‘It’s for you, Lillie,’ Sheila said, resting the letter against her teacup, and with a knowing look at her mother. ‘It’s got an army postmark.’
Mrs Bryce hid a secret smile in her teacup. All was not lost. Something had happened with that young man; something disagreeable, though wild horses wouldn’t have dragged it out of Lillian. It pained her to think they’d had a row – he’d seemed such a nice lad – but then there was no telling with Lillian. She wasn’t the sort to take up with very ordinary, uninteresting people. Maybe that was why she was ignoring the letter. She did not move, but remained bowed over her newspaper, peering at something, her eyes only inches from the page.
‘Lillie? Are you not going to open it?’ Sheila said at last, speaking for them both. But her sister seemed hardly to pay her any heed. She had gone rigid. Almost a minute passed before she slowly looked up from the page, and they could see her face was pale with shock. Mrs Bryce could tell from the set of her jaw that she was steeling herself against something, and she instinctively started to reach across the narrow table.
‘Lillie, dear, what—?’ she began, but before she could get the question out her daughter stood up from the table, threw down her newspaper, and ran from the room with her hand over her mouth.
It was about as dark as it was ever going to get in August. Over the rim of the crater, he could see the ground sweeping downhill, gradually dissolving into the night. Somewhere in the distance a machine gun was chattering, like a mechanical bird singing in the dusk. Closer by all was quiet; no sound but the sucking of the mud as he moved, sat up, tried to organize himself.
He was lying on his revolver, the lanyard stretching over his shoulder, and it was caked in mud. With trembling hands he wiped it clean and broke open the barrel. The shells tinkled to the ground, glittering like gold in the dying gleam of the day. He reloaded and snapped the gun shut, picking some more mud from the end of the barrel, and resting it in his lap. He felt more secure now, but the gathering darkness felt sinister. He could feel the strongpoint looming over him. It was barely thirty yards away – he hadn’t thought he was so close; he’d nearly had a bloody heart attack when he saw it. So he could forget about stretcher-bearers; he would have to get back under his own steam.
How easy it would have been to just lie there under the brow of the hill and wait for death. He’d thought about it earlier, while he was waiting for the dark. When the pain in his leg started to gnaw at him he had pulled out the tube of morphine tablets the MO had given him. Enough there to put him out of his misery. Or there was always the revolver if he wanted to be more certain. He’d tipped the pills out into his hand and stared at them, little grey discs, hardly anything to look at. Then he slowly started to pop them back into the tube – all but one, which he swallowed. Not yet, he thought, you can always do it later.
That was two hours ago, and he could feel the effects starting to wear off. But he couldn’t take another yet. What if it was too strong? What if the last one was still in his system? He needed his head clear if he was to do this. The quickest way to the downhill side of the crater was through the water, but he was shivering with the cold and he had a horror of the slimy feel of that yellowish pool and what it might hide. So he had to slither around the edge of the crater, clawing with his hands and pushing with his good leg. Every movement brought sharp pains stabbing up from his wounded knee, every foot gained brought his hand to the tube with its promised relief. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t. And he forced himself to go on. By the time he reached the other side he was in a muck sweat and panting as if he’d run a mile.
The moon was hidden in cloud. With the black silhouette of the strongpoint hanging over his shoulder he peered down the slope and tried to gauge the distance back. Four or five hundred yards – a long crawl through thick mud and broken wire and God knew what. The throb in his leg was a hard reminder of what it had cost him just to get to the other side of the crater, but he didn’t have the luxury of time: he needed the darkness for cover. If he didn’t make the distance by sunrise, a sniper or machine gun would pick him off. Better get bloody on with it, then. He holstered his pistol and took a deep breath, and then gritted his teeth as he dragged himself out of the crater.
Pain had sharpened his senses and there was a dreadful clarity about what followed. Every moment was sharp and cutting and burned in his memory by the pain in his leg. At first, he was sure he would never be able to do it. When he crawled over the lip of the crater and started pulling himself downhill, digging his hands into the soft earth for grip, it was excruciating. It clawed at him like a savage animal, twisting nerves and tearing at his flesh. But gradually, the screaming pain subsided and it just became wearing, tiring him out so he had to stop every few yards, panting for breath.
At least his head was clear. The throbbing, congested feeling was gone and he was alive to the night, the touch of the air like cold water on his skin. But if he was more lucid, he felt the loneliness all the more sharply. He knew many of his men were scattered about this ground, blown down like straws in the wind, and the thought that he had led them to their deaths weighed on him like lead in his chest. He thought of Wilson: he knew he was dead, though he had barely glimpsed it, and as he pushed himself through the cold mud he heard the wind whistling in the wire and remembered the banshees in his grandfather’s stories. Keening death into the house, he said, though it was the silence that followed that was more terrible, falling like a shadow on the face of the moon. He pictured him lying cold on the ground with only the wind wailing over him, and sobbed as he crawled forward, dumb tears scalding his face. Was he crawling to an empty trench? Or one that was manned only by corpses, their faces turned to the dark sky, the wind tugging at their hair, and just the burrowing rats to animate them.
Rats! He heard a noise and froze, gripping the revolver in his fist. Something brushed his leg and he recoiled, only to get a fleeting touch of fur across his face that made him curl up in horror, heedless of the hurt screaming out of his leg. He lay in a ball, arms over his head for protection, feeling the disgust flowing through him. Then, slowly, pain won out and the clarity came back. He straightened his legs, panting with the effort, gulping deep breaths to soothe the burning in his chest, and then the smell rose up on him like a wave, filling his nostrils, clinging to his skin. Putrefaction, decay, rotting flesh. He must have interrupted their feast. With his stomach heaving, bile rising in his throat, he scrambled forward on his elbows, desperate to escape the charnel pit he had crawled into.
Panic carried him a few hurried yards before he collapsed, the pain in his leg overpowering. When it became bearable, he rolled over on his good side, holding his knee out of the wet, and peered at the dial of his watch to try to get some idea of the time. It was too dark to see, and he didn’t dare light a match, but after a few minutes a passing gap in the clouds revealed a glowing half moon and he saw it was past midnight. Then, in the waning light, he saw fence posts standing up all around, filaments of broken wire waving and glinting between them. As darkness closed about him once more he had a feeling of despair, that he was trapped in a cage. And to think this had once been open fields, with sheep grazing among the summer flowers. What on earth had they done?
It took an effort to get moving again, but he forced himself to roll over and start crawling. He was tired now, could feel fatigue overtaking him, and he was losing track of time. Crawl and stop, crawl and stop. He had no idea where he was, no sense of direction; he was floating in a void, with nothing but the pain in his leg and the cold, clinging mud to fix him in the world. He had to struggle with the urge to stop and rest his head on his arms, let sleep take him. Twice, he felt his head nodding, and then caught his breath as he snapped awake, eyes raw and closing. But then it happened again, and as he came awake he realized he’d been sleeping, not just dozing off.
He knew he had to move again, but he couldn’t find the strength. He’d had it. He was utterly past all caring, and he let his head sink back down on the gro
und with a low sob. Self-pity welled up. It wasn’t bloody fair. What sort of life had he had? What chance had he had? He thought of Lillian. God, he wished he could have seen her again. He wished he could have said everything he wanted to say. With his own words, and not just in a paltry letter. He wished he could have kissed her again, just once. He thought of how she would receive his letter and the news of his death, probably on the same day. Christ! He hadn’t wanted that, of all things. He felt tears start to sting his cheeks. Not bloody fair. Not bloody . . .
Without even realizing it, he had stretched out his arm and dragged himself forward a few inches. He groaned with pain and pulled back his arm to wipe the tears on his sleeve. And again, and again. He gritted his teeth, but still the groans escaped. Maybe another pill. But he had momentum now. The pain was keeping him going. Five more pulls and then . . .
He froze, listening, hastily fumbling for the revolver that was dragging behind him on its lanyard. The pain faded and he cocked his head towards the sound. It was a sound – he’d heard it. Again! A sigh – just a few yards ahead. He strained his eyes towards it, holding his breath, sliding his thumb over the hammer of the revolver. A shadow seemed to move, there was a loud metallic click, and then the words, ‘Who goes there?’
He wanted to answer. He strained his throat, working his lips furiously, but it seemed his mouth was parched and his throat had shrunken. All he could manage was a dull croak. A light blinked on, blinding him, and indistinct whispers followed. Through shielded eyes, he saw a man crawling towards him, then felt strong hands on his shoulder. He must have cried out as they pulled him over the rim of the crater: whispered apologies followed and he saw lanterns and men hurrying up, encircling him with worried, wondering faces. These parted a few moments later and Nightingale looked down at him in consternation.
‘Bloody hell,’ he cried, blinking back tears and taking Stephen’s hand in his. ‘Look who’s come back from the bloody dead.’
Stephen squeezed his hand for all he was worth, only half sure it was real. He squeezed and squeezed and tried to speak, but nothing came out – only a strangled sob. Then another, and another, until his whole body was racked and he could hardly breathe.
‘There, there, old man,’ Nightingale laughed, still holding his hand. ‘It’s all right now, you’re safe. You’re safe, Stephen.’
XIV
‘What about a nice cup of tea?’ Nurse Winslow asked and, with hardly a pause, she answered for him, ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Of course you would.’
Stephen watched her fussing around the little room, shifting the water pitcher half an inch to the left, fidgeting with the curtains. He knew his silence made her nervous. She was like a trapped bird, flitting to and fro and chattering incessantly. But if she stopped, she’d have to face up to the fact that he couldn’t answer.
‘You must be tired after all your exercise. A cup of tea would be just the thing.’ She tugged at an invisible crease in the coverlet and smiled at him. He smiled back. It was all he could do. Grin and nod, or shake his head. No words would come – not since they’d dragged him into that trench three weeks ago and he’d tried to gather the last of his strength to answer Nightingale. He’d been so desperate to speak, to say something, anything, but nothing would come, not even a grunt. Nothing when the stretcher-bearers came to carry him to the regimental aid post, and then dropped him as the morning hate from the Germans caught them in the open. Nothing when Nightingale came to see him at the casualty clearing station and fell fast asleep in the chair beside his bed. But by then he’d given up trying to speak and just fumbled for his pocketbook and pen. He wrote a note and then thumped Nightingale’s knee to wake him up. Nightingale yawned and looked blearily at the grubby piece of paper, then nodded.
‘Right you are,’ he said, and stood up, looking like a lost child in the middle of all the cots and stretchers, ‘I’ll let her know, don’t you worry.’ And then he’d bent down to shake Stephen’s hand, and that was the last time he’d seen him.
Three weeks on and he was in London. His leg had been washed and stitched and bandaged and now stuck stiffly out in front of his wheelchair. Sometimes it hurt – a deep, throbbing pain, like a pulse inside his knee – and sometimes it itched furiously. But the doctors said there was no infection and it was healing. With that knowledge he put up with the morning exercises they made him do, back and forth along the parallel bars, back and forth until his arms ached with the effort and sweat was dripping off his brow. But the muteness was beginning to trouble him. It was beginning to look recalcitrant. Sometimes even Nurse Winslow let her mask slip and he would catch her looking at him with a mixture of pity and exasperation.
‘A cup of tea, then,’ she said, half to herself. ‘A cup of tea, and then a wash and a shave. We’ll have to have you looking your best for when that nice girl comes to see you.’
He smiled again – but there was nothing forced about it this time. Lillian was coming. It was true. He hadn’t dreamed it yesterday, or the day before. She came every day, on the tube from Holland Park. Every day for the last two weeks. Just to think of it put joy in his heart. As long as she was there, he didn’t care if he never spoke again.
‘Why don’t I leave you sitting by the window while I fetch your tea?’ Nurse Winslow asked, ‘Then you can look out at the gardens. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Of course you would.’
She pushed his chair over to the window and went out, closing the door gently behind her. The hospital was in London, but the view across the broad green swath of Kensington Gardens made it feel like the countryside. The hospital had its own spacious gardens too, with a neatly tended lawn sprinkled with patients lounging in deckchairs or walking in the late autumn sun. It should have been a comforting scene, except he saw the war in everything now. The straight privet hedges were like built-up trenches, and the newly dug earth in the flowerbeds had the same spewy texture as a fresh shell crater. With a sinking feeling, he tried to push these images from his mind, but he knew he wouldn’t escape. Next came the throbbing in his head, the metallic taste in his mouth. These were the harbingers, and with them the bursting sensation, as if he was going to explode in a fit. He closed his eyes, trying to ward it off, but it was too late. In his mind’s eye was the same peaceful scene, but then a cluster of shells whistled down into the grounds. Five-nines, puffing black smoke with a little orange heart of fire. One, two, three. The manicured turf was torn to pieces, divots flying in every direction. The men were ripped apart, broken and shredded and flung into the air, and his hands flew to his mouth, trying to stifle a silent scream.
The matron tapped twice on the door and, without waiting for an answer, stuck her head inside.
‘Miss Bryce is here to see you, doctor,’ she said, and Hardcastle grunted and looked up at the clock as he screwed the top back on his pen. Punctual to the minute, as usual.
‘Very well. Send her in,’ he stood up as Lillian walked in, reaching across to shake her hand. ‘Miss Bryce, how nice to see you again. Please, have a seat.’
Lillian sat and watched Hardcastle subside into his chair on the other side of his desk. Despite his outward politeness, she knew he wasn’t really pleased to see her. There was a mutual, if respectful, loathing. He thought she was a busybody and she, for her part, thought he was a very poor psychiatrist. He didn’t even look right: big and beefy, with a red face and thick, stubby fingers. In short, she thought he looked too stupid to be good at his job.
‘Well? How did you find him today?’ Hardcastle asked, though he knew from the look on her face what the answer would be. She wasn’t like the usual round of relatives who asked to see him. No yes doctor, no doctor, whatever you say doctor from her. A university lecturer, apparently – clever and completely self-possessed. She’d taken a leave of absence and come straight over the moment she found out where he was. An admirable show of devotion, he had to admit, but these weekly meetings were starting to become a bit of a pain in the arse.
‘Mu
ch the same as before,’ Lillian answered, making it sound like an accusation.
‘Well, as I’m sure you understand, it’s a very slow process.’
‘I’m sure it is, doctor.’
She was trying not to sound impatient – and she didn’t wish to appear ungrateful, because she was not. The relief, the blessed relief, of that telegram was still with her. She’d opened it with shaking hands and almost fainted when she read the two short lines. Then joy seized her and she ran to tell her mother and sister, hugging them both. It was only later that she thought of the letter, Stephen’s letter, still sitting unopened on her dressing table. After reading the notice in the newspaper she’d felt sick even to look at it, but now she ran upstairs like a girl, tore it open and laughed out loud to herself as she read it again and again.
‘A very slow process,’ Hardcastle said again, ‘but I’m sure we’ll get there eventually, if we all keep at it. Our man is a hero, after all. He’ll find his voice in the fullness of time.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, doctor,’ Lillian agreed. ‘It’s just that I wonder . . .’
‘Yes, Miss Bryce?’
She paused to gather her thoughts. How to tell this man that she didn’t think he was up to the job. That was the problem.
‘I wonder if we’ve explored every possible avenue. I mean, I’m sure there are alternative treatments that we haven’t tried.’
‘Alternative treatments? Of course there are alternatives. I understand Doctor Yealland is having remarkable success with his electric shock treatment.’
‘No,’ Lillian said flatly. ‘I’ve looked into Doctor Yealland’s so-called treatment. It’s nothing more than torture.’
Hardcastle was loath to agree with her, but he had to admit she had a point. He had seen Yealland administering his treatment and it had sickened him. Tying a man to a chair and applying electric shocks to the back of his throat until he started to speak was a long way from his idea of medicine.
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