Weaver

'It's Gary. Dad, he's back-'

'He might be,' Mary put in.

The father eyed her, surprised by her accent. 'And you are?'

Hilda introduced her quickly.

The father shook her hand; his grip was warm, firm and sure. 'Call me George.'

'Mary.'

'I saw little enough of your son before he was shipped away. But he went off to fight for a good cause. And now you say he's back?'

'It's possible. All I really know is that elements of his division should have been brought back here. What I don't know is where I might find him.'

George Tanner rubbed his chin. 'The evacuation's being going on for about six days already. There are shot-up soldiers all over town – I don't mean to alarm you, Mary – not enough of them by half, things have gone badly over there. Look, I have contacts of my own. Wait while I nip inside.' He tucked his helmet under his arm and went into the town hall.

With her father gone Hilda asked solicitously, 'How are you bearing up? Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Maybe later,' Mary said. 'I'm glad I found you, Hilda. Without you I don't know what I would have done.'

'Somebody would have helped you. People are like that. Besides, we haven't done anything yet.' She was staring at the town hall door. 'Come on, Dad.'

George came hurrying out of the hall, fixing his helmet hastily on his head. He carried a slip of paper in his hand. 'Look, we need to go to the hospital. It's that way.' He pointed. 'It's only half a mile. I could get a car but it's going to be quicker to walk it.' He eyed Mary, uncertain. 'Are you up to that?'

'I'm tougher than I look.'

Hilda led the way, hurrying.

Mary said carefully, 'So you found him.'

'There's a record in the log, yes,' George said, with what sounded like a policeman's caution. 'They've got everything buttoned down in there, those ATS ladies, it's quite remarkable. Every last soldier logged in, cross-checked, filed and indexed. If only the generals had done as well in France.'

Her relief that Gary was here, that he had come through the funnel of the evacuation, was tinged with fear. 'But he's in the hospital, you say.'

'When the evacuation started, they cleared out all the hospitals ready to receive the wounded. They set up a few field stations in the schools too. As it turned out there were far fewer coming back than had been planned for.' He said carefully, 'You mustn't read anything into the fact that he's in hospital. It's a case of first come first served, not medical need.'

'We'll know soon enough,' Hilda said, hurrying forward.

'Afterwards we'll sort you out,' George said. 'Find you somewhere to stay. You can be with us if you like. There's just the two of us, Hilda and me. My wife passed away a dozen years ago.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Long time ago. Look, is there anybody you'll need to call? We don't have a private phone, and the public lines are blocked – well, you know that – but if you want to make a call I'll take you to the police station. You have a husband – Gary's father?'

'I'm afraid we're divorced, George. But, yes, I'll need to speak to him at some point. Depending on – you know.'

'We'll sort you out, don't you worry.'

'You're being very kind.'

III

At the hospital entrance ambulances pulled up and drove off, and there was a steady stream of stretcher parties. Nurses fussed around, and a doctor seemed to be on hand to greet every arrival. Green Army blankets were spread over the stretchers. The staff looked strained, the doctors' white coats ominously stained with old blood.

At a desk inside the entrance an ATS volunteer, a woman of about sixty with a helmet of steel-grey hair, was doing her best to block the way to all non-essential visitors. But George the copper, big and bluff and authoritative, easily talked his way past her. Further in they found an information desk manned by a Wren, who was able to give them the number of the ward they needed. The hospital was busy, and there were soldiers everywhere, in grimy uniforms and bandages. But even so there were a lot of staff and arm-banded volunteers standing around, looking fretful, with nothing to do.

There was a dreadful smell, a heavy iron stink. George saw Mary react, and he touched her arm, and Hilda's. 'That's dried blood. I remember it from the last lot, the first war. The men are turning up here with old wounds, days old some of them. You never forget the smell. But you just have to put it aside and get on with things. All right?'

They both nodded, and went on. To Mary, knowing that Gary was close, somewhere in this crowded, busy building, these last moments, this walk down the corridors with their shining floors, seemed endless, as if time was stretching.

At last they came to Ward Twenty-Three. There were two rows of beds before a big sash window that had been flung open to allow in the light and air of a garden. The beds were all full of broken-looking bodies, lying still. Mary couldn't bear to look at their faces. She marched forward, looking at the names on the medical notes fixed to the iron bed frames.

And here was his name, WOOLER, GARY P., with his British army serial number. He lay on his back covered by a thick white blanket, his eyes closed. A skinny young man with thick black hair and wearing a white coat sat on a hard upright chair beside the bed, eyeing them.

Gary looked asleep. His face was clean, though Mary could see some bruising, but his blond hair, scattered over the pillow, was matted and filthy. A drip stand stood beside him; a clear tube snaked into a vein in his arm, the needle covered by a bit of bandage. Mary was hugely relieved that at first glance he looked whole: two arms, two legs, no hideous medical apparatus strapped to his body.

But Hilda was crying, with great silent heaving sobs. Mary felt her own tears come, and she buried her face in the girl's neck, smelling the starch of her uniform.

When they broke, Mary turned to the young man on the chair. She whispered, 'Nurse? When will he wake up? Can we speak to him?'

He stood. 'Well, I'm not a nurse. Just a volunteer.' He grinned, and showed her an armband with a red cross. 'My name's Benjamin Kamen.'

Both Hilda and George stiffened at hearing his accent. 'You sound German,' Hilda said, wondering.

'I'm Austrian,' said Kamen. 'An Austrian Jew, in fact. I came to Britain to fight. They wouldn't let me join up. Flat feet! So I'm doing this instead.'

'And why are you here?' George asked, still sounding suspicious.

'Because I've got this accent,' Kamen said simply. 'Makes the English uncomfortable. So I try to help out with the international brigades. Half of them don't recognise my accent, or if they do they feel like outsiders anyhow. And when I got to know Gary, when he was brought in – he spoke about you, Mrs Wooler.' He faced Mary. 'I recognised your name. I used to read your pieces in the Traveller, and I know about your work before the war. I've been waiting here to meet you.'

Mary was bewildered. 'Thank you-'

'Mrs Wooler, there's something I need to talk to you about. You might be able to help me. It could be urgent.'

George snorted. 'More urgent than this? For God's sake, man.'

'I'm sorry.' Kamen backed off, hands raised.

'But is he all right?' Hilda asked.

Gary stirred. 'You could try asking him yourself.' His head turned, and his eyes flickered open.

Mary grabbed her son's hand and squeezed it, pressing it to her face. 'Oh, Gary, my God. What a day you've given me!'

'I'm sorry.' His voice was very dry, cracking. 'Mind you, I've not been at a picnic myself, I can tell you that.' He turned his head to Hilda, who was suffering that odd silent sobbing again, and he stroked her face. George, standing massively, rested a hand on his daughter's shoulder.