‘Really?’
‘Nothing’s been said, but your mother thinks so and I’d back your mother’s judgement on that any day.’
Rachel had been tense lately. The last time they’d met she’d really lashed out at Elinor. You’re behaving like a widow, for God’s sake. Surely you can see how offensive that is? Startled by the ferocity of the attack, Elinor had tried to explain that she always wore black because it was easy: you didn’t have to think what to put on. But she knew Rachel’s accusation had nothing to do with clothes. There it was again: the shadow under the water that none of them ever admitted seeing.
‘So what happens now?’
‘I’ll put the house up for sale.’
Elinor froze.
‘I don’t see any alternative. Your mother’s not going back. I certainly don’t want to live there.’
‘You never did.’
That was too sharp, though he showed no sign of having heard.
‘I’m afraid it’s got to go. I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to keep it on just for you.’
‘No, of course not.’ Her heart twisted. It felt like losing Toby all over again. ‘I’ll start looking for somewhere in town.’
‘You’ll need a bigger place. I’m quite happy to give you the same allowance I gave Toby.’
‘No, you mustn’t —’
‘Why not? There’s nothing else to spend it on.’
She’d need storage space for the paintings. He was right, she would need a bigger flat …
‘So how do you feel?’ he said.
‘It’s very generous of you.’
‘You know I didn’t mean that.’
‘How do I feel? Well. As if something just broke.’ She smiled. ‘Too many broken things.’
‘There’ll always be a bed for you in the cottage. Whenever you want one.’
Which would be never. ‘What about you, Dad? Will there be a bed for you in the cottage?’
He straightened his knife and fork. ‘I spend most of my time in London anyway.’
So this was the moment when, finally, the breakdown of the marriage was going to be acknowledged. The loss of Toby hadn’t brought his parents together; if anything, it had driven them further apart.
The steak-and-kidney pie arrived, looking rather wan and sad, flanked by boiled potatoes and anaemic cabbage. They ate in silence for a while; then Elinor, searching for another, less painful, topic of conversation, hit on her recent meeting with Tonks.
‘And he’s asked me to work there.’
‘What does it involve?’
‘Drawing.’
‘No, I mean, how many hours?’
‘Don’t know, didn’t ask. Frankly, I’m —’
‘You’re not going to turn it down, are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Elinor, you really ought to take this, you know. It’ll help you … help you —’
‘Move on?’
‘Or back, or in a circle. I don’t know. Move, anyway.’
She hadn’t realized till now how stagnant her life must seem to him. ‘I do work, you know.’
‘I know you do.’
Only she hadn’t been, not recently. Whenever she went back home, she got her brushes out and tried to paint, but it didn’t happen. And Toby’s portrait, draped in its white cloth, was still unfinished.
‘What do you suppose Toby would say?’
‘Dad, that is completely and utterly below the belt.’
‘Perfectly reasonable question.’
‘Well, he’s not here to answer it.’
‘No, that’s true.’
He was looking away from her across the wet street, and that gave her a chance to study his face more closely. The washed-out blue corneas of his eyes were ringed with circles of opaque grey. The arcus senilis. Had it been there the last time she looked? She couldn’t remember.
‘Anyway, I haven’t decided yet. I’ll know more tomorrow after I’ve seen Tonks.’
It was raining when she left the restaurant so she decided to take the Underground back to Catherine’s lodgings. She stood on the deserted platform, listening to the rumble of distant trains, her hair and skirt ruffled by the dead wind that blew out of the tunnels.
What would Toby say? Not a difficult question to answer. On his last leave, they’d lain out on the lawn, side by side, close enough to smell each other’s skin, but not touching. Never touching. He’d said, then, how much he wished she’d do something for the war effort. They’d wasted hours of their last days together arguing about it. Which, as she tried to explain to him, was precisely what the war did: leached time and energy away from all the things that really mattered. ‘I’m not going to feed it,’ she’d said.
He’d been exasperated. ‘I think I see what you mean but isn’t it all a bit theoretical when people are suffering so much? I don’t see how you can ignore that.’
‘But there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘Of course there is, lots of things.’
‘Such as? I haven’t got what it takes to be a nurse …’
‘I think you have.’
‘Oh, Toby, I’m hard as nails.’
‘Precisely.’ He lifted himself on to his elbow to look at her. ‘Are you proud of that?’
‘No, it frightens the life out of me.’
He lay down again. ‘You could always knit.’
‘Oh, yes, socks for you, I suppose? Don’t think so.’
‘Just as well, probably. Nothing gives you blisters faster than a badly knitted sock.’
They lay in silence, soaking up the sun, peaceful on the surface, but with a bead of tension between them that made her miserable. ‘Can’t we just agree to disagree?’
‘I thought we had. Do you see that bird over there? I’m sure it’s a buzzard.’
The bird was no more than a shadow in a ripple of green leaves. ‘No, it’s a sparrowhawk.’
‘Buzzard. Definitely.’
‘Sparrowhawk.’
‘Good God, woman, are you blind? BUZZARD.’
Standing on the edge of the platform, listening to the roar of an approaching train, she began to smile. The dead wind blew in her face, but she was back on the lawn, Toby alive beside her, his arm an inch away from hers. She felt the prickle of grass on her bare skin.
Oh, Toby, why did you have to die?
Eighteen
Towards evening Neville’s temperature rose. A doctor he hadn’t seen before came and examined him. He leaned into Neville, speaking slowly and clearly, as if to a small child. ‘Try to sleep.’
Sleep? In this hellhole? The ward at night was never quiet, not for a second: squeaky footsteps, creaking mattresses, snores, groans, farts, the scream of a man struggling to escape from a nightmare, followed by the flap-flap of rushing feet, voices, half scolding, half reassuring, cajoling or bullying the dreamer back to sleep.
Neville fought off sleep as long as he could, but when, for the third time, the night nurse passed his bed and found him awake, she gave him a sleeping draught and stood over him while he drank it. After she’d gone he lay looking at the lamp on the nurses’ table. It shifted and blurred as lights sometimes seem to do in a high wind. It was raining too, great bursts of it hurled against the windows of the hut. How was anybody meant to sleep in this? But then, gradually, his eyes closed.
He was travelling again, the train bumping over points. His consciousness, the fine point that was left of it, still bright and sharp, like a needle tacking darkness …
Cattle trucks? He hadn’t expected that. He was used to columns of marching men, mud-coloured against a muddy road, dodging the sprays of slush and gravel that motor lorries flung up in their wake. But now, the carriages loomed up on his left as he stood with the others: indistinguishable, expressionless blobs, all of them, enduring the long wait with no more impatience than cows. So perhaps the trucks were appropriate after all.