‘Part of your billet got it, but your kitchens are left. That’s the main thing.’ She smiled her impish smile as she added, ‘You can sleep standing up as long as your belly’s full. And by the way, thank your mother for the cheese; that was real cheese. You’re lucky. I hope there’s another parcel waiting for you.’
All he could manage was a short laugh before he turned from her. But he was thinking, I must put a stop to those parcels. They’re really worse off over there than we are here. Janie must be sending the butter and cheese from the farm…But then, if he stopped the parcels, he’d miss the fruit-loaf. Good God! Fancy thinking about fruit-loaf after the experiences of the last twenty-four hours. Just let him get into that bunk, that’s all he wanted right now. Sleep. Sleep …
But he wasn’t to get straight into his bunk, for he was stopped by Jim with the order that he was to report to the officer in charge, one William Haslett.
William Haslett told him what he already knew: he would not be on duty for the next twenty-four hours. When, however, he added, ‘After one more train run you’ll be due for seven days’ leave. I bet you’ll be glad to see home again,’ the man was not a little amazed when Gerald said, ‘I won’t be going that far.’
‘You…you won’t? Why not?’
‘For the simple reason that if I got there I’d not come back.’
Gerald had delivered this with a wry smile, as one might a joke. But it was no joke, for he knew that once home he would never return to this hell-hole. He also knew that he could not possibly take that risk for he wasn’t brave enough to stand the result, a term in gaol. He was sure, too, he would even be unable to face the reception he understood still awaited the conscientious objector in England.
He could not believe that it was just on a year since he left the Hall; and yet all his life beforehand now seemed a hazy dream. Sometimes he could not visualise clearly even his mother’s face. As for Janie, her letters were perky enough but did nothing to bring back the real picture of her.
William Haslett had been staring at him and his mouth opened twice as if he were searching for words; and then he said, ‘It was dreadful about Sprite. He’s going to be an awful loss,’ to which Gerald nodded, saying, ‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’
‘But there,’ said Haslett now, ‘you’re all well acquainted with first aid and I’ll get Doctor Blane to have a talk with you and advise you on’—he stopped—‘well, anything that you might be able to do…further, I mean when it comes to handling drugs.’
When there was no comment on this, and taking in the blank look on Gerald’s face, he ended quickly, ‘Ah, well, we’ll see about it. All you want now, I suppose, is your bunk.’
‘Yes, you’ve said it,’ said Gerald. ‘That’s all I want now,’ and turned away, leaving the man thinking: stiff-neck. Odd fellow. Surprise me if he lasts out.
David was waiting for him outside the hut, and his first words were, ‘Seven days. Think of it laddie, seven days.’
But Gerald did not comment on this particular statement; instead, he said, ‘You talk quite a bit to him’—he jerked his head back—‘why don’t you suggest he takes a ride along with us on the next trip? And the one after that…And the next…’
David surveyed Gerald for a moment before he said gravely, ‘If you had put that question to Jim, him with his kind heart, he would have said, “Oh, well, he does good work here.” There’s a lot of organising to be done one way or another. We’re quite a big unit, you know. But since you ask me, I’d say simply it’s got something to do with his guts.’ Then his voice changing, he said, ‘But anyway, let’s forget our dear organiser and think of Blighty.’
‘I won’t be going across, David.’
David looked at him for a moment in disbelief before exclaiming, ‘In the name of God! why not?’
‘Well, I must say to you as I said to him’—he now thumbed towards the hut—‘once over there I wouldn’t come back.’
‘Oh, you would, lad, you would.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t come back. No! No! I couldn’t, and because of that I know I must not go over, for there would be worse in store once they caught up with me. So, I ask myself, why do I criticise old William? Because if the truth was known my guts are in a worse state than his.’
‘Never! You’d come back because you would know you were needed. That’s what keeps you going here. Quite candidly, I’ve always thought you’ve got more compassion in your little finger than I’ve got in both hands. Come on. Come on, lad, make up your mind. I mean…you needn’t go home. We could have a good time in London. Come to my place. I’ve a mother who’s as skittish as a kitten. She’s kicking fifty. The last time I saw her she was holding dances for our “dear boys”, together with Lady this and the Honourable that. She’d introduce you to some piece who would assuredly make you forget…’
Now Gerald pushed him none too gently, saying, ‘You’re wasting your breath. Anyway, get yourself to bed. I’m telling you, if you keep me standing here talking any longer, you’ll have to carry me to my bunk…See you in twenty-four hours’ time, boy.’ And with this he went to his bunk. But as Susie had predicted, he did not sleep for the full twenty-four hours.
It had been seven in the morning when he lay down, and he woke up at six in the evening. After a good wash, he had a meal, then returned to his hut and wrote to his mother and also to Janie.
They were not long letters now, just terse notes telling them he was very busy, and that he didn’t like moonlight nights. He made a joke about this. And he asked his mother how she was putting up with the soldiers she now had in her house.
In his letter to Janie, he thanked her for being such a companion to his mother. And he ended it, saying, ‘Don’t be as generous with your butter and cheese et cetera. We get enough to tuck in here.’ Which was far from the truth.
Having made the letters ready for the post, he then put on his greatcoat, his cap and a muffler, and went out for a walk. The air was cold and bracing and the moonlight was hazy.
He went down what had once been a village street but which now, apart from two houses, both roofless, had nothing to indicate anyone had ever lived there. Where the road led beyond the village it was bordered on both sides by fields, which no longer held crops but were pockmarked with craters, black-holed craters. Further along stood a farmhouse, intact except that part of the roof had slates missing, and also seemingly quite untouched was a barn, from which came the sound of cattle mooing.
At the sound, Gerald made a small motion of disbelief with his head, as he had done a number of times before, wondering how they had escaped, not only the bombs but the butcher’s knife. There was no sound of cackling hens, which was understandable: hens were easy target for the pot. He recalled that he had once been put on guard at night to protect their meagre stores from a new company of soldiers that had just arrived. What he would have done if a few of them had set about him he didn’t know, because, of course, he didn’t carry a rifle. Food seemed to be the priority of everyone these days. It didn’t matter about the sameness of it as long as it filled you up.
He had walked some distance when the moon appeared again, and he told himself he should turn about and make for the camp: it was the sort of night those fellows over there might make full use of, even so, the influence of the moon set his mind singing:
The moon has raised her lamp above
To light the way to thee my love …
To light…the way…to thee…my love.
However, the Dictator, as he thought of that inner voice that was constantly getting at him these days, suddenly said, Enough of that!
He was passing by the farm again when he saw a figure coming out of the farmhouse door he instantly recognised as Susie. She was carrying a can.
Having heard his footsteps, then recognised him, she shook hands with the small round figure of the farmer’s wife, before hurrying towards him. He greeted her with: ‘Been on the scrounge again?’
‘She’s been very kind. G
uess what I’ve got in my pocket? But don’t come too near me.’
He said, ‘A chicken?’ well knowing that it couldn’t be.
‘You’re getting warm.’
‘Never!’
‘Well, not a chicken but a couple of eggs.’
‘I thought they hadn’t any fowl left.’
‘She’s a wise woman. She’s got half a dozen penned up in the back of the house.’
He laughed. ‘And you found out so she’s had to bribe you.’
‘No, I didn’t find out. Well, I mean, after she gave me two eggs and I looked at them in amazement, she took me by the hand and into the back place, and there they were, six females, and very contented, even though their husbands had been polished off some time ago. But nevertheless, they were singing to themselves…Have you ever heard a hen sing? They do, you know.’
He made no further comment, and they walked on in silence for some moments before she said, ‘I wish I’d laid some money on my bet. It wasn’t even twelve hours, was it?’
‘No; but nearly. Anyway, I feel a little more like myself; although that is no credential for saneness.’
‘You really were all in, weren’t you? You’ve hardly had a full night’s sleep in the last three or four trips.’
Another silence ensued before he said, ‘How do you stand it out here, Susie?’
‘Oh, well, I stand it the same as the others do: it’s got to be done. And anyway, with all the muck, misery, blood and gore, I’d rather be here than back home, because I look upon most of the fellows I handle as heroes.’ She paused then added, ‘I mightn’t if I had known them when they were whole and had to listen to their inane jabber. But when they are helpless and suffering, and when you hear a man crying below his breath for his mother…They all say it in different ways: or Mam, or Mammy, or just Ma. Some of them jabber their wife’s name. And then they come round a bit and say, “Oh, nurse, was I chattering?” Ashamed of their weakness. Sometimes I want to put my arms around them, or even’—she now pushed him to one side—‘get into bed beside them,’ and her laughter rang out and he joined her, saying gallantly now, ‘I’ll have to get myself in a mess,’ to which she made no rejoinder until they had walked on further steps when she said, ‘I was going to give you an answer to that, but I won’t.’ Then she added, ‘How would you like a cup of real coffee, and a boiled egg and toast?’
‘Who but an idiot could refuse such an invitation?’ he said.
‘Well, come on, put a move on, because you know what might happen if the maiden’—she now pointed up to the moon—‘keeps on doing her stuff.’
Reaching the camp, they skirted the back of the hospital, then crossed a hard mud-ridged area that led them towards a line of low brick buildings which at some time must have housed an assortment of animals. Here, at the end door, she took a key from her pocket and still in keeping with the mood of such an evening, said, ‘Step in, sir.’
Compared with the moonlight outside, inside it was dark. He heard her strike a match and when she had lit the hanging lantern, he looked around him in some surprise, saying, ‘Well, well; you’re nicely ensconced, aren’t you?’
‘I’m privileged. I’m one of the old hands; in fact, next to matron who, by the way, and thankfully, is off on her forty-eight. So you don’t need to fear someone knocking on the door and crying, “Nurse! You know the rules.”’
‘You’ve got a fireplace, too.’
‘Yes, it must have been some sort of boiler house, likely for pig food, because…look!’ She pointed to the pot-boiler in the corner of the room.
He looked around the rest of the hut: a single bed stood against one wall; there was a dilapidated armchair to the side of it, and beyond that what looked like a folding card table.
On the other side of the room, and looking grotesquely out of place, was a single mahogany wardrobe; also, and more in keeping, four large boxes, forming two open-fronted low cupboards. In one he could see odd pieces of crockery and a kettle; in the other what he imagined must be pieces of food wrapped in paper, a tin of jam and one of bully beef.
‘Home from home.’
‘Sit yourself down,’ she said. ‘But don’t flop in that chair else you’ll go straight through the bottom.’
‘Can’t I help you?’
‘No. Do as you’re told; sit down.’
So he sat down gently and found himself sinking into the broken mesh of the chair seat; nevertheless, it was comfortable. He now leant his head against the back, stretched out his legs and sighed. But then he said, ‘How are you going to boil a kettle and your eggs on that fire? It’s enclosed and it looks to be on its last legs.’
‘Be quiet.’
She went to the far corner of the room to another cupboard and took out an oil burner. And after she had lit it and set the kettle on top of it, he remarked, ‘You’re set for life here.’
‘You know nothing yet.’
He sat looking at her. Without her overcoat and hat now, and in her blue print uniform with its big white apron, that wasn’t very white any more, he thought, She’s comely; only to ask himself why he had used such an old-fashioned word to describe her. Perhaps it was because of her shape. Everything about her looked round: her buttocks, her bust, her face; yet she wasn’t fat. She was a comforting person, was Susie.
Sister Susie sewing shirts for soldiers
and soldiers sending missils they would rather
sleep on thistles.
Oh why did his mind prattle on so? And he didn’t know the words of the song. Why was it taken up with such trivialities? And the answer came, Because you don’t write any more. And the voice yelled back at him: What the hell will I write about in this madhouse! A thesis on the anatomy of spilled brains, rivers of blood and guts? For God’s sake, shut up! Look at Susie; she’s frying the eggs.
‘I thought you were going to boil them,’ he said.
‘I changed my mind. We can have them on fried bread with butter this way. Anyway, I thought you were asleep.’
‘I wasn’t asleep.’
‘No? Likely, musing as usual. What do you think about, anyway? I’ve often wondered. Is it true your mother’s a lady? David says she is.’
When he started to laugh, half remonstrating with him, she said, ‘Well, what’s amusing about that? Is she?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But what do you mean by a lady?’
‘Well, one with a title.’
‘There are lots of ladies without titles, and my mother would be a lady whether she had a title or not.’
‘Is she nice?’
‘Lovely. Beautiful in all ways.’
‘Have you ever been married, Gerald?’
He chuckled now as he said, ‘Only to a smallholding.’
‘You had a smallholding?’
‘Yes. Yes, I had a smallholding.’
The bread sizzled as it went into the hot butter, and she turned it over onto the other side before she asked, ‘Been engaged?’
‘No, I haven’t been engaged, or anything like that.’
‘Never had a girl then?’
‘Oh, yes, yes. I’ve got a girl back home.’
‘Oh.’
He was amused now, and so he said, ‘She’s rather lovely, too; different.’
‘Well! Well! A beautiful mother and a beautiful girl.’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m very lucky, and I’m sure my girl will grow more beautiful every day.’
He saw her turn a sharp look towards him, her face now unsmiling. And his tone became lighter, a little teasing, as he went on, ‘She was always very bright and her letters show this. The only thing is she writes too often; I can’t keep up with her. What she’ll be when she grows up I don’t know.’
‘What? When who grows up? Who?’
‘My girl.’
She lifted the eggs off a plate where they had been standing on the hob of the dying fire, slapped them onto the bread, then took them to the small table, pulled out some cutlery from a box to the side, then said, ‘
Come and get it. No! Stay where you are. I’ll lift the table round and I’ll sit on the bed,’ and she continued to contain her feelings, at least until they had started to eat, when she said, ‘What did you mean, when she grows up?’
‘Just what I said. She must be…well…oh, twelve, thirteen, going on fourteen now.’
‘Oh you! You’re a funny fellow. You know that, Gerald?’
‘Yes, I’ve been told that before. By the way, this tastes marvellous.’
It was some time later. The meal had been finished with a cup of milky coffee. The greasy plates had been put into an iron pan half filled with water and placed at the front of the boiler fire, which prompted him to ask, ‘Won’t it put it out completely?’
‘No; it will still be on in the morning. I’ll just have to give it a blow.’
Again he remarked, ‘You are well organised, aren’t you?’
‘Just some parts of my life.’
When later he was about to sit again in the chair, he hesitated, saying, ‘My next effort will find me through on the floor. You sit there.’
‘No; I prefer the edge of the bed.’
And that’s how they sat; and when she leant against his shoulder, he put his arm around her. And after a moment of holding her so, he said, ‘You’re a very nice person, you know, Susie.’
‘How is it you’ve just found that out?’ She didn’t turn to look at him as she spoke, but nestled her head closer to him.
‘I haven’t just found that out; I’ve thought so all along.’
‘You’ve been rather backward in telling me then.’
‘Have I?’ There was a surprised note in his voice. ‘I’ve always talked to you. I found you easy to talk to, comforting in a way.’
‘In a way? You’re lost, aren’t you, Gerry? I’ve always wanted to call you Gerry, but that would be classing you with them over there.’ Her head moved under his chin. Then she went on, ‘This is not your scene. It staggers you. I can see that every time you come back. You take things to heart too much. You put me in mind of a fellow that used to be on the trains just before you came. He was always spouting poetry. He’d be speaking ordinary to you, then he’d come out with a quotation or other. But when he started to go up and down the ward…oh well,’ she said with a small hunching of her shoulders, ‘they took him back home.’
The Maltese Angel Page 40
