Pat Barker - Regeneration

Miss Crowe tapped on the door. ‘Your husband says he’s going now, Mrs Prior.’

‘Yes, well, I’ll have to go. You’ll take care of him, won’t you?’

She was close to tears. Rivers said, ‘We’ll do our best.’

‘I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention I’ve been to see you. He’s upset enough about his father.’

After she’d gone, Rivers turned to Miss Crowe. ‘That was amazing. Do you know, I think they’d have said anything ?’

‘You get married couples like that, sir. One sympathetic word and you’re there till midnight. Captain Broadbent’s waiting to see you.’

Rivers looked at the pile of papers on his desk and sighed. ‘All right, show him in.’ The frustration boiled over. ‘And do please try not to call him “captain”. He’s no more a captain than I am.’

‘You are a captain, Captain Rivers.’

Miss Crowe paused at the door to savour the small moment of triumph. Rivers smiled and said, ‘All right. But at least try not to address him as “captain”. It really doesn’t help him to have his fantasies confirmed.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir. Though as long as he’s allowed to walk round the hospital with three stars on his sleeve, I don’t see that my remembering to call him “mister” is going to make a great deal of difference.’ She smiled sweetly and withdrew. A moment later she reappeared. ‘ Mister Broadbent, sir.’

‘Come in, Mr Broadbent. Sit down.’

It wasn’t just the stars. There was also the little matter of the medals, including the Serbian equivalent of the VC awarded to a foreigner for the first and only time in its long and glorious history. And then there were the honorary degrees, though at least he hadn’t yet taken to wearing those on his tunic. However, he was doing very good work with the hospital chamber orchestra. ‘Well, Broadbent, what can I do for you?’

‘I’ve had some bad news, Dr Rivers,’ Broadbent said in his confiding, insinuating way. ‘My mother’s been taken ill.’

Rivers didn’t believe Broadbent’s mother was ill. He didn’t believe Broadbent had a mother. He thought it entirely possible that Broadbent had been hatched. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

‘I was hoping for some leave.’

‘You’ll have to ask the CO about that.’

‘I was hoping you might put a word in for me. You see, I don’t think Major Bryce likes me very much.’

People who’d heard of Broadbent’s exploits, but not met him, were apt to picture a rather florid, swashbuckling, larger-than-life figure. In reality, Broadbent was a limp, etiolated youth, with a pallid complexion and a notably damp handshake, whose constant and bizarre infringements of the hospital rules took up far far too much time. He was quite right in thinking Bryce didn’t like him.

‘It’s not a question of liking or not liking,’ Rivers said. ‘Is your mother very ill?’

‘I’m afraid so, Dr Rivers.’

‘Then I’m sure Major Bryce will be sympathetic. But it is his decision. Not mine.’

‘I just thought…’ Suddenly Broadbent’s voice hardened. ‘This is extremely bad for my nerves. You know what happens.’

‘I hope it doesn’t happen this time. Because last time, if you remember, you had to be locked up. Why don’t you go to see Major Bryce now?’

‘Yes, all right.’ Broadbent stood up, reluctantly, and spat, ‘ Thank you, sir.’

At least he didn’t offer to shake hands.

After dinner a Charlie Chaplin film was shown in the cinema on the first floor. The whole of the ground floor was deserted. Rivers, taking his completed reports along to the office to be typed, saw that a lamp had been left burning in the patients’ common room and went in to switch it off.

Prior was sitting beneath the windows at the far end of the room, looking out over the tennis courts, his face and hands bluish in the dim light. Rivers was tempted to withdraw immediately, but then something about the isolation of the small figure under the huge windows made him pause. ‘Don’t you want to see the film?’

‘I couldn’t stand the smoke.’

He was wheezing very badly. Rivers went across to the window and sat beside him. Housemartins were weaving to and fro above the tennis courts, feeding on the myriads of tiny insects that were just visible as a golden haze. He watched them cut, wheel, dive— how skilful they were at avoiding collision — and for a moment, under the spell of the flickering birds, the day’s work and responsibility fell away. But he couldn’t ignore Prior’s breathing, or the whiteness of the knuckles where his left hand gripped the chair. He turned and looked at him, noting the drawn, anxious face. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘Bit tight.’

Prior was bent forward to help the expansion of his lungs. Looking at him now, Rivers could see the straightness of the shoulders, the surprising breadth of chest in a delicately built man. Once you knew it was obvious. But why nothing on the file?

‘I gather you met my father,’ Prior gasped. ‘Quite a character.’

‘He seemed to be a man of strong views.’

Prior’s mouth twisted. ‘He’s a bar-room socialist, if that’s what you mean. Beer and revolution go in, piss comes out.’ He attempted a laugh. ‘My mother was quite concerned. “He’ll be down there effing and blinding,” she said. “Showing us all up.”’

‘I liked him.’

‘Oh, yes, he’s very likeable. Outside the house. I’ve seen him use my mother as a football.’ The next breath screeched. ‘When I was too little to do anything about it.’

‘You know, I think I ought to have a look at that chest.’

Prior managed a ghostly imitation of his usual manner. ‘Your room or mine?’

‘The sick bay.’

The walk along the corridor to the lift was painfully slow.

‘I didn’t want you to meet him,’ Prior said, as Rivers pressed the button for the second floor.

‘No, I know you didn’t. I could hardly refuse.’

‘I’m not blaming you.’

‘Is it a question of blame?’

While the nurses made up the bed, Rivers examined Prior. He’d expected Prior to be impossible, but in the event he became strictly impersonal, gazing over Rivers’s shoulder as the stethoscope moved across his chest. ‘All right, put your jacket on.’ Rivers folded the stethoscope. ‘I’m surprised you got to France at all with that.’

‘They couldn’t afford to be fussy.’ Prior started the long climb into the bed. ‘I won’t be moved to another hospital, will I?’

‘No, I shouldn’t think so. Four doctors, thirty nurses. I think we might manage.’

‘Only I don’t want to be moved.’

Rivers helped him to pull up the sheets. ‘I thought you didn’t like it here?’

‘Yes, well, you can get used to anything, can’t you? Do you think I could have a towel tied to the bed?’

‘Yes, of course. Anything you want.’

‘Only it helps, you see. Having something to pull on.’

‘What was it like in France? The asthma.’

‘Better than at home.’

A shout of laughter from below. Charlie Chaplin in full swing. Rivers, following Prior’s gaze, saw the single lamp and the deep shadows, and sensed, with a premonitory tightening of his diaphragm, the breath-by-breath agony of the coming night. ‘I’ll see about the towel,’ he said.

He saw Prior settled down for the night. ‘I’ll be along in the morning,’ he said. Then he went to Sister’s room next door and left orders he was to be woken at once if Prior got worse.

Sassoon woke to the sound of screams and running footsteps. The screams stopped and then a moment or two later started again. He peered at his watch and made out that it was ten past four.