Pat Barker - The Ghost Road

He picked up her hand and kissed the ring. 'Don't worry, Sarah.'

'I'm not worried.' She smiled. 'This time next year.'

He hadn't thought about the actual marriage at all, once she'd made it clear she didn't want a quick wedding. Next year was a lifetime away. Perhaps even a bit more. He watched a pigeon walk along the edge of the platform, raw feet clicking on the concrete. 'Come on,' he said. 'Let's walk along.'

They stopped under the shelter of the roof, for there was a fine rain blowing. White northern light filtered through sooty glass. Sarah's face pinched with cold.

'Write as soon as you get there,' she said.

'I'll write from London. I'll write on the train if you like.'

She smiled and shook her head. 'I'm glad you told your mam anyway.'

'She was delighted.'

She was horrified.

— Marrying a factory girl not that it matters of course as long as you’re happy but I'd've thought you could have done a bit better for yourself than that.

His father was incredulous.

— Married? You?

— Oscar Wilde was married, Dad , Prior had not been able to resist saying.

But then his father had come to the station to see him off — first time in four years— and he'd to get out of bed to do it, because he was on nights, and he was wearing his Sunday suit, he'd shaved, and he was sober. Jesus Christ, Prior had thought, all we need is the wreath.

A small hard pellet of dismay lodged in his throat. Premonition? No-o, nothing so portentous. A slight sense of pushing his luck, perhaps. This was the fourth time, and four was one too many.

'I expect they'll invite you over.'

Sarah smiled. 'I think I'll wait till you get back.'

He glanced covertly at his watch. Where was the bloody train? And then he saw it, in the distance, crawling doubtfully along, trailing its plume of steam. No sound yet, though as he stepped closer to the edge of the platform he felt or sensed a vibration in the rails. He turned to face Sarah, blocking her view of the train.

She was looking up at the rafters. 'Have you seen them?'

He followed her gaze and saw that every rafter was lined with pigeons. 'The warmth, I suppose,' he said vaguely.

The roar of the approaching train startled the birds. They rose as one, streaming out from under the glass roof in a great flapping and beating of wings, wheeling, banking, swooping, turning, a black wave against the smoke-filled sky. Prior and Sarah watched, open-mouthed, drunk on the sight of so much freedom, their linked hands slackening, able, finally, to think of nothing, as the train steamed in.

After tea he took Kath's photograph album up to her room, he usually brought snapshots of family and friends with him on these visits, because he knew how much pleasure they gave her. She was sitting up in bed, faded brown hair tied back by a blue ribbon, a pink bed jacket draped around her shoulders. Blue and pink: the colours of the nursery. He took the tray off her lap and gave her the album and the photographs.

She seized on a group of staff at the Empire Hospital. 'You've got your usual I-don't-want-to-be-photographed expression,' she said, holding it up to the light.

'Well, I didn't.'

She was already busy pasting glue on to the back. 'Is it true the natives think the camera steals their souls?'

'Some of them. The sensible ones.'

She pressed her handkerchief carefully around the edges of the photograph, catching the seepage of glue. 'It's a good one of Dr Head.'

'Oh, Henry isn't worried, he hasn't got a soul.'

'Will.'

He looked at the tray. 'You haven't eaten much.'

'I'm glad Ethel's having a break. It's been a shocking year.'

Ramsgate had been bombed heavily, a great many civilians, mainly women and children, killed. As a result Kath's health, which had long given cause for concern, had dramatically deteriorated. Ethel, who'd looked after their father in his old age, and then after this invalid younger sister, had begun to show signs of strain herself, and the brothers had decided something must be done. A holiday was out of the question, ruled out by Ethel herself — she could not and would not go — but she had agreed to stay with friends for a long weekend.

'I think that's the car now,' Rivers said. 'I'd better get the suitcase down.'

He found Ethel in the hall, pinning on her hat.

'Now,' she said, unable to let go, 'you've got the telephone number?'

'Yes.'

'You're sure you've got it?'

'Yes.' He pushed her gently towards the door.

'No, listen, Will. If you're worried, don't hesitate, call the doctor.'

'Ethel, I am a doctor.'

'No, I mean a proper doctor.'

He was still smiling as he went back upstairs.

'Is she gone?'

'Yes, I had to push her out of the door, but she's gone. Have you finished sticking them in?'

He took the album from her and began turning the pages, pausing at a photograph of himself and the other members of the Torres Straits expedition. Barefoot, bare-armed, bearded, sun-tanned, wearing a collection of spectacularly villainous hats, they looked for all the world like a low-budget production of The Pirates of Penzance. The flower of British anthropology, he thought, God help us. He turned a few more pages, stopping at a snapshot from his days in Heidelberg. What on earth made him think those side whiskers were a good idea?

'I knew you'd stop there,' Katharine said. 'It's her, isn't it? The stout one.'

'Alma? Of course it isn't.' His sisters had teased him mercilessly at the time, because he'd happened to be standing next to Alma in a snapshot. 'Anyway, she wasn't stout, she was… comfortable.'

'She was stout. We really did think you were going to marry her, you know. She was the only woman we ever saw you with.'

'That's not true either. Remember all the young ladies mother used to invite to tea?'

'I remember you sloping off upstairs to get away from them. You were just like Mr Dodgson. He used to do that'.

Kath sometimes combined with childlike innocence a child's sharpness of perception.

'Like Dodgson? God forbid.'

'You didn't like him, did you?'

He hesitated. 'No.'

'You were jealous. You and Charles.'

'Yes, I think we were. Ah, this is the girl I'm looking for,' he said, holding up a photograph of a little girl in a white dress. Even in faded sepia it was possible to tell what an exceptionally beautiful child she'd been.

* * *

Light from the standard lamp fell on the side of Dodgson's face as he opened the book.

'S-shouldn't we wait f-for K-K-K-Kath?' he asked, the name clotting on his tongue.

Sitting on the sofa beside Charles, Will thought, That's because it's the same sound as hard c. C was Dodgson's worst consonant. F and m were his.

'No, I think we should start,' his father said. 'It's not fair to keep everybody waiting, just because

Kath's late.'

'She'll be here soon,' Mother said. 'Her stomach's a good clock.'

'Aren't you w-w-w-w-w-woorr…?'

'Not really. She knows she mustn't leave the grounds.'

Will intercepted a glance between his parents. Mother shouldn't have completed Mr Dodgson's sentence for him like that. You were supposed to let people flounder, no matter how long it took.

Mr Dodgson stammered less when he read. And why was that? Because he knew the words so well he didn't have to think about them? Or because, although his voice was loud, he was really just reading to Ethel, who sat curled up in the crook of his arm, where she could see the pictures? He never stammered much when he was talking to the girls. Or was it because these were his words, and he was determined to get them out, no matter what? It certainly wasn't because he was thinking about the movements of his tongue, which was what father said you should do.