Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘You look ever so happy,’ said Daniel.

  Chapter 21

  Spring–Summer 1943

  ‘So where is he now then?’ asked David.

  ‘He’s about thirty miles away, in a convalescent home.’

  ‘Is that a hospital?’

  ‘No, it’s where you go when you’re nearly better.’

  ‘I didn’t like that hospital,’ said Daniel. ‘It was horrible. Dad didn’t like it either.’

  ‘Course he didn’t,’ said David, ‘you wouldn’t like anywhere they were cutting bullets out of your spine and hurting you all the time.’

  ‘It was a marvellous hospital,’ said Grace firmly, ‘and if your father hadn’t gone there he would never have got better.’

  ‘It was horrible though, wasn’t it? All those men in bandages and some of them without their legs and all.’

  ‘Well – yes. But that was hardly the hospital’s fault.’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel, ‘it was bleedin’ Hitler’s.’

  ‘Daniel, don’t use that sort of language.’

  ‘Why not? I bet he does.’

  ‘Course he doesn’t,’ said David. ‘He talks German.’

  ‘Well I bet he says bleedin’ and bloody and all that in German then.’

  Grace gave up.

  She did not quite share the boys’ view of the Wingfield Morris Hospital near Oxford; it was forever linked in her mind with a rather guilty happiness, relief, and an entirely illogical sense that the war was virtually over.

  Ben had been brought home by ship in February; he had been wounded at El Alamein and his injuries had defied the medical skills of both the field hospital and the military establishment in Cairo. ‘The MO says I’m a bloody nuisance,’ he had written to Grace. ‘I got a bullet in my shoulder, doesn’t sound very serious, but it’s near my spine, the bone’s splintered, and they just can’t get it out. Also I’ve got an infection in the wound and don’t feel too well.’

  This was all a considerable understatement; there was, it turned out, a danger of permanent damage to his central nervous system, and the most intricate surgery was required. He had also had a raging infection in the wound for weeks. The standard treatment being localized treatment of any wound with sulphanilamide, and little more, he was not only suffering considerably, but was in risk of developing septicaemia. Grace, visiting him for the first time, ten days after he was finally pronounced well enough for visitors and out of danger, was shocked at the change in him: he was desperately thin, his flesh stretched tautly over his long bony frame, his once sunburnt skin parchment-like and jaundiced-looking, his eyes dark hollows in the stark angles of his face.

  He was at the far end of the ward, his position indicated vaguely to her by a nurse. Grace walking slowly down it, peering slightly embarrassedly at each man as she passed his bed, finally found him, asleep. She was holding a bunch of flowers, picked from the garden, a spilling mass of snowdrops and early primroses; in the absence of anything else to do, she sat patiently looking at him, the flowers clasped in her lap. He was lying on his side, facing her; after about ten minutes he stirred, winced, opened his eyes slowly and saw her. There was no reaction at all for a moment; then very slowly he smiled the lovely, funny, creased-up grin she remembered so well, smiled and simply said, ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hallo, Ben.’

  There was a silence, then he said, his eyes moving over her face, studying her, ‘It’s nice to see you.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you,’ she said, feeling awkward suddenly, and at the same time rather foolishly happy. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bloody awful,’ he said, and grinned again, then, ‘Sorry. Not used to female company.’

  ‘I expect you do,’ said Grace, ‘feel awful, I mean. Is it – is it all rightnow?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, trying to shift his position, grimacing slightly, ‘yeah, it’s all right. I mean I’m not going to be paralysed, not going to die. Never going to have much use in that arm again, but that doesn’t seem too serious.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, I suppose not. Is it very painful?’

  ‘Pretty bad,’ he said, ‘but nothing like it was. They give me plenty of dope here, for a start, and at least it’s not hot, there aren’t any flies.’

  ‘No, that’s true,’ said Grace. ‘Although actually I’m warmer now than I have been for weeks. It’s a very cold winter.’

  ‘Is it? I tell you, I’ll never complain about the cold again.’

  ‘How long were you in the hospital out there? I couldn’t work it out from the letter.’

  ‘About ten days in the field hospital, then weeks in Cairo. The worst thing was the journey down there. To Cairo, I mean. First an ambulance, real old boneshaker, then a hospital train. Sounds all right, but it was a converted cattle truck. It felt like one. No corridor, open to the elements. And the MO was in a pullman at the rear. Quaffing the best wine.’ He grinned at her. ‘Makes a good story now, though. And at least I got there.’

  ‘Was it good? The hospital?’

  ‘Yeah, it was very good. The nurses did a terrific job. Pretty, some of them, too. That helped.’ He smiled again. ‘Anyway, I had two ops there, both useless. And finally the big boss surgeon looked at this awful gaping hole in my back, and you know the rest.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How are the boys?’

  ‘They’re fine. Grown so much. They’ve been wonderful. They wanted to come today, but I said no. Well, the doctors said no as well. Next time I come perhaps.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy,’ he said, ‘getting here.’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult. Bit of a long way, but I left very early. I drove. I have my little petrol allowance, for my land girl work, so I can save my ordinary coupons.’

  ‘You drove in the little MG?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s nice, that car. I suppose it’s your husband’s.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, thinking how horrified Charles would be if he knew the latest unsuitable use to which his precious car was being put.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes. I had a letter last week. They’re in Tunisia now, with Montgomery.’

  ‘He’s been lucky. Well, so have I really. Very lucky, some would say. Most probably won’t be going back.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Grace. The fact touched her consciousness slowly, then settled gently into her, a piece of sweet, warm comfort. ‘So was it very bad,’ she said, ‘out there? Before this happened, I mean.’

  ‘Pretty bloody bad. Well, until Alexander arrived, and then everything kind of got cranked up. El Alamein was fairly good chaos as far as I was concerned. I got wounded on Day One, but it was a brilliant victory, as I understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘turning point of the war. They say.’

  ‘My best mate was killed,’ he said soberly, and was silent for a minute. ‘Saw him being blown up. With a couple more. Pretty bad, that. Hard to think victory and turning points matter for a bit.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘Yes, it must be.’

  She felt inadequate, pathetic sitting there, with no bad experiences of her own, no hardships endured; she looked down at the flowers, still clasped in her lap.

  ‘They’re pretty,’ he said suddenly. ‘Are they for me?’

  ‘Yes. Yes they are. I’ll go and find a vase, shall I?’

  ‘Thank you. That was kind. Ask the nurse. She’s got a cupboard for them.’

  She went off down the ward, was shown the cupboard, found the only vase, a large ugly thing, in which her small spring offerings dangled pitifully. She went back to him feeling silly. His curtains were drawn, and she waited outside, uncomfortable, embarrassed, unsure what might be going on behind them. A nurse emerged, holding something that was clearly a bedpan under a cloth, pulled the curtains sharply back. Grace felt even worse. She sat down again, avoiding Ben’s eyes; he was clearly embarrassed too, smiled at her awkwardly.

  There was a long silence; s
he couldn’t think of anything to say. It had been a mistake to come on her own, she thought with a sense that was almost panic, she didn’t know him well enough, there was no common ground, she should have waited until she could bring the boys; it had been arrogant of her to think she could carry it off, the sort of thing Clarissa could do, but not her. She was just thinking that perhaps she should make some excuse and leave, say she would come back with the boys, when she felt a hand placed on hers, quite gently, and looked up, startled, to see Ben looking at her very seriously. He hesitated, withdrew his hand, but his voice was steady, gentle, not hesitant at all.

  ‘It’s really so nice,’ he said, ‘to see you. So good of you to come. I’ve thought about you all the time, Grace. Getting your letters helped a lot. It’s been so hard. All of it. Knowing you were there, with the boys – well, it made all the difference. I just wanted to – well, say that.’

  ‘You did say it,’ she said, smiling, feeling suddenly quite different, light-hearted, easy, ‘in your letters.’

  ‘I know. But I wanted to say it to you properly. Letters are – well, sort of second-hand. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I think so. Yes, yes I do.’

  ‘Tell me about the boys,’ he said, lying back a bit, ‘tell me all about them, what they’re doing. I want to know it all, every single little thing.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘starting with David, he –’

  She talked for a long, long time about the boys, about how clever they were, how good, the company they were for her, about the things they did, about how David lit the fires for her every day, and Daniel milked Flossie every morning and evening, about David’s music, Daniel’s chess, how David was going to sit the scholarship for the grammar school.

  ‘You really love them, don’t you?’ he said suddenly, smiling at her. ‘I can’t get over how you love them.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I do. They mean so much to me.’

  ‘They’re so lucky,’ he said, ‘so lucky to have you.’

  ‘Well,’ she said carefully, ‘I’m lucky too. They’re very special boys. Some of the children have never fitted in.’

  ‘I bet they’d have fitted in with you,’ said Ben. ‘What does your husband think about it, does he mind?’

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t mind,’ said Grace staunchly. ‘Why ever should he?’

  Ben said nothing, just looked at her. There was something behind the dark eyes that disturbed her: made her feel uncomfortable. Physically, almost pleasantly uncomfortable. She looked down at her hands, clasped rather too tightly in her lap.

  ‘I can’t get over what you’re like,’ he said finally, and smiled very sweetly at her, ‘I really can’t.’

  There was another silence; she was just wondering whatever she could say, do, when another nurse appeared.

  ‘Time to check your dressings, Sergeant Lucas. And then you’ve got to go to X-ray. I’m sorry,’ she said to Grace, ‘but I’ll have to ask you to leave now. An hour, Sister said, and you’ve been here much longer than that.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Grace. She stood up, smiled rather uncertainly. ‘Goodbye, Ben.’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘It’s made all the difference to me, made it easier to cope with.’

  All the long drive home she heard his voice, over and over again saying that, telling her what a difference she had made.

  Next time she went, she took David and Daniel. Ben was looking much better; a healthier colour, had even put on some weight. The boys were shy, awkward with him, at first; then they relaxed, lolled against the bed, chatting, giggling, telling him funny stories about Clifford, about school, about Miss Merton.

  ‘She’s so fat,’ said Daniel, ‘she wobbles all over when she laughs. David still goes to her dancing classes,’ he added. ‘He’s a cissy.’

  ‘I am not a cissy,’ said David, reaching out and thumping him.

  ‘You are. And you’re in love with Elspeth Dunn,’ added Daniel.

  ‘I am not,’ said David, blushing furiously.

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Cissy.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Boys, be quiet,’ said Grace firmly, ‘or you won’t be allowed to come again. Why don’t you go outside for a bit? The grounds are lovely.’

  ‘Would you mind, Dad?’ said David, clearly tempted.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t.’

  They went out; Grace smiled at Ben. ‘They’re very hard work, I know,’ she said, ‘and you’re looking tired.’

  ‘I am a bit. It’s lovely to see them but – oh, I’m sorry. It’s wrong of me to complain.’

  ‘Don’t say sorry,’ said Grace. ‘And I bet it all still hurts a lot.’

  ‘Yes it does. But I’ve been very lucky.’

  ‘Yes I think you have,’ she said soberly. ‘A friend of my husband’s – well, of mine as well I suppose – her name is Clarissa. Her husband is a pilot. He was shot down and very badly burnt. His face is horribly damaged, apparently. He’s having plastic surgery, but – well, that seems so dreadful. Clarissa says she honestly thinks he’d rather be dead.’

  ‘Poor bugger,’ said Ben. ‘Sorry, Grace, sorry—’

  ‘Don’t say sorry!’

  ‘All right. Anyway, a mate of mine saw some bloke in the street, no nose, hardly any chin. He said everyone was staring at him. I know I’d rather lose an arm or a leg. Funny, isn’t it, it shouldn’t matter that much. I mean you’re the same underneath. But your face is what you’ve got to show to the world. It’s – well, it’s the heart of you really.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace slowly. ‘I suppose that’s right. You’re rather – wise, Ben, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I just think a lot. By the way,’ he added, grinning, ‘the nurse wanted to know if you were my girlfriend.’

  ‘And what did you say?’ said Grace.

  ‘I said chance’d be a fine thing,’ he said and laughed.

  He was moved, in May, to the convalescent home. It was in the Lake District. ‘Why it can’t be somewhere more convenient I can’t think,’ he said on the phone to her, ‘but there it is. Nice views, they said. They better had be.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. The arm is definitely going to be no use for soldiering, they said I’d be a liability. But I’m going to apply to do a signals course. Or something like that. There’s a big unit at Tidworth, near Salisbury. That’s what I’m hoping for. Then I could see the boys quite often. And you,’ he added carefully.

  She knew he was only being tactful, but it was still very sweet.

  My darling darling Florence,

  I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to get your letter. I read it over and over and over again; at first I thought I was dreaming or hallucinating. Yes, I do understand what you say, and yes, I understand that you mean it, but you cannot really expect me to leave it at that and not try and change your mind. When I love you so much, when I know you love me so much, when we have a daughter, when our lives together could be so perfect. If only I could have been with you when she was so ill, helped you through it. And all I did was sit and sulk and write you a bloody awful letter.

  But Florence, you have got to face facts. It’s not as if you were married to someone decent and good, someone who you could still be happy with in time, if you settled down and tried to forget me. He’s a bully and a sadist, Florence, and don’t try and tell me he’s going to change, because he isn’t. And you must not believe all this nonsense about him thinking Imogen is actually his. I’m sure that’s just all part of a very clever game he’s playing. I hate to think he’s still in England or at least where he can get at you comparatively easily. You must be careful, darling, you must take care of Imogen and yourself. Christ, I love you. I can’t tell you how different I feel now that I know you still love me. I fell in love with you all over again, just reading your letter, it was as if you were in my arms for the first time, as if
I was holding you, discovering you. I took out your photographs that day for the first time since I was home, and sat staring at them, remembering you, how your hair falls, all silky and sweet-smelling, how your eyes go all shadowy and soft when we’re in bed together, how your mouth feels, how you feel, all of you. Like Dr Faustus I would sell my soul, but not for all knowledge, just for twenty-four hours of you. Rotten old thing that it must be anyway: my soul I mean.

  I hope and indeed pray most fervently that I shall have some leave at the end of this summer. I am certainly due for some, especially as the last one was cancelled. Don’t worry about me, I shall return safely; I can’t do anything else now that I know that you still love me. Thank you, darling Florence, for writing, for explaining, for still loving me. Take great care of yourself and Imogen and I will be with you both again one day. Don’t even think that you can get away from me again. I won’t let you, I can’t, I love you.

  Giles

  Florence had read this letter so many times she sometimes felt she would wear the paper away. She kept it beneath her pillow at night, always with her during the day.

  ‘But I can’t go to him,’ she said to Clarissa, in whom she had confided. ‘I do have to stay with Robert, I have to.’

  ‘Florence,’ said Clarissa firmly, ‘you’re completely mad.’

  ‘I’m not. I promised God. It was a pledge. I can’t break it.’

  ‘Superstitious rubbish,’ said Clarissa. ‘If there is a God, which I really rather doubt, He’s not going to do something terrible to some innocent little child, not that anyone could call Imogen innocent, darling, but still, just because you’re in bed with your lover. And if He is, then he’s not the nice benign creature I’d always rather imagined.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Florence.

  ‘No I don’t. But I’m glad you’re happier anyway, and that you’ve managed to make poor Giles happier. Any news of Robert?’

  ‘No. He threatens to come home all the time, but he never does.’

  ‘Tactics,’ said Clarissa briskly, ‘designed to keep you on the edge. Florence, how many more times do I have to tell you, he’s dangerous. You must get away.’