Ross regarded him gravely: ‘How long since you copped it, sir?’
Simon had lost count of time since he had been picked up at Gazala but he said: ‘About a month.’
‘You begin worrying when it’s five weeks.’
Ross went to his other patients and Simon, with nothing to do but worry, realized it must be all of four weeks since he and Crosbie ran into the booby trap. The Gazala dogfight had been in the middle of December and he had followed the advance not much later. Now it was January. Early January, but still January. Facing up to the passage of time, his desolation became despair.
The sister, paying her evening visit, came in cheerfully: ‘And how are we today?’ Meeting with silence, she asked: ‘What’s the matter? Girlfriend not turn up?’
He did not reply till her ministrations were ended, then he said: ‘Sister, if that young lady comes again, I don’t want to see her.’
‘You’d better tell her that yourself.’
‘Please close the curtains.’
The sister, who understood the change in him, pulled the curtains round three sides of his bed and left without saying anything more. On his fourth side there was a window without shutters. He had to tolerate the light but if he could, he would have blotted it out and closed himself into wretchedness as in a tomb.
Three
The Egyptian Mail confirmed the sinking of the Queen of Sparta but in its report there was reason for hope. A correspondent in Dar-es-Salaam had informed the paper that one life-boat, crowded with women and children, had got away. Its steering was faulty and it drifted for ten days before being sighted by fishermen who towed it into Delagoa Bay. By that time the children and some of the adults had died of thirst and exposure.
But not all. Not all. There had been survivors.
Edwina said earnestly to Guy: ‘I’m sure, I’m absolutely sure, that Harriet is alive.’
Guy became as sure as she was and his natural good-humour returned. His nagging fears and anxiety were displaced by the certainty that any day now Harriet would cable him from Dar-es-Salaam.
He said: ‘She’s a born survivor. After all she’s been through since war began, ten days in an open boat would mean nothing to her.’
Dobson agreed: ‘She looked frail but these frail girls are as tough as they come.’
Guy said, ‘Yes,’ before being caught in an accusing memory of why she had been persuaded on to the boat in the first place. But all that was past. When she returned to Cairo, neither he nor anyone else would talk her into going if she did not want to go.
Seeing Guy himself again, Edwina said: ‘Oh, Guy darling, do let’s have an evening out together!’
‘Perhaps, when I have some free time.’
‘Let’s go to the dinner-dance at the Continental-Savoy.’
‘Heavens, no.’ Guy was aghast at the suggestion. He said he would celebrate Harriet’s return, preferably when Harriet was safely back, but nothing would get him to the Continental-Savoy.
‘Oh!’ Edwina sighed sadly: ‘Didn’t you ever go dancing with Harriet?’
‘No, never.’
‘Poor Harriet!’
Not liking that, Guy left her and she set out for Helwan where she expected more cordial entertainment.
Certain of her welcome, she did not enquire for Simon at the office but went straight down the ward to where he lay, hidden behind curtains. Parting the curtains, she said, ‘Hello,’ but there was no reply. Simon gave her one glance, filled with a suffering that disturbed her, then turning away, pulled the cover over his face. She was perplexed by the change in him. He was no longer her ardent admirer but a shrunken figure that seemed to be sinking into a hole in the bed.
‘What is it, Simon?’ She bent over him, trying to rouse him: ‘Don’t you want to see me?’
His silence was answer enough. It occurred to him that his legs were not the only part of him that might never function again. He not only hid under his blanket but turned his face into the pillow. Standing beside him, she said several times: ‘Simon dear, do talk to me. Tell me what’s the matter.’
He at last mumbled, ‘Go away,’ and unable to bear the misery that hung over the gloomy little cubicle, she left him. At the other end of the ward, she went to the sister’s office and asked what had caused this dramatic change in Mr Boulderstone.
The sister said, ‘He’ll get over it. It happens to all of them. First, they’re up in the air, thankful to be alive, then they realize what being alive probably means. It’s not easy to accept that one may never walk again. Still, if he’s worth his salt, he’ll meet the challenge. Next time you come, I expect he’ll be trying to cheer you up.’
‘Cheer me up? But he told me he’d be out of here in no time.’
‘Even if he recovers — and I don’t say there isn’t still a chance — it’ll be a long haul before we get him on his feet again.’
The sister, a homely, vigorous, outspoken woman, gave Edwina a critical stare, weighing her ability to face up to this information, and Edwina could only say, ‘Poor Simon, I didn’t know. I thought . . .’ but she did not say what she thought. She was dismayed to learn of Simon’s condition and dismayed, too, that the sister had summed her up correctly. They both knew she would not come to Helwan again.
Returning to Cairo, she told herself the visit had been too painful and what could she do for a man so lost in misery, he would only say, ‘Go away’? Yet she was hurt by the sister’s judgement and wondered how to discount it. By the time the train reached the station, she had found a way out of her discomposure. She could not go to Helwan again but someone could go in her place. She decided that Guy, so warm, so magnanimous, was the one to take Simon in hand.
When this was put to him next morning, Guy agreed at once. He was always ready to visit people in hospital. Of course he would see the poor boy.
‘I’ll go on my day off.’
Guy’s day off was often a day of work but the following Saturday would be given up to Simon Boulderstone. He was leaving the flat to catch the Helwan train when Dobson came in the front door. Dobson had gone to the office and, for some reason, had come back again.
He said, ‘Guy!’ The unusual solemnity of his tone stopped Guy with a premonition of evil tidings. Dobson put an arm round his shoulder.
‘Guy, I didn’t telephone — I had to come and tell you myself. We’ve had official confirmation that the evacuation ship was sunk by enemy action. Only three people survived in the life-boat. We had their names this morning. Harriet was not among them.’
Guy stared at him: ‘I see, Harriet was not among them,’ then shifting his shoulder from under Dobson’s arm, he hurried from the flat.
Four
On the day before Edwina’s second visit, Simon had come of age. He had once thought of his twenty-first birthday as the summit of maturity, a day that would change him from a youth to a man. Having climbed up to it through the muddle of adolescence, he would find himself on a proper footing with the world. His parents would give him a party and someone important, like his Uncle Harry who was a town councillor, would make a speech and hand him a golden key, saying it was not only the key of the door but the key to life.
As it was, the day passed like any other day. He did not mention it even to Ross. Here in Plegics it had no meaning, but that night he had a dream. He dreamt he was running through the English countryside, running and leaping over miles of green grass. When he came to a hedge, he took a very high leap, a preternatural leap. It lifted him so high into the air, he felt he was flying and when he came down he said as he woke: ‘That was to celebrate.’ The elation of the dream remained with him for several seconds then faded, and he knew there was nothing to celebrate.
After Edwina’s second visit, he began to think of suicide. Death would solve everything, but how to achieve it? Nothing lethal — no sleeping pills, no poisonous substances, not even the meths bottle — was ever left within his reach. They saw to that. He was like a child in their hands and he had begun t
o feel like a child, dependent, obedient, resentful.
He was wondering if he could smother himself, or refuse to eat till he died of starvation, when someone came fumbling through the curtains. He expected a nurse but the newcomer was not a nurse. He was a padre.
‘Thought you’d like to see one of us,’ the padre said. ‘I’d’ve come sooner but we’re in demand these days. Was talking to your quack and he said you were in high old heart. Glad to be alive and all that. Expect you’d like to give thanks, eh?’ Getting no reply, the padre explained himself: ‘Give thanks to the One Above I meant, of course. Eh?’
Still no reply. The padre’s red-skinned face, like a badly shaped potato, remained amiable but he was puzzled by Simon’s silence. ‘C of E aren’t you?’
Simon nodded. He knew he had made a mistake in putting down ‘C of E’. He had been warned often enough by his old sergeant in the desert: ‘Don’t never admit to nothing, sir. Whatever they ask you, you say, “Don’t know,” then they can’t get at you, see!’ But ‘don’t know’ had not seemed the right answer when one was asked to state one’s religion. Anyway, it was too late to retract now. The padre, satisfied by the nod, took out his pipe and gained time by stuffing the bowl.
‘Can’t get round much, can you?’
Simon shook his head.
‘That’s all right. We’ve got a special arrangement for chaps like you. We bring the Eucharist right here to your bedside. Chaps find it a great comfort. Now, how about after Sunday service?’
Simon shook his head again.
‘You mean you’re not a regular communicant?’
‘I mean, I want to be left alone.’
The padre, undefeated, put his pipe in his mouth and began to deal with the situation: ‘Depressed, are you? What’s the quack been saying?’
‘Nothing. He didn’t need to. My legs are useless.’
‘But it’s not permanent.’
‘It probably is. They’ve been like it a bit too long.’
‘Oh, cheer up, old chap. Keep your pecker up. Even if it comes to the worst, you’re only one chap among a lot of chaps who’ve been unlucky. You must remember Him. Think of His sacrifice. Think of the sparrow’s fall. Think of His love.’
Simon began to feel sorry for the padre. It could not be easy preaching the love of God to young men whose future had been ended before it began.
The padre went on: ‘You’re down now, but it won’t last. You’ll jump out of it, see if you don’t. And if the old legs don’t shape up, well, it’s not the end of the world. You can be thankful you’re a para and not a tetra. There’s still plenty you can do. You can earn a living, you can swim, you can play games . . .’
‘Games!’
‘Yes, you’d be surprised. They’ll teach you all sorts of larks. And everywhere there’ll be people to help you.’
What people? Simon asked himself when the padre had gone. Who would have time for a legless man? — a legless, impotent man? He had an appalled picture of Edwina, driven by pity, pushing him round in a chair like a baby in a perambulator. Everyone using the soothing, patronising, simplified speech reserved for infants and invalids.
‘Not for me,’ he told himself, but what was to become of him? His brother had bled to death in No-man’s-land when his legs were blown off. Had he lived, he could have been fitted with two artificial legs but what happened to a man whose legs were in place but no use to him? He was simply the prisoner of their existence. No doubt people would help him. Some girl might even offer to marry him but no, one life wasted was enough.
He wondered why the ward looked so bare. When he had been with men on the troopship and in the desert, each had kept, like a private reredos, his pictures of women. But there were no pictures in the ward. It occurred to him that this fact was a symptom of the loss of manhood. When the sister next came round, he said to her: ‘No pin-ups.’
‘No what?’
‘Bare walls. No pin-ups.’
‘I should think not, indeed! We don’t want our nice, clean walls cluttered with that sort of rubbish.’
So that was it! Perhaps, after all, some spark would remain to torment him.
That day another visitor came fumbling through the curtains. He was afraid the padre had returned, or perhaps it was one of those welfare workers who imposed themselves on the other ranks. But the newcomer was not the padre and did not look like a welfare worker. Peering short-sightedly into the shadowed cubicle, he did not seem sufficiently purposeful or righteous of manner, and there was a largeness about him, not only of the flesh but of the spirit, that did not suggest to Simon any sort of organized mission. The pockets of his creased linen jacket were stuffed with books and papers, and he held under his arm some bags of fruit and a bunch of flowers, all badly crushed.
His appearance startled Simon into sitting up and saying: ‘Hello.’
‘Hello. I’m Edwina’s deputy. I live in the same flat. My name’s Guy Pringle. She asked me to come because she could not come herself.’ Guy dropped the flowers and bags of fruit on to the table and sat down: ‘I’ve brought you these things. If there’s anything else you need, let me know.’ He began to pull books from his pockets: ‘I thought these might interest you. I can get more from the Institute library.’
‘Thanks, but I’m not much of a reader.’ Then, feeling he must acknowledge Guy’s gifts, he picked up a book: ‘Still, I’d like to look at them.’
While Guy talked about the books, Simon’s dejection lifted a little. Here, he supposed, was one of those who would help him but more important than that, one from whom he was not unwilling to accept help. He wondered how this large man fitted into the Garden City flat. When he went there, just after Hugo’s death, the inmates had all been women. There was Edwina, of course, and a strange woman called Angela Hooper, and there was the dark girl Harriet.
He said: ‘You’re called Pringle? Then you must be the husband of Harriet Pringle?’
Guy’s head jerked up. He caught his breath before he said: ‘You knew her?’
‘Yes, we went together on a trip into the desert. And we climbed the Great Pyramid and sat at the top talking about Hugo. He was alive then. She said you met in Alex and had supper with him. He was killed a month later.’
‘Yes, I heard. I was very sorry. Harriet is dead, too.’
‘Harriet! Your wife?’
‘Yes, she was lost at sea. She went on an evacuation ship that was torpedoed and only three people were saved. But not Harriet. Not poor Harriet.’ Then, to Simon’s consternation, Guy choked and put his face into his hands, giving way to such an anguish of grief that Simon stared at him, forgetting his own misery. He had seen men weep before. He himself had wept bitterly over Hugo’s death, but the sight of this man so violently overthrown by sorrow shocked him deeply.
Guy gasped: ‘Forgive me. I’ve only just heard . . .’
‘But if three were saved, there might be more somewhere . . .’
‘No.’ Guy tried to dry his face with a handkerchief but his tears welled out afresh: ‘No, only one boat got away. The steering was broken and it drifted until it was taken into Dar-es-Salaam. By then there were only three people left alive.’
‘There could have been other boats that went to different places.’
‘I would have heard by now. Wherever she was, she would have cabled me. She wouldn’t leave me in suspense.’
Simon, not knowing what other comfort he could offer, shook his head despondently: ‘People are dying all the time now. Young people. I mean not people you might expect to die. People with their lives before them.’
‘Yes, this accursed war.’
They were silent, contemplating the calamity of their time, while Guy scrubbed his handkerchief over his face and looked, red-eyed, at Simon. Simon looked back in sympathy but as he did so, he felt — not quite a sensation, rather a presentiment of sensation to come, then there was a stirring in his left upper leg as though an insect were crawling under his skin. He put his hand down and touched
the spot but the skin was smooth. No insect there. He tried to disregard it, knowing Ross would say, ‘It means nothing.’
‘I suppose it will end one day,’ Guy was saying, ‘but that won’t bring them back . . .’
Simon was about to say that grief did fade in time; that it became no more than a sadness at the back of the mind, but he was distracted as the insect movement repeated itself in his thigh. Then a trickle, slow and steady, rather sticky, like blood, ran down to his knee and he again touched the spot. He looked at his fingers. There was no blood. He was afraid to hope that the trickle was a trickle of life. Guy was speaking but he could not listen. His whole consciousness was gathered on the area of the sensation. A pause, then the insect moved in his other leg and the same sticky trickle went down to his knee. Cautiously, he tried to press his thighs together and for the first time since his injury, he felt his legs touch each other. He held his breath before letting it out in his excitement, and he knew this was the sign he had longed for, the sign that one day he would walk again.
In his relief, he wanted to shout to Guy, expecting him to rejoice with him, but he was checked by the sight of the other man wiping tears from his face.
Simon repressed, or tried to repress his joy, but his joy transcended his sense of decorum and he could not hide his laughter.
Guy was too absorbed by his own emotion to notice Simon’s and Simon bit his lip to control himself. Guy said it was time for him to go. He dried his eyes and gathering up the books Simon did not want, put out his hand. Taking it, Simon said, ‘You’ll come again, won’t you?’
The invitation was vivaciously given but Guy felt no surprise. Most people, having met him once, were eager to see him again.
Five
Unaware that she was mourned for dead, Harriet was alive in the Levant. She had not boarded the evacuation ship. Instead, she had begged a lift on an army lorry that would take her to Damascus. The two women with whom she absconded, members of a para-military service, made regular trips to Iraq, taking ammunition and other supplies.
Fortunes of War Page 44
