But when the train got in, one look at Stanley took the beam out of Joe’s smile.
“Hello, Stanley,” he said, with guarded enthusiasm.
Stanley allowed himself to be shaken hands with.
“I got buried by a shell,” he said.
Joe darted a glance at Laura’s set face. The platform was very crowded, people pushing past them, porters struggling with luggage, and Stanley standing stiffly there seemed to be in everybody’s way. Avoiding Joe’s eyes, Laura took Stanley’s arm and led him to the barrier. On the way to the barrier Stanley confided in Joe again.
“I got buried by a shell.”
They got into the car. All the way from Central Station to Hilltop Joe sat in the car looking sideways at Stanley, yet trying not to look sideways and saying to himself, Good God, could you ever believe it!
He hoped Stanley wouldn’t say it again.
But Stanley said it again. For the third time Stanley said:
“I got buried by a shell!”
Looking sideways, yet trying not to look sideways, Joe said:
“That’s right, Stanley, you got buried by a shell.”
Stanley said nothing. He sat on the edge of the back seat as though cut out of wood. His eyes were away in front of him. His face was quite blank, all his plump body seemed to have melted away from him. He held on to the side of the car with both hands. Mr. Stanley, our Mr. Stanley, held on.
“We’re nearly there now,” Joe said encouragingly. He had thought that Stanley was all right, absolutely unscratched and good as new. But this was Stanley, this was Stanley here. Joe had to keep telling himself to believe it. This… here… this. He took a furtive glance towards Laura. She sat with that expressionless look, supporting Stanley with her arm.
The car drew up at Hilltop and Joe jumped out. He was terribly solicitous and helpful.
“This way, now. Watch the step. Careful now.”
Mr. Stanley was careful. Holding on, he got out of the car and stood himself on the pavement. He was extremely careful. He kept his head very still as if he wanted to be careful of his head. He looked like a man with a bad stiff neck until you saw that all his body was stiff. The movements of his body were effected by a series of little impulses. The movements were not quite co-ordinated. They were like the movements of a very nearly perfect mechanical man.
Joe said:
“Will I give you a hand?”
Stanley did not answer — he had a way of not answering — but in a minute he said:
“The legs work pretty well but it’s the head. I’ve been in hospital. I got buried by a shell!”
While Laura remained at the gate giving the chauffeur instructions about the luggage, Joe led Stanley into the house. Bessie, the parlourmaid, stood on the doorstep, waiting to let them in. Bessie’s eyes dropped out of her head at the sight of Mr. Stanley. Joe exclaimed very heartily;
“Here’s Mr. Stanley back then, Bessie.”
Taking no notice of Bessie at all, Stanley walked straight into the lounge and sat down on the edge of a chair. The house did not belong to him and he did not belong to the house. He fingered his waistcoat buttons, then he looked at Bessie. This time he must have noticed Bessie for he explained himself to her.
Without any warning whatever Bessie burst into tears.
Joe took off Mr. Stanley’s cap.
“There!” he said kindly. “He’ll feel better when he’s had his lunch, eh, Bessie?” He smiled at Bessie, she was a nice girl Bessie was, he had always treated Bessie nice.
Bessie went out to see about the lunch. Joe could hear her weeping in the kitchen, weeping and telling the cook.
Stanley looked round the lounge. To look round the lounge he did not turn his head, he turned his body very slowly and carefully upon the edge of the chair. As he did so Laura came in.
“It’s fine to see you back, Stan,” Joe said, rubbing his hands together heartily. “Isn’t it. Mrs. Millington?”
“Yes.” Laura went over to Stanley. From her face the strain was almost unsupportable.
“Would you like to come upstairs now?” she said.
But Stanley answered, no. He hadn’t much interest in Laura. In fact he seemed in some queer way to resent Laura’s interest in him. He kept looking round the lounge. His eyes were curious, and there was a curious undercurrent in his eyes. They seemed darker, his eyes, with a film of darkness, and below the film the undercurrent played. When the undercurrent played near the surface Stanley’s face came nearest to emotion. It was difficult to make out the emotion for it came to the surface so suddenly and darted so suddenly away. But it was a horrible emotion. It was fear, no particular fear, simply fear. Stanley was not afraid of anything. He was just afraid. He finished looking round the lounge. He remarked:
“We had a good journey.”
“Fine, fine!”
“Except for the noise.”
“The noise, Stanley?”
“The wheels. In the tunnels.”
What the hell, thought Joe.
“I got—”
“That’s right,” Joe said quickly. The gong sounded softly. “Come on and have your lunch. He’ll feel better when he’s had his lunch, won’t he, Mrs. Millington? Nothing like a spot of lunch for pulling a man together.”
“I’ve got to lie down after lunch,” Stanley said. “That’s one of the things the doctors told me. They made me promise before I came away.”
They went in to lunch. Laura paused pointedly in the doorway of the dining-room.
“Haven’t you got to be at the works?” she asked him in a flat voice, not looking at Joe.
“Not a bit of it,” said Joe heartily. “Things are going grand there.”
“I think perhaps Stanley would rather you left him now?”
A flutter of irritation came over Stanley.
“No, no. Let Joe stop on.”
A short silence; Joe smiled genially; Laura moved reluctantly away. They sat down to lunch.
When he had finished his soup, to show he had not forgotten his instructions, Stanley remarked again to Joe:
“I’ve got to lie down after lunch, that’s one of the things they told me. And when I get up I’ve got to do my knitting.”
Joe’s mouth fell open — it’s not funny, he thought, O God, no, it’s not funny. In an awed voice he said:
“Your knitting?”
Laura made a movement of pain, as though to interpose. But Mr. Stanley went on, explaining himself; he seemed happiest when explaining himself:
“My knitting helps the head. In the hospital I learned to do my knitting after I got buried by the shell.”
Joe removed his eyes hurriedly from Stanley’s face. Knitting, he thought… knitting. He thought back. He kind of remembered Stanley, and Mr. Stanley’s remarks in this same room a year before. The topping fellow who wanted a smack at the Fritzes, don’t you know, for St. George and England, the full-blooded Briton who wished he’d joined the Flying Corps… great adventure, what? Very lights, Public Schools Battalion, number nines… our Mr. Stanley, who thought war simply marvellous. Christ, thought Joe, I wonder what he thinks about it now; and all of a sudden Joe wanted to laugh.
But at that moment Stanley very nearly began to cry.
“I can’t,” he whimpered, “I can’t.”
Laura intervened in a low voice, bending forward:
“What’s wrong, dear?”
Stanley’s face twitched under its frozen mask.
“I can’t close the mustard-pot.” He was trying to close the mustard-pot and he could not do it. He was beginning to shake all over because he could not close the mustard-pot.
Joe jumped up.