She opened her book and began to go through the amounts each nurse owed for sherry or lemonade or ginger beer or wine or brandy, and made arrangements for payment—whether or not she received it then and there.
A titanic detonation of the surface above their heads occurred—as these things did—without introduction. They were jolted against each other by the brutal and bullying sound and then drew together and found themselves half deafened. But the matron continued to read.
Slattery, eleven shillings and sixpence. Freud, twelve and eight-pence. Casement, eighteen and seven pence—a lot of extra chocolate bought there, Casement…
The Klaxon declared temporary safety had returned long before the matron was finished. But in successive days the sound of aeroplane engines made daytime sleep hard and a woman could not take sleeping draughts at night for fear ambulances would arrive. After the sun had set, the enemy’s aircraft traversed the sky indiscriminately—unable in darkness to tell a baby’s cradle in Deux Églises from the enormous British gun now rumored to be emplaced a few miles west.
There was nothing worse on those summer nights than abandoning the startled, wide-eyed boys—those conscious of the raid but unable to be moved. But nothing was secretly and guiltily better than leaning inwards to listen to that older woman—the matron, the plausible aunt—reading her sums above the varying racket.
These Abnormal Days
These abnormal days Sally breakfasted after night duty in ten minutes. Then she slept till perhaps half past ten in the morning, when a sense of urgency woke her and sent her back to her ward. But at one of those dawns of rushed breakfasts she was interrupted. There’s a fellow here asking for you, a staff nurse told her.
At once she knew. Charlie Condon. If it were him he could annul all the awful days and nights—though that this would happen was merely a notion. She went outside and on the path by the resuscitation hut saw him. He was leaning against the building and a bike was propped up near him. She noticed first that his face had grown somehow older. The features had hardened. It was the face—she thought straightaway—of a knowing warrior. She sensed that he could not only suffer anything imaginable but that he might do it too. It was a greater surprise to see him in this new form than it was simply to see him. He is another man, she considered, as I am another woman. Can we still converse? She dearly wanted to.
Oh, he said, almost as if he hadn’t expected to see her. This has really turned out well. I’d heard you’d been bombed and—I’ve got to say—I was pretty worried. Since we’re in a rest area just now, I borrowed this bike and rode down to see if you were all right.
“Down,” she noticed. That must mean he’d traveled from further north.
Charlie, she said. So kind of you. We’re all top of our form, except not a lot of sleep.
Yes, he said. That’s the way it is up there too. Makes a person a bit crazy, doesn’t it?
But you… you look…
What? Uglier?
Are you still an artist?
I’m a sketcher still, he reassured her. Do you know, a kiss would give my talent wings. But not possible here, I suppose.
Come and have tea, she told him.
If no ambulance convoy came in before full light they would be able to have a decent talk. And these plain words—these words of no merit at all—seemed the best ones to exchange with a man who must have the terror of the front fixed in his brain. And who had ridden a bike—how many kilometers?—to check if she was safe.
They went into the mess hut.
I can get you whisky, she offered. If you’d like it.
In fact, whisky, stout, brandy—they were all there for the having these days. Nurses could decide that a given patient needed something, and it was there in the pantry. They had begun to use a lot of it in the NYD ward. In a sane world whisky or brandy should not be administered with opiates. But in this world a quick effect was more important.
He said, Whisky would not go amiss by far.
Wait a second, she said, holding up a finger knowingly. She went and fetched him a tin mugful and brought it back. This simple function delighted her beyond measure.
If the matron should come in, she said, pointing to the mug she put down, we can pretend it’s tea.
She poured herself tea and offered her cup towards his.
Your very good health, she said.
She assessed him again. She dared not think that—after all this—he looked like a man who might come through. But that was the case. He always gave her that impression when she saw him, though not when he was away.
It’s a great relief to clap eyes on you, she said.
Relief? he said.
Of course a relief. Here we only see the wounded. It seems—though it can’t be true—that all men must be wounded sooner or later. But tell me again—the sketching… ?
I’m doing a bit in the rest areas. But there’s nothing to sketch up there now. A limited palette, you’d say, for painting as well. Black and brown and slimy green-yellow. Not the stuff of aesthetics. The whisky is very good.
Tell me. How far did you cycle?
I don’t know.
He pointed vaguely northwards. It was good for me. And I won’t insult you by saying I haven’t thought of you a lot.
I’ve been concerned for you too.
He smiled into the mug of whisky. Come on now. Aunts can be concerned. And you’re not my aunt. I will accept something such as, I’ve been thinking a great deal about you too, Charlie. Or else, I haven’t given you a blessed thought.
It’s so hectic here. But I fear one of the men on stretchers might be you. You’re on my mind a lot.
Ah! said Charlie, who had wanted to hear that. On your mind a lot. I’m pretty gratified to be told that, Sally. That’ll suit me.
She was aware of nurses moving busily about them now—fetching breakfast plates and giving the banal nods and winks. Would there be more winking amongst them—and smart-aleck rolling of eyes in her direction—when Charlie Condon was gone again? Well, of course. That price must be paid.
I have a belief that if I think of you too much something will happen to you.
Well, no fooling you clearing station girls. You know enough to know there are some days a man can’t believe he’ll live. And nights, ditto. And if you live through the day and night there’s another impossible day and night to come. Yet… there I was this morning. On my bike. You can’t overstate how important this journey was to me.
It brought Sally herself a kind of exaltation to hear a sentiment like that.
I’m pretty impressed myself, she assured him.
The tent was near empty now. The others had got over their whispers and decided to give the two of them a time to themselves. Charlie reached for her wrist and she wished something more vigorous would happen. But it wasn’t possible there.
I’ll need to be back by seven o’clock this evening. That means I must set out on my bike about half past three. Just to be sure. The roads get a bit chancy towards dusk and there’s a lot of traffic.
It was as if he were explaining why the hand on wrist would have to do her for now.
It’s a pity, he laughed, a photographer from the Macleay Argus doesn’t come in now and photograph us. The two brave Macleay warriors.
She said, It’s hard to believe the Macleay still exists.
But unfortunately its waters now suddenly flowed back into her, washing along on their surface the still not fully absorbed ending they’d given their mother. It had all come back sharply, as she knew it must. No quantity of massacre could reduce it to a small taint. And Sally knew Charlie must be told about it if he intended to take the more energetic journeys she wanted him to take to keep tracking her down in the French or Flemish countryside.