The gasping, breathless sobs beside him had quietened again.
"The swallows will be heading south soon now,” he remarked.
"Lucky buggers!” said the young man. His name was Julian Smedley. He was a captain in the Royal Artillery. He was twenty years old. After a moment he added, “You know that was my first thought? There was no pain at all. I looked down and saw nothing where my hand should be and that was my first thought: Thank God! I am going Home!"
"And you're not going back!"
"No. Even better.” There was another gasp. “Oh, God! I wish I could stop piping my eye like this.” He fumbled awkwardly for a cigarette.
The older man turned his head. “You're not the worst, you know. Not by a long shot. I've seen many much worse."
Smedley pulled a face. “Wish you'd tell the guv'nor that."
"It's the truth,” Jones said softly. “Much worse. And I will tell your father if you want me to."
"Hell, no! Let him brood about his yellow-livered, sniveling son. It was damned white of you to come, Ginger. Do you spend all your weekends trailing around England, combing the wreckage like this?"
"Paying my respects. And, no, not every weekend."
"Lots, I'll bet.” Smedley blew out a long cloud of smoke, then dabbed at his cheeks with his empty sleeve. He seemed to be talked out on the war, which was a good sign.
"Ginger...?"
"Mm?"
"Er, nothing."
It wasn't nothing. They'd had that same futile exchange several times in the last two hours. Smedley had something to say, some subject he couldn't broach.
Jones glanced at his watch. He must not miss his bus. He was running out of things to talk about. One topic he had learned never to mention was patriotism. Another was Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig.
"Apart from school, how are things?” Smedley muttered.
"Not so bad. Price of food's frightful. Can't find a workman or a servant anywhere."
"What about the air raids?"
"People grumble, but they'll pull through."
Smedley eyed the older man with the ferocity of a hawk. “How do you think the war's going?"
"Hard to say. The papers are censored, of course. They tell us that Jerry's done for. Morale's all gone."
"Balls."
"Oh. Well, we don't hear rumors at Fallow. The Americans are in, thank God."
"They're in America!” Smedley snapped. “How long until they can build an army and move it to France—if the U-boats don't sink it on the way? And the Russians are out! Good as. Did you know that?"
Jones made noncommittal noises. If the Hun could finish the Russians before the Yanks arrived, then the war was lost. Everyone knew it. No one said it.
"Do you recall a boy called Stringer? Before my time."
The schoolmaster chuckled. “Long Stringer or Short Stringer?"
"Don't know. A doctor."
"That's Short Stringer. His brother's a brigadier or something."
"He drops in here once in a while. I recognized the school tie."
"A surgeon, actually. Yes, I know him. He's on the board of governors. Comes to Speech Days."
Smedley nodded, staring out over the lengthening shadows in the garden. He sucked hard on his cigarette. Jones wondered if the unspeakable, whatever it was, was about to be spoken at last. It came in a rush.
"Tell me something, Ginger. When war broke out I was in Paris, remember? Edward Exeter and I were on our way to Crete. Came home from Paris just before the dam broke."
"I remember,” Jones said, suddenly wary. “Dr. Gibbs and the others never made it back, if that's what you're wondering. Never did hear what happened to them."
"Interned?"
"Hope so, but there's never been word."
Smedley dismissed the topic with a quick shake of his head, still staring straight ahead. “Tough egg! No, I was wondering about Exeter. We parted at Victoria. I was heading home to Chichester. He was going on to Greyfriars, to stay with the Bodgleys, but he wanted to send a telegram or something. I had to run for my train. Next thing I knew, there was a copper at the house asking questions."
He turned to look at Jones with the same owlish stare he had had as a boy. He'd always been a shy, quiet one, Smedley, not the sort you'd have ever expected to be a hero and sport those ribbons. But the war had turned thousands of them into heroes. Millions of them.
"Young Bodgley was murdered,” Jones said.
"I know. And they seemed to think Exeter had done it."
"I didn't believe that then and I don't now!"
"What innocents we were ... fresh out of school, thinking we were debonair young men of the world...” The voice wavered, then recovered. “Wasn't old Bagpipe stabbed in the back?"
Jones nodded.
Smedley actually smiled, for the second time that afternoon. “Well, then! That answers the question, doesn't it? Whatever Exeter may have done, he would never stab anyone in the back. He couldn't stab anyone in the back! Not capable of it.” He lit a new cigarette from the previous butt.
"I agree,” Jones said. “He wasn't capable of any of it—a stabbing or killing a friend or any of that. A quick uppercut to the jaw, yes. Sudden insanity even. Can happen to ... But I agree that the back part is conclusive proof of his innocence."
"Bloody nonsense,” the young man muttered.
"Even Mrs. Bodgley refused to believe he killed her son."
The owlish stare hardened into a threatening frown. “Then what? He escaped?"
"He totally vanished. Hasn't been seen since."
"Go on, man!” Suddenly the pitiful neurotic invalid was a young officer blazing with authority.
Jones flinched like some lowly recruit, even while feeling a surge of joy at the transformation. “It's a total mystery. He just disappeared. There was a warrant issued, but no one ever heard from him again. Of course things were in a pretty mess, with war breaking out and all that."
Apparently none of this was news to Smedley. He scowled with impatience, as if the recruit were being more than usually stupid. “The copper told us he had a broken leg."
"His right leg was smashed."
"So someone helped him? Must have."
Jones shrugged. “An archangel from the sound of it. Or the Invisible Man. The full story never came out."
"And you genuinely believe it was a put-up job? Still? You still think that, Ginger?"
Jones nodded, wondering what lay behind the sudden vehemence. After being through what this boy had been through, why should he brood over the guilt or innocence of a schoolboy chum? After seeing so much death, why become so agitated over one long-ago death? It had been three years. It had happened in another world, a world that was gone forever, butchered in the mud of Flanders.
The mood passed like a lightning flash. Smedley slumped loosely. He leaned his arms on his knees and reached for his cigarette with the wrong arm. He cursed under his breath.
Jones waited, but he would have to run for the bus soon or he would not see his bed tonight. Nor any bed, if he got trapped in the city. Not the way London was these days.
"Why?"
"I don't know,” Smedley muttered. He seemed to be counting the litter of butts around his feet.
Nonsense! The man needed to get something off his chest. Well, that was why Jones had come. He crossed his legs and leaned back to wait. He'd slept on station waiting room benches before now. He could again.
"Shell shock, they call it,” his companion told the dishes on the table—slowly, as if dragging the words out of himself. “Battle fatigue. Tricks of the mind. Weeping, you know? Facial tics, you know? Imagining things?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Man has to trust something."
"There's lots here worse off than me, you know?” Smedley jerked his thumb over his left shoulder. “They call it the morgue. West wing. Don't know who they are, some of them. Or think they're the bleeding Duke of Wellington. All lead-swingers and scrimshankers, I expect."