The Convalescent Corpse

by Nicola Slade

  ‘Ay suppose luncheon is included in your rates?’

  This was deliberate provocation because not only had I shown her the card I’d concocted, setting out our provisions in detail, but I had also hung a framed copy prominently in each room. I kept my temper. With difficulty.

  ‘Our rates cover bed, breakfast and evening meal,’ I told her politely. ‘The town boasts several tea shops which offer light lunches. There is a war on, and our guests understand that with food and fuel shortages, along with the servant problem, some compromises are necessary. We provide comfortable and sympathetic surroundings and if a lady is at home in the morning she is welcome to make herself a cup of coffee. We do not offer luncheon, and a light tea at four o’clock in the afternoon is an extra,’ I hurriedly added. ‘Most of our guests spend the afternoon at Groom Hall, where they are offered a cup of tea with the patients.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ she said again. ‘Do you expect me to do my own laundry? Or light the fire in my room?’

  I smiled sweetly and was pleased to see she was annoyed that I wasn’t browbeaten. I hadn’t taken to her. ‘The arrangements are set out in detail on the card in your room, Mrs Mortimer. The sheets and other large items are sent to the laundry on Monday; you can make a separate agreement with them for your own garments if you wish. There is a geyser in the bathroom and ladies are at liberty to wash out small items provided they do not inconvenience other guests or use all the hot water. As Spring is on the way the weather should start to improve but if there is a cold snap we can provide hot-water bottles. As to fires, the coal shortage is acute, as I’m sure you are aware, though so far we are managing with logs and kindling.’ (These were acquired free of charge from the woodland next door; without permission as it happens, but there was no need for the Gorgon to know that.)

  I steeled myself to be business-like and relieve her of the first week’s rent, although she looked with disdain at the distressingly grasping hand I held out. Alix had boldly knocked on the door of every hotel and lodging-house in town and demanded to know their rates and customs. Probably to their own surprise the hard-pressed landladies had given her the information she required. “Desperate to get rid of her,” Addy had muttered in an audible aside that sent our elder sister off in a flounce.

  I took a deep breath as I summoned up generations of noble ancestors to support me, albeit spectrally, and informed our first guest that we charged three guineas per person. In advance. To my astonishment, she made no comment apart from glowering at me and handed over the money.

  Sniffing disdainfully and grumbling loudly at the lack of a maid to do her unpacking, Mrs Mortimer took herself off to explore the entertainments on offer in Ramalley. These are as follows: five tea-shops including a dairy, all providing light meals; Bracewell’s Family Emporium which is a department store that clothes the town from cradle to grave; they sell perambulators and also own an undertaking business. There is a good hotel, The Station Hotel (not so good but well-patronised), two slightly less good hotels that are still reasonably comfortable, and seven public houses that would probably not be to her taste.

  No sooner had she steamed out of view than there was a ring at our own front door. It was the young officer, Captain Makepeace, leaning on a single crutch.

  ‘I hope you won’t think this too pushing, M-M-Miss Christabel,’ he stammered. ‘I’m supposed to take daily exercise now I’ve moved here and I’ve at last discarded one of my crutches. I noticed your address on that invitation of your mother’s and as it’s not much fun on my own I-I wondered if you would like to come for a walk with me one day. If you can spare the time, of course,’ he added hastily.

  I was taken aback. Alix pursues the opposite sex whenever she has the opportunity, which isn’t all that often because, brought up by Granny, Alix is too well-behaved to be anything but demure really, as we all are. Addy and I have little familiarity with young men or with men in general, apart from our brother and our father. And you could hardly use Papa as an example of how a gentleman should behave. I didn’t know what to say until common sense told me the poor young man must be horribly lonely, so I blushed and pulled myself together.

  ‘Do come in, Captain Makepeace.’ I held the door open wide. ‘I’d be happy to walk with you if you don’t mind the company of our dog. He loves a long ramble, but we don’t often have time to take him far. I’m afraid I can’t spare the time right now and he’s been out with Granny already today.’

  He looked crestfallen and I glanced at the grandfather clock that lurks in a dark corner of the hall and, incidentally, drives us demented with its irregular tick, tick, tick-tick, as well as its asthmatic chimes.

  He looked very pleased when I said, ‘If you don’t mind sitting in the kitchen, you could come and talk to me while I cook. I’ll make us both a cup of cocoa.’

  I gave a final stir to a basin of batter that was intended for drop scones and put it on the shelf in the larder, then brought out a second basin which was full of cold, cooked porridge that I’d saved from breakfast. I mixed it with a little flour and some tomato ketchup, chopped and fried an onion and stirred it in, then – while Henry Makepeace sat at the kitchen table fondling the dog’s head and watching me with fascinated eyes – I chopped a curly kale leaf very finely and mixed that in as well. He looked less anxious; there’s nothing like a dog or cat to help you to relax, so I carried on with my cooking.

  ‘I thought it might look like parsley,’ I explained, scraping the chopped kale off the board into my mixture. ‘At least it ought to relieve the overall greyness and make it look more appetising. This dish is an experiment. I spotted the recipe in a magazine the other day and we have plenty of oatmeal, so I decided to try it.’

  I rolled out the not particularly appetising mixture and cut it into rounds. ‘There. I’ll fry them now, then heat them through in the oven tonight for dinner. Let’s pray they make a fair occasional substitute for potatoes so we can offer some variety.’

  ‘It must be difficult for all of you,’ the young officer volunteered. ‘What with your father’s death, then Bertie’s too.’

  ‘Bertie – we still haven’t taken it in.’ I pursed my lips and washed up the rolling pin and basin. ‘I don’t believe we ever will.’ I shook my head and quickly fried the savoury oat cakes, I thought we would call it an original recipe from Granny’s Scottish home. When they were done I set them on a baking tray in the larder and shooed the cat, Bodie, away from her vigil at the mouse-hole.

  ‘Oh, good grief…’ The exclamation rang out and Captain Makepeace looked startled at the sound of his own voice. ‘I’d quite forgotten what I came down to tell you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ I recalled that I had promised him a drink so I put the milk pan on the stove and took down two cups and saucers from the dresser. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s something rather beastly, really,’ he looked forlorn. ‘Poor Trevelyan died in the night, quite unexpectedly.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I stared at him. ‘That is beastly.’ Then I frowned. ‘You know my sister and I were up at the Hall last night?’

  ‘I thought… you mean it was real?’ He blushed and added, ‘I dreamed you were there, holding my hand.’

  It was my turn to blush and I nodded. ‘You were restless so I gave you a drink of water, but you weren’t properly awake.’ I let the matter of hand-holding drop but he smiled shyly at me and I hastened to explain why Alix and I had been on duty.

  ‘Matron sent us home early,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I think you were asleep and Lt Trevelyan had stopped screaming shortly before. When did he die, poor chap?’

  Captain Makepeace looked thoughtful. ‘They think it can’t have been very long before six o’clock,’ he said. ‘Hutton did his usual round and found that the poor ba… I mean the poor fellow was still warm.’

  ‘But…’ I was shaken. ‘It was quarter-to when we left; he might already have been dead by then. Was there no warning? What did Dr Pemberton say?’

  ‘Noth
ing of any use,’ he shrugged. ‘He talked a great deal about delayed shock and latent damage to the spine that can affect the nervous system, but I don’t believe he has a clue. Personally, I think Trevelyan decided there was nothing left for him and simply turned his face to the wall.’ His mouth twisted in a bitter smile that made him look much older. ‘It happens, you know. I’ve seen other fellows do that very thing, so…’

  ‘Alix and I could have… there can’t have been anyone with him when he died,’ I whispered, feeling sick.

  ‘What is it?’ He stood up awkwardly and limped over to stand beside me at the sink, looking puzzled and anxious. ‘Why have you gone so pale? I don’t imagine Trevelyan suffered at the end. You were there last night so you’ll know how our nights are punctuated by screams and shouts. The chaps relive old battles and their own injuries, but I woke now and then and didn’t hear anything unusual. People are always wandering about, you know, it relieves the pain a little – sometimes, at any rate.’

  He took my hand clumsily and asked again, ‘What is it? You’re trembling.’

  ‘You mentioned nightmares,’ I whispered. ‘And yes, I heard them screaming last night but I… It seems such a little thing compared with all that you – and the others have suffered, but I have a horrible recurring dream.’

  I closed my eyes briefly. ‘The telegram said Missing believed killed but Bertie’s CO wrote to tell us there was no question about it, Bertie was certainly dead. Just after we heard I bumped into a girl I used to know at school. Her father was killed last year and her brother not long after. She…’ I swallowed and went on. ‘She told me what she’d heard about… what it’s like over there, in the trenches – her brother had told her. I wish she hadn’t told me, but she couldn’t stop; she went on and on. I heard she was very ill after that and I think she’s gone away into the country.

  ‘That’s why, night after night, I’m over there in France and I know that Bertie is lying out in the darkness in No Man’s Land. It’s so cold and the mud is sucking him down. He’s terribly wounded and dreadfully lonely, all he wants is to come home. In my dream I know that if I can only find a way to crawl across the mud, scramble past the barbed wire and dodge the enemy guns, I’ll find him and bring him safely back here. But I can’t save him. I always wake up too soon.’

  I dissolved into tears, which is very unlike me, and I felt his arm go round me awkwardly while he murmured soothing words.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he said quietly when the tears stopped. ‘Not for Bertie. I met one of his chaps a couple of days after it happened, and he told me. He was in an awful state, crying like a baby. “We all liked young Mr Fyttleton,” he said. “For all he was just a lad, he was a good officer.” He was Bertie’s sergeant and he told me he saw the shell that came over. It took out Bertie and the corporal alongside him but there was no time for them to have felt a thing, or even know what hit them. They died instantly.’

  He stood quietly but I could feel him taut with apprehension, so I didn’t ask the question he must have dreaded. No, I didn’t ask him whether Bertie was blown to smithereens because I knew – we all knew – that he must have been. There was no body to be found and Bertie could never come home.

  ‘Thank you, Captain Makepeace,’ I stammered. ‘It was very kind of you to tell me that. Comforting… I’ll try to remember it and perhaps the nightmares will stop. Please sit down and I’ll make that cocoa. I’m all right now.’

  At that moment the milk came to the boil so I blew my nose loudly and fiddled about with our drinks, then put his cup and saucer in front of him on the table while I sat down opposite. A kitten clambered on to my lap. (It’s an occupational hazard in our house, you’ll always find a cat or two on your lap or in your bed.)

  I looked up to see him watching the kitten.

  ‘I’m hoping the lodgers won’t mind cats,’ I said. ‘And I’m praying that nobody sits on a kitten by accident. I think we’ll be all right as long as they don’t make a mess on anyone’s bed or present them with a mouse. We’ll try to keep the door shut but you know what cats are like.’

  ‘I’ve never had a pet.’ He held his finger out to the other kitten that was now climbing up his trouser leg. ‘Do they have names?’

  ‘They used to be named alphabetically,’ I smiled at the memory. ‘When we got to Zebulon Bertie started on royal names, beginning with Boadicea. Our occasional gardener used to dispose of kittens – though we never liked to ask how he did it – but since he went off to the war the cat population’s increased. He’s been discharged now so I’m hoping he’ll stem the tide. These two are Saxon royalty, Harald and Tostig.’

  I watched him playing with the kitten and was glad to see him relax. ‘Do you want to talk about poor Mr Trevelyan?’ I asked diffidently, remembering his earlier distress.

  He sat silent for a moment then he laced his fingers in and out, clearly lost in thought. Eventually he sighed.

  ‘I’ve lost so many people.’ His voice was quiet, reflective. ‘My brother, several friends, two commanding officers, my men – you don’t get hardened, never think that, but you have to protect yourself. We sound callous sometimes. Trevelyan, though… I can’t say I got to know him, poor chap. How could I in three days and with him as he was, but his bed was next to mine so I felt a kind of kinship. A sort of “there but for the grace of God…”’

  A sudden grin lightened his face and made him look like a boy again. ‘I’m amazed Matron asked you and your sister to spend the night, I’d have thought she’d be horrified at the idea of such young ladies and officers’ beds being mentioned in the same breath, let alone have you there on duty.

  ‘Matron disapproves of any unauthorised prowling, but the nurses and orderlies are decent types. They know how restless we all get so they don’t make anything of it when the chaps wander about. Well, you’ll have seen what it’s like.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I wish I’d known Trevelyan was so nearly… Last night I was jolting in and out of sleep, half the time not sure where I was – you know?’

  I bent my head. I did know.

  ‘There was the usual racket, but I’ve not been sleeping so Dr Pemberton prescribed a sedative and early bedtime. I was muzzier than usual but not completely out of it and I could hear Trevelyan screaming, poor devil. It was only my third night there but it had been the same Friday and Saturday too. Last night his screams were mixed up with the dream I was having, that you were holding my hand.’

  We both blushed but he continued earnestly. ‘I got very muddled, but I could hear people moving about, getting in and out of bed, that kind of thing. Happens every night and we usually try not to disturb the others but we’re not always careful; too wrapped up in our own concerns, I suppose. I kept dozing off but I had an idea somebody skirted my bed and stood beside Trevelyan. It wasn’t you, was it?’

  He smiled when I shook my head. ‘I don’t know if you remember but Trevelyan’s bed was set back inside the round room, with mine quite near it, but in the main room. The way in there is narrow and anyone seeing to him has – had – to go past me; it can be awkward. To make matters worse Matron insists on having a table there and as there’s not much of an aisle, it’s a blessed nuisance. They say she used to have vases of flowers on it, which was a nice thought, but they kept getting knocked over so she relented but insisted the tables must stay. Everyone blunders into them at night when there’s only a low light. Last night I was vaguely aware that someone was up and about and tip-toeing past my bed, because I heard a bump and a muttered exclamation.’

  I wasn’t sure what to make of this, but he looked at his wristwatch and sighed.

  ‘What I’m trying to say – there might have been someone with him after all, so please don’t be upset. I think it was getting lighter outside so it must have been nearly morning though I might have dreamed it. I hope someone was there at the last. Nobody said anything this morning when he was found, but that’s not unusual. You stay with a man so he doesn’t die alone, but you don’t boast ab
out it. Why would you? It happens all the time, and I’d have done it if I’d known it was his time.

  He looked upset so I changed the subject. ‘How does it happen that you’re at Groom Hall?’ I asked. ‘Do you have any local connections? Or did you just go where you were sent?’

  ‘My godfather lives in Ramalley,’ he explained. ‘He’s down as my next-of-kin so when I was due to leave Netley it seemed logical to come here. He’s a sort of cousin on my grandfather’s side of the family though I haven’t seen him since Father’s funeral eighteen months ago. We had a long talk then and I wrote to him the other day. He replied very kindly to say that he’d be happy to discuss my future when I’m ready. I hope he’ll take me on, he’s a solicitor; his firm is Makepeace & Makepeace.’

  ‘Of course, I’ve heard of them,’ I exclaimed. ‘Their office is in the Square in town and we had dealings with them when our neighbour died recently. Is your godfather Mr Makepeace or Mr Makepeace?’

  ‘Neither – both!’ He looked more cheerful now. ‘He was the Junior Partner until his father died last year and although he’s now the Senior Partner, he’s still known as Young Mr Edgar.’

  ‘He’s young?’ I was surprised. ‘You said he was your grandfather’s cousin.’

  ‘He’s young by their standards; his father was ninety-five and worked right up till his death just before Christmas. Until then Cousin Edgar – he’s a second cousin – was the youngest person in the whole office, he’s sixty-two now. His new secretary is in her fifties though they’ve recently taken on a couple of younger clerks.’

  ‘Good gracious, you’ll liven them up, won’t you? When is your birthday, Captain Makepeace?’

  ‘I’ll be twenty-one on the first of May, but I wish you’d call me Henry.’

  ‘Then you must call us by our first names. Your birthday’s only a few weeks away, I’ll make you a special cake.’