I laughed. “I’m sure they were.”
“I saw you leaving the surgery just now.”
“I was looking in on Lieutenant Booker.”
“Yes, I sat with him earlier. A sad case. I don’t understand what shell shock does to the mind, but I can see very clearly how much he’s suffering. I was a chaplain in the first months of 1915. They sent me home because I had a very bad case of trench foot. Embarrassing, to say the least. But I’ve thought for some time that it might have also been my reluctance to convince men that God intended for them to die for King and Country.”
“There are worse cases than Mr. Booker’s.”
He shook his head. “That’s beyond my ability to imagine.”
We had turned to walk together toward the church gate, where I would take the shortcut to the Graham house.
The rector said after a moment, “I wanted to ask you about Peregrine Graham.”
I was immediately on my guard. It wouldn’t do to gossip about the Grahams behind their backs.
“It came to my ears that he’d been brought home and is not expected to live. Is it true?”
“He’s much improved, I’m happy to say. Someone came for him only this morning.”
“Yes, the neighbors were quick to inform me that the ambulance had returned, but they couldn’t tell me whether it took him away alive or dead. I tried to call one morning, but was turned away. They told me Peregrine had no wish to see me.”
I hadn’t known that he’d called. I said, trying to be judicious, “I don’t think he was really well enough for a visitor.”
“It was kind of you to help the family in their hour of need.”
It hadn’t been kindness, it had been necessity. “I was glad I was here to step in,” I answered instead.
“Where have you served?”
I told him, trying to keep my voice neutral-an experience, but stiff upper lip and all that.
We were halfway across the churchyard now.
He stopped. “It must have been a very nerve-racking experience. I can’t imagine coming so close to drowning. And how is your arm? I see you aren’t keeping it in a sling.”
“Much improved.” I smiled. “Friends at the Front are exhausted from deciphering the letters I wrote with my left hand. It will do much for fighting morale when I am legible again.”
The rector chuckled. Then he said, going back again to Peregrine, “I’ve always been of two minds about Mrs. Graham’s son, and what he did.”
“I didn’t know that you were here, er-at the time.”
“I was not. But my predecessor kept journals for his own guidance, and left them to me for mine. I have read the pertinent passages. He writes that Peregrine had been taken away quietly. He seemed to be comfortable with the decision, he felt that the family had suffered enough. I wonder if that was fair to Peregrine.”
“Would prison have been better? Surely not, if there were doctors at the asylum who could work with him.”
“As to that, I can’t say. My predecessor-Craig was his name-spoke of a damaged mind, and the fact that the poor soul had never successfully been educated. That would have been taken into account, certainly.”
I knew my surprise showed in my face. “Is that what he wrote?”
“He felt Peregrine Graham had the mind of a child.”
Hardly the man I’d just dealt with!
“Was that the generally accepted view? Or just Mr. Craig’s?”
“I can only tell you his given opinion. Apparently the boy had been having some difficulties while his father was alive. The tutor complained he was slow to learn, unable to concentrate on his lessons. But when his father died, the boy’s mind broke with his grief. And so they kept him close to home after that. At any rate, I thought, while Peregrine was ill, I could offer him Christian solace before he returned to that place. I went to Barton’s-the asylum-soon after I took up the living here, but they told me he wasn’t allowed visitors. I was astonished. I thought the family would have-but I was told he was allowed to see no one.”
“Were these the terms of his confinement?”
“That’s possible, of course. Ted Booker told Mr. Craig that one day he was passing the asylum, and there was Peregrine, sitting on a bench under a tree, manacled to it. This was some years ago, well before the war. Booker could see him through the gate, and called to him. Peregrine turned his head away. Booker was shocked by his appearance, and said something to Arthur about it. The rector reported in his journal that Booker was the only person to have seen him since he was taken there.”
And I’d just missed my chance to ask Ted Booker about Peregrine Graham.
I next expected the rector to ask me what I thought of my patient, but he didn’t. It was the journals that were on his mind. I could see that he was fascinated by his predecessor.
“Well, water under the dam,” he went on. “I’ve never spoken to anyone else about the journals, you know. It seemed best. There are comments in there that are more honest than most people could stomach. Mr. Craig believed in the truth at any price.”
“I understand.” I wasn’t to chatter about them.
“I think you do. Thank you.”
We had reached the far gate of the churchyard. He opened it for me, and said rather shyly, “Perhaps you’ll call at the rectory, before you leave. I’d be glad to show you the journals.”
“I should be leaving shortly. I’m awaiting my orders now. With Britannic at the bottom of the sea, I’m sure London is at sixes and sevens trying to decide where to put all of us. One of the nurses on the ship with me has just been posted to Poona, in India.”
“That’s a long way from home,” he said.
I didn’t tell him I’d spent part of my childhood in the East. I simply agreed, and he said good-bye, but then called me back to ask, “Do you think Peregrine Graham lacks spiritual comfort where he is? Is he capable of recognizing his needs in that direction?”
“I think,” I responded slowly, “that he despairs of comfort. But it’s a matter you must take up with the family. Or the doctors at the asylum.”
“Mr. Craig was also chaplain there, but I’ve not been asked to fill his position. Perhaps I ought to speak to someone in charge and see what the need is.”
“Yes, that might be wise,” I said. “Good-bye, Rector.”
We shook hands, and I turned away to walk the rest of the way alone.
There was much curiosity at the house regarding my summons to speak with Ted Booker. Susan was the first to ask, and then over our meal, Mrs. Graham brought up the subject.
Not wanting to add to any gossip about his attempt to kill himself, I merely said, “He felt that I’d been closer to the war than his family. I think he wanted reassurance that his problems are not his alone.”
“I should think a rational man would do his best to heal quickly and return to the fighting. God knows, we need soldiers.” Would she have wished her own son back before his time was up?
I could have answered that it wasn’t surprising-the casualty lists continued to be unbearably long. But I said instead, “It takes time to heal the mind, just as it does the body.”
“Did he ask you about Peregrine?”
“About Peregrine? I don’t believe he even knew your son was at home, ill.”
“No, I meant Dr. Philips.”
I think my guilty conscience for having spoken of Peregrine with the rector must have shone in my face, but I said resolutely, “He complimented me on my skills.”
“You needn’t avoid the question, you know.”
“But I’m not. He did tell me he’d called, to see if I needed his help. I wish I’d known it at the time.”
She nodded. “Thank you for your honesty. And I’ll be equally honest in return. I didn’t wish people in Owlhurst to gossip about my son. I’m well aware that a medical man must keep matters concerning his patients in strictest confidence, but I don’t know Dr. Philips that well yet.”