When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  ***

  “A little bird told me you’re ready to go AWOL.”

  Arty’s fitful snoozing came to an abrupt end at the sound of Jim’s voice.

  “I said, ‘My Arty? Nah. Can’t be!’ And you’re still here, so I guess I was right.” Jim pulled a chair close to the bed, but before he sat he leaned over and gave Arty a gentle kiss.

  “Jim,” Arty whispered, aghast.

  “I don’t care. If that’s what it takes to…” Jim drew in a long, shaky breath. “No matter what they say, or how hard you beg, I’m gonna do everything I can to keep you with me. D’you hear?”

  Arty’s eyes filled with tears, and he nodded.

  “I love you, Arty Clarke. Don’t you dare think of goin’ anywhere without me.” Jim caught one of Arty’s tears with his fingertip and rubbed it against his thumb, his eyes trained on that small motion as he continued. “I know you’re scared. You got every right to be. And I know you’re in a lot of pain…” Jim met Arty’s gaze and smiled gently. “Jean said I shouldn’t tell you, but you have a right to know.”

  Arty watched Jim carefully, waiting for him to say more. This was about his medical condition, and from Jim’s expression it was clear things were very grim.

  “Am I going to die?”

  Before Jim got to answering, the dreaded pins and needles shot down into Arty’s legs, and he yelled out.

  “Jesus Christ! Oh God, Jim…”

  “All right, darlin’, I’m here.”

  Arty gripped Jim’s hand, trying not to squeeze too hard.

  “Take a big breath for me, real deep, come on.”

  Arty tried to do as Jim suggested, breathing in as deeply as he could, whilst Jim moved a little way down the bed and, with his free hand, reached under the blanket and cage.

  “What are you doing?” Arty gasped.

  “Just trying something. Do you trust me?”

  Arty nodded and closed his eyes, focusing on each breath in, holding it for as long as he could before breathing out again. It might have just been wishful thinking, but he was sure he felt a tingling in his right thigh.

  “Jim, what are you doing?” he asked again.

  “Tell me what you think I’m doing.”

  “Tickling my leg.”

  Jim raised his eyebrows suggestively and grinned. “How about now?”

  Arty felt it straight away. “You’re tickling the other one.”

  “Kinda. Gimme my other hand.” Arty let go and Jim moved down to the other end of the bed, reaching right under the blanket with both hands. “I’m rubbing pretty hard.”

  “I can feel it, but it’s still…” Arty’s body tensed. “You know I’m ticklish,” he said, a reflex chuckle escaping with the words.

  “But it’s easing the pain?”

  “Yes, it is.” Arty smiled at Jim in gratitude, although he’d also spotted Matron heading their way.

  “Sergeant Johnson. What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

  “Physical therapy, Ma’am.”

  “Physical therapy?”

  “Yeah, see, I been reading about polio and paralysis and I figure Arty’s got the same kind of thing going on here. The books say firm, smooth pressure helps stimulate the muscles and gets the blood flowing.”

  Matron grunted. “A likely story. I’ll let it go—this time.”

  “Thanks, Mol, you’re a peach.” Jim gave Matron a cheeky wink and her nostrils flared, but that was all; she returned to her station at the end of the ward.

  “How do you do it?” Arty asked.

  “What?” Jim queried innocently.

  “You know what. Charm the birds out of the trees, you could.”

  “Er…yeah.” Jim nodded with faked modesty. Arty laughed and settled back into his pillows. The pain was still there, but it was nowhere near as severe, and for the first time since he was hospitalised he was properly warm.

  “You going to sleep on me?” Jim teased.

  Arty shook his head but kept his eyes closed, all his troubles dissolving like sugar in warm water. The pins and needles had gone. He thought he probably ought to tell Jim that, but to feel something in his legs after all those weeks of feeling only pain or numbness was blissful.

  “Better?” Jim asked.

  “Much, thank you.”

  Jim stopped what he was doing and shifted the cage half a foot to the left.

  “Move over,” he said.

  “Jim, you—”

  “Do it.”

  Against his better judgement, Arty put his hands either side of his hips, hoisting himself a few inches to the left, while Jim lifted his legs for him. Once he was comfortable, or as comfortable as he was getting, Jim lay beside him, taking his hand once more.

  “In answer to your question,” Jim said, “they don’t know if you’re gonna die.”

  “Oh.” Arty sighed. “Well, I suppose that’s better than an outright ‘yes’.”

  “No kiddin’! A few hours after they got you here, your legs turned black, and the doc diagnosed gangrene. He said it would spread upward, and it was gonna be slow and painful, so he kept you under, hoping you’d go in your sleep, I guess.”

  “Bloody hell,” Arty said quietly.

  “Yeah. He went as far as to say it would be more humane to shoot you, but after a while the black started to fade to blue, to purple, to yellow…”

  “Internal bleeding.”

  Jim nodded. “Doc thinks the Wellington crushed all the blood vessels in your upper legs, the pressure built, arteries ruptured. You should’ve bled to death.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “No. You didn’t.” Jim laced his fingers with Arty’s. “Guess God was listening to me, huh?”

  “You prayed for me?”

  “Oh yeah, I prayed for you. Think I pretty much used up my lifetime’s quota. But I’ll tell you now, in case there’s any doubt, I love you and I’m staying with you, come what may.”

  “If I lose my legs—”

  “You ain’t listenin’, are ya? Come what may. Legs, no legs…hell, who needs legs anyway?”

  Arty attempted a smile and pushed away the other fear he had, the one he couldn’t bear to think about.

  “We’ll get that waltz one day, I promise,” Jim said, almost as if he could see right into Arty’s brain.

  “I doubt—”

  Jim’s kiss stopped him from going any further, and it was a long, slow kiss which Arty thought he should probably resist, but it was an age since they’d kissed, and it wiped out his resistance in one fell swoop. Just to have this physical contact, the warmth and security…it made everything seem perfect, and Arty could’ve stayed there forever.

  As Jim slowly released him, Arty remembered where he was, and why. Surprised by the lack of complaints, he lifted his head and glanced around the ward.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  “In the canteen.”

  “The patients too?”

  Jim nodded. “Yep. Patients, doctors, nurses, porters…”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Hitler’s dead.”