by Mary Wesley
Ned’s sobs subsided; he circled her with his arms, pressing his face against her breast, his copious tears soaking her nightdress. Presently he fumbled for her handkerchief and ignoring her germs blew his nose. Then he lay back with his head on his arms drawing himself away from her. ‘The truth is,’ he said, ‘I am afraid. I am afraid of the war. I am scared. I lie awake in France imagining what it is going to be like, what it will be like to be wounded. What it will be like to die. I can’t discuss it with anyone. I wish I had not told you. You will now, I take it, want nothing more to do with a coward.’
Rose felt a rush of affection for Ned. ‘Ned, darling, I love you. I swore I would not leave you, don’t you remember?’ (I could let her off her promise, thought Ned, no, no, I couldn’t.) ‘I am sure you won’t get wounded, why should you? Everyone says this war is going to be quite different to nineteen fourteen, no casualties.’
‘That’s what they say …’
‘You won’t get killed. I’m sure of it. You are not a coward. We are all frightened, all of us, I am afraid all the time and especially at night, that’s why I have the cats for company.’ In speaking of fear she dredged up terrors as yet suppressed, she would share them with him, offer them to him.
‘You use your cats as hot-water bottles. How do you know I won’t get killed?’
‘I just know it.’ She sought to be robust.
‘I may be maimed. I may get my legs blown off. I may be blinded. I may be deafened. There’s a fellow who trod on a mine near the Maginot Line who had his legs blown off and is now both blind and deaf.’
‘How near are you to the Maginot Line?’
‘About a hundred miles.’
‘Oh, Ned …’
‘I am glad you are afraid, too. I thought it was just me. There’s no need for you to be afraid here at Slepe.’ Almost he was jealous of his fear, unwilling to share it.
‘We are all afraid. We wouldn’t be human else.’
‘Sure you won’t leave me?’
‘I promised.’
Ned sighed, turning towards her: ‘I can hear those fucking cats scratching at the door. Shall I let them in?’
‘Yes, please, Ned.’
He got heavily out of bed, crossed the room and opened the door: ‘Come in, you little bastards.’ He closed the door on the feline entry and got back in bed, bringing with him a cold draught. He lay holding her hand.
‘What started all this bad language, Ned? It’s not you.’
‘What is me? What am I? Everyone swears, with the men every other word is fuck or bloody, it’s catching.’
‘Like my cold.’
Ned laughed. ‘Everyone …’
‘They are afraid, too. They have the horrors, too.’
‘Glad, glad to hear it.’ Ned fell asleep breathing deeply, absorbed by his sleep. Rose listened wakeful to Ned’s breathing, felt the cats’ stealthy approach, the light leap onto the bed, the rhythmic treading of paws, the soft purr in kitten throats as they settled in the hollow between husband and wife.
Three days later at the end of his leave she went with Ned to London. He was cheerful, almost exuberant. They went to his tailor and ordered a new uniform, then on to Wiltons for lunch. They ate a dozen oysters each and Ned made a tasteless joke about the waste of the sexual effect now that they were to part. Rose was not hungry and watched him eat her brown bread and butter with his own and drink two pints of Guinness. She went with him in the taxi to Victoria and was still chatting from the draughty platform when the guard blew his whistle. She tiptoed up and kissed him goodbye. The train drew out. She waved until it was out of sight.
There had been no further mention of Ned’s horrors. She felt extremely ill.
She crossed to Paddington in a taxi and caught the afternoon train home.
When Mrs Farthing sent for the doctor he came two days later; he was rushed off his feet, both his partners had joined up. He took Rose’s temperature and listened to her chest.
‘You’ve got bronchial pneumonia; I fear there is no available bed in the hospital.’
Rose croaked that she was glad to hear it, she would rather die in her own bed in her own good time. The doctor turned the cats out of the room. Rose crawled to the door to let them in again while Mrs Farthing saw the doctor out. When Mrs Farthing came back with a fresh hot-water bottle and a hot honey drink she raised her eyebrows. ‘What you want is for Farthing to make a hole in the door, then they can come and go as they please. Won’t make a mite of difference to the draughts.’
‘Thanks,’ Rose whispered.
‘Farthing’s taking the bishop’s car to fetch you your medicine.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What you need in here is a nice fire going.’
‘Lovely …’
During the days that followed Rose listened as she fought for breath to the radio announcer describing the retreat from Norway and was glad good kind Ned was not there. Once she woke in the night screaming that Mylo was drowning in a cold fiord. She put on the light and keeping her eyes on the Bonnard lithograph knew that he had sent it even though he sent no word. She decided that as she was so near death, she must do something about it. She made up her mind to think positively about life after pneumonia; it was just possible it would be worth living.
When the train pulled out of Victoria Ned pulled up the window and straightened his back, cricked from the drawn-out farewell to Rose. It was amazing how plain a head cold could make a girl look. He undid a couple of uniform buttons, sat back and shook out his evening paper. By some fluke he seemed to have the carriage to himself. He felt very well after his lunch of oysters and wished retrospectively that he had taken more advantage of his marital rights while on leave. It had been irritating of Rose to have such an awful cold.
When the door from the corridor slid open and a girl backed in Ned put down his paper and stared. She was adjusting a notice on the glass door which said ‘Reserved’. She stepped over his legs and stuck a similar notice on the window beside him.
‘Hullo, Ned,’ said Emily.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you. Travelling to Dover. My job is peripatetic.’
‘Where did you get those notices?’
‘We had an uncle on the board of GWR, Nicholas pinched them when he showed us behind the scenes at Paddington. We find them jolly useful in wartime.’ Emily now pulled down the blinds on the corridor side of the carriage.
‘What are you doing that for?’
‘The blackout.’
‘It’s still daylight.’
‘I thought it would be nice for us to be private.’ Emily looked as alert as a blackbird listening for a worm. ‘Ghastly cold poor old Rose has got, hope you haven’t caught it. I was watching you from along the train.’
‘You are not really going to Dover to work.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘You followed me.’
‘Flattered?’
‘Why did you?’
‘Ask a silly question,’ said Emily pertly. ‘I thought it would be nice for us.’
‘Oh.’ Ned edged away as Emily settled on the seat beside him.
The train rocked over some points, gathering speed. Emily edged back closer.
‘I’m a married man,’ said Ned stiffly.
‘So you are,’ Emily agreed.
‘I’m in love with my wife, she’s very much in love with me.’
‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’
Ned raised an angry hand.
‘No need to hit me.’ Emily let her hand rest in Ned’s lap. ‘What have we here?’
‘Emily, do behave.’ Ned began to laugh.
‘Why don’t we behave as we feel. Why don’t we have an enjoyable journey, fill in the time usefully?’
‘In a train? One can’t …’
‘There’s precious little one can’t do in a train.’
‘Emily. No.’
‘Come on, Ned—by the way, what made you hit
me like that the other day? You hurt me.’
‘I meant to. I hurt my hand. What are you doing, Emily?’
‘Unbuttoning your flies. Oh, look!’
‘Where d’you learn all this?’ asked Ned presently.
‘Never you mind.’
‘I’m sure this position is a sexual deviation.’
‘Suitable for trains.’
‘Really, Emily, I …’
‘If your boat to France gets delayed by mines in the Channel, we could put up for the night in that lovely hotel. Last time Nicholas and I were there we stuffed ourselves with oysters. Isn’t it marvellous, they aren’t rationed?’
‘Rose and I had oysters for lunch.’
‘Rather wasted on Rose. Will she be faithful to you?’
‘Of course she will.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course. We’re married. She promised.’
‘And men are different?’
‘Men—well, yes—men have different habits.’
‘In that case …’
‘I warn you, Emily, I shan’t let you become a habit,’ said Ned firmly.
‘Who suggested such a thing? What a silly idea,’ said Emily, putting on lipstick, powdering her nose, combing her hair. ‘I’m not a habit. Not me. I’m a pastime.’
‘A passing fancy,’ said Ned hopefully.
‘Possibly.’ Emily licked her finger and smoothed her eyebrows, peering at her reflection in the looking glass above the seat.
Ned patted her behind as she adjusted her skirt. ‘Perhaps there will be mines in the Channel,’ he suggested.
But Emily had found the journey to be just the right length. ‘I have to meet a chap from the Min of Ag,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ She kissed Ned lightly. ‘Goodbye, Ned. Thanks a lot. I really do have a job,’ she said, ‘he’s one of the loonies who want to plough up the South Downs, but you try the hotel if you are delayed.’ She slipped out of the train as it drew into the station and ran towards the exit.
Ned wondered as he took his luggage down from the rack and struggled into his greatcoat why he tolerated Emily’s behaviour, why he found her wantonness amusing. Thank God, he thought, there’s nothing like that in Rose and smiled as he summoned a porter at the recollection of Rose’s red and swollen nose. A bad cold is better than any chastity belt, he thought, following the porter along the platform and, pleased by his wit (could he call it an epigram?), decided to store it and air it in one of the conversations which tended to arise on guest nights in the mess.
The crossing to France was cold and rough. Ned sheltered from the wind in the lee of a funnel, preferring to stay on deck wrapped in a sense of well being. He thought fondly of Rose. As he passed through Paris there might be time to buy her some decent scent. (Emily had smelt rather nice.) As Uncle Archie had predicted, an inexperienced bride was what was needed; he was grateful to the old rascal. My marriage is working out well, he thought, remembering Rose with more tenderness than he had felt when he was with her. He slept in the train to Paris, huddled in a crowded carriage, and woke feeling calm. Somehow his leave had kitted him out for the war. He forgot the terrors he had confided in Rose and congratulated himself on the episode with Emily, thinking that he had handled her rather well. It did not occur to him that he owed his new confidence to one or other or both girls; he was too nice a man to go in for much soul-searching.
20
GEORGE MALONE, SENT BY his mother to invite Rose over for the weekend, was horrified to find her so ill.
‘Lord, Rose, you do look a dying duck!’
Rose wheezed, coughed, struggled to hitch herself higher on her pillows, flopped back fumbling for her handkerchief, her mouth full of phlegm.
‘Here, wait …’ George bent, heaved her up, piling and patting the pillows behind her. ‘That better?’
Rose spat into her handkerchief, nodded. Her face, George noted, was grey, translucent. ‘Who is looking after you?’
‘Mrs Farthing.’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
‘What about your mother?’
‘Sent a message—can’t—Father’s ill, too.’
‘That old chestnut!’ George had heard of Mr Freeling’s poor health for years and was disinclined to believe in it. His father had often remarked, Whenever Freeling has something he wants to do, especially if there is money in it, he becomes quite well. ‘We’ve all heard that one.’ He pulled up a chair, took Rose’s hand and rubbed it between both of his. ‘What does your doctor say?’
‘Bronchial pneumonia,’ whispered Rose and was off again, coughing, wheezing, fighting for breath.
‘You should be in hospital.’ George was alarmed.
‘No. Hate them …’
‘Surely it would be …’
‘No, bossed about …’
‘True.’ George looked around the room. ‘Are you warm enough?’
‘Yes.’ Rose lay with her eyes closed. ‘Cats, hot-water bottles …’ she smiled, ‘wouldn’t be allowed in hospital.’
‘They would not.’ George’s eyes, getting used to the lumps and bumps in the bed, noted the cats staring across Rose’s body with a mixture of apprehension and insolence. ‘The passages in this house are like a morgue,’ he said. ‘Let me make up your fire.’
‘Thanks,’ she said croakily.
George poked the fire, laid on fresh coal and logs, watched it flame up. ‘I’ll just go and see Mrs Farthing.’
‘They are not well either.’
Finding Mrs Farthing in her cottage, George said angrily, ‘Mrs Peel is bloody ill.’
‘No need to swear. Farthing is ill too and so are the children, I’m doing all I can.’
‘She shouldn’t be alone in that cold house.’
‘Listen,’ said Mrs Farthing aggressively, ‘to that.’ She pointed to the ceiling and George listening heard a coughing chorus. ‘Can’t cut myself in two,’ said Mrs Farthing. ‘Her mother won’t come, she doesn’t like her anyway. Doctor says it’s an epidemic and the last bed in the hospital is gone. She wouldn’t go, said she was waiting for a telephone call. I could have sent Farthing or one of the little girls.’
‘From Ned?’ George was not interested in the little girls.
‘Didn’t say. Don’t think so. She won’t let me tell him.’
‘I heard on the radio this morning that all leave is stopped; he’d only be worried sick,’ said George. ‘They must be expecting some movement over there. A push, perhaps.’
‘Huh,’ said Mrs Farthing, ‘might do him good to worry.’
George let this pass. ‘What does the doctor say?’
‘Keep her warm. Give her her medicine, lots of liquids and hope for the best.’
‘And your husband? The children?’
‘Same thing, but it’s only flu; she’s got pneumonia.’
Mrs Farthing, George realised, was near exhaustion. ‘I’m sorry I was so abrupt,’ he said. ‘What about you? You don’t look good.’ Upstairs one of the children began to cry. ‘Would it help if I stayed?’ he asked. ‘I can keep the fires going, give her hot drinks. I’ll telephone my mother.’
‘You could, I suppose,’ Mrs Farthing admitted. ‘If the fire was lit in the hall, it would warm the house a bit and there’s the Aga in the kitchen.’ She sounded more grudging than grateful. ‘It’s worrying when she’s delirious.’
‘Delirious?’
‘Looks so, keeps saying, “I should have been more tender” over and over.’
‘I’ll go and telephone my mother.’
Back in the house George built up the Aga, lit the fires in the hall and in the library, went back to Rose’s room and stood watching as she slept. She looked awful, he thought, remembering her cheerful and pretty. She was not pretty now.
He telephoned his mother.
‘Oh dear! Your leave. Never mind, it can’t be helped. I’m waiting for Richard to arrive, then we’ll come over and take it in turns.’
‘I can manage.’
‘Don’t be silly. Did you say th
e girl’s mother won’t come? Really, that woman! All she wanted was to get Rose off her hands—I’m sure her husband is not ill—well, we had better be neighbourly. I wonder whether the Thornbys would help. They live much nearer. No,’ she answered herself, ‘much too selfish.’
Too ill to notice what was going on, it was days before Rose realised that the Malones had come en bloc to care for her. Edith sent Mrs Farthing away to care for her own family, dealt with the doctor, miraculously organised warmth in the house and nursed Rose, bashing up her pillows, blanket-bathing her, overseeing the intake of medicaments while her husband and sons answered the telephone, ran errands and stoked the fires. Since it was Richard’s leave and George was expecting to be sent abroad, the Malones kept together, the anxiety of war giving the family even greater unity than usual.
Edith allowed herself a number of uncharitable criticisms when she thought of Rose’s neglectful parents. If I was her mother, she thought, or if I was her mother-in-law, and she looked reproachfully at her bachelor sons, blaming them. Slow in the uptake, slow off the mark, she thought.
After four days the doctor pronounced Rose out of danger. The elder Malones withdrew with Richard, who was due in Plymouth to join his ship. George was left to fetch, carry and tempt Rose to eat.
George sat with Rose and read aloud passages of War and Peace. While she lay ill, one of the telephone calls had been for him; he was posted to Moscow; must leave in two weeks. ‘One should know something of their literature …’
‘Do you speak Russian?’ Her voice was gaining strength.
‘Only French. My French is pretty good. You will not remember, but I had a French tutor.’
‘Did he telephone?’ She raised herself on the pillows.
‘The tutor? Why should he? Oh, you mean Ned. No, he didn’t. Too busy, I expect. If one can believe the news, things are on the move over there or will be soon.’
No telephone. ‘Send me an Astrakhan hat.’ Her voice drooped.
‘I’ll try.’
‘There’s the telephone!’ She struggled to sit up, to get out of bed.
‘Lie still,’ he pushed her back, ‘I’ll answer it.’ George left the room.
Rose listened, straining her ears. ‘Who was it?’
