‘I’ve washed them,’ Jake said. ‘You’ve no need to worry about that.’ He handed his father the grapes.
Peter lay back, feeding the grapes to himself, chewing them very slowly while gazing up at the ceiling. Perhaps twenty minutes went by. Then at last Peter said, ‘Where’s Charlie? I’m worried to death about Charlie.’
‘Charlie’s gone, Dad.’
‘Gone? He was here a moment ago.’
‘Dad, listen. You’re in hospital.’
‘What?’
‘Warwick Hospital. You’re getting treatment for your cancer and you’re going to be well.’
‘What?’
‘Zoe is coming to see you with me tomorrow.’
‘Zoe? Zoe’s your wife.’
‘That’s right.’
Peter dragged himself upright. It was a struggle and his face contorted as he pulled himself up. Then he looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘I’ve got cancer.’
‘Yes, Dad. But you’re doing well.’
‘Liar.’
‘You’re doing good. I was just speaking with the ward sister. Look, I brought you a drop of cognac. The good stuff.’
‘Cognac. You are a star, son. A star.’
Jake stood up and poured two—this time generous—measures of cognac into the paper cups. He handed one of the cups to his father, who took a healthy gulp. Then the door swung open.
A middle-aged lady with close-cropped hair bounced into the room wielding a clipboard in one hand and rapidly clicking a ballpoint in the other. She wore a tight-fitting dark suit slashed by a wide crimson belt. There was an almost pantomime energy in the mobility of her face. ‘Hell-o, hell-o! How are we today?’
‘We’re fine,’ said Jake. ‘Thanks.’
‘That’s really great and fabulous,’ she said, ‘because I’m taking requests for WHR.’
‘Requests?’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Peter bellowed at her. ‘Who the fuck let you in here?’
The mobility drained from the lady’s face. She over-focused on Jake. ‘WHR. Warwick Hospital Radio. I’m making a request list and we’ll play the requests this evening.’
‘You insufferably silly cunt!’
Jake said, ‘My dad kind of likes Sinatra. Stuff like that.’
Peter shouted, ‘Do you know the song “Me and You in a Lead Canoe”? No? Me fucking neither. You should be buried in a Y-shaped coffin. Cunt!’
‘His name is Peter Bennett and he’d like “Love Is the Tender Trap”.’
The lady wrote it down carefully. ‘Love. Is. The. Tender Trap. I like that one. Well, that’s really great and fabulous! I’ll leave you boys to it!’
Peter had his glasses on now and he was squeezing the lens-frame and wrinkling his nose in disdain at the lady in the red belt.
‘Thanks,’ said Jake. ‘He’ll enjoy that.’
Peter said quietly after she’d gone, ‘Never mind that twatting whore, come over here. I want to tell you something. Come closer.’
Jake leaned in towards the bed. Peter beckoned him still closer. He wanted to whisper something. He pressed his thumb and his forefinger together. ‘We’re out of supplies. There isn’t going to be another drop. No. Our only chance is to get across the mountain.’
‘You know—’
‘Shut it and listen. We’ll dump the Bren guns and the ammo with the partisans. The Krauts will think we’re still here. Charlie’s got gangrene and he can’t even move. I love the bloke—none finer—but you know what I’m going to have to do.’
‘No, Dad.’
‘No other way, son, no other way.’
Jake watched his father grind his teeth. Peter lay back twisting his fingers together. He was clearly in a state of anguish.
Jake cleared his throat. ‘Dad. I’ll take care of that for you.’
‘What?’
‘Charlie. I’ll deal with it.’
‘No. Not having that. Absolutely fucking not. I’m the CO around here and I’m the one who has to do it.’
‘I’m going to take care of it for you.’
‘No you won’t and that’s an order. My responsibility. Not yours.’ Peter eyeballed him and perhaps for the first time ever, Jake realised what a ferocious and determined figure was his father.
‘You can’t move,’ Jake said at last. ‘You’re laid up here. I’m going to do it with or without your permission.’
‘Don’t even think about it, sonny. Don’t even think about it.’
‘I’m going out of that door right now and I’m going to do it.’
Peter raged. Ignoring his father’s protests and all the obscenities that went with them Jake got up, went out of the room and closed the door. From behind the door he heard his father roaring, Come back here, you little shit, and the rest. Jake vented a deep sigh and ran both hands through his hair. A pretty nurse at the desk looked up at him. He folded his arms and stood with his back to the closed door for about three minutes.
Then he went back inside. His father had calmed down. He looked at Jake expectantly.
‘It’s done,’ said Jake.
‘I didn’t hear a shot.’
‘I muffled it. Charlie’s dead. It’s all taken care of.’
Peter removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Bloody good man. One of the best of us.’ Then he looked around the room again; and at the bottle of brandy that stood on the cabinet; and at the grapes; and finally at Jake. ‘Jake, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘I’m visiting you, Dad.’
‘But you shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be— God, I’m so confused. So confused.’
There was a tremble in his voice; a tremble Jake had never heard before. It was the first sign of emotional frailty he’d ever witnessed in his father and it lacerated his heart. He got up and made to hug him, but Peter seemed almost repelled by the advance. Instead he half-hugged him, and broke the hug by pretending he was straightening the pillow and rearranging the sheets.
‘Where’s Zoe?’ Peter said.
‘Oh! She’s coming tomorrow.’
‘I want to see my Zoe. Lovely girl. I want to see her.’
‘Sure thing, Dad. She’ll be along tomorrow.’
‘He asked for you today.’ Jake told Zoe that evening.
‘By name? He can’t be that bad if he asked for me by name.’
Jake had told her all about Peter’s delusions that he was back in the Italian mountains. ‘He’s time-tripping. He’s in and out.’
‘Why do you think he’s back there in particular?’ Jake shook his head. ‘Probably the most stressful time of his life. Plus there’s guilt. He had to kill one of his own men.’
‘He told you that?’
‘It came out. I’m not sure you should go tomorrow. He was okay with me but every time a female walked into the room he went fucking crazy. I mean, the air was blue.’
‘I can handle that.’
‘No, like angry-blue. Out-of-control blue.’
‘I have to come with you. Anyway, he asked for me, didn’t he? I have to.’
They went back together the following evening. The nurse at the desk told them that Peter had had an uncomfortable day. When they went in, Jake thought he sensed a miasma, a cloudiness in the room he hadn’t detected the previous evening. Peter at first appeared to be asleep but then he opened his eyes.
‘It’s looking bleak,’ Peter said.
Jake didn’t know whether he was referring to the cancer or to his chances in the mountains. ‘You’re a fighter, Dad,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been a fighter.’
Peter seemed to consider that.
Zoe approached him. ‘Hello, Dad.’ She always called him ‘Dad’, just like Archie, and Peter had always liked it.
‘Zoe,’ he said, accepting a kiss. ‘I so wanted to see you.’
‘Well, I’m here. How are you feeling?’
‘Lot of pain. Comes through the morphine, it does. And sometimes I don’t know where I am. And I want to cry. But we’re not having that, are we?’