can’t be doing with it.’

  ‘I’ll away and get some messages in that case. I’ll be back to collect you in two hours or so.’

  Tom watched his wife and small daughter walk to the end of th
e waiting room and turn to wave to him. He waved back, feeling miserable and mean-spirited. He had slept poorly, troubled with the pain in his bad leg but that was no excuse for his behaviour. Ellen, he knew, had had no more sleep than himself.

  Eventually he heard his name called.

  ‘Thomas Fairclough! Follow me, please, into the cubicle. You are to see Professor McAndrew.’

  Tom rose painfully and made his way slowly across the room. In the cubicle a nurse took down particulars – date of birth, address, next of kin, and then asked him to wait. The murmur of voices carried along a corridor. He struggled to quash rising anxiety, wishing now that he had never agreed to this visit.

  The curtain was flung back and a portly ageing gentleman, sporting a large white moustache and bow tie, blustered in, followed by the nurse.

  ‘This is Thomas Fairclough, sir. He’s having trouble with his leg.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ the professor asked, glaring at Tom.

  ‘It’s a war wound, sir. I’m convalescing. It were settling well but it’s flared up again since I got home.’

  ‘Not doing too much on it?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Let’s see it then, nurse,’ said the professor testily. ‘We don’t have all day.’

  The nurse turned the sheet down to the foot of the couch and the professor stepped up, frowning when he saw the inflamed knee.

  ‘It were shrapnel, sir,’ Tom volunteered. ‘They removed the pieces at the military hospital but this one has gone t’ wrong way.’

  ‘So I can see. So I can see. Interesting. Nurse! Fetch the house officer to look at this.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He continued to examine the knee until the curtain was drawn back again and a woman entered. She was young and tall, with dark curly hair pulled back into a low bun at the back of her neck, and blue eyes that looked as astonished as Tom’s.

  ‘Clara! I didn’t know you were working here!’

  Clara threw a worried glance in the professor’s direction, but he looked from one to the other in amusement.

  ‘Ah! You know each other. Right, Miss Moxon. I would like you to tell me what we are going to do with this young man’s leg.’