There was a burst of laughter from the hazy group playing dominoes under the mulberry tree. Stanley shrank away, pulling the blanket tighter round him. He could see well enough now, Matron had said that his eyes would make a full recovery, but Stanley knew, too, that his sight would be forever haunted by the slender, silver head of the dog he’d loved, the dog he’d left to die in a poisoned runnel. No, Da hadn’t drowned Soldier: in the end it had been he himself who’d taken the dog to his death. When he’d run away from home, how little he’d thought that he’d turn his world inside out, that it would all end like this, himself in England, Da in France.
Stanley’s shoulders slumped and he withdrew into his chair. Yes, he thought, yes, this is how Da had used to sit, hunched in his red chair, unseeing and far beyond the world. Stanley had so misunderstood the depth of Da’s fear and grief that he’d accused him of a terrible cruelty, of a crime he’d never committed. Yes, he thought, remembering Da’s letter. Yes, Da, a full circle has been turned. I understand now. Your heart was so wrung by Ma’s death that you locked it up.
Stanley shuddered and covered his eyes with his hands. He couldn’t turn back the clock and new understanding couldn’t give him ease or release. Still the memories of Bones, of Soldier, of Da, burned like boiling water on open wounds. Stanley pummelled his forehead with his fists.
Shouts of friendly competition from the rowers on the lake shimmered up to the satin sky. The cheerful whistling of the cobblers eddied up from the township of huts below the lawn. Stanley heard the cries of the rowers, and in them heard manliness and hope, and he dipped his head in shame. The soldiers here liked to row and to dance, to go out on to the lawn with their blankets and their dominoes; they were happy to be alive, they were grateful, and they were all quite blind. They had been carried over the dead point and faced their futures with courage and hope. Stanley had no courage left, no hope, had remained washed up at the dead point. As Da had been when Ma died.
Only Stanley, in this creamy Regency Villa, would recover his sight fully. When he looked in the mirror, he could see that his cornea were bright and clear, but his eyes were older, beyond tears, beyond laughter, an old man’s eyes in a young man’s face. He’d been lucky, very lucky, so Matron said. She kept saying, too, that his was a joyous case, that he’d regained his sight almost entirely. But she’d say that with her troubled voice and he knew he shouldn’t still be here, that perhaps they needed his bed for another man, that Matron didn’t know what to do with him, that the Adjutant didn’t know what to do with him, that the Commandant didn’t know what to do with him.
Tom.
This morning he’d been so sure he might hear from him. If Tom were alive, there’d be a letter from him. On this day of all days, there’d have been a letter. Fifteen today. Tom wouldn’t forget, had never forgotten his brother’s birthday before. But when they’d all filed along the linoleum path after breakfast, towards the terrace room, with its smell of beeswax and fresh-cut flowers, the Voluntary Aid Detachment nurse (VAD), with her white cap and apron with the red cross on the bib, had had armfuls of post, but nothing for Stanley.
A card from Lara had arrived yesterday. She’d asked after his eyes, said how lucky he was and hoped he’d be home soon. She hadn’t mentioned Tom or Da and Stanley had let the card drop, didn’t know where it was now. Joe had sent Stanley another pack of playing cards and a note saying that he was on a winning streak, was looking forward to playing with Stanley again, longing to hear all he had to tell. Father Bill had written too, to say he was glad Stanley was back in England, to wish him a full recovery, but he’d made no mention of Da or Tom.
Then when the VAD had read aloud from the Illustrated News, there’d been an item on Kemmel and she’d read of scenes of appalling horror, of five thousand unidentifiable French dead, of six thousand captured. The numbers of British dead had not been mentioned. If Tom had survived Villers, would he have had orders for Kemmel? Would Da have been at Kemmel? James and Hamish – where were they? And Fidget?
The huge clock projecting over the terrace rang out. The two life-sized carved figures bobbed their heads and clubbed their bells. Once, twice, three times. At half past three it would be Visitors’ Hour. The hour Stanley most dreaded, the hour of most cheerfulness, the hour of most laughter.
‘Happy birthday to you . . .’
Stanley opened his eyes and there, in the dappled light, were Matron’s white stockings and black boots. Matron was nice, but she wasn’t Tom and she wasn’t Da. Stanley summoned a forced, watery smile. Matron’s outstretched arms bore a cake. Behind Matron was a tail of men in single file. From the scattered chairs and tables, the other men with useless eyes left their games and gathered around, guided by their VADs.
‘Happy birthday to you . . . Happy birthday, dear Stan–ley . . .’
Stanley didn’t feel fifteen. He was an old man, an empty vessel, but still he must smile, still he must be grateful.
‘. . . Happy birthday to you!’
He leaned forward and blew.
Out of the fifteen, three quivering flames to go. He must blow again. Matron handed Stanley a knife.
‘Cut a slice, and make a wish.’ He looked her in the eyes. She knew his wishes needed angels and archangels, cathedrals and choirs, not fifteen candles and a jam sponge.
Matron sliced the cake, chatting all the while. She was used to talking to Stanley and getting no answer. He liked her for not expecting answers, nor forcing them. Matron rose and bustled about with napkins and forks. She stopped by Jim who had no arms. Matron broke off bits of his cake and fed them to him.
Jim grinned. ‘Mmm. Chocolate cake.’
‘No, Jim, it’s a nice sponge cake, with nice jam in the middle and nice butter icing on the top.’
Jim would never see again but he could still smile and enjoy sponge cake. Stanley could see, knew that he’d been lucky, but he could not feel, could not care.
Matron returned to Stanley and picked up the Veterinary Science book beside Stanley’s chair. ‘I hope you’re not straining your eyes – only two hours a day . . . it’s very small print.’
Stanley heard in her voice that sort of troubled tone she seemed to keep just for him. Matron was running her hand back and forth along the book’s spine, thinking. Stanley, too, looked at the spine, thinking he must study hard, return to school, be, one day, a vet.
The visitors had begun to arrive, were hurrying down the steps between the roses on to the lawn. The group around Stanley dispersed. Matron drew up a chair.
Had there still been no word about Soldier, about Tom, about Da, from the Secretary’s Office?
Matron was looking away towards the French windows. Stanley would speak first, he would ask his questions first; he’d ask her again, hadn’t asked since yesterday. He wouldn’t ask more than once a day but he longed to know, to be certain about what had happened. If Soldier had been found . . . The AVC who’d seen Bones had said ‘any dog unfit for service’ would be shot . . . Someone must know, the Dog Service must know. The office conducted an enormous correspondence and finding a missing dog wouldn’t be a priority. Perhaps not even a possibility. But he had to know.
‘Did you hear anything, Matron? Did they trace him? His number was 2176. Did you tell them that?’
Matron’s mouth opened and closed. She glanced again towards the terrace. Stanley tugged her hand.
‘Has the Secretary still had no news?’
Matron hesitated, then leaned forward, pulling him towards her, her soft bulk enfolding his stiff, unyielding self. Had Soldier been shot? Been left to die in an open grave? Matron kissed the top of his head and stepped back, resting a hand on each of his shoulders.