Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  It was not a comfortable awareness, and one he tried to ignore, pushing it to the back of his mind against the day when he would have to act on it. What he could not ignore were his feelings towards Georgina.

  In the beginning it had not been a problem; his relief at being safe, having the joy of her company at regular intervals, amounted almost to euphoria. For long enough that sense of heightened well-being carried him along; and while ever they met within the rarefied atmosphere of hospital and grounds, it was sustained. But they had begun to go out; once or twice up to town for the afternoon, seeing the sights of London from the open-topped deck of a bus. Amidst the bustling, workaday world he was aware of wanting to behave like any other young man with his sweetheart, drawing her arm through his, kissing her cheek as they said goodbye. Or, like the soldier and his girl spied in a shadow of trees at twilight, indulging in a long, passionate embrace.

  It was becoming a struggle to remember his obligations, a constant battle to quell the physical desire which seemed to be increasing in direct proportion to his good health.

  His twenty-second birthday fell at the end of the first week in October. Georgina had endeavoured to organize her three days’ leave to coincide with it; and also to borrow her father’s motor car, a dark green, open-topped Ford. Despite his reservations about that, as the weather promised to be good, Liam knew it would have been churlish to refuse. Once he had recovered from the unease of sitting in Robert Duncannon’s car, he began to enjoy the sensation of speed and freedom; and to admire the way Georgina handled such a complicated piece of machinery.

  Pink spots of colour enlivened her cheeks, the chiffon scarf which anchored her hat blowing back, gaily, in the breeze. A light dust-coat covered her clothes but her skirt beneath it was a shade of old rose, echoed and deepened in the colours of her swathed velvet hat. He thought she looked not just beautiful – she was always that – but extraordinarily pretty. The impression was reinforced when they reached their destination.

  Removing the dustcoat and scarf, she left both in the car and turned, a little flirtatiously, he thought, to ask what he thought of her new outfit. The plum velvet jacket, with its deep revers and high waist, was flattering, while the skirt ended several inches above a pair of very pretty ankles. He thought she looked wonderful and said so, but he had to swallow hard first.

  In the golden shades of early autumn, Hampton Court was a delight, old stone and brick lending a mellow grandeur to the day, a sense of timelessness, as though nothing in life could be too tragic, when something so lovely had withstood it all. They wandered through the grounds and talked about Cardinal Wolsey, the man who had built this great palace and been forced to give it up to a jealous king; and they took a boat on the river, and talked about Bishopthorpe, Wolsey’s other palace outside York. While Liam rowed, Georgina was full of reminiscences, asking did he remember this and that; and particularly the afternoon he had taken her across the river to the fair on St George’s Field. He did remember, he remembered everything exceedingly well; but even as he smiled and nodded, his heart was breaking for the loss of innocence. He had loved her then with a boy’s romantic adoration; he adored her still, but he wanted her too, and that was hard to bear.

  At Bishopthorpe, looking up at that great palace from the river, he had discovered that Georgina was to be forever denied him; at Bishopthorpe, on that lovely late summer afternoon, he had come face to face with the truth.

  Those memories coloured everything, lent the afternoon a sad, ironic air and spoiled his enjoyment. He was glad to leave, to get back in the car and be driven on. They went on to Richmond and walked in the park, and the sun was still shining through a faint autumn haze. Liam knew that he should have been happy, but everything that afternoon was tinged with a sense of loss.

  Aware of his sadness, although not, he was sure, understanding it, Georgina strolled beside him, remarking softly on the sights and sounds and smells of autumn. He was conscious of her perfume, roses, overlaying the scent of dying leaves, and he listened to the sounds their feet made, rustling through golden carpets beneath the trees. She looked soft and warm in her velvet, in those dusky, muted colours that somehow blended with the falling afternoon. He wanted so much to touch that softness, to draw her close and taste the sweetness of her lips, that he dare not even brush her hand.

  Back at the car he held the door for her but did not offer to help her in. Drawing the dustcoat round her knees, she glanced up, enquiring tentatively whether anything was wrong, whether she had said something to upset him. Liam shook his head, wretchedly unable to explain.

  ‘I’m just a bit tired,’ was all he could say.

  The afternoon was deepening to dusk as they drove back, and there was no time to stop elsewhere. Outside the hospital gates, while he sat for a moment unspeaking, reluctant to leave her, she reached into her bag, drawing out a small slim package.

  ‘I intended to give you this over tea,’ she said in that soft, low voice of hers, ‘but we ran out of time. It’s nothing really – just a small gift to mark your birthday. I wish you could have had it last year, for your twenty-first.’

  Mystified, saying with a little laugh that it was the first present he had been given in years, Liam opened the wrapping to find a beautifully chased silver cigarette case. Inside it was inscribed with his initials and the date. For a minute he could not even look at her. Turning it over and over in his hands, he felt crass for having spoiled a potentially perfect day; and with the date engraved he knew he would never forget it. And for what? All for the want of something he could not have. He felt selfish and ashamed.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he managed at last, ‘for the stupid mood I’ve been in today. You’ve given me so much, and I...’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Can you forgive me?’

  ‘For what?’ she asked lightly, smiling into his eyes. ‘It’s been a lovely day.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘it has. Thank you.’

  She was half-turned towards him, her mouth slightly parted in expectancy or puzzlement, he was not sure which. Wanting to express his feelings, wanting to make up for all those silent, brooding moments, he searched for words and found none. With his heart pounding crazily, he leaned across and kissed her very gently on the lips. There was a soft, momentary response, one that made it hard to draw away; with his blood on fire, he forced himself not to kiss her again.

  It seemed to take an eternity to move. He would have liked to step out of the car, to utter a casual farewell, but he was trembling quite badly and his breath seemed to be stuck somewhere deep in his chest. Watching her face, her eyes, he thought he saw surprise mingled with both pleasure and confusion before she turned away. With her hands on the steering wheel and colour heightening her cheeks, she murmured something, breathlessly, about it being rather late.

  Taking his cue from her, Liam said yes, it was, and he really must go. A voice he hardly recognized as his own, added that he hoped to see her again soon, and that he would drop her a line tomorrow.

  The next morning, still enthralled by an inner vision of lustrous eyes and lips, Liam began a letter to Georgina which was full of warm recollections. With gentle self-parody he described pausing on the drive before going in, and the fact that his hands were so unsteady it had taken three matches to light one cigarette.

  Musing for a moment, picturing himself, Liam smiled, and as one of the young nurses passed by with a pile of linen, she grinned at him. It was the one who had scrubbed his back that first day, and she it was who had seen him come in last evening, hissing in an undertone that he should wipe the silly smile off his face before Sister wondered what he had been up to.

  She knew, or had a good idea, what had taken place; but oh, God, he thought in the next second, if she really knew, she wouldn’t smile.

  Sobered, he turned back to his letter, and all the silly, romantic, lover-like things he had said and still wanted to say, about the softness of her lips and not sleeping a wink, were suddenly inappropriate. Aware
of his own foolishness, he tore the page into shreds and stared, moodily, from the window. That kiss must never be mentioned, not even in apology. If he wished it to remain the casual, friendly, brotherly gesture it might have seemed, then it must be allowed to pass unremarked. He knew full well, however, that brotherly or not, it could never be repeated.

  In a fresh beginning after lunch, Liam confined himself to safer topics, to repeated thanks for a lovely day out, and most especially for a gift he would always treasure. His words were sincere but dreadfully bland. Her reply, when it came by return of post, was almost equally so.

  Part of him – the sensible, practical part – was considerably relieved by that, but the lover in him was frustrated. Over the next few days, longing to be with her again, he was plagued by subtle torments. What did she think to that kiss? How did she feel? How would he feel when next he saw her, tantalized by closeness, by her perfume and the temptation of her smile? How could he look at her, yet refrain from touching the perfection of her cheek, the softness of her smooth blonde hair? Turbulent emotion gripped him whenever he recalled that parting kiss and the way that she had looked at him afterwards. His dreams were full of unsatisfied desire.

  It was more than two weeks before he saw her again. One visit had to be postponed owing to pressure of work, and anyway he was laid low by a couple of anti-dysentery injections and would not have seen her even if he could. On her next afternoon off, the day that he was looking forward to taking her up to town, all passes were cancelled. The entire hospital seethed with resentment, and Liam was furious.

  Meeting her at the gates, amongst an indignant, vociferous crowd, there was little opportunity for awkwardness. To clear a path it was necessary to keep her close to his side: but in holding her he also wanted to caress her, and that made him angrier still. Curtly, in answer to her query, Liam related the reason for the ban: two men had gone out for an afternoon and neglected to return for three days. To his further annoyance, the tale seemed to amuse her.

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Oh, nowhere in particular – just on a bender in town. Got so roaring drunk they couldn’t remember where they were – or even who they were!’

  With a mischievous smile, she said: ‘They’ll be for it!’

  ‘We all are,’ he responded grimly, ‘confined to barracks for the rest of the week. As if that will deter anybody! The ones that are ready to go convalescent can’t wait to get out of here.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘I’m starting to feel like that myself. In fact I asked about home leave the other day, but it doesn’t seem likely until I’m clear. It’s ridiculous, I feel fine.’

  ‘Don’t rush things,’ she said gently, ‘it’ll take its course.’

  ‘Yes, but when you start straining at the leash, you know you’re getting better.’

  Because he was also thinking of other restraints, the words came out sharply, and Georgina’s smile froze.

  He saw the pain he had caused before she glanced away, and could have bitten his tongue. Instantly contrite, he quickly changed the subject. But Liam knew as well as she did that once declared fit he would be moved away from London. Their time together would be over.

  When she had gone Liam was left with a bitter taste of regret. With the matter of home leave still on his mind, he was torn between a desire to spend as long as possible within reach of Georgina, and an increasing anxiety about Edward. Although letters from York continued to be reassuring, he had the feeling that time was running out, that he should make every effort to get to York, if only for a couple of days.

  The arrival of a new medical officer prompted him to ask again. There was sympathy when he explained why, but the doctor said that further tests would have to be taken before a decision could be made. Another specimen was sent down to the laboratory, and, two days later, on accosting the Sister, Liam was told dryly that the officer in charge of the lab wanted to know whether the patient was still in bed, as evidence of colitis was still present. Although she made no further comment, her expression said quite clearly that if he wanted to retain his current degree of freedom, he must press no further.

  Downcast and frustrated, Liam kept the news to himself. Gloomy weather did nothing to lighten his spirits, and his letters to Georgina reflected this. She wrote to suggest a trip to the theatre on her next day off, but the idea was less appealing than it might have been.

  Concert parties came to the hospital frequently, some good, most remarkable only for their enthusiasm; and sometimes organized trips went from Wandsworth to the Palladium at Stockwell, just up the road. Liam thought he had had enough of that brand of hearty cheer, but it seemed churlish to refuse. He arranged to meet Georgina in a teashop they had visited before just off Leicester Square.

  It was a miserable afternoon, cold with the rawness of winter. There was a leaden, yellowy cast to the sky, and someone said it might be foggy, later, so be sure to get back early; but Liam had no desire to cut short his afternoon. Waiting with his hat pulled down and the collar of his newly issued sheepskin jacket turned up to meet it, he felt chilled to the bone. Seeing the queue for tables, it seemed more prudent to wait inside. Just as one was being allocated, Georgina arrived, in brimmed hat and belted mackintosh, shivering as she joined him.

  He wanted to warm her against his heart; instead he ushered her to a chair and ordered some tea. The hot drink revived them both, and they stayed longer than they intended. The popular revue they meant to see was packed out when they arrived, people still waiting on the pavement. Dismayed, Georgina said she was too tired to walk, she wanted to sit down and relax. Liam glanced down at her then, and the pinched look he had attributed to the weather seemed more pronounced in that grey, unforgiving light.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, taking her arm, ‘we’ll go into the first empty theatre we find, and if you like, you can fall asleep on my shoulder!’

  She responded with a smile, but he thought she seemed distracted. He wondered if she was worrying about work, or about her father who was presently in Dublin.

  Within a few yards, he said: ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go home? You look to me as though you should be tucked up before a nice warm fire, not trailing about town like this.’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I’m fine, really I am. Just in need of a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Let me call you a cab…’

  ‘No, Liam – really.’ She tucked her arm in his and he felt the intimacy of the gesture like a warm glow. On a corner, a few yards down the street, was another little theatre, advertising yet another amusing variety performance. Georgina suggested going in there.

  The show had already started, but seats were available. Paying for two in the stalls, Liam sighed as they went in: the place was half-empty, which did not augur well for the quality of the performers.

  In a quiet aside, Georgina said her patients were funnier than the comedian; laughing, Liam claimed there were more talented jugglers amongst the nurses. But the audience, comprising mainly soldiers, was becoming restive. After half an hour, disturbed by some of the coarser cat-calls, Liam was about to suggest leaving, when a soubrette came on, rather fetchingly dressed in male attire.

  The British Tommy’s uniform, with its breast pockets and breeches and neatly-wound puttees, fitted her better, Liam thought, than any man. She was a neat, curvaceous girl with an angelic face, and as soon as she appeared the barracking died down, giving place to a series of whistles and hand-claps. When she started to sing, her voice silenced the house.

  It was a sweet, rich soprano, eminently suited to the series of sentimental ballads she had chosen to sing. ‘Home, Sweet Home!’ was followed by, ‘Roses Are Blooming in Picardy,’ so currently popular that the choruses were taken up by the audience; then, when the applause had died down, she began to sing Liam’s favourite, sections of which were so well-known to him that he was almost tempted to sing the words with her.

  ‘Far ahead, where the blue shadows fall,

  I shall come
to contentment and rest,

  And the toil of the day

  Will be all charmed away,

  In my little grey home in the west.

  ‘There are hands that will welcome me in,

  There are lips I am burning to kiss;

  There are two eyes that shine

  Just because they are mine,

  And a thousand things other men miss...’

  It seemed to express everything he felt for the woman at his side: that longing for the war to be over, a comforting fantasy that one day she might make a home for him, be there every evening when he returned...

  On a warm impulse, he reached for her hand, stealing a sidelong glance at her downcast eyes; she seemed as moved by those words as he was, her fingers clasping his in sudden emotion. His heart leapt in response, and he thought how long it had been, weeks in which he had tried, very hard, not to touch her at all. Except for that fleeting kiss and the warmth of her linked arm this afternoon, he had kept apart from her, and he wondered whether she knew how difficult it had been.

  Georgina’s hand, imprisoned for a moment, opened to his, palm to his palm, the fingers slowly – oh, so slowly – entwining with his. Wanting to lock her to him and never let go, Liam was suddenly conscious of his own strength, the breadth of hands thickened by constant use, and a fear of hurting her. Very gently, he drew her fingers through his in the most intimate caress, while her light, responding touch sent waves of rapture coursing through him, catching the breath in his throat, fusing love and desire so totally he was only marginally surprised by the sudden heat in his loins. The contact between them was so restrained yet so sensual, it seemed there were but two points in the whole universe, linked by a line of acute and exquisite pleasure; it was almost like making love. Or how he imagined it should be.