Not an easy case, Rivers thought. Not in the usual sense a case at all. He had no idea what the outcome would be, though he thought he could get Siegfried to give in. His love for his men. The need he had to prove his courage. By any rational standard, he’d already proved it, over and over again, but then the need wasn’t altogether rational. Given the strength of that need, it was amazing he’d managed to tolerate being cooped up with ‘wash-outs’ and ‘degenerates’ even as long as he had. Putting those forces together and getting him back to France was a task of approximately the same order of difficulty as flicking a stag beetle on to its back. The trouble was Rivers respected Sassoon too much to manipulate him. He had to be convinced that going back was the right thing to do.
At the foot of the Craiglockhart drive, Rivers saw Willard and Mrs Willard. For some extraordinary reason Willard had got his wife to push him as far as the gates, despite the downward slope which he must have seen would make the return journey difficult. Now they were marooned.
Rivers greeted Willard, waited for an introduction to his wife, and, when it failed to come, introduced himself. Mrs Willard was extremely young, attractive in the small-breasted, slim-hipped way of modern girls. As they chatted about the deceptive nature of slopes and the awkwardness of wheelchairs, Rivers became aware of Willard’s hands clenched on the arms of the chair. He felt Willard’s fury at being stranded like this, impotent. Good. The more furious he was the better.
Rivers said to Mrs Willard, ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand.’
With two of them pushing they made steady progress, though there was one nasty moment near the top, when they struck a muddy patch. But then the wheels bit, and they reached level ground at a cracking pace.
‘There you are,’ Mrs Willard said, bending over her husband, breathless and laughing. ‘Made it.’
Willard’s face would have curdled milk.
‘Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’ Rivers suggested.
Mrs Willard looked to her husband for guidance. When none came, she said, ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’
‘My door’s on the left as you go in. I’ll just go ahead and arrange things. You’ll be all right now?’
‘Perfectly, thank you,’ said Willard.
Rivers went into the hall, smiling, only to have the smile wiped off his face by the sight of Matron standing immediately inside the entrance. She’d observed the entire incident and evidently disapproved. ‘You could have sent an orderly down to push the chair, Captain Rivers.’
Rivers opened his mouth, and shut it again. He reminded himself, not for the first time, that it was absolutely necessary for Matron to win some of their battles.
11
Sassoon was trying to decipher a letter from H. G. Wells when Owen knocked on his door.
‘As far as I can make out, he says he’s coming to see Rivers.’
Owen looked suitably impressed. ‘He must be really worried about you.’
‘Oh, it’s not me he wants to talk about, it’s his new book.’ Sassoon smiled. ‘You don’t know many writers, do you?’
‘Not many.’
And I, Sassoon thought, am showing off. Which at least was better than moaning about Gordon’s death to somebody who had more than enough problems of his own. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll come. They all talk about it, but in the end it’s just too far. I sometimes wonder whether that’s why they put me here. Whether it was a case of being sent to Rivers or just sent as far away as possible.’
‘Probably Rivers. He gets all the awkward ones.’ Owen stopped in some confusion. ‘Not that you’re —’
‘Oh, I think I count as awkward. By any standard.’ He handed a sheet of paper across. ‘For the Hydra.’
‘May I read it?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
Owen read, folded the paper and nodded.
To forestall possible effusions, Sassoon said quickly, ‘I’m not satisfied with the last three lines, but they’ll have to do.’
‘I tried yesterday, but you were out.’
‘I’d be with Rivers.’ He smiled. ‘Do you ever feel like strangling Brock?’
‘No, I get on rather well with him.’
‘I get on with Rivers. It’s just… He picked up something I said at lunchtime about not being able to imagine the future. He doesn’t often press, but my God when he does…’
‘Why did he want you to talk about that?’
‘Part of the great campaign to get me back to France. He wants me to put the protest in a longer perspective. You know, “What did you do in the Great War, Siegfried?” Well, I spent three very comfortable years in a loony-bin eating steamed pudding and playing golf. While other people — some of them rather close friends — got blown to smithereens. He wants me to admit I won’t be able to bear it. What’s more, he’s probably right.’
‘Think of the poems you could write.’
‘Not war poems.’
Owen’s expression darkened. ‘There are other subjects.’
‘Yes, of course.’
A slightly awkward pause. ‘The trouble is he just knows more than I do. You know, he’s very good… He tries to behave as if we’re equal. But in the end he’s a Gold Medallist of the Royal Society, and I left Cambridge without taking a degree. And now and again it shows.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’s right.’
‘No, but it does make it very difficult for me to keep my end up in a discussion.’
‘Did you talk about after the war?’
‘No. I can’t, I’ve no plans. Do you know what you’re going to do?’
‘I’m going to keep pigs.’
‘Pigs?’
‘Yes. People think pigs are dirty, you know, but they’re not. They’re very clean animals, given half the chance. And it would combine so well with poetry, you see. Actually much better than teaching, because if you’re teaching properly you’re using the same part of your mind. But pig-keeping…’
‘Perhaps we should go into partnership. It’d shut Rivers up.’
Owen, belatedly aware of being laughed at, blushed and didn’t reply.
‘No, well, I don’t suppose I’d be much use with the pigs, but I may be able to help with the poems.’ He nodded at Owen’s tunic.
Owen extracted a sheaf of papers. ‘I told you they were all short but actually there is one long one. Antaeus and and Hercules.’ He handed the papers over. ‘Do you know the legend? Antaeus is too strong for Hercules as long as he keeps his feet on mother Earth. But as soon as Hercules lifts him —’
‘He’s helpless. Yes, it rings a bell.’ Sassoon started to read. After a few seconds he looked up. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a book? There’s nothing worse than being watched by the Onlie Begetter.’
‘Sorry.’ Owen got up and pretended to look at the books on Sassoon’s shelf.
At last Sassoon looked up. ‘It’s very good. Why Antaeus?’
‘Oh, it’s something Brock’s keen on. He thinks we — the patients — are like Antaeus in the sense that we’ve been ungrounded by the war. And the way back to health is to reestablish the link between oneself and the earth, but understanding “earth” to mean society as well as nature. That’s why we do surveys and things like that.’