Pat Barker - Regeneration

‘I think I’d rather have their dreams than mine.’

‘How do you know?’ Rivers said. ‘You don’t remember your dreams.’

‘You still haven’t said why.’

‘I suppose it’s just a matter of officers having a more complex mental life.’

Prior reacted as if he’d been stung. ‘Are you serious? You honestly believe that that gaggle of noodle-brained half-wits down there has a complex mental life? Oh, Rivers. ’

‘I’m not saying it’s universally true, only that it’s generally true. Simply as a result of officers receiving a different and, for the most part, more prolonged education.’

‘The public schools. ’

‘Yes. The public schools.’

Prior raised his head. ‘How do I fit into that?’

‘We-ell, it’s interesting that you were mute and that you’re one of the very few people in the hospital who doesn’t stammer.’

‘It’s even more interesting that you do.’

Rivers was taken aback. ‘That’s d-different.’

‘How is it different? Other than that you’re on that side of the desk?’ He saw Rivers hesitate. ‘No, I’m not being awkward. I’m genuinely interested.’

‘It’s usually thought that neurasthenic stammers arise from the same kind of conflict as mutism, a conflict between wanting to speak and knowing that w-what you’ve got to say is not acceptable. Lifelong stammerers? Well. Nobody really knows. It may even be genetic.’

Prior smiled. ‘Now that is lucky, isn’t it? Lucky for you, I mean. Because if your stammer was the same as theirs — you might actually have to sit down and work out what it is you’ve spent fifty years trying not to say.’

‘Is that the end of my appointment for the day, Mr Prior?’

Prior smiled.

‘You know one day you’re going to have to accept the fact that you’re in this hospital because you’re ill. Not me. Not the CO. Not the kitchen porter. You. ’

After Prior had gone, Rivers sat for a while, half amused, half irritated. Now that his attention had been drawn to his stammer, it would plague him at intervals throughout the day. Bugger Prior, he thought. To be absolutely accurate, b-b-b-bugger Prior.

Prior had left slightly early, so Rivers had a few minutes before his next appointment. He decided to take a turn in the grounds. The grass was silvery with dew — his footsteps showed up dark along the path he’d come — but here and there the ground was beginning to steam. He sat on a bench under the trees, and watched two patients carrying scythes come round the corner of the building and run down the grassy slope that divided the gravel drive from the tennis courts. They looked, Rivers thought, almost comically symbolic: Time and Death invading the Arcadian scene. Nothing symbolic about the scythes, though. The blades over their shoulders glinted a wicked blue-grey. You could only wonder at an administration that confiscated cut-throat razors and then issued the patients with these. They set to work cutting the long grass by the hedges. There was a great deal of laughter and clumsiness at first, and a not a few false starts, before their bodies bent into the rhythm of the task. Moths, disturbed from their daytime sleep, flickered all around them.

One took off his Sam Browne belt and then tunic, shirt and tie, casting them carelessly aside, and then went back to his scything, his dangling braces describing wide arcs around him as he swung the blade. His body was very pale, with a line round the neck, dividing white from reddish brown. The tunic had landed on the hedge, one sleeve raised as if beckoning. The other flung down his scythe and did the same. Work went more quickly now. Soon there was a gratifyingly large area of mown grass for them to look back on. They stood leaning on the scythes, admiring their work, and then one of them dived into the cut grass, winnowing his way through it, obviously excited by it in the way dogs sometimes are. He lay on his back, panting. The other man came across, said, ‘Silly bugger,’ and started kicking the grass all over him.

Rivers turned and saw Patterson — the Head of Office Administration — making his way at a steady pace down the slope to deliver the inevitable reprimand. King’s regulations. No officer must appear in public with any garment missing. Patterson spoke to them, then turned away. Slowly, they reached for their uniforms, pulled khaki shirts and tunics on to sweating bodies, buckled belts. It had to be done, though it seemed to Rivers that the scything went more slowly after that, and there was less laughter, which seemed a pity.

That night Rivers worked late, compiling lists of men to be boarded at the end of August. This was the most difficult task of any month, since it involved deciding which patients were fit to return to duty. In theory, the decision to return a man to service was taken by the Board, but since his recommendations were rarely, if ever, questioned, in practice his report determined the outcome. He was beginning to work on the first of these reports when there was a tap on the door. He called, ‘Come in!’

Prior came into the room.

‘Good evening,’ Rivers said.

‘Good evening. I came to say I’m sorry about this morning.’

The day had been so horrific in so many ways — culminating in a three-hour meeting of the hospital management committee — that Rivers had to grope for the memory. He said. ‘That’s all right.’

‘It was stupid. Going on like that.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. We just caught each other at a bad moment.’

Prior lingered a few feet away from the desk. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Rivers said.

‘You must be tired.’

‘Tired of paperwork.’

Prior’s glance took in the list of names. ‘The Boards.’

‘The Boards.’ He glanced at Prior. ‘Not you this time.’

‘Not enough progress.’

Rivers didn’t immediately reply. He was watching Prior, noticing the pallor, the circles round the eyes. He had shadows under the shadows now. ‘You have made progress. You’ve recovered almost all your memory and you no longer lose your voice.’

‘You must wish I did.’

Rivers smiled. ‘Don’t exaggerate, Mr Prior. We both know if you really wanted to be offensive, you could do a hundred times better than you did this morning.’ He waited for a reply. ‘Couldn’t you?’

Prior produced a curious rippling motion — half shrug, half flounce — and turned away. After a moment he looked sideways at Rivers. ‘I did once think of asking you if you ever fucked any of your headhunters.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘I thought it was your business.’

Rivers pretended to consider the matter. ‘That’s true.’

‘There’s no point trying to be offensive, is there, if that’s the only response you get?’

‘You don’t really want to be. You’ve always made a lot of noise about stepping over the line, but you’ve never actually done it.’ Rivers smiled. ‘Except just now, of course. And that was incredibly indirect.’

A short silence. Prior said, ‘I wish I could go out. No, it’s all right, I’m not asking. I’m just saying I wish I could. The nightmares get worse when I’m stuck indoors.’ He waited. ‘This is where you ask about the nightmares and I say I don’t remember.’

‘I know.’

Prior smiled. ‘You never believed me, did you?’

‘Should I have done?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to talk about them now?’

‘I can’t. Look, they’re just…’ He laughed. ‘“ Standard issue battle nightmares. Potty officers for the use of.” Nothing you won’t have heard a hundred times before.’

‘Except?’