Silence for the Dead

by Simone St. James

  I stayed silent in shock.

  “I tell him no,” the man in my lap went on, a quiet confession. “Always no. But it’s wor—it’s worse and last—last night, I don’t know—it was—”

  “Hush,” I said softly. “I understand. I do.”

  “I’m sorry,” he managed a long moment later.

  “No.” I put my hand on his back, between his narrow shoulder blades, a back that looked as diminished as a boy’s beneath his infirmary shirt. My cheeks were wet, too, now, but I did not sob. “It’s me that’s sorry,” I said through the thickness in my throat. “It’s me that’s bloody well sorry.”

  We sat there for a long time, I on top of the covers, my boots on the bed. I, who had stayed away from men for four years. I sat there in bed with a strange man, his arm around me, his head in my lap. It was against every regulation in the world. I couldn’t seem to stop breaking rules, even when I tried.

  Finally, he fell asleep. The soup was cold by then, but I didn’t have the heart to take it away. He’d need to eat something when he woke, even something cold. He was too thin as it was.

  I slid out of bed and left him, closing the door behind me.

  • • •

  It was time for the men’s leisure hour after supper, and they had assembled in the common room, but as I approached I saw they had all stopped what they were doing. The chess players had turned away from their game; the readers had put the books and magazines down in their laps. Even the men who only stared absently out the window had turned, their gazes alert.

  Matron stood in the center of the room. In the soft light of a summer evening she looked the same, her face set in its familiar hard lines under her mannish hair. The electricity was still on—it would not switch off until after curfew—and the lights cast pools of yellow that were slowly losing out to the dusky blue-gray of the long summer twilight out the tall windows and the terrace doors.

  I stood in the doorway and registered, with the sudden clarity that sometimes floods the brain, the scene before me as a still tableau: Matron, the men turned to face her, their expressions expectant, the dwindling of a soft, decadent day in the windows. I took in the long shadows of the men playing across the high, bare walls, the cheap sparseness of the furniture arranged on the expensive floors, the smell of polish and men’s sweat and the faint smell of vinegar we used for cleaning. Every detail was as clear to me as a photograph.

  Matron held up a sheaf of letters. “The mail has arrived.”

  A murmur of excitement went up. We’d had a delivery that morning, hours before. But, of course, there had to be time for every letter to be opened, read, and vetted.

  “Mr. Creeton,” Matron called. “Mr. Mabry.” One at a time, each man went forward to retrieve his letter. Those who weren’t called turned back to the window or picked up their book again, their faces carefully blank. I caught a glimpse of movement in the doorway behind me and saw the large bulk of Paulus Vries leaning in the corridor, his arms crossed and his gaze watchful. I wondered what scenes had taken place during previous distributions of mail.

  “Nurse Weekes.”

  Matron held out a letter to me, a thick, creamy, clean envelope. I stepped forward and took it from her. I turned it over, apprehension pinching my spine. It did not look official, and my father could not write.

  The letter was from Maisey Ravell, a reply to the letter I’d written about her belongings. She wrote in a perfect, looping hand that matched her beautiful stationery, the ink utterly free of blots. It could have been a young lady’s polite letter to a friend, inquiring as to the health of her mother and asking her to tea.

  Dear Kitty:

  Meet me on Sunday just past the stand of trees by the west wing. There’s a clearing. You’ll see it when you enter the trees past the rise. I need to speak to you, and not just about my locket, though I will take it back if you have it. I will be there at two o’clock. Tell Matron you require an hour’s walk. The men will be at tea. She’s supposed to give you a half day off, but she never does, so make her grant this instead.

  Perhaps you won’t come. You don’t even know me. But I’ve had time to think now, and you can help me. You must come. Don’t tell anyone. You must come.

  Maisey Ravell

  P.S. Thank you kindly for your letter.

  Quickly, casually, I folded the letter and stuffed it deep in the pocket of my apron. The envelope had still been sealed; apparently the nurses were not subject to Matron’s review of their correspondence, something Maisey must have known.

  What did it mean, that I could help her? I was in no position to help anyone, but maybe she could help me. I’d have to find out.

  There had been a wave of murmured excitement when the letters were distributed, which quieted down. And then, as I was thinking about making an escape, utter silence circled the room in a ripple. Every man fell still, looking at the door behind my shoulder, and I felt the heat of awareness on the back of my neck.

  I turned and saw Jack Yates in the doorway. He wore the sleeves of his hospital-issue shirt rolled up to his elbows. He paused, and the merest flicker of uncertainty crossed his features; then he continued into the room, walking into the light with the easy saunter that was his natural gait, crossing the open space in front of Matron—who stared at him, her eyebrows nearly shot up to her hairline—as if he had not been in seclusion for six months.

  Even the men poring over their much anticipated letters had looked up, and every eye followed him across the room.

  So much for Dr. Thornton’s rules, I thought.

  I looked back at Matron warily, wondering when the thunder would descend, but she had schooled her face back to its usual inscrutable expression. For the merest second I thought I saw a twinkle of pleasure in her eye. Was it possible Matron was amused—even happy—that Jack had done away with an entire set of rules, just by walking through a door? It was progress, wasn’t it? It meant he wanted to get well. But the twinkle disappeared, if it had ever existed. She simply said in her usual voice, “Mr. Yates. It’s kind of you to join us.”

  He nodded to her. “Evening, Matron. Is there a newspaper about?”

  “There is,” she said, “but I believe Mr. Somersham currently has it in his possession.”

  Somersham, sitting at the end of a sofa, held out his blacked-out checkerboard newspaper. “Oh, no, I’m quite finished. You can have it.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Jack.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack accepted the paper from him and nodded. And just like that, the fiction that none of these men knew the identity of their fellow patient went up in vapor.

  Jack had not looked at me. I took the opportunity to stare at him, since everyone else was already at it. I had seen him so often in the dark, in the gloom of lamplit shadows. I had nearly forgotten the effect of Jack Yates in the light, head to toe. He was hard to look away from.

  He read the masthead of the newspaper. “This is from April,” he said.

  “You are aware of the hospital’s policy about newspapers,” said Matron.

  “All right,” said Jack, “I admit I don’t quite know what day it is, but April seems some time ago.”

  “Current events—”

  “Are harmful,” he said. He looked her in the eye. “Right. A man just wants the racing news. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’d bloody love the racing news!” came a voice from the corner.

  “Me, too,” said another.

  “Don’t worry, old man.” This was Creeton, sitting in one of the chairs, one leg crossed over the other knee and grinning a grin that didn’t reach his angry eyes. “If there’s anything about you in there, we’ll cut it out and save it in a little scrapbook.”

  “Shut it, Creeton,” said MacInnes. “The man’s right as far as I’m concerned. I’d like to hear about the latest plays myself.”
<
br />   Jack folded the ancient newspaper and tossed it easily on a nearby table. “A newspaper would be good,” he said, ignoring Creeton, “but a gramophone would be better.”

  There was a murmur of excited agreement at that. Even Tom perked up. “We could play symphonies!” he exclaimed.

  In the doorway behind my shoulder, Paulus straightened, as slow as a cat. Matron’s posture had gone poker stiff. “You will not,” she said loudly, “be getting a gramophone.”

  “I want a gramophone!” someone said.

  “So do I,” said Jack. He pivoted, looked around the room, his gaze passing over me unseeing. My heart pounded in my chest. The energy he produced, just by standing there, was dangerous, so dangerous, like playing with a lit fuse. And it was only a few madmen in the middle of nowhere. But this was it, just the faint breath of it, just the edge of a shadow of Brave Jack. The men had all turned to him. And I knew Brave Jack was in there, just as I’d always suspected.

  His gaze stopped on Captain Mabry. “What do you think, Captain?”

  Mabry had folded his tall frame onto a sofa, half in shadow, light glinting softly from his glasses. He had not spoken, only looked on in silence. As we watched, his hand moved unconsciously over the letter that rested on his thigh.

  He looked at Jack for a long moment, and something passed between the two men. Then Captain Mabry shook his head. “It’s against the rules.”

  “Of course it’s against the rules!” Matron blustered. And somehow the moment deflated, punctured like a balloon. Jack shrugged; the men subsided, murmuring. Some of them shook their heads, went back to their books, still discontented. Mabry made no move. Neither did Creeton, in his corner; I could see him sitting stiffly, his face red, his eyes on Jack, swiftly calculating. He had not expected this, and he did not like it. He caught me looking at him, and I turned away.

  Jack stepped closer to Matron, lowered his voice. “May I have leave to take a walk?”

  She looked bewildered. “Walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s evening. The time for outdoor exercise is earlier in the day.”

  “I seem to have missed it,” he said casually. “I’d like some exercise. Just out to the garden and back. Do you think that would be possible?”

  Matron was in a spin. A walk now was against the rules, but to get Jack out of the room, away from the others, would be worth something. “You would have to be supervised.”

  “Of course, that’s fine with me.”

  Matron looked around, and her gaze fell on me. Her eyes narrowed, but I shook my head and shrugged in an I’m innocent gesture. I watched her reluctantly conclude that I could only be an innocent bystander. “Very well. Nurse Weekes, please supervise Mr. Yates in the garden. Exercise is not to exceed fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  “You will be timed.”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  “You are not to go out of sight of the windows. Mr. Vries will be watching. And, Mr. Yates, this case is an exception. In future, if you wish to exercise, please take it at the appointed time of day.”

  He thanked her and I followed him toward the French doors to the terrace. Everyone watched us go, and I realized that Matron had unwittingly just approved a display—a very public display—of yet more rules being broken. I watched Jack saunter out through the doors and wondered whether he knew exactly what he was doing. In the space of a few mere spoken sentences and fifteen minutes, he had turned everything on its head, even just for a moment. He was either oblivious, a genius, or utterly psychotic. And I did not think the first option applied.

  “What was that?” I hissed at him as we moved away from the doors. “What are you doing?”

  He walked across the terrace and leaned on the railing. Chairs were sometimes brought out here for the men on pleasant days, but the area was empty now. “Did you like it?” he said.

  “Like it?” I said.

  “I did it for you.”

  There was no other word for it: I gaped at him.

  He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. He turned away from me and tapped his fingers lightly on the railing. “The thing is, Kitty, you’ve got me thinking.”

  “Thinking?”

  “Yes. I don’t much like it, but there it is. You’re brave, and you keep asking questions, and you don’t quit. And the next thing I know, I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Well.” He turned to descend the steps from the terrace, and I followed him. I did not walk beside him; I was only supposed to be supervising, not strolling and chatting. But I kept close behind his shoulder as he talked. “At first,” he said, “I thought about what Matron said about clearance to come to my room. That my presence at Portis House is a secret.”

  “Something they hadn’t told you,” I said.

  “No. It bothered me, as I said, so I joined in the therapy sessions. And I asked for permission to go running alone. Which I’m told has been granted, by the way.”

  Thornton must have written Mr. Deighton about it, or perhaps Matron had. Even the owner of Portis House, it seemed, did not want to say no to Jack Yates.

  “But still,” Jack continued, “I started thinking about why I’m a secret. And I think the answer must be that England doesn’t want it getting out that Jack Yates lost his marbles, because that would be an embarrassment. Am I correct?”

  I said nothing.

  “Right,” he said. He turned down one of the paths through the ornamental garden, I at his shoulder. His voice grew rough. “I never told you what happened before I came here, Kitty. But perhaps you already know.”

  I bit my lip. “I heard something.”

  “I can’t talk about it,” he said tightly. “I can’t explain it. Not yet. Not even to you.”

  “No,” I said, looking at the line of his back and thinking about the things I couldn’t talk about, either. “I understand that.”

  “Let’s just say,” he said without looking at me, “that I took some sleeping pills, and a neighbor who dropped by unexpectedly found me. That’s all. I woke up and the first thing I felt was disappointment. The second was uneasiness at the thought that maybe something was wrong with me. Very wrong. So I came here.”

  There was nothing to say, so I was silent again.

  “And I asked,” Jack said, “to be left alone. Completely alone, just for a little while. I hadn’t been alone all through the war, and I hadn’t been alone all the time after. What I’d been through was nobody’s goddamned business. I wanted privacy, but I didn’t ask to be treated like a shameful state secret. And when I think about it, it bothers me.”

  “So you left your room and came downstairs tonight,” I said. That was what that display had been, that show of defiance.

  “That was part of it, yes. And I would like a gramophone.” We had reached the edge of the garden, and he turned, leaned on the rail of the low iron fence, and faced me. His expression, through the twilight, was tired and a little wry. I glanced back at the terrace windows, which were just visible. I couldn’t see Paulus watching, but I had no idea how much time we had.

  “That was just the first thing,” said Jack. “I’ve been thinking about other things, too. Do you see the effect you’ve had?”

  “What else?” I said.

  “I’ve been thinking about ghosts.” His gaze drifted to Portis House, taking in its dark bulk. “When I came here, I thought the nightmares I was having were my own madness. I saw things . . . I thought it was my own sick mind. But now I’ve been thinking about the Gersbachs, and that you could be right about the others. I’ve been thinking about this place, and the war. And I’ve been thinking about you. What you’ve told me about your life.” His gaze turned back to me, and I felt myself grow hot. “I think you’re running from someone who frightens you.”

  The words came automatica
lly, as if I were a windup toy. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Ah, that’s the problem with thinking, isn’t it? You think about things you shouldn’t.” But his smile was gentle, and I knew he wasn’t going to push me. “For a long time I wanted to do anything except think. Thinking made me want to die again. And that’s the reason I paid Thornton for those pills.”

  I shouldn’t have been shocked, but I was. I thought of Thornton, his self-importance, the doodles in his notebook, and it felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach with a pitchfork. Following on the heels of that was a surprising white-hot anger.

  “You’re not getting them back,” I said after a moment. “I destroyed them.” This was a lie, as the bottle was still wedged under a corner of my mattress. I’d been partly afraid that I’d be in trouble for taking them and would have to produce them again.

  For a second he searched my face, as if looking for the truth. “That’s inconvenient,” he said.

  “What are they? Morphine? Something else? A mixture?”

  “I have no idea. They make me sleep, give me strange and disjointed dreams. And when I take one, the world seems far away, as if I’m watching it from outside one of those glass balls you get at Christmas. I got them by telling Thornton something about migraines.”

  “He gave you a whole bottle.”

  “Yes. He did.” He rubbed a hand slowly up over his face, his forehead. “It seems strange to you—I can see that. That I’d want to kill myself. Have I told you the story of what happened after the advance at La Bassée?”

  He was referring to the famous battle, of course. And of course he hadn’t told me. “I read about it in the papers.”

  He nodded. His expression had gone still now, and he looked absently off into the garden. “I was an orphan,” he said.

  “I know.” That had been in the papers, too. The Times had featured a drawing of Jack, his plain and undecorated uniform prominently drawn, outsize like a giant, stepping on mouse-size, dark-mustached Huns. Put me in rags, lads, said Giant Jack, and I’ll still win the war!