In his fitful sleep he cried out of bombardment and gas, screaming to someone to ‘get your bloody mask on’, of salients and tanks and shellfire and wept over the pain another soldier suffered. A rat gnawed his hand one night and on the next he drowned in mud. He babbled endlessly in the dark of the trenches and of the men in them and sometimes seemed to confuse all those he had known and loved in that comradeship which had been born there, as he screamed of shattered bones and blood and torn flesh and fear. He said his head hurt from the shock of the explosions and he felt sick and dizzy and why did she not remove the mountain of rotting men which piled up about him for really the smell was more than he could bear.
Meg never left him. For the first time since she had opened the inn at Great Merrydown, the one in which Tom had so ably partnered her, nearly eight years ago now, she abandoned her work, leaving Fred Knowsley and the other managers to cope without her direction, trusting them to administer the two companies in the best way they could. She was here, on the other end of the telephone, she told them, if they should need her in an emergency, knowing that with the war’s end and the resulting cancellation of government contracts, one could easily arise! There would be a lull, naturally, as the need for the machines of war finished but there would be others to take their place and soon, if she was to be as successful in peace as she had in war, she must prepare her organisation for them, but first she must restore Tom to some semblance of normality for unless she did how was she to ever leave him?
He grew stronger physically, fed three, or if she could manage it, four of Annie’s wholesome meals each day. Soup made from shin of beef, a knuckle of veal, or a ham shank, thick with vegetables, into which, for good measure she put a ‘dollop’ of cream, eager to flesh out his bones in any way she could. Barley gruel, easy to digest and tasty to tempt his poor appetite, with a tablespoonful of sherry in it. A cutlet of lamb with mint sauce and Brussels sprouts, grown by Will and fresh from the garden. Egg wine and eel broth and stewed rabbit in milk, chocolate mousse, light and frothy with fresh cream, milky rice pudding and succulent pork pies with pastry which flaked in the mouth.
At first he had refused, pushing away his plate apologetically saying he would ‘eat it later and not to throw it out’ in a fair imitation of his old self and Meg became frantic as he continued to lose weight. He had been home for three weeks, the doctor shaking his head, wondering, he told Meg, whether it might perhaps be wiser if Mr Fraser was transferred to a hospital he knew of, for soldiers recently returned from the front. There were many like her husband, he said sadly, who had not yet got to grips with civilian life and the problem would not go away, not in weeks, not in years, though he did not say so.
He had wandered away from her that day, in the withdrawn and dream-like manner of a ghost who does not know where to lay itself to rest, haunted by other ghosts which crowded about him, his face sombre and shaded, whatever was in his mind hidden from her. She followed him from room to room, not speaking nor touching him rather as she imagined one would with a sleepwalker. He touched things, a porcelain figurine, the petal on a chrysanthemum, in a bowl which stood on the window sill, the fall of the velvet curtains. He was confused, muttering under his breath and once saying quite clearly, ‘… this is nice, Andy. Shall we take it back to the billet?’ tucking a cushion under his arm with a smile of triumph.
He went up the stairs and Meg’s heart plunged for in this dreadful show of – dear God, she could only call it derangement – how might he affect her daughter if he should go into the nursery? He was always gentle with her, often vague and not really listening to her chatter, but as loving as he had always been.
‘Hello Daddy,’ the child said cheerfully as she looked up from the nursery table where she was having her tea. There was bread and butter and a pot of honey, milk and biscuits and fruit. There were toys, balls and dolls, a teddy bear and books and the cheerful crackle of the fire. There was the discreet presence of Sally Flash sitting beside the child, sewing on some small garment. It was lovely, the very heart of Tom’s home and in it was the sanity he needed to mend him.
‘I’m having my tea, Daddy,’ Beth continued, holding up a chocolate biscuit in proof. ‘Would you like one?’ she said for her mother had taught her politeness was important.
‘Why … thank you, sweetheart … but …’
He hovered in the doorway in that hesitant wary way he had, looking about him, one assumed, for German soldiers, or whizz bangs, or worse, his dead and mutilated pals, but there was nothing but the warmth and the blithe and lovely spirit of the child. Her unquestioning love reached out and drew him in.
He ate a biscuit, and when prompted by the little girl, two slices of bread and honey, a glass of milk and an apple. To Beth’s everlasting delight he ate most of his meals with her from that day on, though she was not to know the reason why. Whatever she ate so did he. As she tucked in to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, cut up into small pieces so that she might feed herself, so did Tom Fraser and he was soothed by her joyful pleasure in his company. Her artless babble on the small but momentous happenings in her day did not allow terror into the simple child world of the nursery.
Christmas came and went and when Beth was with him he was quiet, even smiling a little, his weariness of spirit put aside for her sake, holding her hand, walking with her in the garden, looking out from the rough ground beyond the small lake, across to the winter beauty of the snow-capped hills and the meandering path to the Dovedale valley.
He began to put on weight and in the sunshine and clear fresh air in which he had started to spend his days with Beth and Will his face took on a little colour. He became stronger and with Will not far behind, Meg and he and Beth would walk a mile or two, moving across crisp frozen snow in which the little girl threw herself, calling to Daddy to catch her, squealing with laughter as he began, slowly, carefully, hesitantly to play with her. He stood with Meg in a timeless moment of peace to admire the golden sprays of bracken which pushed their way through the snow and the bright thickets of holly, glossy prickly leaves and brilliant berries bright against the white landscape. They sat on one of the drystone walls which cobwebbed the hills and he held her hand and the only habitation was a white-washed cottage and all around there was nothing to hurt him, just peace and silence, the laughter of the child and the healing love of his wife.
Meg began to hope!
He took to following Will about the vegetable garden at the back of the house and finding nothing there to alarm him, turned over a square foot or two of black soil, then sat for an hour with a handful of it clutched painfully to him. Will was wary, keeping an eye on him as he himself continued digging, for what would he do next? What was in his troubled mind as he held the black dirt in his hand, but Tom stood up quite normally, remarking, ‘Bit of good soil that, Will,’ throwing it back on the garden and brushing his hands together carelessly.
She made her mistake in March. He had been progressing steadily, walking the hills now with Beth sometimes on his shoulders, Will, or Meg always beside him. He was sleeping better, more quietly and his hesitant smile lit his eyes as he helped Will in the garden, or read to Beth, or sat beside Annie in the kitchen as she baked. He helped Edie to polish the windows, delighting her for it was a treat to see him more his old self, she said, telling her that he had cleaned more windows when he was a lad than she’d had hot dinners. Meg was exultant believing that at last she could get back to work.
There were changes coming now in the world of aviation. The new ‘Wren’, the ‘Wren III’ she would be, was bigger and to be used not only by the many wealthy men who wished to fly for their own pleasure but for what Meg was convinced, for had it not been Martin’s dream, would be the start of air transport as a business. And if that was so, would it not follow that an aircraft which carried freight, could also carry passengers? This business which had, through the war, made her into a successful and wealthy airplane manufacturer was not to die away now that the war was over. They had an em
bryo ‘airline’ company and with the bright new designer Fred had found, one who had survived four years in the Royal Flying Corps, at the drawing board and the gigantic new factory which was to be built on the airfield, they would, one day, she was certain, be operating one of the first British ‘airline’ ventures in the country.
And the motor car! Now that the war was over would not the demand for new designs, light, high-speed engines, the family automobile for the family man which Martin had envisaged, and the racing motor for the racing enthusiast, now be brought down from the shelf where the war had temporarily placed it. Sadly the ‘Huntress’ still wrapped carefully away at the back of the factory awaiting Martin Hunter’s return, was obsolete now, her design, so innovative in 1912, out of date but another could be built, by the right engineer, surely?
Meg, convinced Tom was sufficiently recovered in the three months he had been home, and thinking to stimulate his awakening interest in what had been her work, and would be again, put him in the Vauxhall one fine spring day in March, sitting him beside her as she drove cheerfully down the drive and out through the gateway, turning in the direction of Camford.
At first, in the manner of an animal which senses danger, not awfully sure of where the danger lay, but sniffs around warily in the hope of discovering it, Tom allowed himself to be led about the hangar. His hand was shaken by a score of well-wishers for though they did not know him, they were glad to see him, a soldier, back from the trenches and in one piece. Though those who spoke so welcomingly to him, respectfully too for he was the husband of the owner, were disconcerted by his silent, staring face and flaccid hand, they told each other the poor devil had gone through four years of war and could you blame him for being a bit quiet.
Fred walked protectively beside him pointing out what he thought might interest the husband of Megan Fraser, no engineer certainly, but a man and most men were curious about these machines which they had seen in the skies above their heads in France.
It was as they approached the skeleton of an aircraft being erected at the back of the hangar that Tom began to show signs of real distress. Meg, thinking he might be embarrassed should she hold his hand as she had done ever since he had come home, had allowed him to step ahead with Fred but even as she smiled and bent her head to listen to the voice of Peter Dobson, the clever young aircraft designer, above the racket of the bustling hangar, she could see Tom’s growing agitation in the rapid jerking of his head and the pitiful sight of his hand reaching out to where he imagined hers might be!
It was the noise of the riveter! Its cheerful chatter echoed about the corner of the hangar as it poured forth its lethal, agonising, fear inspired despair into the damaged mind of Tom Fraser. The man who held it was leaning into what would be the cockpit, directing it into the framework he was putting together and he was whistling as he spilled the machine gun like sound towards the metal.
Meg saw Tom’s expression for a second as he turned to look for her. His mouth was open, a black hole of agony in his chalk white face. Deep lines carved his flesh from cheekbone to chin and his eyes were dead as charcoal in the unbearable horror which consumed him. He turned away from her towards the aircraft and the cheerful man who worked there, and even above the tumult of the busy workshop they all heard him scream.
‘NO! For God’s sake, no! Get down, oh Christ, quickly Andy … oh Christ … where are you hit, lad … stretcher bearer … oh Christ … Andy … no, no, lie still … no … oh Jesus … it’s … no, don’t move. I know … I know it hurts, lad … I know … its the barbed wire … its … you’re caught in it but I’ll get you out, Andy. Keep your head down … lie still … lie still.’
Tom had backed into a corner of the hangar and every man in it felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle in horror and every one of them watched, pityingly, some almost in tears as Tom Fraser re-lived that moment which was, it seemed, the one which had finally driven him to madness.
He sank down on his haunches, his arms about some unseen body, cradling it to him in infinite tenderness, rocking backwards and forwards and from the corner of her eye Meg saw Fred move towards the office. She took a step towards Tom, scarcely able to bear his pain, tears flowing unnoticed across her face, but something told her not to touch him, to let him live out this moment in his broken life.
‘Hush now … hush lad … there … I’ve got you … they’ll be here soon, no … don’t cry Andy, yes lad … I know it hurts but the stretcher bearer will be … no … please Andy … don’t move … yes lad … your mother’s coming in a minute … keep still … keep still.’
He became quieter then as though the burden in his arms slept for a moment, staring out over the devastation he saw in his mind, then, just when Meg thought she might go to him, gather him up into her compassionate arms he began to struggle, hitting out with clenched fists and drawing back from something, holding the comrade he protected.
‘No! No! No! please lads … let me stay with him … you can’t just leave him … no, no.’ He began to scream helplessly, mindlessly, sobbing and shaking his head and one of the men who watched turned away, moaning.
‘He’s still alive, dammit … he’s still alive, you bastards … Andy … Andy … I’ll not leave you. No … no, please lads … you can’t leave him hanging on this wire … see, he’s still alive … no … look … let me get him free … I’ll cut the bloody wire.’ Then a subtle change, deeper, deeper until his voice was an angry snarl, ‘Kill him then … kill him if you won’t save him … for Christ’s sweet sake … here … you … give me that pistol … Sir … if you won’t do it, I will.’ A change again, quiet now, peaceful, soothing, ‘there, lad … there, that’s better … there … no pain now … there.’
It was later, as he lay beneath the heavy blanket of drug-induced sleep administered by the doctor Fred had summoned that Meg Fraser finally knew that Tom would never again be the easy going, impishly grinning man who had gone gladly, eagerly to the service of his country. He had come home unmarked but his simple philosophy of good will to his fellow man had been taken from him, and he simply could not function without it. She had thought to heal him with her love, had even believed she was doing so; with the peace and trust and mutual love he shared with her child but now she knew she could not do it alone.
He was seen by a specialist. A man who, with others like him, ministered to the thousands who came back to their families, broken and tormented and who now lived in a world peopled with spectres and Meg was told he must be allowed to live in peace, in the safe and untroubled calm only his family could give him, in his home, in the familiar, secure surroundings where there was nothing to frighten him. He was not dangerous, the quiet man told her, merely … destroyed. His shell remained and a slender thread of what had once been the bright and merry mind of her husband but he must not be confounded by anything more stressful than the drifting by of one peaceful day upon another. And if he was to be left alone, he said, knowing of Mrs Fraser’s business enterprises she must employ a man, someone unobtrusive but trained for such things, who would care for Mr Fraser whilst she was away. A strong dependable man. Would she like him to supply one such for her?
‘I know of someone who would help me, Dr Carmichael but I’m afraid he is not a trained nurse. He is not young, older than Tom but he is strong … and kind. Tom is very fond of him … trusts him. This man has a great affinity with those who are … hurt. He has … been hurt himself. He has infinite patience with Tom. Do you think …?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Fraser. I would have to speak with him, assess his character and be convinced he is suitable. When I said “trained” I was thinking of someone who has worked with such men as your husband but many of these are not medically qualified. Many of them were conscientious objectors and worked, not as fighting men but helping those who were wounded. Some of them have remained to care for those who will never recover but if you would like to bring your man to the hospital I will give you my opinion as to his suitability.’
A pair of whitethroats had built their nest in the bramble bush at the back of the shed and as Meg had approached he had been standing watching them wing fearlessly back and forth in the sunshine. They had flown away, startled by the sound of her voice but as she and Will sat and talked, the birds came back, reassured by the peace.
A robin slipped from beneath the roots of an old oak tree, burrowing among the campions which grew at its base but seemed unalarmed by the presence of the man and the woman.
‘You know why I am here, Will?’
‘I can guess, Mrs Fraser.’
‘I must get back to work, you see. The factories need someone at their head and there is only myself. I have run them now for four years and though I had hoped … well, my first love is the hotel, you know that?’
‘Aye! I remember when you first came to “The Hawthorne Tree”. They said you couldn’t do it, those about. A slip of a lass! Taking that old place and turning it into an inn. They laughed, Mrs Fraser, but I reckon you showed ‘em.’
She sighed sadly. ‘Yes, I showed them.’
Will shifted on the bench, lifting his crippled leg into a more comfortable position. ‘You will again, Mrs Fraser. Happen you could put someone in to see to the airplanes and that, then you could get back to “Hilltops”.’
‘Perhaps … one day but in the meanwhile I cannot let the factories run down. There is so much to be done. This is the era of the machine, Will. The airplane and the automobile and we will see great things in the next ten years. I cannot let what I have been … been given … slip away!’
Between Friends Page 54