Graham Joyce - The Silent Land

That time after the screwdriver incident they sipped their ritual brandy and just as Jake was about to put down his glass and say his farewells, Peter had opened up about bad language.

‘I know it’s different for your generation, but I am offended by it. I don’t like it when you blaspheme, since that offends my faith; and I don’t like it when you cuss because that represents a decline in values.’

‘Yes, but what values, Dad?’

‘You don’t understand. Speaking, talking—language, that is—represents the most orderly, civilised and rational expression of human nature. All this foul-mouthed cussing is a gap where you can’t think of anything to say. It’s the opposite of being rational and ordered. The very opposite. It wants to unpick civilised behaviour, rationality and order.’

‘Yep. I just don’t happen to believe in rationality and order very much.’

‘Oh! You think we should give up? Let everything slide into the sewer?’

‘Not at all. What I mean is we are rational some of the time, but not all the time. We’ve no idea what’s under the rationality. Foul language as you call it is an expression of that.’

‘Ah! So we agree on one thing! It’s a call to the unconscious, to death and to ordure.’

‘Isn’t that what’s underneath everything?’

Peter sneered behind the lip of his brandy glass. ‘You don’t know the first thing about death, sonny. Not the first thing.’ Then he admonished himself. ‘I’m sorry, that was unmanly of me.’

‘Unmanly? Dad! Loosen up a bit, will you? Look, swearing: it’s just letting off a bit of steam. A safety valve.’

‘We won’t agree on that.’

Jake stood up. The time had come to leave. They always shook hands, firmly and with eye contact: his father had taught him that one should always make eye contact when shaking hands. Jake had watched Zoe and Archie hug affectionately on meeting and departing. He had wondered if resistance to the embrace was a male thing, but after a couple of years Archie was happy to offer him a hug, too. Meanwhile he and Peter had got through the years with firm handshakes and they weren’t about to start hugging now.

And yet now that he saw his father lying on the hospital bed he wanted to hug him. This father who suddenly,inexplicably and contrary to a lifetime of restraint had started swearing.

Peter lifted his head from the pillow. ‘You know they got Charlie, don’t you? Poor fucker.’

‘Charlie?’

‘We lost him. I’m sad about that. Good fellow in a scrap. Did you see that escarpment where we came in?’

‘Escarpment?’

‘Christ, I’ve been through this enough times. There’s an overhang above the cave high in the rock. If we’ve got a man spare we want one stationed there all the time. Right fucking there.’

‘Dad—’

‘I’m not fucking well discussing it. This isn’t the village fucking hall. Just see to it. I’m going to have to tell Charlie’s fucking wife when we get back. If we get back. All because of a bit of cunt, I ask you.’

Jake had brought grapes and lemon barley water. He placed them on the cabinet.

‘Grapes?’ Peter said. ‘Where in hell did you get those this time of year?’

‘The supermarket, Dad.’

Peter reached up to squeeze his lens-frame, but his glasses were folded and lying on the same cabinet. He was about to say something when the ward sister walked in and picked up his chart from the clip at the foot of the bed.

‘I want this place cleared of all these fucking whores.’

‘Now now, Mr Bennett,’ said the ward sister firmly. ‘We’ll have a bit less of that.’

‘Get the bitch out of here, Jake. Do you know, if the army made soldiers’ boots from cunt leather they would never wear out.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,’ Jake said. ‘Can I have a word?’

Jake stepped outside the private room with the ward sister and closed the door on Peter. ‘Look, I’ve never heard him say such things.’

The sister was a burly woman with large bovine eyes and a bleach-blond curl spilling over her brow. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’ve heard worse than that.’

‘Really? I haven’t!’

‘Well. You know.’

‘It’s like he’s time-tripping. He’s back in the war. It’s like he’s still fighting it. Is it the medication?’

‘Not really. The bone cancer has caused the bone to crumble and get into his bloodstream. The calcium runs to the brain. He’s not always like that. Most of the time he’s very sweet.’

‘That’s a relief. Look, I’ve got a bottle of brandy in my bag and a paper cup. I know you’re not supposed to, but… is it all right if he has some?’

‘I haven’t seen anything.’

‘Thanks.’

Nurses and soldiers , thought Jake. They see it all, and pretend they’ve seen nothing.

Peter had been a soldier on Special Operations in the war. An officer in the elite SAS force, he had commanded Operation Pepino behind enemy lines in the mountains of northern Italy during the winter of 1944–45. Thirty-two men were parachuted in in broad daylight. Their instructions were to make themselves highly visible and simulate the actions of a much larger company to divert enemy troops who were preventing an Allied advance. The operation was successful and the Germans unwittingly diverted thousands of troops.

It was a fierce winter and there was close-combat fighting with both Italian blackshirts and German troops. Peter brought back eighteen of the thirty-two men, or, as he always put it another way—lost fourteen good men. Somehow, he was back there now, in the snow-covered Italian mountains.

Jake returned to the room. His father seemed to be sleeping now. Jake took the brandy out of his bag along with two paper cups and placed them on the cabinet. Then he sat down in the plastic chair next to the bed, his hands on his knees, watching his father sleep.

After five minutes, Peter opened his eyes and said, ‘You should contact your Uncle Harold. I loaned him a couple of thousand, years ago. You should have it. I’ve no need for it, but you should have it.’

‘Harold’s been dead a long time, Dad. A long time.’

Peter lifted his head from the pillow. ‘Really?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘Good lord. No one tells me anything. I doubt if we shall get that back.’

‘Let it go, Dad.’

Peter wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ll have a grape.’

‘I’ve washed them,’ Jake said. ‘You’ve no need to worry about that.’ He handed his father the grapes.

Peter lay back, feeding the grapes to himself, chewing them very slowly while gazing up at the ceiling. Perhaps twenty minutes went by. Then at last Peter said, ‘Where’s Charlie? I’m worried to death about Charlie.’

‘Charlie’s gone, Dad.’

‘Gone? He was here a moment ago.’

‘Dad, listen. You’re in hospital.’

‘What?’

‘Warwick Hospital. You’re getting treatment for your cancer and you’re going to be well.’

‘What?’

‘Zoe is coming to see you with me tomorrow.’

‘Zoe? Zoe’s your wife.’

‘That’s right.’

Peter dragged himself upright. It was a struggle and his face contorted as he pulled himself up. Then he looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘I’ve got cancer.’

‘Yes, Dad. But you’re doing well.’

‘Liar.’

‘You’re doing good. I was just speaking with the ward sister. Look, I brought you a drop of cognac. The good stuff.’

‘Cognac. You are a star, son. A star.’

Jake stood up and poured two—this time generous—measures of cognac into the paper cups. He handed one of the cups to his father, who took a healthy gulp. Then the door swung open.