Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  With the 2nd Mate in tow, the doctor returned, giving Stephen to understand that in his opinion all the officers were suffering from some degree of shock and exhaustion, and should by rights be taken off the ship. Only one, however, had agreed to go.

  ‘Well,’ Stephen explained, ‘as we don’t have any electricity to speak of, we can manage without our electrician... which he is well aware of. Everybody else is essential.’

  ‘I see.’ He glanced round like a prince finding himself in the unfortunate surroundings of a labour camp. Then he smiled. ‘Well, Captain, I must go. I wish you good luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As soon as he was away, Stephen went outside, fighting dizziness and nausea on his way to the bridge-wing. The pilot boat was still alongside, the crew hanging hopefully over the fo’c’sle. One of the fire-fighting tugs had stopped its hoses and was coming in. The VHF crackled, the tug master asking permission to put a crew aboard. Stephen acknowledged and agreed, passed on instructions to the 3rd Mate, and watched the half-dozen men scramble up the ship’s side.

  Within half an hour the fire was reported to be under control; with that news Stephen felt able to breathe easier, able to give a constructive report to his ship-manager in London. He raised Fujairah and requested a call to be put through; it took some time, but eventually he had Jack Porteous’s sleepy voice over the static on the line.

  ‘Jack, it’s Stephen Elliott – on the Damaris. Sorry to wake you, but we’re in an emergency situation...’ From sleepy, Jack Porteous was businesslike at once. Reassured, Stephen went on to report events in brief.

  ‘I’m getting good reports from the fire-fighting team, so once it’s out I’ll need a tow to a repair yard. I think Dubai – that’s nearest. Also I’ll need to appoint agents in Fujairah to deal with the injured and the crew...’

  ‘OK – go ahead. I’ll do the necessary at this end – I’ll get in touch with next-of-kin myself, and get your engineer superintendent on the first available flight. Do you need any reliefs at this stage?’

  ‘No, we’ll get her to the repair yard ourselves – we can talk about reliefs later.’

  ‘What about you, Steve? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m OK now, but I’ve got things to attend to, Jack. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Or I’ll call you. The media are bound to get onto this... can you cope?’

  ‘As long as they don’t want to come aboard.’

  ‘If they get too pressing, just refer them to us.’

  ‘OK, will do.’

  It was not until a representative of ITN news called him up that Stephen gave a thought to his own next-of-kin. While he demanded assurances that names and ranks of casualties would not be used without contacting the shipping company first, he suddenly remembered his sister Pamela, and prayed she would have the sense to phone Joan before the news hit television and radio broadcasts. And that Joan would be able to contact Zoe...

  Thirty-two

  For some time, Zoe had not been sleeping well, but she woke that night with the impression that someone or something had disturbed her. Instantly alert, for a moment her eyes scanned the darkness while she listened for unaccustomed sounds. Nothing, not even a disturbance of the air, and yet her heart was hammering against her breast, every muscle tensed as though for flight.

  She glanced at the clock, its small, illuminated hands pointing to half-past three. Not even light yet. Swallowing hard, she slipped out of bed, dragged on a light cotton housecoat and tiptoed through the tiny lobby to her sitting-room. The blinds were up and she saw at once that nothing had been disturbed. The kitchen was empty. More confident now, but still anxious, she opened the door to the staircase and crept out onto the landing. Listening, looking up the stairs and down, she waited a couple of minutes until a sudden shiver drove her back inside. With her door locked again and bolted, Zoe went back into the kitchen to make some coffee.

  The hot drink restored her nerve, yet anxiety lurked, indefinably, at the edge of her mind. Eventually, she came to the conclusion that she must have been dreaming; something disturbing but elusive, disappearing from consciousness at the moment of waking. The trouble was that she was now too alert to sleep. She picked up a novel, but it was too bland to hold her attention; in the end it seemed a better idea to utilize the time by working. If nothing else, work could always absorb her concentration.

  With no more than a quick wash, she dragged a brush through her hair, fastened it back, and pulled on an old pair of jeans and a paint-stained khaki shirt. She switched on the angle-poise lamps above her work-table and studied the piece of work in progress. From a large sheet of fine paper colours glowed, rich dark reds and blues, muted greys and greens in a stylized pattern of leaves and branches against the carved stone of an ancient monument. Tendrils of ivy curled round the page and into the picture, while the climbing stem of a velvety, blood-red rose wound sinuously over the stone, its petals littering the grass. In the distance, between the leaves, was a glimpse of open meadow bisected by a path.

  The illustration had been inspired, in part, by that visit to the old cemetery in York. It was one reason why she had chosen that particular verse as one of the six she was commissioned to paint. The other was that the lines reminded her so strongly of Liam and those sleepy villages in Picardy that he had described so evocatively in his letters: roses running wild over ruined walls, and a long white ribbon of Roman road...

  I sometimes think that never blows so red

  The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled.

  Did Liam know those lines from Edward Fitzgerald? Remembering that Victorian edition in the trunk of books at Stephen’s flat, Zoe thought he must have done. And therein lay another coincidence, that out of this new, illustrated series of major Victorian poets, Zoe should have been commissioned to work on the Rubaiyat.

  When first approached by the publishers, she had remembered that slender volume and been tempted to suggest that they produce, instead, a facsimile edition. Economics sealed her tongue, however; that and a burning desire to work on such a sumptuous project. But although she had seen that old book only once, Zoe had coveted it, impressing the illustrations on her mind.

  They were hard to forget, so she used the memory as inspiration, deliberately choosing different verses to illustrate. And anyway, it was difficult to be truly original; the brief was that it should look Victorian, which meant following the symbolism so beloved of the age.

  Eminently quotable though it was, the Rubaiyat must have seemed anarchic to those brought up on duty and the principle of suffering being good for the soul. Zoe could find no merit in that idea, nor imagine anyone relishing agony against the promise of a place in heaven. Although by that yardstick, she felt the last three or four months should have earned some worthy spiritual reward.

  Even so, acceptance was not her strong point, and the worst part of those months had not been the loneliness, which she had thought she was used to, but the suspense of not knowing about Stephen. Not knowing from one minute to the next if he was safe; and not knowing what he felt about her.

  ‘If I thought you loved me...’ she often murmured aloud to his photograph, but there was no reply, not even from his letters, which had become as barren as the desert he described. Only the research kept her going, and the thought of Liam. Enthralled by his diary and letters, and even by the bureaucratic comments that comprised his army record, she sometimes felt his presence behind her, as though he were drawn by what she was reading. But she was no longer alarmed by that. Sometimes she even spoke to him, as though to a friend determined to play hide-and-seek; but he kept silence and never showed himself. She wondered whether her obsessions were getting out of hand.

  With this most recent commission it seemed that the tangled emotions of love and doubt and longing were at last finding a means of outlet. With feverish inspiration she had rapidly outlined ideas and sketches for a dozen illustrations. If death was present, there was life too, in vines and luscio
us grapes, in the brilliant reflection of sun from carved Moorish arches, and in the shadowed figures seated beneath exotic, floral bowers.

  The hard work came in translating those rough colour sketches to the formal, intricate patterns demanded by the style of the period, which in itself was allied to medieval forms. Zoe was attempting to inject these forms with a suggestion of Byzantine opulence. She thought of Istanbul and wished she could have visited with Stephen; instead she had to make do with books from the London Library.

  While freshness lasted and her hands were steady, Zoe applied colour in small sections to the first of her chosen pieces. It was detailed, painstaking work that required absolute concentration. The most she could do was a couple of hours; after that, fatigue set in and the hand started to wander. Usually she took a break then, continuing for a while with trial pieces, working out patterns to be used later, or experimenting with colours. This morning, however, after two hours Zoe had had enough.

  Tired, shaky from tension and too little sleep, she made some coffee and tried to relax. For a while she considered going back to bed, but the sun was up and it promised to be a beautiful day.

  Suddenly, Wandsworth sprang to mind. For some time Zoe had been trying to arrange a suitable day to go there with Polly, but her friend had been inundated with work and was now on holiday. Although it had been vaguely agreed that they would go when she got back, today was as good a day as any, and there was no reason why she should not go alone.

  The decision cheered her considerably. A hot shower banished the gloom and a hearty breakfast put strength into her sense of purpose. With her hair freshly washed and wearing her favourite summer dress, she set off to join the morning rush-hour crowds.

  After making enquiries about the former hospital at Wandsworth, Zoe had been eager to see the place where Liam had spent almost four months of the war. Thinking about the damage done during the London Blitz, it seemed incredible that the place had survived. Not just undamaged, but recently renovated after years of dereliction.

  Desirable flats and craft studios had been created from the old orphanage and school, together with a bistro restaurant. For weeks she had been promising herself lunch there, finding it astonishing that after decades in which the place must have been forbidden territory, the presence of a restaurant now gave any member of the public legitimate entry. If that was coincidence again, then it was fortunate indeed; and if it should be more than mere coincidence, she thought, then somebody’s sense of timing was impeccable.

  Just beyond the station she left the bus to walk down Windmill Road. Here, everything opened out, with pretty Victorian houses facing the tree-lined Common, and the black tower of an ancient windmill over to the left. Children were playing on the grass, women pushing prams and walking dogs; an old gentleman out enjoying the sun raised his panama hat as she passed by, and Zoe was aware of a sense of timelessness, as though in outward terms at least, nothing here had changed very much. That, she acknowledged, was an odd feeling in London, where things seemed to be changing all the time.

  Her first sight of the building was partially obscured by trees; needing a clearer view, she walked across the grass to a point where she could see it properly, a huge place standing in solitary grandeur, like a castle, overlooking the Common. Honey-coloured stone and brick, raised in a mid-Victorian gothic so restrained it might have been genuinely medieval, with turrets and towers, pointed arches, ornate windows, all perfectly balanced and restored.

  Photographs seen at the library portrayed a huge black building, stark and grim. Seeing it now, looking as it must have looked when first built, Zoe sent up a silent message of thanks for whichever council or entrepreneur had paid for the restoration. May you thrive and prosper, she thought, making her way back to the road.

  The sight of two hideous 1960s accommodation blocks, just inside the gate, halted her for a moment. Glaring at them as though they had absolutely no right to be there, she wished upon them concrete fatigue and a rapid, crumbling death.

  But one step beyond, all such considerations fled. A tingling thrill from scalp to fingertips, possessed her, banishing thought, defying logic, filling her with unexpected and unlooked-for joy. It took her so completely by surprise that she wanted to laugh, to say, hang on a minute, let me get my bearings, but her unseen companion was laughing, impatient, bearing her up as he swept her along.

  It was like arriving at a party and being swept immediately into the dance by an exuberant admirer; and she knew him this time, she was no longer afraid.

  And he was aware of that, drawing her with him as though he simply could not wait to show her this place. For a moment he allowed her to pause before the main entrance, but even while her eyes took in a wealth of architectural detail, that external sense of delight remained.

  In a niche above the doorway was a carving of St George and the dragon, no doubt as black as the building when Liam was here. ‘Especially with the railway so close,’ she murmured, ‘and all the soot and smoke. It must have been forbidding then, especially in the last quarter of the year...’

  But it was impossible to feel that now. She thought of all the orphans who had passed through those portals; she pictured the sick and wounded who had been Liam’s companions here, but there was no sense of sadness. She felt light and happy, full of astonishment and wonder as she toured the precincts, remarking softly on the chapel which stood at the far side, knowing from the diary that Liam had sometimes worshipped there. For a little while she stood in a sheltered alcove, every instinct telling her that there had once been a seat here, where Liam had regularly spent part of the afternoon.

  All the while he was touching her face and hands with that gentle, tingling caress, invading her heart and mind with joy; and then he led her on, through a rear courtyard and a low doorway. Zoe saw directions to a craft studio, but she ignored them, following her guide down a stone-flagged passage and into a half-glazed walkway bordering a quadrangle. A vaulted ceiling and cast-iron pillars gave it the look of a cloister; at the corner, hesitating for the first time, she had the feeling he was about to leave her.

  She wanted to say, don’t go, but even as the words formed, she saw him quite distinctly, in uniform, his hat tipped at a rakish angle, striding towards her with a smile of love and triumph, as though he was saying: Look, just see what I can do when I really try...

  She gasped in astonishment. He looked so real, so physically solid, so full of warm vitality that her heart leapt with the urge to run to him, to be swept up in his embrace. Rooted to the spot, all she could do was gaze at that happy, purposeful approach.

  He was almost within reach when he disappeared. Staring at the empty corridor, for a second Zoe was stunned; then her spine was tingling, the fine hairs on her arms and at the nape of her neck stirring as at a physical caress. She wanted, desperately, to reach out and hold him; half-turned, arms raised, before realizing its futility. He was with her and he was touching her, but he was no longer flesh and blood; she could not clasp him to her breast the way she longed to do, and he could show love only by bringing with him this sense of joy.

  Suddenly, her eyes were wet. It was too much. So brief, so elusive, as fleeting as a dream and just as insubstantial.

  Breathing deeply, she leaned against an open window, looking out on the courtyard and trying to contain her emotion.

  Why me? What was this about? Had she lived before as Georgina Duncannon? But a firm, no, came into her mind at that, and Zoe was left with the impression that she was loved for herself. She tried framing other questions, but no answers came. She felt the waning of Liam’s presence then, as though the power he had summoned to be with her was now beyond his control to retain. She sensed regret, and a final, lingering touch on her cheek; and then he was gone, taking with him every anxiety, every petty frustration. A feeling of well-being remained, of calm and peace and absolute contentment. He was alive. What else mattered?

  A fine lunch was set before her in the bistro, but even after a second
stroll in the grounds – this time alone – Zoe’s appetite was lacking.

  As the other diners left, she spent some time chatting to the owner, whose passion for the old building led him to air his knowledge of its history. While he cleared away, he suggested she might like to wander round the mezzanine restaurant, where he displayed his collection of prints and photographs of the hospital era. Zoe found it strange, viewing those pictures of coy nurses and grinning soldiers, knowing that Liam had been here then, and that she had just seen him walking towards her in the corridor.

  Half-tempted to ask whether the place was haunted, she desisted, knowing that it was unimportant to her. Liam was not a ghost imprisoned by place or a moment in time; he had simply chosen that moment to show himself, to share with her the joy he felt at her visit. At least, that was how it had seemed. Instinct said that he had been happy there, away from the war, and with thoughts of Georgina to counter his bleakest days.

  And if Georgina had given him solace when it was most needed, then Liam in his turn had brought ease and comfort to Zoe at a time when misery and chill depression had threatened to swamp her completely. She was immensely grateful for that. It seemed to her that even if Stephen had ceased to care, Liam had not. Perhaps he had always been there, on the edge of her awareness. She began to think that he had wanted her to find him again, and that the interest in the Elliott family had been in some way instigated by Liam, not Tisha, as first appeared.

  But why? There seemed no rhyme or reason to it. It was extraordinary, and she knew her experience of him that morning was something she would never forget. That sense of peace, afterwards, was still with her. It was as though he were trying to tell her that everything would be all right...

  The telephone was ringing as she struggled to unlock her door, but just as she dashed across the room to answer it, it stopped. Trying to think who her caller might have been, she looked at her watch. Almost five-thirty. She stood for a moment wondering, then shrugged and went to make herself some coffee, returning to the sitting room for the early evening news.