Chapter Seventeen: June, 1945
It was two months after the accident before Arty was able to stand without assistance. Some of the feeling had returned, but his upper-leg muscles had wasted considerably; for his own safety, Matron would only let him out of bed if she or Jim was there, and for a maximum of two minutes at a time. Arty fought her as hard as he dared, which was to say he muttered under his breath and smiled innocently if she caught wind of it. Walking to the sink at the end of the ward was the next goal he’d set his sights on, determined to do away with the indignity of bed baths. And he really was determined, conquering the walk to the sink in less than a week and setting his next objective: walking the corridor, and after that the hospital grounds.
“I think we should work on our jive,” Arty informed Jean one afternoon as she accompanied him to the hospital gate and back. She kept her gaze averted, evidently trying her best to hide how little hope she and everyone else had for Arty ever walking without sticks again, let alone dancing. He continued, “It’s a good energetic dance for youngsters like us,” but the more he said the more distressed Jean became, so he changed the subject and asked how everyone was back at the base. She had little new to tell him, but she did so just the same.
The next time Jean visited, she was accompanied by Charlie, and Arty was glad. He’d been overdoing it and Matron had ordered bed rest for a few days, which, to his visitors, would look like he’d taken a turn for the worse. From his prone position in his hospital bed, Arty watched the flicker of anxiety in Jean’s eyes, and Charlie was also back to being on edge.
The following week Jean and Charlie again visited together, the pair of them acting very cagily. They took Arty out for lunch, but it was a dreadfully sombre affair, as neither was particularly talkative.
When Jim came to see him that evening, Arty asked if there was something going on, but Jim knew nothing, so Arty put it out of his mind. They had other things to worry about: Jim and the rest of the American airmen at Minton were waiting for their transport back to the States for demobilisation, which the US Army was processing as quickly as they could, but there was no knowing how soon they would get to Jim’s group, nor how long it would be before he returned to England once he’d demobbed and been home to see his parents. He hadn’t seen his mother and father in four years, and he was looking forward to and dreading it in equal measure.
When Jean and Charlie visited together a third time, Arty had worked out exactly what was going on, and he decided to play ignorant. Jean asked for a wheelchair so that the three of them could go and sit in the grounds. Arty protested—he could walk that far—but Jean shot him a stony glare so he shut his mouth and got in the chair.
Finding a secluded corner of the hospital grounds, Jean stopped the wheelchair next to a bench and then fussed unnecessarily, checking Arty’s knees were covered with a blanket, asking if he was comfortable, whether he would prefer a less sunny spot, a better view, more of a windbreak, and so on. When finally there was nothing left to delay, she sat on the bench, and took his hand in hers.
“You know how important you are to me?” she began. Next to Jean, Charlie had his head bowed; he was leaving the talking to her. “And also to Charlie,” Jean added.
“I’ve never doubted it,” Arty assured her.
“What I’m about to say…it has no bearing on us. What I mean is, we’re still dancing partners, or if we’re not, it’s…” There was no tactful way to say what Jean was trying to.
“Come on now,” Arty comforted. “How long have we been friends?”
“Seventeen months.”
“And whether we’re dancing or not, we’re still friends. Your happiness matters more to me than almost anything else.”
Jean closed her eyes, but the tears still squeezed their way out. Arty shifted so he could wrap both of his hands around hers.
“Look, Jean, I know you hate it when I crack jokes about it and truthfully, I doubt I’ll ever dance again. I can’t deny that the thought depresses me, but I’m not going to let it get in the way of living, and nor should you. If I do ever dance again, it will be a long way into the future, and I certainly don’t expect you to wait for me. So, if you want to dance with Charlie…”
“But that’s what I’m trying to say,” Jean interrupted. She opened her eyes again and turned to Charlie, who was absently tapping a cigarette against his thigh. “You’re no help at all,” she said, exasperated.
Charlie lit the cigarette and gave it to Arty, accompanied by a wan smile. Jean sighed loudly and took the cigarette from him, drawing in deeply.
“All right,” she said over the smoke, “I’m just going to say it, Arty, and hope that you’re not too upset. Charlie and I are engaged to be married, and we wanted to tell you first, because you are our closest friend. It makes no difference to our continuing to dance together. That is all.”
“That is all?” Arty repeated, amused. He leaned forward and stared hard at Charlie, and kept staring until Charlie looked his way. “You’d best give me one of those cigarettes.”
“I just did,” Charlie said, nonplussed. He put his hand in his pocket and Arty laughed at him.
“Charlie. I don’t smoke.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Arty pointed accusingly at Jean. “This is the woman who told me she wasn’t looking for a husband.”
“Yes,” Charlie agreed. “She told me that too.”
“What have you done to her?”
“Me? I’m innocent in all of this. Ask Jimmy.”
“Why?” Arty asked suspiciously, shifting his attention back to Jean. “What’s Jim got to do with it?”
“He was…worried,” she hedged cautiously. “About you coping when he goes back to America, so he, well, we…have been discussing arrangements.”
“Come again?”
“Jim asked Charlie and me if we would look after you while he was away, and we were trying to get ourselves organised.”
Arty could feel the anger rising within, which was foolish. He would be discharged from hospital soon and it hadn’t even crossed his mind that he would need assistance. In fact, he hadn’t given the immediate future any thought at all, because right at that moment the prospect of being separated from Jim, never mind him being so far away, was unthinkable.
Containing the indignant child within, Arty asked tightly, “What did you decide?”
“I’m sorry, Arty. You’re cross, aren’t you?” Jean said, lowering her eyes in remorse.
“I don’t think it’s too much to expect a say in what happens to me, so yes. I am cross.”
“We thought this way would cause you less distress. I know from Sissy that going to stay with your mother and father—”
“Sissy’s in on this too?”
“Keep your voice down, Art,” Charlie beseeched.
Arty snorted in disbelief. “Keep my voice down?” He took in air a few times, intending to fully convey how appalled he was by what they’d done, but each time words failed him. How could they possibly have imagined it would cause him less distress?
“Please don’t be angry, Arty,” Jean pleaded. “We were only thinking of you.”
Arty nodded. “I know, and I’m really not angry with the two of you. But Sissy? And Jim?”
“You’re being very unfair to them,” Charlie said.
“I thought you didn’t like Jim.”
“I didn’t, but that was before I got to know him, and…” Charlie looked to Jean before he continued. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I picked a fight with Jim, and he made mincemeat of me, but that’s by the by. We got talking and I suppose…I just hadn’t realised how important you are to him. We had a few drinks, and Jim got chatty, telling me about his dream of the two of you opening a workshop together in London, and I thought, he’s going to hop it back to America and you’ll never hear from him again.
“So he was telling me about how he’d work around whatever you needed—whether you fully recovered or didn’t recover at all—he had it
all sussed out. Still I was thinking, it’s all blarney, this. And then the next day he took Jean down to London to look at a plot of land.”
Arty looked at Jean, amazed. She nodded to confirm it and continued from where Charlie had left off. “It’s at the back of Dalton Place. Sissy mentioned it last year. One of Antonio’s friends had a house there, but it was bombed in The Blitz and demolished. He was more than happy to sell the land.”
Arty blinked in astonishment. “You mean Jim’s already bought it?”
Jean nodded her head in a ‘so-so’ motion. “Jim and I bought it together. We thought with Sissy’s plan to move to Italy—” Arty took in air sharply. Jean wrinkled her nose. “She didn’t tell you? Oh, darn it.”
Arty flopped back in his chair, his anger dwindling to hopeless confusion. It was all too much to take in. “Right,” he said. “To clarify, my sister is moving to Italy, to be with Antonio?”
“Yes.”
“And you and Jim have bought a plot of land with a view to building a workshop.”
“Correct.”
“You and Charlie are getting married.”
“We are, yes.”
“When?”
“We’re going to wait until Jim comes home.”
“Home? West Virginia is his home.”
“Comes home to you, Arty!” Jean was getting annoyed with him. “The plan is for the four of us to rent Dalton Place from Antonio. Charlie and I will take the upstairs, you and Jim the downstairs. Charlie’s already got a job on the railways, and I’m going to look after you until Jim comes back.” Jean folded her arms and nodded resolutely.
Arty looked at Charlie and asked, “Anything you want to add?”
“Jim and I discussed me going in on the workshop too, but that’s as far as we got.”
“I’ll be having words with him about this.”
“Well, here’s your chance,” Charlie said, pointing across the hospital grounds.
Jim was on his way over to them, but as he got closer, Arty saw his expression and his heart sank.
“Hey,” Jim greeted bleakly.
Arty looked up at him. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“So soon?”
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
Arty looked from Jean, to Charlie, to Jim, and smiled. “At least you know I’m in safe hands.”
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Part Three: 1946
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When Skies Have Fallen Page 28
