No, I did not see the last letter, we were very busy for nights before the battle, and we saw very little of one another at all, for talking or reading. There were only a few hours, the night before the battle, when we had a word, and I will tell you of that, though there is little to tell, when I do see you.
It was another hour before they finally pulled away from the harbour. The boat was not so crowded as Hilliard had expected, and he managed to find a corner and ensure some privacy by hemming himself in with cases and crutches. For, more than ever, now, he wanted to be private, set apart, he drew back from anyone who tried to come near to him. Only within himself, he was forced to think, to think. The worst of it was that he did not know. Their letter had made him realize that. He would rather have seen anything, so long as it had been certain.
Would he?
He no longer knew. He wanted to return to the past, nothing more.
After some time, he got a Corporal who was passing to help him up on to his crutches and he tried to walk down the boat to one of the seats by a porthole. Twice, he overbalanced, as the ship rolled, fell and swore. They got him up again. He knew that it was easier here than it would be when he got home. Here, everyone was wounded, men were bandaged, deformed, sick, nobody stopped to stare, everyone had themselves to think about most of all. He dreaded the eyes that would follow him, once he got back. Dreaded everything.
The sea was grey as gunmetal and heaving, under a livid sky. It was snowing and the snow was taken up and whirled about by the wind and splattered softly on to the glass.
He did not want to be back in England.
A gull came out of the greyness of sea and snow, beating its wings and skidding over the water.
He had a sudden complete picture of Barton in his mind, he could have turned and seen him standing there, could reach out a hand and touch him. He could…’
The boat dipped, nose-down, into a trough of dark water, lifted again.
He would be at home for Christmas. Christmas…
He turned and began the painful journey back to where he had left his things.
At Dover the sleet blew down on an east wind into their faces. Some of the men were singing.
‘Is there anything you would like us to bring for you, John? We shall be coming early next week. Is there anything you would have us send?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Books? Do you have plenty to read?’
‘There’s a library here.’
‘Well, you should take advantage of it, you should be reading, dear, there is always some diversion to be had from a good book, it will take your mind off things.’
‘Yes.’ Then he remembered. ‘There are one or two books I should like.’
‘Well of course, but tell me quickly, dear, I have to be ready to leave at four, the Garnetts are coming to dinner.’ His mother took out the small gold notebook and the small gold pencil.
‘The collected works of Sir Thomas Browne.’
‘B-R-O-W-N?’
‘No, with an E at the end. And The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, and a novel called A Room with a View.’
‘Mr Forster.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes, Harrods will have that, certainly.’
‘Harrods will have them all.’
‘Wouldn’t you like something light? I could ask them to find you some more novels.’
‘No. That’s all I want.’
‘Do they feed you well enough? Shall I have Mary bake you a plum cake?’
‘They feed us very well. Don’t fuss now, mother.’
‘Well, it is the least I can do, to make sure you are properly cared for.’
‘I am.’
‘And how long before you will be home?’
‘About another fortnight. But they will let me come for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, before that.’
‘I should hope so!’
He did not want to think about Christmas. Constance Hilliard rose.
‘You look very beautiful, mother. You always look very beautiful.’
She inclined her head, smiled at him, as Royalty would smile. She wore a dark fuchsia dress, full-skirted, and with a coat of deeper, more purplish red, a hat with purple feathers. When she walked away, the other men in the room looked up from their books and letters, watched her go.
Hilliard turned back to the window.
It was an old house, someone’s mansion given over for the duration of the war, so that they sat among beautiful pictures and tapestries on beautiful chairs at beautiful tables. Down the long lawn between the beeches, a man swept up the last of the leaves. It was growing dark, the sky was full of great, scudding clouds. He knew no one here and had made no friends, he spoke as rarely as possible, so that they watched him and formed their own judgements, assumed that he was shell-shocked or unable to accept the loss of his leg. Men left, others came. Hilliard sat by the window, watching the sky and the black trees. He thought endlessly about Barton.
But when the books came he could not bear to read or even to open them, he only stared at the covers and kept them in a pile on the locker beside his bed.
He woke one morning and wondered what he was waiting for, how long it would take before he ceased to feel simply dazed, as though life were suspended forever and had no longer anything to do with him. When would it begin?
He did not read the newspapers, he knew nothing about the war. He did not want to know.
Colonel Garrett came to see him. They had nothing to say to one another. Hilliard sat in dread of the moment when he would mention Barton’s name but when it came, it was strangely easy, Garrett spoke of him and he listened and it was all remote, they might have been talking about some other person, nothing of the truth was touched upon. But he was glad when Garrett went.
My dear John,
Thank you for your letter, which pleased us so much and we are all delighted that you are truly feeling better and managing life without so much difficulty. Though it must still be very bad – we suspect that you are being heroic!
We are so much longing to see you. What will the arrangements be? We hope you will be able to stay here for a few days or even longer. Come now, you will, won’t you? We know you cannot have anything more pressing. You are not to think of the future at all just now, you are still convalescing and everyone is going to make sure that you are looked after and not troubled at all by anything. If you are on the train, then someone – I hope it will be Harold – will meet you at the station, which is about two miles from the house. But can you manage the train? Perhaps someone is to drive you up by motor car, in which case please let us know and we will send you a careful map, as we are rather hard to find.
Kindest regards to your family and love to you from us all. Oh, you cannot think how much we look forward to seeing you, how much this will mean to us! Or perhaps you can? Yes, I think so.
No, we have had no further news and have all accepted now that we shall not do so. It is very hard.
Take great care of yourself, John dear, and we are all longing for next week to come.
He had thought that he might not even be able to look out of the windows of the train at the countryside, for he remembered what the places would look like, he began to recognize them – a village, the name of the previous station, a particular belt of trees and then the lie of certain fields. Pheasants ran in great bevies from out of the hedgerows and across ploughed fields as the train steamed by, their tails trailing long and copper-coloured in the evening light.
But when he did look, he felt at once happy and soothed, he was coming here, he was seeing it and all of a sudden, he leaned forward, his eyes unable to keep up with it, he wanted to take in every inch of land, every branch of every tree.