Christopher Priest - The Separation

When we returned to the ambulance, Ken took over the driving, while Phyllida loosely secured my legs and waist with the straps in case I wanted to sleep. Soon we had passed through the heavily bombed centre and inner suburbs of the city, and were striking northwards into the countryside. Phyllida lay back on the stretcher shelf on her side and began to doze.

I too was exhausted, but the exhilaration of having an identity was coursing through me. I settled down to pass the rest of the night on the uncomfortable ledge, wrapped in a couple of blankets, bracing myself with my elbows and staring up at the van’s ceiling. It was cream-painted, made of metal, held in place by a line of tiny painted-over rivets. There were few comforts in the vehicle. How many damaged lives had expired on a hard shelf like this, with a similar dreary view? I knew of some of those people myself. I could not forget the feeling of despair and regret that arose whenever we arrived at a hospital casualty bay, only to find that the injured person must have died as we were driving frantically through the blacked-out streets.

We arrived in Manchester as dawn was breaking. Someone unlocked the door of our building and we went inside. Ken and Phyllida went to the kitchen and one of them put on a kettle to make tea while I walked around the deserted floors, familiarizing myself with the place once again. I knew it had been some time since I worked in the building, but my faulty memory was imprecise about details. I was anxious to go home to see Birgit again. The first train out to Macclesfield did not leave until after 8 a.m. but as we drove into the centre of Manchester Phyllida told me she thought there might be someone who could give me a lift home before then.

In the end, after hanging around in the centre of Manchester, I caught the train. I left Macclesfield Station, walked through the tunnel, crossed the Silk Road and began the climb up the hill towards Rainow. It was a long walk, with many reminders of the times I had laboured home the same way, pedalling my old bicycle.

I took a shortcut across the fields on the slopes below our house. It was a lovely autumnal morning, with mist shrouding the hills, but the thin sunlight was already on my face and the view across the plain was coming into focus as the day moved on. I could see our house ahead of me, outlined against the pale blue sky. I thought of Birgit in there somewhere, not suspecting that I was almost home. Because we had no telephone in the house I had not been able to send a message ahead. I briefly imagined her sitting alone at our kitchen table, perhaps drinking milk or tea, reading the morning newspaper.

I had been away so long - I no longer knew how many weeks it had been since I left. Birgit was living by herself for all that time, alone in a house and in a country where she never really-felt she belonged. I had hardly been able to contact her: no telephone conversations except short ones by arrangement in public call-boxes, our letters delayed by the disruption the bombing caused. She was so young, so beautiful. I had left her alone, neglecting her for the sake of trying to do something about the war.

I broke my stride. For the first time ever, I was stricken by doubts about my wife. Could she have turned to someone else for comfort in my absence? While I was in London I had met so many other people whose lives had been disrupted by the war, whose minds were full of anxious thoughts about sexual betrayals and jealousies. Separation, loneliness, mistrust, infidelities, these were the real consequences of war for most people. The marriages of at least two of the men in the small group I worked with in London had already collapsed under the strain of war.

I realized I was panicking, a reaction usually alien to me, and I decided at that last moment to send out a warning. In those few seconds I had convinced myself that if I marched unannounced into my house I might interrupt something that I would rather not see. I was less than fifty yards away from the house.

I cupped a hand around my mouth.

‘Birgit!’ I shouted. ‘Can you hear me? I’m home!’

My voice sounded to me like an explosion in the quiet morning. It seemed that my words echoed across the slopes, back from the tranquil hills, loud enough to make people miles away turn their faces and crane their necks. I glanced around at the misty, sunlit view. I called again and continued to climb up the uneven grassy slope.

‘I’m home, Birgit!’ I yelled again.

Then there was movement. I saw one of the curtains in the main living-room twitch quickly to one side. Had it been Birgit?

The front door opened, the one that led out to the muddy lane running past the house. I stumbled forward, tripping, pressing my hands briefly on the dew-cold grass for balance, then levering myself up again. I saw someone step out of the house.

It was not Birgit. It was, in a terrible fulfilment of my worst fantasy, a young man. He was in uniform, in RAF uniform: smart blue trousers and tunic, pale-blue shirt and dark tie, a peaked cap. He looked across the muddy ground towards me, the shock in his face reflecting the shock that I myself felt.

It was my brother Jack, there at my house.

I half crawled, half climbed up the slippery grass towards him. He was standing stiffly with his hand stretched out towards me. I kept stumbling and sliding, pushing myself desperately towards him, but somehow I was unable to make any more progress. Birgit came through the door behind Jack and stood peering past his shoulder as, like a fool, I blundered and slithered on the muddy slope.

I opened my eyes and the cream-painted metal ceiling of the ambulance was there above me. The noise and vibration of the engine, rattled through me. My back was stiff from straining for balance against the lurching of the van.

Phyllida was standing in the aisle with her legs braced, leaning down over me. She was holding my wrist in one hand; the other pressed coolly on my forehead. I tried to sit up, deeply confused by the suddenness of the transition. She pushed me down again, gently but not allowing me to resist. I realized how physically weak I was feeling.

‘You were shouting,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t catch what you said.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. In my mind’s eye I could still see the steep slope, the bright morning sunshine, the figures of my brother and my wife, high and unreachable above me. ‘I wasn’t asleep! Was I shouting?’

‘Joe, try to relax. We’ll get you to Manchester as soon as we can. Let me give you something to drink.’

She held out to me one of the lidded cups we gave the patients when the ambulance was moving at speed. What had been going on in my house? Jack and Birgit together? I took the cup from Phyllida and sucked at the metal mouthpiece. Cold water ran pleasantly into my mouth. I took two or three gulps and passed the cup back to her.

‘Better?’ she said.

‘Better than what? I can’t imagine what’s happened to me! I thought we had arrived. We went to the building in Irlam Street, where we work! You were there and so was Ken Wilson. Just now! Isn’t that right?’

‘Joe, make yourself comfortable.’

She rapped her heel sharply three times against the metal bulkhead dividing the back of the van from the driving cab. In a moment I felt the vehicle slowing down. Eventually it came to a halt and the engine fell silent. I heard the driver’s door open and close. Ken Wilson walked round and let himself in through the main doors at the rear. There was nothing but darkness outside.

‘What’s the problem? Is everything OK with you, Joe?’

‘Yes-’

‘He suddenly started shouting,’ Phyllida said. ‘You must have heard.’