“I only got into trouble when I widened the lens, when I took it forward into the future or back into the past. The first led me to despair. How can there be a future? The second led me to grief and guilt. How could I have failed my son? But if I just focused on getting air into my lungs right now, getting one leg and then the other out of bed, I was all right. I did that as much as I could and eventually—it took a long time, Grace—it healed.
“I had good friends to help me through, friends like you.” Janis smiled. “But right now, we’re stretching. We’ve run the sun up into the sky. We’re going to stretch and take you home. And this way, you’ll get better.”
Grace looked at her friend. “It will get worse before it gets better.”
“It will,” Janis said, “but thinking about that won’t change it. Come on, let’s finish and get you home.”
Ian Gibson said to them, when they saw him to confirm the diagnosis three days later, that research was advancing in leaps and bounds. She’d wanted to slap him. It’s what she herself said to families facing disability in a child. She would never say it again, she decided, would look at people straight on and tell them the truth. “Your child has a congenital illness. There’s no cure. Their life expectancy is on average x years.” She would never again lie to a mother, a father. But for David, as distraught as she but differently, not angry, not at all, Ian’s words brought comfort and she loved him for it. “Polio, who’d have thought they’d ever cure polio?” Grace didn’t say, But polio’s a bug. You can’t go back and erase genes. Oh, she wanted to have David’s optimism. She’d have given her medical registration for just a day of David’s optimism right then. She felt her heart was hard.
Grace was waking at three every morning and spend-ing those black hours staring at the ceiling, thinking about the future, falling into uneasy exhausted sleep just before dawn only to wake forty-five minutes later, the day too near to bother trying to sleep again. She kept seeing the face of the young man she’d seen in that film at medical school. He was the kind of boy you’d be proud to have as a son, so self-effacing, so willing to try in the face of extraordinary difficulties, his giant head compared with his underdeveloped neck and shoulders. Janis turned up most mornings and forced Grace into her running shoes. Even as she protested, Grace was starting to see that Janis had been right. She would only get through this by narrowing her focus, putting one foot in front of the other and going forward.
Henry was oblivious. They’d said nothing yet. Grace wasn’t sure what they’d say and David wanted to wait until they’d worked it out. Mia had asked Grace what was wrong but Grace had said work was busy. Grace had no idea how work was. She did her on-call roster. She went in and spoke to patients. She made clinical decisions she hoped were right. Rob Ingram came down to tell her the panel’s report had been held up because they wanted to interview more clinicians. It all seemed so unimportant now, she couldn’t help but laugh. Rob shook his head and walked away. Grace had told David she didn’t want to tell the hospital about Henry, not yet.
The panel. It had seemed so important before Henry’s diagnosis. Now Grace couldn’t care less.
“Have you told Iris?” David said, late one night after the kids were asleep.
“Not yet,” Grace said. “I’ve wanted to feel composed in myself.”
He nodded and rubbed her shoulder. “I know what you mean. I couldn’t tell her.”
“Maybe we don’t need to. Except . . .”
“What?”
“Well, Duchenne’s. It can be inherited. You don’t have it, my father couldn’t have had it, so Iris and I might be the carriers. If we want to have more children . . .”
“If we want to have more children, we’ll have more children.” David looked at her, his jaw set. “I mean, he’ll just need different things from the girls.”
“David, he’ll deteriorate. He won’t be walking by the time he’s ten. And then he won’t be able to move his legs, his arms. And then he’ll die.”
“I just meant, if we want children, it would be all right with me. Henry’s a great kid.”
David was right. Henry had saved Grace, had saved both of them in his way. Here he was, still himself, demanding attention, demanding to be loved. He still laughed and called her in the morning to come in and snuggle him. He still worked in the garden with David to pull out weeds, wearing the same broad-brimmed hat, standing hands on hips to survey his work. He was still Superman.
And because he needed her to care for him, because he would need so much more, Grace found herself able to keep going, to get up in the morning and get one foot out of bed and then the other, just as Janis had said.
She dropped the girls at school and Henry at day care, but instead of going to the hospital as she’d planned went back up to Paddington.
Iris was sitting out on the front verandah. “I saw the mother glider again,” she said as Grace walked up the steps.
“Did you?” Grace said. “Was she a bit lost?”
“Not at all,” Iris said. “She still has the other one. I think animals are a lot more resilient than us. I was never so practical, you know. When Rose died, I was . . . I wasn’t the best mother to you in those first months.”
Grace didn’t want to get distracted. “I need to tell you something.” She sat down on the chair next to Iris. Grace thought she’d come to terms with Henry. But now, with Iris, her heart felt like a stone in her chest. “It’s about Henry. It seems David was right after all. He’s unwell.”
“Really?” Iris said.
“Yes.” She wanted to get it out quickly. “Henry has muscular dystrophy. It means his muscles aren’t growing properly. He . . . It’s going to be very hard for him.”
“Oh Grace, I’m so sorry. He’ll be all right though?” Iris looked so hopeful, Grace almost told a lie. Yes, he’ll be fine.
“Well, we hope so. We don’t know what science . . . For now, he’s doing well. But he’ll get worse, much worse.” And then Grace could no longer hold it together, not with Iris. A noise came from her. She let out a sob and then another and another. “He’ll die, Iris, he’ll die a young man. That’s what we do know.”
“Oh dear girl, dear girl,” Iris said, putting her arms out. “No one should have to bury a child. Oh Gracie, come here.”
Grace sat down on the floor, her head in Iris’s lap, and sobbed. Iris sat quietly, stroked her hair, said “there there” now and then. Afterwards, Grace felt lighter, as if relieved of a burden. She blew her nose and got back up onto the chair but held on to Iris’s hand.
“Tea,” Iris said. “I’ll make some tea.”
Grace let Iris go. She sat looking out to the yard, found it strangely new. Iris brought the cups out and then the pot. Grace didn’t even realise she should have been helping.
When Iris sat down again, she said, “I don’t know much, Grace, but I know you’ll get through this. You’re so strong. You’ve always been strong. And you’ll get through.”
“Well, I have to. There’s Henry to be cared for.”
“Exactly. That’s your job now. Poor little Henry. That’s how I managed about Rose. There was you to be cared for.” She smiled and squeezed Grace’s hand.
Grace wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “There’s a chance Henry’s condition is hereditary,” she said. “I’m just wondering if it’s in our family. Were there men in your mother’s family who died young?”
“I really don’t know,” Iris said. “What about David?”
“If men carry the faulty gene, they have the condition. Only women can be non-symptomatic. It might make a difference to us having more children if we knew. And to the girls, of course. Who might know?”
“My mother had a sister, Veronica. She came to stay with us. But I don’t think she had any children. There were no boys in their family. And I really don’t know anything about my mother’s mother.”
“And your brother Tom?”
Iris looked stricken suddenly. She didn’t speak, just stared at Grace. “Tom,” she said finally. She put her hand to her chest.
“Your brother,” Grace said, as if Iris had forgotten who he was.
“My brother,” Iris said.
Grace waited. “Of course,” Iris said. “Oh God, dear God.”
“What?” Grace said.
Iris was shaking her head slightly. She opened her mouth as if to speak and then closed it again, covering it with her hand. “Tom,” she said finally. She sighed, a long sad sigh. “Tom was shot in the last days of the war,” she said. “Oh Grace.”
Iris
I didn’t want to talk to anyone but Miss Ivens about my plan. Although some of the women might object to another man working at the hospital, I was sure Miss Ivens would see it differently. But when Marjorie and I returned from Nice, Miss Ivens was away in Paris so I couldn’t speak to her straightaway.
I saw Violet and told her Marjorie’s idea. “That’s ridiculous, Iris,” she said. “Tom will never go for something as stupid as that.” She was annoyed at me. I didn’t understand and wondered if she had heard news about the scholarship and Miss Ivens’s decision.
I was hurt. “Well, of course he will, Violet. He loves helping out here. And Quoyle and the others, they think he’s wonderful.”
“I imagine you’ll do what you think is best for you, Iris,” Violet said. I felt certain then she must have been told about the scholarship.
“Violet, I didn’t ask Miss Ivens to be my sponsor.”
“Sponsor for what?” she said, looking at me. And then I was confused. If she didn’t know about the scholarship, why was Violet so angry with me? “What’s the matter, Violet?” I said.
“Nothing,” she said. “I must get back to Senlis.”
She left then and I remained confused and unable to settle down to work, worried about Tom and now wondering what on earth I’d done to offend Violet.
And then Quoyle came down to the office to tell me I’d had a note from Tom, delivered by courier the day I’d left to go to Nice. I took the note and went out to the cloister on my own to read.
It seems I’m in a bit of trouble, Iris. I’m sure it will be sorted out but if you get time, come and see me. I’m being held in Chantilly.
That was all it said. Held in Chantilly? What on earth has he done now? I thought. Probably some silly prank. I had a feeling Lieutenant Michaels wouldn’t be as lenient as Captain Driscoll when it came to boys and pranks.
I went to find Mrs. Berry and ask her for leave. “Go,” she said. “Whatever could be the matter? He’s a postman, isn’t he?” I nodded yes but kept thinking of my last conversation with Tom. Had he managed to arrange a transfer and then become worried? I just didn’t know.
I went over to the garage. Violet wasn’t there—she was in Senlis, I remembered now—but Marjorie Starr was going to Chantilly within an hour to pick up some supplies for Dr. Dalyell. We went together. On the way, snow started falling and I remembered the first day I’d arrived at Royaumont, when snow was so new. Marjorie started into a rendition of a song about a bear and I soon caught on and we sang together. I was still in high spirits and had decided I’d tell Tom about our idea, that he could come to Royaumont. I was so sure Miss Ivens would say yes. He could leave Chantilly and come to help us. We needed him so much, I would say.
We arrived at around two. I found Lieutenant Michaels in the canteen. He was sitting at a table with several other officers, soft-looking young men, drinking tea.
He stood up. “Tom Crane,” he said. He put his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry to say your brother has died, Miss Crane.”
His words went in but I didn’t hear them. “I’m looking for Tom,” I said. “He’s here.”
Lieutenant Michaels looked at me again. “Tom Crane is dead.”
“Dead,” I repeated, as if the word might help us understand what he meant.
“I am not at liberty to disclose details,” Michaels said carefully, his colleagues standing now too as if in his defence. “Your brother was found guilty of cowardice.”
Marjorie was by my side, holding my elbow firmly. I’m sure had she not been there I’d have fainted. “What are you talking about?” I said.
Michaels could give me no further information, he said.
“But you must,” I said. “He’s my brother. What happened?”
“I am sorry, Miss Crane. You will have to go through the correct channels to request information about your brother.”
“He’s in your unit, sir. A postal worker. What’s happened?” This was Marjorie.
Michaels was unmoved. “I have told you what I am at liberty to tell you. You must go through channels. And now, I must ask you to leave.”
Marjorie looked at Michaels. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “Iris, we’ll go back to Royaumont. Miss Ivens will know what to do.” Marjorie herself was shaking and crying but I don’t think she believed it either. Somehow, she managed to get me outside. I vomited over the snow, which was falling more heavily now, large soft flakes that fell on our faces and hair. We walked back towards the truck. I wanted to stay there and watch the snow. I felt disembodied, as though I was no longer part of the world, almost as if I was the snow. Marjorie took my arm firmly again and told me we had to go back to Royaumont straightaway, that Miss Ivens would be back from Paris and she would fix it. I believed her. I believed Miss Ivens would know what to do, how to find Tom. I remember the noise of the truck as Marjorie started it up. We hadn’t picked up the supplies we’d come to get and I remember thinking Miss Ivens would be disappointed in us. The black trunks of trees, the grey sky, the dead dead landscape of murdered France.
Miss Ivens tried to make me drink sweet tea. “You’re in shock, dear,” she was saying as she rubbed my back and held the cup to my mouth. I couldn’t hold it myself for the shaking and I couldn’t get my lips around the rim, even if I’d wanted to. I knew I’d vomit if anything was put in my stomach. I couldn’t stop shaking, I couldn’t talk. Marjorie Starr was on my other side, telling Miss Ivens what details she’d been able to glean. “It was a firing squad,” she said. “A British firing squad. They say he was a coward, Miss Ivens, but how can that be?” I saw Miss Ivens put her finger to her lips and shake her head at Marjorie.
“Thank goodness you’re here.” Miss Ivens spoke to someone at the door. I turned and saw it was Violet. “Iris has had some terrible news, dear. Her brother Tom has been killed.”
“Oh oh oh,” Violet said, and grabbed the wall to steady herself. Marjorie went to help her.
Miss Ivens stayed by me. “Oh Iris, dear Iris, this is the last thing you deserve.”
I heard Miss Ivens’s words. I would hear words like them many times over the next days and weeks and months. Everyone knew why I’d originally come to France. I’d come to take my brother home. And while I’d done something good instead, I’d served at Royaumont and had made a difference, already the hard nub was forming itself in my brain. I am my brother’s keeper. I am my brother’s keeper and my brother is dead. And I have killed him just as surely as if I had been one of the riflemen on that firing squad that shot him.
I thought of Daddy then, or saw him, early in the morning, riding out from Risdon. The sun’s not even up. He has bread from the baker in town, a flask of bitter coffee that Claire has made; she’s arisen especially even though she’s been up with the twins in the night. Later it will be a hot day, but for now it’s cool and clear. Daddy rides off to the boundary where the fence is down again—cows have made their way through from the neighbours’.
Around seven, Garth arrives at the house, finds Claire out the back hanging the washing, and then rides off into the morning after Daddy. Claire’s face I can’t imagine. She wants to go too, to leave the twins in their beds and ride with Garth. She holds back not because of
her own boys but because she respects this other family she’s fallen into. Still, she wants so much to cushion the blow. She sits silently at the kitchen table staring at the coffeepot she cannot bear to pour a cup from.
Garth finds Daddy easily. To the east, Risdon is flat forever and the height of a man stands out for miles. Daddy is watching as Garth approaches. He’s holding the mallet on one side. His other tools are on the ground around him. Garth gets down from his horse. His eyes are grey, a kind rather than cold grey but he has no kind words. What words are there? he will ask his wife later. He hands Daddy the telegram and says, “I brought it out here,” because he doesn’t know what else to say. Daddy tells him to go but Garth doesn’t leave. “Go,” Daddy says, more forcefully this time. It’s enough. He waits while Garth gets back on his horse, waits as Garth rides away, waits until he can’t see Garth for the house. Then he rips the telegram open quickly. Iris or Tom? That’s all he wants to know. Later he wonders why that mattered, wishes he’d just waited a little while, finished this length of fence he’s on, tricky to get around the fig tree, hammered the post, nailed the wire. Tom always did the nailing.
I don’t remember the days that followed. Soon after returning to Royaumont, I was taken to bed, undressed. I felt fevers and chills in quick succession, as if my whole body was revolting against the truth. Many of the women looked in on me. I remember Marjorie Starr and Dr. Henry but not the others. “He was such a wonderful boy,” Marjorie said. “And such a bright spark. I can’t believe they’d do that. I just can’t.” I asked after Violet but she didn’t come.
Miss Ivens called in to see me. She’d been to Chantilly, she said, with senior officers from the Croix-Rouge. They had met with the British officer who had court-martialled and sentenced Tom. “As I understand it, there was another soldier, not your brother, another one, a British soldier, who had run off from battle and was found guilty of desertion, which, apparently, is punishable by death. Your brother was ordered to be part of the firing squad. He refused and was himself charged with cowardice and found guilty. As far as I can tell, he refused because he thought it was wrong to shoot his own.
In Falling Snow Page 34
