Stay Where You Are and Then Leave (12 page)

“What sort of a lecture?” he asked.

She shrugged, reached inside her bag for a packet of cigarettes, and took one out, lighting up in a quick fluid movement of thumb, wrist, and match. When the smoke appeared before her in a sudden haze, she used her other hand to wave it away. “Awful things,” she said. “Don't ever start. They take over one's soul. Are you really interested in my lecture or are you just being polite?”

“I'm just being polite,” said Alfie.

“Oh, all right then. Well, I'll tell you anyway since you asked. I work with soldiers who've come back from the front, you see. You know about the front, don't you? Everyone does, I suppose. You'd have to be living under a rock not to. Well, they come back in a terrible way, some of them. So we do what we can to help. I'm doing a sort of triangle, if that makes sense. I live in Norwich, I took the train to London yesterday to visit a friend—an awful girl I used to go to school with and who's now a big voice in the Suffrage movement. Have you heard of the Suffrage movement? No, I expect you're too young, but if anyone ever asks, you're in favor of it, all right? Anyway, I took the train down there and now I'm on a train to Ipswich for this lecture. A chap from a hospital in Manchester is giving it. He gave one two months ago that I attended, and half the men there fell asleep. The women didn't. We paid attention, you see. What's the point of going and not listening? Then tonight I'll head home to Norwich. My father's a vicar there. Don't laugh.”

Alfie shook his head. He had no idea why she thought he might laugh. She hadn't said anything funny.

“I can take you to the hospital, if you like,” she said. “When we arrive, I mean. It's not far from the station, but if you don't know where you're going you're likely to get lost. And I can't have it on my conscience that I let a ten-year-old boy wander the streets without any idea of his destination.”

“I'm nine,” said Alfie for the second time.

“Well, you'll be ten soon enough, I imagine. Nine-year-old boys usually turn ten at some point. It's the nineteen-year-olds who have difficulty turning twenty.” She looked away and stared out the window for a few moments, blinking furiously, then closing her eyes and breathing heavily through her nose. Finally she turned back and offered something like a smile. “Anyway, if you get lost in Ipswich you might have a birthday before you find your way home again. So are we agreed? You'll let me show you the way?”

Alfie nodded, feeling quite exhausted by the way the young woman had talked to him. He felt as if a little nap might be in order and leaned back against the seat, turning his head to look out at the passing fields.

“Oh, we're finished talking now, are we?” asked Marian, and Alfie turned back to her but she shook her head. “I'm only teasing. Go ahead. Watch the scenery pass. I'm perfectly happy with my own company and that of Dr. F. R. Hutchison. If you fall asleep, I'll wake you when we get there. It'll be at least two hours yet. Probably more. The trains take forever these days. No need to worry.”

Alfie nodded, sat back, and closed his eyes. He didn't really want to fall asleep, but he thought that if he listened to the young woman talking for much longer, he might go a little mad. He'd never heard anyone speak so fast or have so much to say. He gave a little yawn and was just reflecting that forty winks might come in very useful when a thought occurred to him and he opened his eyes again and sat up straight.

“The hospital we're going to,” he asked, “what sort of hospital is it, anyway?”

“Well, one for sick people, of course,” said Marian.

“Yes, but what sort of sick people?”

“Sick soldiers. The ones who survived but aren't doing a terribly good job at surviving, if that makes sense. There's a term for it. That's what my lecture is about, as it happens. It's an awful thing, but it's become terribly common. Even if there are those who simply refuse to believe the evidence of their own eyes.”

Alfie looked at her. He was almost afraid to ask. “What is it?” he asked.

Marian Bancroft looked at him and smiled—not a happy smile, more the sort of smile that accompanies bad news; a smile that might put a person at ease.

“Shell shock,” she said.

 

CHAPTER 8

ARE WE DOWNHEARTED?

No other passengers left the train at Ipswich, and Alfie looked around, surprised by the station, which didn't seem like a station at all; there was no seating area, for one thing, no ticket counters, and no shoeshine boys waiting for customers. The train had simply stopped and let Marian and Alfie off.

“Of course, this isn't the real stop,” said Marian, noticing the bewildered expression on the boy's face. “But most of the trains don't pull into the real stations anymore so there's less risk of bombing. They stop near or nearabouts, and one has to walk the rest of the way. It's actually quite convenient for us, though, because the hospital isn't far from here.”

“But how does anyone know where to board?” asked Alfie.

“They just know,” replied Marian with a shrug. “Word spreads. And if you don't know, then you just keep going to the next stop, wherever that might be.”

A narrow lane bordered by hedges guided them toward a crossroads, and from there three separate paths led in different directions with no signposts to indicate which way they should go next.

“They've all been taken down,” explained Marian. “There's scarcely a signpost left in England, or haven't you noticed? We don't want any infiltrators to find their way about, you see. There are spies everywhere, or so we're told. I'm not convinced, but who listens to me? Lucky I have a good sense of direction. I might have been a bloodhound in another life.”

She chose the path to their immediate right and kept up a good pace, chattering away about this and that as Alfie ran to keep up with her. She was right, though: it wasn't far to the hospital, and within a few minutes the broken stones sprouting with grass and weeds beneath their feet gave way to a more conventional road, and in front of them, finally, stood the East Suffolk and Ipswich Hospital.

Alfie felt apprehensive as he stared at the imposing walls that ran around the grounds, the long driveway that led to the main hospital, and the enormous pale-yellow-brick building itself, which looked more like a castle than anything else.

“Are you quite all right?” asked Marian.

“Yes.”

“You're sure you want to be here? There'll be another train heading back to London quite soon, you know. You could just go back to where we got off and start waving your arms around like a lunatic when you see one coming into sight. It would certainly stop for you. Well, probably anyway.”

“I'm sure.”

“Shall we go up together, then?” she asked. “There's no point standing here and staring at it like it's a picture postcard.”

“I think I might wait here for a little bit,” replied Alfie, holding back, feeling that it might be best if they parted company now.

“Nonsense! I can't leave you here all alone. Aren't you going to tell me who you're visiting anyway? Perhaps we can find a nurse or someone to help you out.”

“I'd prefer to go up on my own,” said Alfie. “Thank you, though.”

Marian glanced at her watch. “Well, if you're absolutely certain,” she said. “It's up to you, of course. But you'll have to find your own way back to the station later. You remember the way we came? All right then.”

She extended her hand once again, and this time Alfie shook it without having to be told. “Very good,” she said, nodding firmly before turning her back on him and marching up the drive.

He watched her for a while before stepping closer to one of the gate posts so that anyone looking out of the hospital beyond would not be able to see him. He didn't want to be spotted in case he was turned away, despite the fact that he wasn't entirely sure what his next move should be. He hadn't really planned things any further than getting to the hospital, and after that … well, it was impossible to know. But there was really only one thing for it: he had to go inside.

*   *   *

Alfie began to make his way up the driveway, feeling rather conspicuous; a small boy arriving alone in short trousers, a woolly jumper, and a cap, after all, was obviously neither a doctor, a patient, nor a student arriving for the lecture.

The path itself was very well kept and separated two wide fields on either side with a straight line that led to the hospital entrance. The lawns were carefully tended, although there were no flowers anywhere in sight. Instead the grass had that strange striped look that lawns in country houses often have, where it appears as if one strip of grass is leaning one way while the other is leaning in the opposite direction.

When he reached the top of the drive, he stopped in front of a grand portico that led to a pair of open oak doors, hiding behind a pillar as he considered his next move. Two young women came out in uniforms completely different than Margie's—they didn't look quite so formal and their blouses were much looser at the neck—and stood in the fresh air, smoking cigarettes, oblivious to his presence behind them.

“And where was Dr. Ridgewell when all this was happening?” asked the first girl.

“Where do you think he was?” replied the second. “Sitting in his office, head down. Keeping out of the way.”

“And he didn't even come out to speak to her?”

“He had no choice in the end. She said that she wouldn't leave until he did, that they could call the police for all she cared. When he came out at last, you should have seen the expression on his face! Furious, he was! ‘What are you causing such a fuss for?' he asked her.”

“And what did she say?”

“‘For the best reason in the world. For love.'”

Alfie gasped and put a hand to his mouth in surprise. This was the same expression that Mr. Janá
č
ek always used when he explained why he had moved from Prague to London.

“Poor woman,” said the first nurse, exhaling deeply and shaking her head. “She's devoted to him, isn't she?”

“Well, of course she is. He's her husband. You'd do anything for your Frank, wouldn't you?”

“Probably, yes. But look, I know it's a terrible thing to say, but there are times when I'm grateful he was injured early on. It kept him away from the worst of it. It gets him down, of course, not being able to do his bit anymore, but I say to him, ‘Frank,' I say, ‘you want to see what these poor boys are like out here at the East Suffolk? You want to count your blessings, Frank.' I don't hold back, Elsie. He needs telling sometimes.”

“How's his walking now?”

“Not good.”

“And his spirits?”

“Even worse.”

Alfie slipped round to the other side of the pillars so they wouldn't notice him, and then, while their backs were still turned, he ran into the lobby, where a set of glass doors awaited him, through which he could make out movement in a corridor beyond. Three more nurses were walking in and out of rooms on either side of the hall while a fourth was deep in conversation with a much older doctor who had a white beard and looked a little like Santa Claus. While their attention was diverted, Alfie opened the doors, ran through, and slipped into the first room on his left.

The first thing he noticed in the hospital was the smell. A mixture of cleaning fluids, perspiration, blood, and who knew what else. Something foul. It pervaded the air and made him want to gag, but instead he put a hand over his nose until he could grow accustomed to it.

Looking around, he thought he was in an office of some sort. There was a table in the center of the room, and on it stood a few empty mugs and a teapot with a knitted cozy on top. Hanging over the side of a chair was an apron with a map of Ireland on it and the words
A GIFT FROM SKIBBEREEN
underneath. A tearoom, Alfie decided. Not an office. Somewhere the nurses came to take their breaks. A sound to his left made him turn, and he noticed a kettle on the stove with steam starting to rise through its spout. The moment it began to whistle he gasped, knowing he had only a few seconds before someone appeared and discovered him. Running back out into the corridor, he made his way a little farther along, trying to ignore the faint echo of moaning in the air, a noise that was difficult to decipher; it sounded as if a hundred people were in distress behind these doors. He ducked into another room, this time on the right-hand side of the hall, just as he heard footsteps running down to where he had come from.

Closing the door behind him, he turned around with his eyes closed in relief and exhaled.

When he opened them again, he saw that he was in a bedroom. A man was lying in bed next to an open window, sitting up, his pajama top unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He had thin gray hair, although his face did not look so very old. He was staring at Alfie with a terrified expression on his face, his mouth hanging open, his hands pressed to his ears to block out the noise of the whistling kettle, whose scream penetrated even here. Alfie looked at him, aghast, not knowing what to say, and only when the whistling stopped a few moments later did the man take his hands away slowly, very slowly, and let them rest on top of his blanket. He stared down at them then, his mouth still open, before turning to look at Alfie. He was trembling slightly.

In a bed opposite him, a second man was reading a novel. When he got to the end of every page, he ripped it out, crumpled it up, and threw it on the floor. There were dozens of pages down there already. Alfie narrowed his eyes to make out the words on the front cover.
Madame Bovary.

“Where's my mum?” asked the first man, and Alfie turned back and opened his mouth, uncertain what to say. “Is she outside?” he asked finally. “She said she'd come this morning.”