That Summer

by Andrew Greig

  ‘Well,’ I said defiantly, ‘I don’t mind too much if I do.’

  And there I’d shocked him. His mouth stayed open then he looked down and lowered his glass and we were both silent for a while, he thinking whatever, and me a bit shocked, at what I’d just said. It had been the wine talking, but it had come out.

  *

  We finished the second bottle then he drove me home. He talked on the way, about his fear, the necessity of what he was doing, and the moments of beauty and strange new experience.

  He’d always been an aesthete, that was his creed. The pursuit of beauty, in art and in life. In practice that seemed to mean the pursuit of whatever woman had crossed his path and seemed lovely. I had been one of them, and it hadn’t been so bad. He had made me feel lovely and fascinating and the source of all light. So I’d fallen in love with him, because of that feeling he gave me and the sincerity of his own feeling. Because it was sincere. It was just temporary, that’s all, and he felt bad about it when the source of all light moved elsewhere, to another face.

  It was love, just not a very mature one.

  He drove the last bit in silence, then stopped outside the house. He switched off the engine then turned and looked at me in the half-dark.

  ‘You know what moves me most these days – apart from your lovely face, of course?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘No, tell me.’

  ‘Beauty and sacrifice,’ he said. ‘We must take what beauty there is, and sacrifice is all around us. That’s what’s going on here. Involuntary maybe, but no matter, that’s what it is. And I think it’ll destroy and justify our generation.’

  Beauty and sacrifice. It was like being back at one of our seminars. Discuss. Roger at least made me think.

  ‘Well, good night,’ I said.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘I’ll think of you. Good luck.’

  Then he kissed me, a little too close to the mouth, smiled sort of apologetically. I got out of the car, he started up and was gone into the night.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I murmured to myself. ‘Good luck.’

  I went to fit the key to the lock but the door swung open. Mrs Mackenzie glared at me, and I knew she must have been watching through the window.

  ‘Your young man telephoned,’ she said. ‘I called but you’d gone out.’

  ‘An old friend,’ I said and squeezed past her. ‘We went out for a meal.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, making it sound like I’d gone to Gomorrah for the weekend. ‘And drink taken, no doubt.’

  ‘Loads,’ I said. ‘A bucketful. A whole ocean.’

  Then I went up the stairs and lay giggling on my bed, thinking of Len and wishing he’d been there, stretched beside me, his arms around.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Early October

  Our squadron was rotated off-duty for a week. We were moved north of London and stood down, so Stella and I were able to meet and go together to Tad’s funeral. Maddy’s was still delayed while the authorities tried to trace her family, so effectively had she cut off from them.

  Something was over, like simple happiness, like laughter. It was too early to say what was left for us.

  After the funeral, after the near-empty crematorium and the brief roar of flames and the few words said, we walked down to the river in silence with a picnic. Some sandwiches, tomatoes and eggs, biscuits and two bottles of beer. I ducked under the barbed fence and held it up for her, then we walked slowly down through the long grass of the big field. The middle of the day was hot and still and flies hummed continuously in the shadow under the dusty elms.

  I stepped over the stile into the next field. I held out my hand and she took it as she stepped down. She went past me along the yellowed path and I attended almost without thought to her passing by, the faint rustle and sway of her summer dress, her hair piled up but spilling down her freckled neck.

  The path turned, dropped down a bank and came out by the river where a faint breeze brought coolness over our arms and faces. The river slowed here into a deep brown pool that cut into a far bank screened with trees. A rope swing hung down from one of them. The grass looked like it hadn’t been beaten down for weeks. On the pebble spit on the near side were the remains of two fires.

  ‘This’ll do,’ I said.

  I stood on the stones, hands on hips. I flexed my fingers, feeling yet the brass handle pressing deep. It was the flames that were the worst, the finality of it. And even then it had been hard not to snigger, thinking of the pointlessness of burning again what had already been burnt.

  I shook my head at my own drunken vandalism of the Mess piano. How the black varnish had split and bubbled, flared briefly then went out. Pointless.

  I knelt and placed the beer bottles in the edge of the pool, rolled up my damp sleeve and went to join Stella where she sat on the bank flanked by tall grass and cow parsley, hugging her yellow dress about her knees as she stared down-river.

  A faint sound of the sea in the elm trees overhead. A wood pigeon calling in the leaves somewhere. A pop and burble from the downstream shallows. I lay back with my eyes closed and let it all drift.

  *

  Lord, I feel old. I’m a veteran at twenty-two, antique and scarred by careless handling, one arm awry, the right elbow joint for ever slightly forced. I feel like a chair I want to rest for ever in. I want only to be left out in the sun all day, brought in again at night …

  I wash my face carefully each morning with the hottest water I can run. I shave then peer earnestly in the mirror. Even after this few days’ rest, you could pack everything you need for a month in the country in the bags beneath my eyes …

  Never thought to live this long. Before Stella, when the War and I were young, that didn’t seem to matter so much. That’s the trouble with women, they make us want a future. Dusty Miller has finally been promoted to a desk, too old at twenty-seven. Now he’ll survive. And yet, at the bash we had to celebrate, he seemed down and out of sorts, for he was no longer one of us.

  The wind stirs her dress, the wood pigeon calls in the wood. We lie sprawled on the bank while the beer cools, fingers touching lightly.

  Sometimes it seems that touch is our only excuse. In the distance there are engines, whining faint as river gnats …

  *

  ‘–Hey you!’

  ‘Who, me?’

  Her hand inside my shirt, easing buttons open. Sun hot on my skin.

  ‘Yes, you. Do you fancy–?’

  ‘What, here?’ I said.

  ‘Where else?’

  I opened my eyes, looked at her grinning down at me, full of mischief and life. Looked across the river at the screen of trees, then behind us at the long undergrowth. No one had been here for ages.

  ‘Now?’ I asked.

  ‘When else?’ she replied.

  ‘I haven’t got … I mean, is it safe?’

  ‘What’s safe?’ She opened the last button and stared down at me. ‘Safe enough,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

  I crouched at the river’s edge and washed. The water was fresh but surprisingly mild. I looked back at him but his eyes were closed, dosing again. He sleeps so much.

  I walked further into the pool. It looked deep and fine, the water clear near me and dark green by the far bank, reflecting the trees. I wanted to drink it all up. I wanted it all over me.

  I loosened the dress from my shoulders, chucked it back onto the stones, took off my underwear then launched myself in.

  God, it was cold. The shock burned along my entire skin. I ducked my head, came up and then it was fine. I felt the water everywhere, all around me.

  He was propped up watching me. I waved then turned on my back and watched myself bob. The trees arched overhead, so tall and deep tired green. I did a fast crawl across the pool, turned at the bank then followed it up to the top, then back down to the bottom end of the pool. I suppose I was showing off a bit, knowing he couldn’t swim well and I could. Thanks to my dad. Then I felt regret like a bayonet plunge and t
wist in my chest.

  But I was alive. I pulled myself up onto the far bank and let the sun begin to dry me. I felt self-conscious being naked yet it was kind of wonderful. I studied the water drops drying on my arm, began to count the emerging freckles.

  You might wonder, I thought, how anyone can take the plunge and love somebody who might be killed in the next few weeks. But how is that different from giving your heart to someone who might die in the next few years? As sooner or later, die they must. And that will hurt so much. The longer you’ve been together and the more you care, the worse it will be.

  I stroked my upper arm for comfort. It was dry already, the skin smooth and firm. I’m young, I thought with some surprise. The dying bit will come anyway, sooner or later. The main thing is to live first.

  I looked to my left and saw a rope hanging from a branch over the river and knew what to do. I stood up and made my way along the bank, very aware he was watching me as I pushed through the long grass like some soft-soled Eve. I hoped he liked what he saw because it was me.

  I scrambled up the rock that hung over the pool, leaned out for the rope and pulled it back to me. It was warm and rough in my hands, looked strong. I looked at the pool – a long way down but it seemed deep enough. As I stared down I saw myself looking back up at me, my ghostly reflection, my other side, and I wondered how my Fräulein was doing and how we could ever cross the distance that lay between us.

  I hesitated and looked across the river at him. He was sitting up now, watching and waiting. I knew if I’d been alone I wouldn’t do this, but with him watching I had to for my own sake, and I was glad it was like that.

  I took a few steps back, gripping the rope. It was a big drop and the prospect of letting go clenches the stomach. Live a little first, I told myself. Think of it as flying.

  I ran forward and flew.

  *

  In mid-air, the river shining below. Poised for a moment in his gaze. Everything clear, stopped. My reflection, my Fräulein looking back up at me. Then the drop, blur and Smash! into the water. The shock of it. Under the surface, water into my ears and eyes so cold, then surfacing back into the world. Sunlight, trees. United with it all again, with myself. My laughter, his applause as I swam back across the pool.

  He took my arm as I staggered awkwardly from the water.

  ‘Reckon that calls for a beer,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ I said. ‘Wizard. Can you pass me my dress?’

  He picked it up, held it out towards me, open like a boxer’s dressing-gown. I backed into it.

  ‘I’m starving,’ I said.

  ‘I love you,’ he said conversationally.

  I turned my head. His face was inches from mine. I felt like I’d been born for only a few seconds. I licked salty sweat from his top lip.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Ain’t it terrif?’

  ‘Is that terrific or terrifying?’

  ‘Both,’ I said. ‘Definitely both.’

  It’s all in the letting go. I knew that then.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mid-October

  My other wingman was Paddy McNally, who’d arrived as a sergeant but quickly became an officer, for which he received much ribbing from us lowly types. He was a steady pilot, and I trusted him. We flew together when I was very jumpy, couldn’t stop thinking about death, about Tad. I slept badly and dreamed too much. Paddy and I began to play table tennis together, trying to sharpen our reactions and get in the right split-second mood.

  It was the third sortie of our fourth day back in the front line. We engaged a cluster of bombers at about 15,000 feet, with their escort around them and their escort’s escort above being taken on by the Spits. I checked on the position of Blue section, told them to get higher. They were being led by a new chap who had no combat experience whatsoever. I ask you. I was feeling pretty calm till just before I gave the order to attack and then that fur ball of fear and raw adrenalin choked in my throat and down we went.

  I came in at the wrong angle, missed everything, was vaguely aware of the Me109s turning my way. There was a patch of cloud up ahead and I made for that with Paddy sticking close.

  ‘Oh Christ! No!’

  His shout in my headphones. Even as I put on hard right rudder and saw the fighter shoot past, I saw Paddy’s plane slew across the sky with half the wing gone. I thought I saw his arm come up, reaching for the cockpit hood, his other hand clawing at his face. Then I was into the cloud and he was gone.

  *

  Two days later he lay, quite calm, in the hospital bed and told me the story. Said he had something to tell me. Something important. But first I had to hear the story.

  His face was tilted up towards the ceiling as I sat on the edge of the bed. The ward was painted blue, pale blue like the sky on a morning patrol way back in the early days.

  ‘They’re telling me a shell splinter nicked my optic nerve,’ he said, and put a hand up to his bandages. ‘I was instantly blind. It hurt like hellfire. But I found the canopy catch, opened it up and fell out.

  ‘I could hear engines, a lot of them, and I didn’t especially want to get tangled up with them or shot at, so I thought I’d count down twenty seconds. One elephant, two elephants, you know the routine. Then I pulled the cord.

  ‘It opened. Sweet merciful mother, it opened. My next problem was landing. So I listened. Listened till I heard a dog barking, then a lark, then voices. Time to brace for impact–

  ‘A ploughed stubble field,’ he said. ‘I got lucky. It could have been anything but it wasn’t. I spat the dirt out of my mouth, lay on my back and bawled ‘Stardust’ till they found me. God, Len, that earth under my back felt good! A gift, somehow more than I deserved. You know?’

  His head turned in my direction. I was picturing Stella, swung naked out across the river, mid-shout as she fell. Her shriek as she entered. Her laughter as she surfaced.

  ‘Yes, reckon I do,’ I said

  He turned on his side and lay facing the window. It was a fine early evening outside. I’d come straight from the airfield once I’d been stood down.

  ‘Blind,’ he said. He spoke carefully, slowly. ‘Blind isn’t a blackout, Len. Not like you’d think. It’s milky blue. Funny thing is it brings the world closer. More solid, you know?’

  His hand moved over the coverlet, stroking, and for a moment I could imagine what he meant. Having everything in touching distance. Was this what he had to tell me?

  He grinned. ‘It’s the last months that were a blur,’ he said. ‘Really we didn’t look properly at anything. We couldn’t see.’

  I sat there, suddenly sweating. Couldn’t speak. He sat up, reached for a tin under his mattress and began to roll a cigarette. He wasn’t very good at it yet, but I let him get on with it. He’d have to learn.

  ‘And Len,’ he said, ‘half of them are mad, you know. Quite mad. And most of the rest – oh, brave enough, but either numb or dumb. Then they die not knowing … And that’s a waste. Wouldn’t you say?’

  He lit up, smiled in my direction.

  ‘And now I’ve shocked you,’ he said. ‘But we both know it’s the truth. I’m sorry I never said this earlier, instead of just playing table tennis and drinking pints. But it wouldn’t have been playing the game, eh? Now I see no reason not to say what I want to.’

  I sat there. My mouth may have been open. No one spoke like this. Even with Tad I’d kept my thoughts mostly to myself. Maybe we all thought the same but kept it to ourselves.

  I watched the shadow-branches close and open on the far wall, caught in the low sun and projected past my shoulder. I watched and felt them as though they parted in my chest.

  ‘Easy to speak from the sidelines!’ he laughed. ‘But I’m here to tell you this, my boy. Just being alive is being in love. It’s a gift, and you don’t hang on to gifts too tight. You pass them on, right?’

  He winced, broke off, his hand went up to his bandaged eye then came down slowly.

  ‘Anyhow,’ he sai
d. ‘How’s Stella? And are you taking that commission?’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Thriving. I reckon not.’

  A horn sounded outside. I went to the window and looked and for the first time thought it wonderful to be able to look.

  ‘Got to go,’ I said. Put my hand on his arm. ‘That’s the adjutant. Thanks for the tip, I’ll try and take it.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing at all. Thanks for coming.’ His hand tightened on my arm. ‘Heard you got your DFM,’ he said. ‘Congrats.’

  I mumbled something modest, though I was quite chuffed about it. He patted my hand, like he was an old man or I was a child.

  ‘Ta-ra, Paddy,’ I said. ‘I got to go.’

  He nodded in my direction, grinned.

  ‘Be seeing you!’

  *

  I left him then, walked down a long pale green corridor through a series of doors.

  No anger, no pity, my God, no fear. Blind isn’t as imagined. And dead is not lying awake in the dark for ever. Whatever it is, it’s not that.

  I thought of how, when I had flu as a child, the dressing-gown on the back of my door became a monster, and how it was so frightening I didn’t dare move all night, nor scarcely breathe in case it spotted me. But when morning came and my fever dropped, I saw it for what it was. Just a dressing-gown. I made myself put it on to go to the bathroom.

  I put it on. That was it.

  I walked out the final set of doors, clear-headed, resolved, into the difficult light.

  There is darkness everywhere outside the circle of our lamp. It’s nearly ten and he seems to have dozed off. But I’m awake to what we’ve done. I sense it already, even if he doesn’t. I know it in my core.

  My eyes are open and I see. I see further than he does, I think, from my place of greater safety, the place he flies to protect me in. That’s the deal we make.

  The dead are more present than the fears, as they should be. I hope they’ll walk with me for years. I hope in peacetime they come back to me and make me stumble or smile as I walk our child to school. My dad, Maddy, Tad – may I feel them near me again as I dust their frames, then carry on with whatever my life may be.