by H. E. Bates
‘No. Wake me if anything happens.’
He flattened his face sideways against the floor and, trying to sleep, went off again into the doze of pain and stupor, his forehead thumping heavily and his mind sickeningly bright with reproachful pictures of the girl standing by the dresser, looking at him but never speaking. Some time later he heard the three sergeants come in and begin talking, their voices loud and then quietening, but he did not open his eyes. As the sunlight lessened he found it more restful to sleep, and he slipped away at last on a long murmur of voices.
When he woke again it was so dark that he sat up with a start, leaning on one elbow. Somebody had covered him over with a blanket. He could feel how the sweat and heat of his body had been kept in by it, until now it was like steam.
‘Everybody here?’ he said.
‘It’s O.K.,’ Sandy said. He came across the room. He had taken off his shoes. ‘We’re taking it in turns for a breath of air. O’Connor and Goddy have been. Taylor’s down now.’
‘Anything happen?’
‘Not a thing. You want to go down?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll go now.’
He got to his feet and stood for a moment rocking slightly, shaky, glad of the darkness because of his weakness. He wiped the sleep film off his face with his good hand and then suddenly stopped. He could see something in the darkness. It was the crimson end of a cigarette.
‘Who’s smoking?’ he said.
‘It’s me,’ said O’Connor.
‘Put the bloody thing out,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I said put it out! ’ he said madly. ‘Put it out! You dumb, silly bastard, put it out! ‘
‘I don’t see —’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he said. ‘Put it out! ‘
He saw the crimson spot disappear in the darkness. The moment was final: the moment of unanswerable blinding anger through which he somehow struggled as if he were half drunk towards the door. As he opened it and went down the stairway through the mill he felt very sick with heat and temper and the discomfort of moving for the first time since noon. He came down into the air with great relief, suddenly smelling the night, clean but still warm, faint with the sweetness of corn-straw and more thickly faint with the odour of water and water-washed stone after the heat of the day. He stood for a moment against the outside wall of the mill, sick within himself and sick of himself, and took heavy clean breaths of air with opened mouth, as if they were food.
He had been standing there for two or three minutes when he heard voices. They seemed to come from the direction of the river. They seemed to be talking in French. He walked down the stone roadway between the house and the mill until he could see the water shining beyond the jetty under the not quite dark sky.
He first heard the voice of the girl; and then the other voice deeper and slower, but also speaking in French, struck him as being very familiar. In a moment he knew it was Taylor’s voice. He stopped in the roadway and listened. Taylor seemed to have no difficulty with French at all.
He went on and there, by the jetty, Taylor and the girl were standing talking. Franklin walked towards them as if he were going to walk into the river. He felt impelled by the same violent anger as when he had discovered O’Connor smoking the cigarette. He knew there was no reason for it, but he had no strength to check it. It seemed to spew up from the inside of him, as if he were being emotionally sick.
‘Hullo,’ he said.
‘Hullo, sir,’ Taylor said. The official politeness seemed strained and suspicious. ‘I was just talking to Françoise.’
‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ Franklin said.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I asked if anyone spoke French and you didn’t say anything.’
‘I knew you did. I felt it didn’t matter.’
‘It may matter.’ His voice was hard and stiff. He felt that he hated Taylor. He did not know why, but knew only that he was behaving strangely and, by all his normal standards, badly. ‘You’d better get back,’ he said. It was like giving an order. He saw the boy, very tall, move in the darkness away from the motionless figure of the girl. ‘There’s no sense standing talking here.’ He hated himself more and more, and yet there was nothing he could do.
‘All right,’ Taylor said. As he moved away he looked back at the girl. He’s just a kid, Franklin thought. It’s all perfectly natural, and there’s nothing to it. Why am I behaving like this? What the hell is the matter with me?
He stood stiff and critical, waiting for Taylor finally to turn and go.
‘Bon soir,’ Taylor said. The French was excellent, smoother by far than his own. The intimacy of its excellence made him mad. ‘Bon soir, mademoiselle. Bon soir.’
‘Bon soir,’ she said.
Taylor turned abruptly and went, and as he turned Franklin felt as if he were deliberately left between them, Taylor walking quickly away towards the mill, the girl now slowly turning and going towards the river.
He walked after the girl and then, walking with her, he felt suddenly very cheap and, underneath the inexplicable anger, humiliated.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Do you feel better after your sleep?’ she said.
‘I’m better,’ he said. ‘I didn’t sleep much.’
‘Grandmother will give you something that will help you to sleep,’ she said. ‘It will bring the temperature down.’
So she knew all about the sleep and the temperature, he thought. She knew everything. He did not speak. She walked slowly and now they were away from the mill, behind the house, where the garden came down to the water. She was wearing a dark coat and she seemed to him all of piece of darkness, except for the pale shape of her face lowered slightly as she looked at the path. The fence enclosing the garden ran by the river edge, a path beside it, and then clumps of apple trees overhanging it at the far end. The girl leaned against the fence under the apple trees and he stopped, too. He could smell now the over-ripe fragrance of apples, fallen and perhaps crushed in the grass, like the smell of new wine, stronger than the smell of water and corn. He took a long breath and knew suddenly that what he had to say must be said now or never at all.
‘I wanted to tell you how it was I came down into the kitchen,’ he said.
‘It no longer matters.’
‘It was the others who did not trust you. After the German came. Not myself. I trust you. I trust you completely,’ he said. ‘I trust you all. How could I do otherwise?’
He put his good arm on her shoulder. She did not come towards him. She did not speak either, but presently he felt some of his complicated anger smooth itself out, the moment growing through quietness and hesitation into ease and tenderness.
‘Please,’ he said.
He moved his arm very slightly, pressing her shoulder, and she came towards him a little.
‘Forgive me if it seemed that I doubted you,’ he said.
‘Some doubt on both sides is natural.’
‘At first,’ he said. ‘But not after a time. Not now.’
‘I have no doubt,’ she said.
He leaned his face towards her, feeling her cheek smooth and so much cooler than his own. All his anger had gone now, replaced by the simple ache of his own sickness. As he touched her she came very slightly towards him, and he was at once tired and grateful with slight exultation at the same time. He put his hand on her neck and drew her towards him, but he did not say anything. There were many things he would want to talk to her about in time, he thought. He would want to talk about France, her brother, the escape, the war from their two points of view. But he was occupied now only with the transition of his feelings from anger to humiliation, and now from humiliation to the simple tenderness, so like the moment in the church, of holding her and not speaking to her in the darkness.
He held her like this for some moments, and he was very glad all the time because she was young and warm and because, though French, she was close to his own world: the worl
d of being young on the edge of danger, the experience of running your finger along the thread holding things together and not knowing if or how soon the thread would break. As he held her he looked across the river, over the dark fields. The stars in the summer sky were repeated in the smooth flow of water, and there was no sound, and he thought of the countryside at home, in England, when leave took him to Worcestershire and the valleys were heavy with blossom or fruit and the war was a separate and unreal experience. It seemed unreal to him now as he looked at the river and held the girl with his one good arm, her face cool against his weariness. Then all the unreality of it became real as he turned his face and put his lips against her throat and kissed her. It became real because the stupidity of the one thing was sharpened by the naturalness of the other, and suddenly it was all he wanted: to hold her there by the river, under the dark trees, and not care about time.
‘You’re tired,’ she said.
She lifted her face. Her voice was very tender, and he was startled.
‘How should you know?’
‘The way you kissed me is tired.’
‘Do you want me to kiss you in a way that is not tired?’ he said.
‘If you like,’ she said.
He waited for a few seconds and then she turned her body and he kissed her full on the mouth. Her lips were warm and soft and he felt all the former intimacy of the day in the way she let the kiss go on, unprotesting and seriously tender.
She broke away when she was breathless and he laughed slightly and said, ‘I am not very good with one arm,’ but she was very serious and did not even smile in the darkness.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Your arm.’
‘What about it?’
‘You want to go, don’t you? From here?’
‘I must go.’ Now he was sure that he did not want to go.
‘Whether you go or not depends on your arm. If you have a little temperature to-night there will be more in the morning. You have to take great care.’
‘You want me to go now?’
‘No,’ she said. She suddenly put her face against his shoulder. ‘No. But the arm is dangerous. You look sick.’
‘I feel sick.’ Suddenly he admitted it. It seemed useless to keep any part of himself from her now.
‘If the arm gets worse it will be very complicated for all of us.’
She took his good arm and began to walk back along the path towards the mill. He knew now the cause of his anger against O’Connor, of his feeling against Taylor. His sickness had gone down to his feet. He could hardly set them on the path and he was glad when he and the girl stood by the mill again.
‘Good night now,’ she said. ‘You must go up.’
‘Good night,’ he said. ‘Where is your father?’
‘There is a possibility of getting passes for you. For at least two of you. He will be back to-night.’
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ he said.
He stood close to her and put his good arm across her shoulder. He could not lift his other arm and he tried awkwardly to draw her to him. He saw the slightest light in her dark eyes as she lifted her face.
‘Will you kiss me again?’ he said.
She kissed him again without even troubling to speak and the moment was fixed for ever for him by the light in her black eyes, the silence and the breaking of the silence, by the noise of a train, far off, out of another world, across the hillside beyond the invisible vines.
CHAPTER 8
THE night was a repetition of the late afternoon and evening; and the morning, when he woke, a repetition of the night. His head seemed to have swollen strangely. His tongue was thick and sour in his terribly thirsty mouth. Above all he did not want to move.
The sergeants had covered him over with blankets, and when he first opened his eyes he saw all four were sitting on the floor, looking at the navigation map spread out by Sandy. He watched them for some time, not moving, his view odd and horizontal. The sun was well up, and he could see the sky blue already with morning heat through the little window. He could feel the sweat of himself like steam under his blankets and slowly, as his mind cleared to the sun, he became aware of his arm. It was as if someone had bound it to his side and the hot swollen flesh of it was trying to pulse itself free. The blood hammered continuously with sickening force through the choked tight veins.
At the same time the faces of the four sergeants did not mean anything. He discovered that he bore none of them the slightest ill-will. And though they were talking he did not follow what they were saying, and did not care.
Then Sandy looked up and saw him and came over.
‘Hullo, Skip. All right?’ He knelt down.
‘I feel lousy,’ he said. ‘What goes on?’
‘The father has been up. He wanted to talk to you. You were asleep and we wouldn’t wake you. You look all in.’
‘What was it about?’
‘Taylor talked to him. He says there will be two passes by tonight. It seems odd, only two.’
‘No. It isn’t odd. We’d be lucky if we all five got away together. Why the map?’
‘I’ve been going over the nav. again. Trying to check all the rivers. Just to see where we might be.’
‘It doesn’t matter where we are,’ Franklin said. ‘This room matters. Getting out matters. Nothing else.’
He suddenly felt the effort of talking. His words seemed to run away from him and he was too tired to catch them.
‘O’Connor wanted to say something to you,’ Sandy said.
‘O.K.,’ he said.
He shut his eyes for a second or two, and then, when he looked up again, O’Connor was there in the place of Sandy.
‘How do you feel, Skip?’ O’Connor said.
‘Bloody awful.’
‘I’m sorry,’ O’Connor said. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday, too.’
‘It’s all right. My fault,’ he said. ‘It was the arm. Then the strain of driving through that town full of Jerries and then when I got back everybody mad because I couldn’t find its name.’
He stopped talking suddenly, tired again.
‘It seems there’s going to be two passes,’ O’Connor said. ‘I don’t want to go. Not yet. Let the two kids go.’
‘All right,’ Franklin said. ‘We’ll see about it when it comes.’
He looked at O’Connor and grinned. He liked the feeling of friendliness, stronger in renewal. O’Connor, tough and common and warm as a brick, grinned back.
‘Want me to shave you?’ he said. ‘It’s cold water. But you’ll feel fresher.’
‘It would be damn nice.’
O’Connor fetched shaving-cream and razor and water in a cup, while Franklin tried to prop himself up against the wall.
‘No need to get up,’ O’Connor said. ‘Lie down. Have it done in state. It’s easier for me.’
He lay back and shut his eyes and felt the water very cool on his face as O’Connor rubbed it on, and after it the cream, with his fingers. He had no energy or desire to speak until Sandy began to pull his leg gently, his voice mocking quietly. ‘Nice weather for the time of year, sir. How are your onions looking?’ He heard Taylor and Goddy laughing. He grinned and felt the safety razor, flat and smooth, drawn down his cheek.
‘Stop nattering,’ he said, ‘and have a look at this arm. The bandage has tightened up like hell.’
‘It’s tough tit, this arm,’ O’Connor said.
‘What do you mean, tough tit?’
‘I wouldn’t want it, that’s all,’ O’Connor said. ‘I hate being sewn up.’
‘On with your job, barber,’ he said.
The four sergeants laughed, but he did not open his eyes. He did not even open them when Sandy came to undo the pins of the bandage and unfold it. He simply lay midway between the sensation of the pleasant pull of the razor and the fretful tender pull of the bandage unrolling from the arm. As the bandage came away he felt the air cool on the hot arm, and at last he could resist it no longer. He opened his eyes and
looked down at himself and saw the arm swollen and fiery far up the fleshy part towards the shoulder.
‘The arm’s putting on weight,’ he said.
Sandy did not say anything. He began to roll the bandage back very loosely, pinning it finally with a pin. O’Connor had finished shaving, and now he, too, was looking at the arm.
‘We got to get that arm well,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘A doctor saw it yesterday. It is well.’
Neither O’Connor nor Sandy said anything, and he knew that if it was possible 10 fool himself it was no use for them. O’Connor wiped his face with a small damp towel. ‘All right?’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ Franklin said. ‘It feels wonderful’
‘Want something to eat?’
‘No, no thanks,’ he said.
‘Some drink?’
‘I could drink and drink,’ he said. ‘Pints and pints of cold light ale. Pints and pints and pints.’
‘The girl brought a big jug of water,’ O’Connor said.
The memory of all that had happened, of the night and the girl and the intimate moment by the river, suddenly came back for the first time. The pleasure of it broke through the difficult mist of his consciousness like light. He shut his eyes. All his mind became immediately clear and happy, fresh with recollection, his surprise as great as if he had suddenly had an enormous piece of good luck. Then O’Connor brought the water in a glass jug and made as if to pour it out, but Franklin said, ‘No, give me the jug,’ and drank straight out of it, spilling some of the water on his shirt. Its cold cleanness had on his body the same effect as the memory of the girl had on his mind. It was like cool light in the dark heat at the back of his throat. He took a second drink and then sat with the jug between his knees, looking at the little remaining water in the jug and then at his face in the water, and then remembering, through the reflection, the face of the girl simply and seriously lifted up to him in the darkness.
When O’Connor had taken the jug away again he lay down. The remembered image of the girl did not retreat. It was to remain fixed in his mind all day, whether she was there or not, cool and clear.