Pat Barker - Regeneration

‘Lucky the young woman with you kept her head.’

‘Poor Sarah. I don’t think she’s ever had anybody pass out on her before.’

‘You realize you won’t have the sick bay to yourself this time?’ Rivers indicated the other bed. ‘Mr Willard.’

‘The legless wonder. Yes, we’ve met.’

‘Don’t you have any sympathy for anybody else?’

‘Are you suggesting I have any for myself?’ He watched Rivers fold the stethoscope. ‘You know what you were saying about the greater mental complexity of officers? How long do you think it’ll take you to convince that particular specimen of complexity that it hasn’t actually got a broken spine?’

‘How’s your voice, Mr Prior?’

Prior took a moment to register the direct hit. ‘Fine. Problem over, I think. I miss it. I used to enjoy my little Trappist times.’

‘Oh, I can believe that. I’ve often thought how nice it would be to retreat into total silence now and again.’

‘What do you mean “how nice it would be”? You do it all the time.’

‘I’ve arranged for a consultant to come and see you. A Dr Eaglesham. He’ll be in some time this week.’

‘Why?’

‘I need a measurement of your vital capacity.’

‘Demonstrations twice nightly.’

‘The other vital capacity. Try to get some rest now. Sister Duffy tells me you had a bad night.’

Rivers had got to the door before Prior called him back. ‘ Why do you need it?’

‘This is the second time this has happened in six weeks. I don’t think we can let you go in front of a Medical Board without drawing their attention to your physical condition.’

‘If you’re thinking of wangling permanent home service, I don’t want it.’

‘I’m not thinking of “wangling” anything.’ Rivers looked down at Prior and his expression softened. ‘Look, if this is what happens when you’re exposed to cigarette smoke on a train, how would you cope with gas?’

‘Well, obviously , I’m affected at lower concentrations than anybody else. But then so what? I can be the battalion canary.’ A pause. ‘I’m not the only one with asthma.’

‘No, I’m sure you’re not. I’m told there are cases of active TB in the trenches. It doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.’

‘I want to go back.’

A long silence.

‘You can’t talk to anybody here,’ Prior said. ‘Everybody’s either lost somebody, or knows somebody who has. They don’t want the truth. It’s like letters of condolence. “Dear Mrs Bloggs, Your son had the side of his head blown off by a shell and took five hours to die. We did manage to give him a decent Christian burial. Unfortunately that particular stretch of ground came under heavy bombardment the day after, so George has been back to see us five or six times since then.” They don’t want that. They want to be told that George — or Johnny — or whatever his name was, died a quick death and was given a decent send off.’ He said deliberately, ‘Yesterday, at the seaside, I felt as if I came from another planet.’

‘You can talk to people here.’

‘It’s the last thing this lot want to talk about. The point is, I’m better.’

‘That’s for the Board to decide.’

‘You mean, you.’

‘No-o. The Board. How are the nights? I mean apart from the asthma?I know last night was bad.’

‘I just refuse to play this game. I haven’t enough breath to answer questions you already know the answers to.’

‘What’s your subjective estimate of your nights?’

‘Better.’

‘Good. That was Sister Duffy’s impression too.’

‘ Oh well , then…’ Prior glowered. ‘There’s another reason I want to go back. Rather a nasty, selfish little reason, but since you clearly think I’m a nasty selfish little person that won’t come as a surprise. When all this is over, people who didn’t go to France, or didn’t do well in France — people of my generation, I mean — aren’t going to count for anything. This is the Club to end all Clubs.’

‘And you want to belong.’

‘Yes.’

‘You already do.’

‘I broke down.’

‘And that’s why you want to go back? You’re ambitious, aren’t you?’

Prior didn’t answer.

‘No reason why you shouldn’t be. What do you want to do?’

‘Politics.’ He started back-tracking immediately. ‘Of course, it’s probably useless. You can’t get anywhere in this shitting country without an Oxford or Cambridge degree.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Easily said.’

‘Not easily said at all. I didn’t go to either.’

Prior looked surprised.

‘I got typhoid in my last year at school. We couldn’t afford Cambridge without the scholarship. No, you can certainly get on without. And things’ll be freer after the war. If only because hundreds of thousands of young men have been thrown into contact with the working classes in a way they’ve never been before. That has to have some impact.’

‘Careful, Rivers. You’re beginning to sound like a Bolshevik.’

‘I’m just trying to give you some faith in your own abilities. And by the way, I do not think you are a nasty selfish little person.’

Prior scowled ferociously, probably to hide his pleasure.

‘I’ll try to be here when Dr Eaglesham comes. Meanwhile, do you think you could try to get on with Willard?’

Rivers had just started shaving when the VAD banged on his door. She gasped something about ‘Captain Anderson’ and ‘blood’, and, dreading what he would find, Rivers hurried downstairs to Anderson’s room. He found Anderson huddled in a foetal position, in the corner by the window, teeth chattering, a dark stain spreading across the front of his pyjamas. His room-mate, Featherstone, stood by the washstand, razor in hand, looking at him with more irritation than sympathy.

‘What happened?’ Rivers asked.

‘I don’t know, he just started screaming.’

Rivers knelt beside Anderson and quickly checked that he wasn’t injured. ‘Was he asleep?’

‘No, he was waiting for the basin.’

Rivers looked at Featherstone. A thin trickle of blood was dribbling down his wet chin. Ah . Rivers stood up, and patted him on the arm. ‘Bleed elsewhere, Featherstone, there’s a good chap.’

Featherstone — not in the best of tempers — strode out of the room. Rivers went across to the basin, rinsed his flannel out, wiped the bowl, gave the slightly blood-stained towel to the VAD and held the door open for her to leave. ‘There,’ he said, looking across at Anderson. ‘All gone.’

Slowly Anderson relaxed, becoming in the process aware of the stain between his legs. Rivers fetched his dressing gown and threw it across to him. ‘You’d better wrap this round you, you’ll be chilly once the sweating’s stopped.’ He went back to the washstand. ‘Do you mind if I borrow your flannel?’

He wiped the remaining shaving soap from his face, and checked to see he hadn’t cut himself when the VAD banged on his door. That would not have been helpful. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anderson pull the coverlet up to hide the wet patch in the bed. When Rivers next looked round, he was sitting on the bed, swinging his legs and doing his best to look casual. Rivers sat down, far enough away for Anderson not to have to worry about the smell. ‘Still as bad as that?’

‘I suppose it’s as bad as it looks.’

And this was the man who was going to return to medicine. ‘You know, we’re going to have to start talking about what you realistically want to do.’

‘We’ve been through all that.’

‘I can get you a month’s extension in October. After that —’