My Dear I Wanted to Tell You (21 page)

I wanted to tell you, but I have not been able to find a way. We know that war plays strange tricks. Briefly, whatever has passed between us must now be seen as in the past. I have met a girl, and I am in love with her. As soon as my wound is healed, which should be soon, I will return to the front, and when the war is over, if it ever is, and if I survive, I will return to her, in Paris, if it is possible. I do not flatter myself that this will cause you too much pain. We both always knew that if only for family reasons our friendship could not be anything more. However I feel it only fair to clarify matters. So perhaps it is for the best. Will you forgive me, and let it end here? With all good wishes, Riley Purefoy

Is that cruel enough?

Will she believe me?

Rose’s hand shook as she put the letter down on the bed. She swallowed.
The . . .

Instinct number one: the monster. A beautiful living thing thriving in this strange sick world, and he does that to it . . . There are men here who are grasping their futures in two brave bare hands who would kill for the help of a girl’s love . . .

Instinct number two: how very much he must love her, to want to protect her at such a cost. How brave to make her hate him, because that’s the only way it can be done. How sad, my God, how sad . . .

Back to number one. He doesn’t trust her. He thinks she won’t be able to cope with it, so he’s making the decision for her. Patronising her. Or protecting her. But she is brave and strong, she’s been nursing all this time, she’s tough, that one . . . She’s not some pre-war girlie. He just doesn’t want to be nursed, he doesn’t want to be weak – he should bloody well fight then! Fight it!

And number two: how brave of him to recognise all that . . .

He wrote:

You see how I spend my time

She said: ‘I can’t tell you what to do. You’ll break her heart, but you know that. I think it’s very gentlemanly of you. I think you’ll regret it. I think it’s the saddest thing. I think you should wait and see how things develop. Of course you look a fright at the moment, but things will get better, and you can always send this later, if you decide you have to . . .’

He wrote:

pity is no basis for marriage

‘Pity isn’t all there is,’ she said. ‘Not everyone would pity you . . .’

He wrote:

you pity me

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said.

He wrote, and flashed his eyes up at her wryly:

should marry you then

And to that, her smile was tight. The jokes people could make – even him! – knowing she was unmarriageable. They didn’t make those jokes to pretty girls. With a pretty girl, at this moment, their eyes would meet, and meaning would fill the ward . . . not for her. But she was used to that. ‘You made a joke!’ she said gamely.

He wrote:

I suppose so

Then,

You’re right about everything, Rose

She said, with a little smile: ‘Nadine said, was I a locked Rose? Because of my name. Rose Locke.’

Riley looked at her. It fell into place like a mechanism: Locke. Sidcup.

He wrote:

Peter Locke?

‘My cousin!’ she said.

He wrote nothing.

‘Riley?’ she said. ‘Do you know him?’

Riley thought. Locke. He could feel a pull like thin hot wire through his bloodstream, wire, tweaking you, not leaving you alone, linking you to outside, to Over There, to them, to it, to all that he did not know how to face.
To face. Ha ha ha.
He wrote:

My CO

She said, ‘Oh, Riley. You were with Peter! Oh!’ She was so glad. It gave a reason, somehow, for the affection she already had for him. Of course she liked him: he was a friend of Peter’s! He was real. He had a place in the web. There
was
a web – connections, friendships, society, contact.

He wrote:

how do you do Miss Locke

‘My name is Rose,’ she said, smiling so wide. Then: ‘Riley, don’t send that letter. Don’t. Give it time. Things will improve and you
will
change your mind.’

He wrote:

Is she still here?

‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘She’s taken a room at the Lamb.’

He wrote:

Give it to her. Please.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sidcup, November 1917

Rose was so angry with Riley. She didn’t feel she could discuss it with Matron or anyone else. She didn’t want to reveal his private life. But – but, but, but . . .

She was still angry when she called at Locke Hill the following day. She said to Julia, over tea, ‘You know the patient I mentioned, Captain Purefoy? The sad good-looking one, with the girlfriend?’

‘Mmm,’ said Julia.

‘Peter was his CO.’

‘Goodness!’ said Julia.

‘They must have been serving together for two years,’ Rose went on.

‘Peter never mentioned him!’ said Julia.

Peter never mentions anything, Rose didn’t say.

‘Oh, gosh,’ said Julia, flustered. ‘Gosh. Do you think I should visit him?’ She didn’t want to. But – would it be right? Was it the CO’s wife’s duty? He was right there, after all . . . but . . . She remembered the man in the woods. She couldn’t inflict that on another man. Or was that an excuse? Goodness, she really should be able by now to look them in the eye and say good morning, like a human being.

‘He doesn’t want visitors,’ said Rose. ‘He’s – well, the sweetheart, and— Julia, tell me what you think about this. I don’t know what I think. It seems so utterly . . .’

Julia listened carefully, as Rose told her about the letter.

‘Were they engaged?’ Julia asked, when Rose had finished, passing her the plate of buns, and refusing one herself.

‘I don’t know. He said in the letter that they would never have been able to be together anyway. The girl, Miss Waveney, is well-spoken, but I think he is not a gentleman and that could be part of it . . . but, Julia, he’s given me the letter to give her – I just can’t bear the idea . . . ’ Saying it out loud, her reluctance swept up like tears. She
couldn’t
contribute to this.

‘I think he’s being jolly unselfish and brave,’ said Julia. ‘I think it’s unspeakably good of him. It’s for the best. Not just for her – for him. I think it’s jolly decent of him to take that responsibility.’

‘She loves him,’ said Rose.

‘Has she seen him?’

‘No.’

‘And will he talk again?’

‘Perhaps.’

A pause, while Julia thought about that. ‘How bad is he?’ she asked.

‘Honestly?’ said Rose. ‘At the moment, he looks awful. Awful. But with these tremendously handsome eyes, which makes it worse. And he’s terribly low. But that’s not the point. It’s not my decision . . . I just don’t want to be the one . . . The poor girl. She’s crazy about him . . .’

Julia pictured the girl, the boy, the wound. Could she love Peter if he came back wounded like that? Lie in bed beside him at night, with a warped and snarled face on the pillow beside her? Embrace him? Of course! But he was her husband . . .

And. Well. Best not to think about embraces.

Her mother always said it went against nature to embrace the ugly.

‘Is she pretty?’ she asked.

‘Miss Waveney? Yes – in an odd way. She has yellow eyes, and skin like – sort of like a church candle when it’s alight.’

‘Sounds like a witch,’ said Julia.

‘No, she’s very healthy, attractive. Mysterious, though. I like her.’ For a sweeping moment, she remembered holding Nadine in her arms: the strength of the girl’s passion, her narrow body, her bones. ‘And I like him. I can’t— Why does it have to be like this?’ she cried suddenly, piercingly, a curling cry that she controlled almost before she had uttered it. She opened her eyes wide, and put her hands down by her sides.

Julia stared at her. ‘I thought you weren’t meant to get involved with your patients,’ she said.

Rose smiled and shook her head.

*

On the way back to the hospital, cycling by the Green, she heard a voice call her name. ‘Miss Locke!’

Miss Waveney.

Well. Rose stopped, and waited for her to come over across the damp grass.

‘Hello, Miss Locke.’

‘Hello, Miss Waveney.’

‘How is he, Miss Locke?’

‘There’s no change, Miss Waveney. It was only yesterday that you came to the hospital.’

‘I wanted to apologise,’ she said. ‘I was a little hysterical. You understand the situation. Even so, I am sorry to have behaved so . . . passionately.’

‘I quite understand, Miss Waveney. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. She tried to smile. ‘Did he – did he send any message for me?’

There’s no getting out of this. It’s not my decision. It’s nothing to do with me!

Rose smiled as best she could. ‘He did,’ she said brightly. ‘A letter! Here you are.’ She took it from her satchel and held it straight out in front of her, like something on fire. Damn damn damn. She blinked quickly. She understood now why Riley had wanted her to give it, rather than put it in the post. He didn’t want Nadine to be alone when she read it. A kind man.

Oh, Lord, the girl looked so happy.

She couldn’t let her . . .

There was a bench. A blue one, as it happened.
Well, that’s only appropriate.

‘Why not sit here and read it, my dear?’ Rose said, stepping irrevocably off her bicycle.

Nadine took the envelope, held it. She was visibly torn between wanting to read it right now, and wanting to take it away to a secret place to treasure it. Rose’s face made her sit down.

Rose sat beside her, and gave a very quiet sigh.

After a long moment, Nadine began to moan softly. ‘No. No. No. No. No. No . . .’ Rose turned to her. She was white, bloodless. Shaking. ‘No.’ Expressions like wind chasing on water, hands fluttering.

Rose pulled her defences into place around her heart, put her arm around Nadine, and held her as she began to weep. She didn’t stop.

They sat there for a while on the wounded men’s bench. Rose looked up and down the street, at the two women with their prams, at the old man carrying a basket, at the four small children across the way doing something with sticks. How shameless normality is, the way it just carries on.

‘Come on, my dear,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and get some tea. Put your bag in my bicycle basket. Take my arm – I can push one-handed.’

Nadine was docile, weeping, shaking quietly.

The nearest tea was back at Locke Hill.

‘Come on, my dear,’ Rose murmured softly, over and over, as they trudged.

Julia was in the hall. She took one look and exclaimed: ‘Dear God, what’s happened to her? Who is she? Was she knocked down?’ She called Mrs Joyce to make hot tea with brandy, and sat Nadine down on the sofa, bustling round her. ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘Just sit.’

‘I don’t know what to do with her,’ Rose said quietly in the hall. ‘She’s Captain Purefoy’s friend. I had to give her the letter . . . She’s in shock, so . . . but I have to get back . . .’

Julia said: ‘Really, don’t worry. Leave her with me. Poor girl, it’s too dreadful.’

She put her in the blue room, told her to bathe if she wanted, and sent Harker into town for her bags. Bag, as it turned out.

Later, she sent up some broth, and went to check on her.

Nadine sat on the bed, dry-eyed and staring, arms wrapped round, hugging herself.

‘Do you have what you need?’ Julia asked, standing in the doorway.

Nadine seemed unable to talk.

Julia went over to her and put her hand on Nadine’s shoulder. ‘You can get into bed,’ she said. ‘You can stay here till you feel a bit better. I’d like you to.’

No response.

‘My husband is Captain Purefoy’s CO,’ Julia said timidly.

At that, Nadine looked up at her: an unreadable look. She moved her hand a little, to touch Julia’s where it lay.

Julia sat down on the bed beside her. After a while, she gave Nadine’s shoulder a sort of pat, and sighed, and stood, and left the room.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Amiens

A tiny round yellow moon, a wretched, shrunken, bitter moon, shone down on Peter Locke, leaning against the wall in an alleyway behind the cathedral. It was a cold, cold night, but he burnt with the artificial heat of brandy. He felt the chill of the stones against his shoulders and buttocks even through his greatcoat. He leant forward. He didn’t want to be sick, because he wanted to stay as drunk as he could for as long as possible.

Corporal Burgess stood in front of him. ‘Come on, sir, I’ll get you back,’ he was saying.

‘Do you think, Burgess,’ said Locke, ignoring that, ‘that we took enough ground, in all, since July, to bury all the men that died taking it? Do you think that those few yards we added, round Menin Road, Pilckem Ridge, do you think they would even
fit
those of us who are now . . . horizontal?’

‘Don’t know, sir,’ said Burgess.

‘And don’t you think it’s interesting that actually it almost isn’t ground, anyway? As it’s below sea-level, it’s a few yards of sea-bed. Sea-bed with delusions of grandeur, delusions that it is land . . . Purefoy said, you know, “Flanders, flounders.” It’s made flounders out of us all, floundering around, and it’s made a turbot out of Purefoy . . . and it can’t even hold a corpse down anyway, it makes a lousy graveyard, and anyway, some arses had shot it to pieces before we even got there, just a big sinkhole . . .’

‘Come on, sir.’

‘Oh, yes, that was us . . .’

‘Come on, sir . . .’

‘Thank you very much, Corporal,’ Locke said. ‘Thank you very much for your helpful concern, but I have other plans.’

‘Be as well to wake up in the billet, sir,’ said Burgess.

‘Be as well,’ said Locke, ‘not to wake up at all.’

‘Come come, sir,’ said Burgess.
Jesus God, sir, shut up.
Burgess was tired. Locke was tired.

‘I am going,’ said Locke, ‘to pay money to sleep in a woman’s arms.’ He stared at Burgess sadly.

‘Well, sir,’ said Burgess.

‘Would you like to pay money to sleep in a woman’s arms, Burgess?’ Locke asked.

‘No, sir,’ said Burgess.

‘I would like to pay money for every man out there to sleep in a woman’s arms, Burgess,’ he said. ‘And not in a sinkhole.’ His head fell to one side. ‘Would you like to pay money to sleep in a
man
’s arms, Burgess?’ he said.

Burgess gave the tiniest of smiles. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

‘Would you like to sleep in my arms, Burgess?’ Locke said. ‘Because I tell you tonight I would sleep in a pig’s arms, in a great fat muddy pig’s arms, for a touch of human warmth. No hanky-panky. Of course. No chance of hanky-panky. No hanky-panky.’

Burgess had not had an erection since the Somme, since he had felt the power of strength and doing good prickle in his veins like caustic when he had carried Purefoy in; his last moment of any sense of his own power. Since then his impotence had been as complete as Locke’s was erratic.

‘Come on, sir,’ he said.

Locke started to hum, very quietly, through his teeth.
Ta-tumtytumty-tum-ti-tum . . .
He pushed himself upright, on to Burgess, and for a moment they were locked into the drunkard’s dance, the two sets of feet far apart and glued into the ground, tall Locke, short Burgess, the head and shoulders close, embracing so as not to fall. Locke pushed himself away and up, hands on Burgess’s shoulders, with a little smile. ‘It’s the words of love, Burgess,’ he said. ‘The memory of shining stars, sweet-smelling earth, of a garden gate, a woman arriving. I die in despair, and never have I loved life so much,
non ho amato mai tanto la vita
.’

‘Come on, sir, you pissed twat,’ said Burgess.

‘Good point,’ said Locke. They stumbled on together down the alleyway, in the shadow of the cathedral, the great Gothic temple to all that didn’t seem to exist any more.

Burgess, fearing for his CO’s balance, walked Locke as far as the brothel and went on alone, singing softly:

‘O death where is thy stingalingaling, O grave thy victoree . . .
The bells of hell go tingalingaling, for you but not for me . . .’