He had only attended two weddings in his life, one as a page of four, the other at Oxford in the first days of the war, a rush affair of close friends wearing their everyday clothes. Now for the first time it started coming home to him: the Best Man, the reception, the archaic vestiges of sacrifice, of capture, and of sale. Great Uncle Edward was coming to give away the bride; she was afraid it would be too much for him, but he had said no, they were a small family and Raymond would have wished it. Raymond was his mother’s only brother, who had been killed at Gallipoli. Mrs. Trevor had written again about the house, and—
“Corporal Odell.”
Laurie nearly sat at attention and said, “Sir?” But it was the six-foot Sister standing over him.
“These have been left for you.” She laid a couple of new novels on the bed. Her voice was somberly reserved. Perhaps she had sampled them and considered them immoral, thought Laurie rather wildly, perhaps she didn’t think N.C.O.s ought to be able to read. When she had gone he opened them and found the note inside.
The last time he had seen a page of Ralph’s writing it had been pinned to the House notice-board. In those days it had been rather precociously formed; it hadn’t changed very much since. The lines straight, the letters slanted a little and pressed on the down-stroke, it had under its regularity a kind of suppressed impatience; one could see how it had been conditioned by the necessity of transmitting vital information, making permanent records, issuing instructions which must not be misunderstood. It was a curiously stiff, shy letter, boyishly conventional, even at times boyishly facetious. There were three more pages and he wondered however Ralph had filled them. He turned over and read, “I was in a pub yesterday when a Pole and a Welshman had a row.” As soon as it became impersonal the letter came to life. The writing had got almost practiced; it had a genuine, natural feel. He remembered Ralph saying, “I used to keep a notebook and write all that nonsense down.”
Something caught his eye. He looked up. The boy in the next bed had thrown all his covers off and swung a leg over the side. He was only wearing a pajama jacket.
“Here,” said Laurie, “what goes on? You don’t get up, do you?”
The boy muttered something about just going outside. Laurie saw he was delirious. All his operation sutures must still be in. Laurie jumped out of bed and eased him back again. The child muttered vaguely and wound his thin arms around Laurie’s neck. He had no idea where he was or who was with him. His hair and skin had a weak, sickly smell.
“What’s this? What are you doing with this patient?”
The Sister stood over him like a hanging judge. Laurie felt a lurch inside him. Had Major Ferguson heard something and written? Was he never to get away from it?
“He was getting out of bed, Sister. I’m sorry.”
“You must call a nurse, Corporal, if you see a patient needing attention—NURSE EVANS!” It was just the note he had been trying in secret to acquire when he had expected to be promoted sergeant. “Come here, Nurse Evans. Do you know that while you were frittering away your time, this boy with peritonitis would have been out of bed if he hadn’t been put back by another patient who hasn’t been more than a few hours in the ward? You must do better than this, Nurse Evans, I assure you. Now give that boy what he was looking for, and get on with your work.”
He didn’t sleep much; the ward was taking in emergencies that week. Two arrived in the night, followed by doctors and relatives and theater trolleys. The boy Mervyn, however, slept well, and by morning had made one of those dramatic improvements peculiar to children. He had taken a shine to Laurie and wouldn’t let him alone. After lunch he demanded the Dunkirk story. Laurie stuck to the sea part, since not much of the land events seemed edifying to youth. You couldn’t be vague on your facts. He was a bright, sharp boy, and seemed to have lived with people who regarded lying to children as the natural means of keeping them quiet. The more he wanted to trust you, the sharper he got.
“A lot of this,” Laurie explained painstakingly, “I don’t remember myself, I heard about it later.”
“Who told you?”
“The man who was commanding the ship told me most of it.”
“The captain did?” Sad suspicion darkened the hollow eyes. “Go on. You’re a corporal.”
“Yes, but we were at school together.”
“You and the captain?” He sighed and sagged on the pillow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Laurie, reaching the end of his resources. Shortly after, a snuffling, meanly respectable woman came to visit the boy. When he was taken ill she had told him that he wouldn’t have to stay in hospital and that she would be back in a few minutes to fetch him home; now she had come with more lies to explain it. The boy listened apathetically; once his eyes slid around to Laurie with a vague unformed hope. But it was time for massage; he had to leave them to it.
Miss Haliburton had sold her dachshund puppy; but she had brought another, a bull-terrier this time. It gave Laurie a pink wink; the other eye had a black patch like a bruiser’s. It took to Laurie with fervor, and tried to get inside his blouse. Arthur measured him for the new boot.
It was falling dark. The landings and corridors were lit with blue electric bulbs. His ward was in the oldest part of the hospital; everything was huge and dingy, with dust-trapping Victorian joinery. Before him rose the steps to the ward, a dim gaunt sweep of worn stone. He measured it with his eye and stepped forward.
“Hi, Spud. Wait below there, I’ll come down.”
Brisk firm feet rang on the steps; Ralph ran down smiling. It was like the sight of something green on a burnt moor. Laurie knew that his face showed it. Ralph took his arm in a quick hard grip and let go again. Laurie said, “God, it’s nice to see you.”
Ralph said with his swift smile, “Poor old Spud, don’t you like the view? Who’s that lunatic, Alec lent me the book once, couldn’t read above half of it—chap called Kafka. This is just the setup.”
“Or an old German film. There’s nowhere to sit. She won’t have anyone in the ward out of visiting hours.”
“I know where we can go,” Ralph said. “I used to know this place once like the back of my hand.” He steered Laurie around a corner into a short, dimly lit passage which smelt of beeswax. “Have a pew.”
There was in fact a large yellow pitch-pine pew beside them, stacked with hymn books. They were in the outer lobby of the hospital chapel. They sat down. The place, angled back from the corridor and almost dark, had the nostalgic smell of truancy and escape, like lumber attics and the shut-off wings of old houses. They talked softly, almost in whispers.
When Laurie thanked him for the books, Ralph said, “I didn’t come last night, I thought you’d be settling in.” Laurie realized that he had thought Andrew would be there.
“I didn’t get here till late.” It was, he realized, only a simple way of not mentioning Andrew directly. Laurie still would not let his mind cross the borders of half-knowledge. It was just one thing and another; but it wasn’t possible to talk to Ralph about Andrew any more.
Ralph said, “You’ll know the ropes by tomorrow; ring me up and we’ll try to have supper out.”
“I can’t tomorrow; I’m going home.”
“Home?” said Ralph sharply. “Oh—the wedding. I’d forgotten that was so soon. It won’t be a mad riot for you, Spud.”
“Well, it’s only one day in a lifetime, I suppose.”
“Spud, is—anybody going with you?”
“Good God, no.”
“Why, would you hate that?”
“I hadn’t thought.”
“I’ll go with you if you like.”
Laurie was a moment taking it in. Ralph said, more formally, “I mean, of course, if it wouldn’t annoy your mother, your bringing a stranger along.” Laurie remembered then that his social contacts must have been unconventional for a good many years.