Toby's Room

by Pat Barker

  Tonks came back into the room. ‘Ah, I see you’ve found my Rogues’ Gallery.’

  She thought she detected reserve, even disapproval, in his voice. ‘I’m sorry, I – I realize they’re not on display.’

  ‘No, don’t worry, you’d be amazed how many people see them. Though I like to think they’re mainly surgeons.’ A pause. ‘I’d be quite interested to hear what you think.’

  Tonks wanted her opinion of his work? That was bad enough, but the awful truth was she didn’t have one. She didn’t know how to react to images which seemed to call for several different kinds of response. In the end she just said, simply: ‘I don’t know how to look at them.’

  ‘Well, they are –’

  ‘No, I don’t mean I can’t bear to look at them; I mean, I don’t know how. I don’t know what I’m looking at – a man or a wound.’

  ‘Both, I hope. You know, even when I was a very young doctor going round the wards I always saw them like that. On the one hand there’s a patient with a problem you have to solve, or at least try to solve, but there’s also the person.’ He stood back, looking along the row of faces. ‘I can’t not see both.’

  Somebody knocked on the door.

  ‘That’ll be tea, I expect. You do look rather pale. Is there anything else I can get you?’

  ‘No, I’m all right, thank you.’ She pointed to one of the portraits. ‘How on earth do you repair that?’

  ‘Actually, that’s not too difficult because basically it’s a flesh wound. This one. Well, I’m not sure even Gillies can do much for him.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘Come on, tea.’

  ‘How do you find the time to do all this?’ she said, when they were settled in chairs on opposite sides of his desk.

  ‘Not easily. I do one day a week, two if I can manage it, but it’s not nearly enough. You have to do drawings when they first arrive, then you’re in theatre during the operations, and then there are the post-op drawings. And the portraits.’ He reached for a file. ‘Of course we take photographs as well. Look at this, this is a really good result. There’s a little bit of puckering, but Gillies thinks he can get rid of that. And when you think what the poor devil came in with …’ He handed her another photograph.

  ‘My God. That’s amazing.’

  ‘He’d been very badly stitched up at another hospital. I’m afraid that’s what happened to Mr Neville.’ He offered her a slice of cake. ‘Probably stale, I’m afraid. How did you find him?’

  ‘Same old Kit. You know, he served in France with my brother. Kit was one of his stretcher-bearers. I was hoping he’d be able to give me some more information. You see, Toby was posted “Missing, Believed Killed” and that’s really hard. I mean, I look at one of the men there, that one … He couldn’t tell anybody who he was.’

  ‘He could write –’

  ‘It makes me wonder if it’s possible for a man to just disappear into the system, never be able to identify himself.’

  ‘That’s what identity discs are for.’

  ‘I know, I’m being silly.’

  ‘You’ve also got to ask yourself if you’d want your brother to be alive in that state. A lot of these men are real heroes – but I look at some of them, the worst cases, and I know if it was me I’d rather be dead.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. I’d only want him back if he could be the person he used to be before it all started.’

  ‘I’m not sure any of us can manage that.’

  ‘I used to think I could.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes, for a long time. I was determined I was going to ignore the whole thing.’

  ‘Was?’

  She shook her head. ‘It gets you in the end.’

  ‘Have you ever thought about using your skills to … Well, do what I’m doing, I suppose?’

  She almost laughed.

  ‘I mean, here. With these men.’

  ‘I’d be completely useless.’

  ‘You did anatomy before the war. Dissection.’

  ‘You’re a surgeon.’

  ‘Most of the artists here have no medical training. Though I suppose you might find the operations distressing …’

  ‘No, I don’t think I would. Actually, I know I wouldn’t, I’d be absolutely fascinated.’

  ‘So then, why not?’

  Unconsciously, Elinor sighed. This was the usual question everybody asked her but it was coming now from the one person she felt she had to answer. ‘I’m trying not to have anything to do with the war.’

  Tonks waited for the silence to thicken. ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because it’s evil. Total destruction. Of everything. Not just lives, even. It’s like one of those combine harvester things, you know? Only it’s not cutting wheat …’

  ‘I doubt if you hate it more than I do.’

  ‘It’s like the pacifists. You know, some of them, the majority, take on work of “national importance” – bit of a joke sometimes, but never mind – and they go and work on a farm or in a hospital. But the others – the absolutists – won’t do that. They’d rather go to prison than contribute anything, anything at all, to the war. And I just think that’s a stronger position, it’s more logical, because the others are just pouring their little bits of oil on to the combine harvester and telling themselves there’s no blood on their hands because they’re not actually driving the wretched thing. And I know none of this applies to women but actually I think some of it does. So anyway that’s why I don’t contribute and … and I don’t paint anything to do with it. Because the war sucks that in too. And I don’t think it should be about that, I think painting should be about … celebration. Praise.’

  She came to an abrupt halt, realizing that she was lecturing Tonks – Tonks – on the subject of art.

  He was smiling at her, rather kindly she thought. ‘I wouldn’t disagree with you, I think a very large part of art is about celebration, but then you also have to paint what’s in front of you, don’t you? And your generation hasn’t been very lucky in that respect.’

  ‘Well, no, nor yours either. What could be worse than losing adult children?’

  ‘Mercifully I’m not at any personal risk there. One thing it might help you to think about … The men here, the process of rebuilding their faces takes so long, I don’t think many of them are going back to the front. If any. What we’re doing here is simply trying to get them back into civilian life with some hope of … being happy. That’s all. So you wouldn’t be pouring oil on to the combine harvester.’

  Reluctantly, she started to smile. ‘Yes, I know, sorry, it’s ridiculous. I’m just not good at explaining things.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Do you mind if I think about it?’

  ‘No, take as long as you like. Well, not quite. Why don’t you come in on Thursday and I’ll show you round? See what you think.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Early start, I’m afraid. Eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m up anyway. And now I think I’d better be getting back to Paul, he’ll wonder what’s happened to me.’

  At the door, Tonks held out his hand. ‘Sure you can find the way back? Just turn left at the end of the corridor and then it’s straight down till you get to the main entrance.’

  So where had that sense of a labyrinth come from? The waking nightmare, where now there was only sunshine slanting into a perfectly ordinary corridor. People in white coats came and went, and yes, once or twice she passed patients with terrible disfigurements, but not the Brueghel-like horde she’d seen advancing on her an hour or so ago. On her left, an imposing door led to what might once, she supposed, have been the library, or perhaps even a ballroom. A roar of laughter reached her, followed by a ripple of titters. Somebody was thumping away on a piano, while a trio of wobbly falsetto voices sang ‘Three Little Maids from School’. The song came to an end with another burst of laughter and applause.

  Paul was waiting for her in the garden, pacing angrily up and down. ‘Where on earth
have you been?’

  ‘Sorry, I got talking. Where’s Kit?’

  ‘Back on the ward. Long since.’

  ‘Did you get anything out of him?’

  ‘No, and I’m not sure there’s anything to get.’

  ‘Yes there is. And you know it.’

  ‘This isn’t helping you, you know. It just stops you –’

  ‘Go on. Stops me what?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No, go on. I’m interested.’

  ‘Moving on with your life.’

  ‘I am. Moving on.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Well, if you really want to know I just spent the last half-hour talking to Tonks and he’s offered me a job.’

  ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘Medical illustration.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘I wasn’t … I mean, I think you’d be very good at it.’ He waited. ‘Will you take it?’

  ‘I’m coming in on Thursday, I’ll know more then.’

  They set off down the drive. Up till now Elinor hadn’t seriously considered taking the job. In fact, she’d been trying to work out ways of refusing it without appearing to Tonks – whose opinion she valued more than anybody else’s – as egotistical, silly, uncaring and trivial. She thought she was quite possibly all these things, but she didn’t want Tonks thinking so. But then, Paul’s advice to ‘move on with her life’ had been incredibly irritating – not to mention trite – and, almost simultaneously, she’d realized that working at the hospital would give her unfettered access to Kit.

  ‘I probably will take it.’

  ‘Good.’

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Sixteen

  The following morning, after a sleepless night, Neville underwent his first operation.

  He came round to find himself alone in a small cubicle, not on the main ward as he’d been last night. Couldn’t move his hands. He pulled against the restraints and, when that didn’t work, let out a great bellow of rage.

  A face appeared above him.

  ‘Now, now, we mustn’t get ourselves upset, must we?’

  ‘Good God, woman, I’ve lost half my fucking face, why wouldn’t I be upset?’

  ‘Lang-widge!’

  He wanted to ask for water, but she went away and he was left crying big, fat baby tears of anguish and despair.

  He squinted down, trying to see if he had one of those tube things attached to the stump of his nose, and sure enough, there it was. Couldn’t remember what it was for, what it was supposed to do. He wanted to demand that they come back, explain, answer questions, give him a drink of water. There was water, in a jug on the bedside table, but he had no way of reaching it. He groaned with frustration.

  ‘They’ll give you some more morphine soon.’

  Knew that voice. Looking up, he saw an unfeasibly tall man preparing to jackknife himself into a chair. Tonks. My God, Henry Tonks.

  ‘Now I know I’m in hell.’

  Tonks laughed – which at least established he was real. All sorts of shadowy figures crowded the suburbs of Neville’s mind, or crept out of the darkness and pressed in on him. He coughed to scatter them.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m going to draw you.’

  ‘Oh, please, God, let me wake up.’

  Through the miasma of morphine, Neville was aware of the cadaverous figure leaning in close to get a better view.

  ‘Somebody,’ he said, as clearly and distinctly as he could manage, ‘has given me a trunk.’

  Tonks looked puzzled. ‘Oh, the pedicle.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The pedicle.’

  ‘That’s a chair leg, you idiot.’

  ‘I don’t think it is.’

  He flicked his swollen tongue across his lips. ‘How long do I have to be like this?’

  ‘Three weeks? Something like that.’

  ‘Fucking Elephant Man.’

  ‘I knew him,’ Tonks said, unexpectedly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Joseph Merrick. The Elephant Man. I was working at the London Hospital when he was living there. He didn’t look anything like that – and unfortunately, poor man, the flesh was rotting on him so there was the most appalling smell.’ He looked from Neville to his drawing pad and back again. ‘In spite of which, he was a great favourite with the ladies.’

  ‘Hope for me, then.’

  For a few minutes Tonks went on drawing in silence. Neville endured his gaze, hunched up, brooding bitterly over the fate that had brought him here.

  ‘All we need you to do is stay cheerful,’ Tonks said. ‘It’s a different sort of courage from what you need out there …’

  ‘I was never very brave out there.’

  ‘We-ell, you must’ve been facing the enemy when you got that.’

  ‘Pity, really, I could’ve spared a chunk of arse.’

  ‘There, that’s it, I’m done.’

  Neville was aware of the long frame unfolding itself. In a minute he’d be gone, and though he couldn’t bear to ask Tonks for help, he knew he must.

  ‘Would you mind giving me some water, please?’

  Tonks poured a glass and held it to his lips. Neville slurped it in, cringing with shame. He hated himself for being weak, though not nearly as much as he hated Tonks for witnessing it.

  ‘More?’

  Gulped, swallowed, gulped again. Blessed water dribbling down his chin, running into the creases on his neck.

  ‘Now try to sleep,’ Tonks said.

  His lids flickered shut, as if the word ‘sleep’ had been a hypnotist’s command. When he opened them again, Tonks was gone.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said to the nurse who came to wash him down, ‘I keep having these really weird dreams. I dreamt my old drawing teacher was here.’

  Not long after, the morphine began to wear off and for the next hour or so he could think of nothing but pain: pain in his chest, pain in his face, pain in the bloody tube where there wasn’t supposed to be pain. The injection went in just as he felt he might start to scream. Tube, trunk. Elephant. Darkness.

  When he came round, a tall, straight-backed woman with white hair was standing at the foot of his bed. Gillies was there too: Gillies, the surgeon, the elephant-maker, smiling obsequiously, inclining his droopy eyes and droopier moustache towards her. Their voices mingled: clipped, aristocratic English salted with Gillies’s Antipodean twang. Fellow sat on your bed, called you ‘honey’, called you ‘dear’, stuck a trunk on the end of your nose and tied you up so you couldn’t pull it off. Bloody good mind to tell him what he thought of him. He opened his mouth to protest, words bubbling up like sewage out of a blocked drain, and immediately the straight-backed lady was whisked away, and Sister Lang-widge! took her place.

  ‘Clench your fist for me now, there’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘Just a little, tiny prick …’

  Insult to injury. Bollocks like a bull, he wanted to say, but then, before he could speak, the darkness rushed in and the waters closed over his head.

  The bed started moving. He was travelling, seasick, train sick, didn’t know what sort of sick, sick anyway. There was a smell of engine oil. The officers had colonized all the best spaces: the lounge bar, the dining room. High-ranking officers had cabins; junior officers played cards in the bar. The men, other ranks, privates, the poor bloody fucking infantry – of whom he was one, a source of mingled pride and shame – slept in the corridors. There were puddles on the floor where rainwater had dripped off their capes as they settled in. Then the engines started up, everything shook, and the noise restored him, briefly, to his sweaty bed. Bound hands, the shadowy figures of nurses all around, Gillies’s face looming in. A crackle of speech, some of it addressed to him, but it faded and he was back on the ship, trying to make himself comfortable with his kitbag for a pillow and a buckle scraping his neck.

  Had to get up, get out of bed, get free. A
nd he managed it, he did, he stood up, he flexed his fingers and the next minute he was walking down the heaving corridor and climbing the stairs on to the deck.

  Cold air on his face. The stars formed clusters like apple blossom. He stood at the rail and opened his mouth to catch the salt spray: he seemed to be drinking stars. The ship was travelling without lights. Half a mile away, lean, predatory, grey destroyers loped along, almost invisible except where starlight caught the white foam of their wakes. Gradually, the wind off the sea cooled his hot flesh. He couldn’t go back down there, with the smells of engine oil and wet rubber and sweaty bodies; he’d find somewhere out of sight and stay on deck all night.

  Crouching in the shadow of a lifeboat, he felt sufficiently safe to drift off to sleep, though women’s voices kept snagging him awake.

  I don’t think he’ll need any more tonight, do you?

  No, he’s out for the count.

  Women on board? There must be a group of nurses going out. He rolled up his coat to form a pillow and slipped into a deeper sleep, from which he woke, jolted half out of his wits, because some blithering idiot had fallen over him.

  ‘Look where you’re going, you –’ Too late he registered the peaked cap. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Good God, it’s Neville, isn’t it?’

  Didn’t know the bloke from Adam. But then he took off the cap and there, impossibly, in army uniform with the caduceus badge of the RAMC on her chest, stood Elinor Brooke.

  Of course it bloody wasn’t. Fighting off the last vestiges of sleep, he said, ‘Captain Brooke, sir.’

  Brooke sat down on the deck beside him and offered him a cigarette. In civilian life, this would not have been remarkable – they did, after all, know each other through Elinor, though not very well – but here, where men were not supposed to address officers except in the presence of an NCO, it was unusual, to say the least. All Kit’s ambivalent feelings about not being an officer rose to the surface; he compensated by boasting about the extent of his experience with the Belgian Red Cross. He’d been in France in 1914, well before anybody else got there. French medical services on the verge of collapse, wounded sleeping on pissy straw, half a dozen orderlies to five hundred men, no supplies, that was the situation he’d found, and only three months later he’d been a dresser in a properly run hospital. And, though he said it as shouldn’t, a bloody good one too.