This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  After just a couple of days in his new surroundings, Guy relaxed in a way he never had chance to in France. The pace was so much less frantic, the staff attended to their duties at walking pace, bidding the men good day, dressed in clean and neatly pressed scarlet and grey uniforms. Guy thought of the nurses at the front and their perpetually stained uniforms, the surgeons hacking off limbs day and night and the doctors working non-stop while the next influx of casualties awaited their attention.

  In the fortnight since seeing his parents, Guy received several visitors at the Prince of Wales Hospital. His first visitor, much to his surprise, was his father’s sister, his Aunt Winnie. If she knew about Jack’s so-called disgrace, she certainly didn’t mention it. She asked a couple of kindly meant but bewildering questions about life in the trenches, to which Guy smiled and answered as vaguely as he could. After a few half-hearted questions about Guy’s health, she furnished him with all the latest gossip in Charlton. She spoke of people Guy had either forgotten about or didn’t care for, or people he’d never heard of. And all the while she knitted. She told him she was knitting him a jumper. At one point, she made Guy stand up so she could get a rough measure of his size. She left, half an hour later, promising to return once the jumper had been completed.

  The following day, Aunt Winnie’s son, Guy’s cousin Lawrence, also paid him a visit, still sporting his pince-nez. It was soon apparent that Lawrence was only there under sufferance, obviously forced into it by Aunt Winnie. Lawrence hadn’t fought in the war; he still had his important job in transport and logistics, which had excused him from active service. Aunt Winnie had said he was doing his bit behind the scenes, but when pressed, knew not the details. Lawrence wasn’t forthcoming either – still something to do with military transport but refused to be drawn in further. He stayed for as little time as possible without appearing rude and then made his excuses and left. Frankly, Guy was relieved, for he couldn’t help but resent Lawrence’s preoccupation with trivial matters. This was a man whose self-esteem was still intact, who still had the luxury of vanity. Vanity, Guy had soon learnt, was always the first luxury to be jettisoned amongst the depravity of the trenches and he was coming to resent those who still entertained it.

  A couple of days after Lawrence’s visit, a Regimental Brigadier arrived and updated Guy on the regiment’s progress in the trenches. He confirmed that Guy was to be awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his display of tenacity and courage in the field.

  Guy’s next visitor, again to his surprise, was his mother. She still looked upset and distinctly unwell.

  ‘Oh, Guy, how are you? Are they looking after you?’ She’d brought him a tin of biscuits. She took off her shawl and placed it on her lap. ‘I wrote to the War Office, you know, to see if I could see the papers from Jack’s court martial.’

  ‘Really – did they write back?’

  ‘Yes, they wrote back, at least, but no, it’s an absurd situation – they can only disclose the papers to the prisoner and since he’s, you know... there was nothing they can do.’ She sighed. ‘Please, tell me, Guy, what was he like the last time, the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Oh, Mother, how can I tell you, how can I describe such a thing?’

  ‘Please, Guy, try,’ she said, wrapping her shawl around her hand.

  ‘He was frightened, of course, what man wouldn’t be? But he was strong, so, so strong.’ He told her the best he could of the hut, of the cigarettes, of the guards ashamed of being assigned such a duty, of his deep courage, of his love for his mother, the love for his father. She listened, her eyes filling with tears, taking in every last word, every image, searing it onto her memory. On finishing, Guy felt quite exhausted.

  They sat in silence for a while. Eventually, she whispered, ‘Thank you, Guy. Thank you for telling me.’ She stroked his cheek with her finger. ‘You were always a good boy to your mother, both of you, such good...’

  ‘How’s father?’

  She pulled a face, one of embarrassment and resentment. ‘He’s upset, of course.’

  ‘Has he opened the curtains?’

  She looked away, her eye caught by the appearance of a nurse pushing a trolley of medicines.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘No, Guy, he hasn’t.’

  His mother’s visit left Guy feeling depressed, but the next day, he received the visitor he had been looking forward to the most.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,’ said Mary, after the initial exchange of pleasantries, ‘but if truth be known, I wasn’t going to come at all.’ She appeared paler than usual. Her arm was in a cast but she had discarded the sling. ‘I thought that if I was to start again, I had to make a break from your family altogether. But I can’t. I can’t stop thinking of Jack. I know I’ll never see him again, but when I look at you, I can see him in your eyes. You’re quite similar to each other in many ways. Perhaps not in the way you are, but in the way you look. I’m sorry, it makes it sound as if I’ve come for the wrong reasons.’ Whatever the reason, Guy didn’t mind and tried to reassure her of the fact.

  Their conversation was dominated by Jack. She talked of the future that would have been – the wedding she’d planned, where they would have lived and even potential names for the children that would never be. Guy, in turn, spoke of the past – of growing-up with Jack, the fights they had, the scrapes they got into, family day-outs and the family business. He told her of the Albert Carr night. As much as his mother’s visit had wearied him, Mary’s visit lifted him. But at the back of his mind lay the uncomfortable truth that Jack’s love for Mary was not as complete as she believed it to be. He consoled himself with the thought that she would never have to know the extent of her illusion.

  Over the next month or so Mary visited frequently – two, three times a week. Her visits became the highlight of Guy’s hospital routine. Each time, she would stay a bit longer. On one occasion, a nurse almost had to forcibly evict her from the hospital. She envied the nurses’ workload and the genteel way they could conduct their administrations. As time went on, they spoke less of Jack, although he was never far from their thoughts or their lips, and spoke more of themselves. Here, thought Guy, were two people whose lives had been turned on their heads by the war and the death of one young man. Two people who were fast becoming dependent on each other. They spoke more about the important small things in life and not just their haunted pasts and their uncertain futures.

  On one occasion, Mary brought her sister Josephine. ‘It feels like years since I saw you last,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. She was as attractive as Guy remembered her, lovely green eyes and wispy.

  ‘I’ve brought you some biscuits,’ said Mary. ‘Oh, I see you already have some.’

  ‘My mother’s been. She brings me biscuits and, bit by bit, my whole wardrobe. She thinks I should look smart for when I go out.’

  ‘And she’s quite right.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  So, how are you, Guy?’

  ‘Feeling much stronger. It’s doing me good being able to do nothing but rest.’

  ‘Do they feed you well in here?’ asked Josephine.

  Guy patted his stomach and winked at her. She chuckled.

  ‘How are your parents?’ asked Mary. ‘I do miss them, you know. I feel I’ve been cast out by them twice now.’

  ‘My mother came to see me just last week. She’d come more often but it’s a distance for her. She’s... well, you know, it’s a difficult time.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’ve been to see your Aunt Winnie.’

  ‘You have?’

  Josephine lowered her head. ‘More than just once, Mary.’

  ‘Yes, well.’

  Turning to Guy, Josephine said, ‘Her visits seem to be quite a success with a certain –’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Josephine,’ said Mary.

  ‘Go on,’ said Guy.

  ‘There’s nothing to say, ignore her.’

  ‘That’s n
ot the impression I got when I saw him.’

  ‘You mean Lawrence?’ asked Guy.

  ‘We do indeed,’ said Josephine nodding her head. ‘Taken quite a shine to my little sister, he has.’

  After they left, Guy couldn’t help but feel slightly aggrieved that Mary should swap her affections so quickly from one side of the family to another.

  While he was alone, Guy’s thoughts often turned to his time at the front. A time and place, which although all too recent, Guy preferred not to dwell on. Sometimes it seemed so unreal, as if it belonged to someone else’s past. Not that he could escape it, it was ingrained within him and he knew no matter what happened to him now, no part of his life would ever occupy such a definitive watershed. And he was, to a degree, still living it. Here he was, in an army hospital, surrounded by soldiers who could only talk of the war. Guy didn’t mind, in fact he rather enjoyed the banter, the familiar stories, the similar experiences. But, to the others, it was still as real to them as being physically out there. He would lie awake at night and listen to their pathetic dream-induced mutterings. Guy, at least, was able to make the distinction; for when he was out there, he still had a brother; by the time he came back, he did not and he envied the others who could talk of brothers and friends killed in action. He knew in being able to make a clear distinction between the past and now, he could move on.

  *

  During his stay at the Prince of Wales, Guy was fitted with an artificial leg. An overly cheerful man with poor skin fitted the heavy wooden contraption, fastening it onto his thigh with various belts and buckles. After a few trips to the limbless hospital in Roehampton, the fitters constructed the leg, cutting the wood so that it could fit his stump exactly. ‘You’ll take a month or so to get used to it,’ said the cheerful man, slapping the wooden limb, ‘and you might get a few blisters along the way, so you might have to resort to the crutches, but that’s to be expected. And then there are the phantom pains, not dissimilar to a dull toothache, you know the type. Could lay you low for a day or two but as you get more used to walking with the leg, the pains will soon go. Any questions? No? Good.’

  At first, Guy was convinced everyone could hear the clanking noise it made as he trundled down the street, but after a while he realised that no one could hear it. And anyway, London was a mass of walking wounded. You’d only have to walk a few minutes before seeing a man in a wheelchair or a man made ageless by a face of burnt skin. But worse than the feelings of self-consciousness were, as warned, the blisters that the false leg caused to the stump.

  A week after the initial fitting, the hospital gave Guy notice that he was fit enough to be discharged. The thought of being cast out on his own filled him with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. He could either go back and stay with his parents or the hospital administration would help him find private lodgings. He knew it would be easier to go for the first option, but while his father refused to acknowledge Jack, he felt he had no choice but to opt for the latter.

  A couple of days later, Mary visited again. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you,’ she said.

  ‘So I see. How do you do, Lawrence, take a seat.’

  ‘Good morning, Guy, good to see you again.’ He’d trimmed his beard and a pair of glasses had replaced the pince-nez. He looked slightly younger for it, but was it Mary’s influence, Guy wondered. He hoped not.

  ‘Lawrence and I have a little disagreement, don’t we, Lawrence? You see, Guy, I think I need a new job, just while I get fit enough to return to France.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Lawrence. ‘I’ve told her, if she’s ever short of anything, I’m always here. Jack, God rest his soul, would never have wanted you to work.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’

  ‘Listen, this war will be over soon and then the men will be back in their droves wanting their jobs back. What could you do anyway?’

  ‘You know I used to work in a bakery once.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Mary, I can’t have you working in a bakery, what sort of work is that? And this talk of returning to France...’

  Guy listened to the to and fro of their argument and to his annoyance he felt intimidated by his cousin’s dull but authoritative presence. ‘I’ve been given a job,’ he announced.

  ‘You have?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Yes, with the army – a desk job in Woolwich. And I’ve been given a date for discharge from this place.’

  ‘Oh, Guy, that’s wonderful news. When?’

  ‘A week’s time.’

  ‘Will you go back to your parents?’ asked Lawrence.

  ‘No, the hospital has found me some lodgings in Lewisham, a room in a house owned by an Italian woman, Mrs Marenghi, I think her name is.’

  ‘Good God, an Italian,’ said Lawrence, ‘whatever next? An Arabian valet?’

  ‘She’ll clean and cook for me in return for board and lodge.’

  ‘Oh, it gets worse. Italian food? She’ll poison you to death with spices and goodness knows what.’

  ‘That sounds perfect, Guy,’ said Mary. ‘I’m thrilled for you. But listen, I have a better idea – I’ll get Josephine to move out, and you could rent her room. There we are – perfect, that would give me an income, wouldn’t it, Lawrence, and better company to boot.’

  ‘You jest, I hope.’

  ‘But of course, dear Lawrence, of course.’

  After they’d left, Guy was bothered by a nagging thought that troubled him for the rest of the day. It was only later that night as he was falling asleep that Guy remembered what it was – Mary hadn’t been wearing her engagement ring. The thought induced within him a strange feeling – he realised he was jealous.

  *

  The day before he left the Prince of Wales, Guy received his medal. A Colonel Knot came down specifically to award a number of decorations. Most of the recipients had invited family and friends to witness their moment of glory. Guy however could not face such a fuss and without his own personal audience, was able to go through the motions. He shook hands with the Colonel, thanked him for his encouraging words, received his Distinguished Conduct Medal, saluted and looked suitably humbled. A final rousing rendition of God Save the King ended the tedious proceedings.

  The following day, two days before Christmas, Guy left the hospital. They provided him with a taxi to take him and his haversack to his new accommodation in Lewisham, where he met Mrs Marenghi. She was very much what Guy had expected a middle-aged Italian woman to be – plump and jolly, with a pronounced accent and wild, grey hair that had certainly once been jet black. His room, at the top of the house on the second floor, was minute but Guy didn’t mind, he had so few possessions to speak of. Besides the single bed, which dominated the room, was a bedside table with a lamp, a small writing table and chair, and a moth-eaten armchair in the corner. There was a battered wardrobe and a set of three empty shelves. The faded wallpaper, a pale blue paisley colour, had seen better days and the window let in a terrible draught. Guy spent his quiet evenings at the writing table reading. Next to his room, Guy had the use of a small, adapted kitchen and, down one flight of stairs, a shared bathroom. For now, at least, it was perfect.

  Guy spent Christmas Day 1917 with Mary and Josephine. ‘Guy!’ screeched Mary as she opened the front door, ‘you’re wearing your medal.’ He’d also donned a new red-coloured tie for the occasion and worn his favourite wide-lapelled jacket.

  ‘Doesn’t he look handsome,’ said Josephine behind her.

  Guy purred. He realised he hadn’t stepped inside their house since the awful confrontation with Mary and Jack. They had tried to brighten up the living room with Christmas decorations, a tiny tree with painted pinecones, ties of golden ribbon and little baskets of sweets, and on the table a Yule log festooned with holly but still, the place felt dank, the brown wallpaper drab but Guy could think of nowhere else he would rather be.

  ‘I’m afraid, we can’t offer much, you know how it is,’ said Josephine, passing Guy a tiny glass of sherry. />
  ‘Believe me, when I think back to this time last year...’

  ‘Of course. Don’t suppose it stops, does it?’

  ‘You hear rumours though, don’t you?’ said Josephine. ‘You know, of soldiers, them and us, playing football. Is it true, does it happen?’

  ‘I heard that too and I think it happened once but I never saw it.’

  ‘Still,’ said Josephine, ‘you’re here now. To your good health.’

  ‘And to all our loved ones,’ added Mary.

  The trio of glasses clinked and silently they sipped their sherries. Guy’s mind went back to the previous year, Christmas Day in the trenches, a day like any other, a day of cold and boredom in a reserve trench, replacing sandbags, perhaps shifting new supplies. Somewhere, not too far away, his brother. So recent; such a long time ago. He thought of the men still out there. How much longer, dear friends, how long can it go on for? And here he was, a cripple for the rest of his life but in a warm flat with rich smells drifting through from the kitchen, with his medal pinned to his lapel, his new tie, in the company of the sisters. Damn the brown wallpaper, he felt like weeping with gratitude.

  ‘You all right, Guy?’ asked Josephine gently.

  Guy nodded, and kept on nodding, unable to talk.

  Both sisters smiled at him, warm, gentle smiles, full of knowing and understanding.

  ‘Right,’ declared Mary, ‘better see how that chicken is getting on. Chicken, eh? Can’t tell you what steps I had to take to obtain that.’