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The mustard gas has left him quick to breathlessness and wheezy vibrato. Ever alert to his discomfort, Frances lifts her head from William's sternum where she's been listening to his heartbeat, her hair spread etiolate across his chest and belly. She raises herself onto an elbow, as, with her other hand, she glides her expert fingertips over his naked body, leaving a trail of faintest twitching and yearning. "Is that how you imagined it would be for Edith and her father?" she says.
"Just about."
"Not a single tear rolling down her cheek to dampen her starched bosom?" She pouts and teases, flaunting her own breasts as she does.
"No." He's certain. "Not one."
"Poor Willie."
He stops the journey of her hand and brings it back to rest on his chest; she'll understand he can't start again so soon. "I hardly think so. Poor Edith. I think I am the luckiest man alive."
William is weak and sleepy. He scans the room from his pillow. It's as though the artist has created everything differently from how he'd dreamed it would be – the bedding, the ornate washstand, the French voices rising uncomprehended from the street.
His eyelids close, he needs to rest. Frances releases him, pulls the covers over his body and wraps his greatcoat around herself. He doesn't hear her tiptoe across the room, just the precise opening of the blinds, a compromise of the light she needs and penumbra, like convalescents' gruel, for him. He drifts off, back to the sucking quagmire of the trench, to the dinophony of blasting shells, and the hellfire of magnesium and phosphorus that rendered every man eyeless. William thrashes as the stench of destruction returns to his nostrils, but reins in his moaning to a whimper. He doesn't scream out so much anymore, and Frances knows when he should be left alone and when she should run to cradle him.
There's a small scrape when she pulls her chair to the table, the twisting of cogs as a sheet of paper is drawn into the machine. From his stupor, William follows her progress. She presses the keys slowly and deliberately. Clack clack clack, letter by letter, the story of otherwise is impressed onto the filmy paper.
Note
The characters and story in this novella are fictional and no claims are made for historical accuracy. However, certain facts are relevant:
New Zealand, which operated a system of conscription by ballot, suffered the highest per capita losses of the Allied countries in the First World War.
The influenza epidemic killed almost 9000 people in New Zealand (but didn't occur until October 1918).
Elizabeth Napier was acquitted of failing to pay the South African poll tax, which was uniquely payable by African men. Despite a District Surgeon declaring Napier to be a man, the magistrate was sufficiently unpersuaded to refer the matter the High Court. In the light of the magistrate's doubts, Napier was acquitted. Certain of the magistrate's observations are used in paraphrase.
The author would like to thank Gordon Halsey for correcting certain historical errors; any that remain are solely attributable to the author. Sources, which are not responsible for any historical inaccuracies, include:
Eldred-Grigg, Stephen. (1984). Pleasures of the Flesh: Sex and Drugs in Colonial New Zealand 1840-1915. Wellington: Reed.
King, Michael. (2004). Penguin History of New Zealand. Auckland: Penguin.
Pugsley, Christopher. (2004). The ANZAC Experience: New Zealand, Australia and Empire in the First World War. Auckland: Reed.
Te Ara. The Encyclopedia of New Zealand. www.teara.govt.nz
About the author
Jonathan M Barrett lives and teaches in Wellington, New Zealand. He has written plays, novels and short stories.
Liberation Theology
The Ball
Accident Report
Uses of Agapanthus
House Hunting
Key Note Speaker
The Measure of Gary Mooney
Otherwise Page 8
