Pat Barker - Regeneration

‘I was late for tea with Sampson.’

Rivers closed his eyes. ‘That’s it?’

‘Yes.’

‘It would have been quite impossible for you to telephone Sampson, and tell him that you were going to be late?’

‘It didn’t seem… courteous. It —’

‘And what about the courtesy due to Major Bryce? Major Huntley? Don’t you think you at least owed them an explanation before you walked out?’

Silence.

‘Why, Siegfried?’

‘I couldn’t face it.’

‘Now that does surprise me. Juvenile behaviour I might have expected from you, but never cowardice.’

‘I’m not offering excuses.’

‘You’re not offering anything. Certainly not reasons. ’

‘I’m not sure there are any. I was fed up with being kept waiting. I thought if I was going to die , at least other people could make the effort to be on time. It was…’ A deep breath. ‘Petulance.’

‘So you can’t suggest a reason?’

‘I’ve told you, there aren’t any.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Look, I’ll apologize. I’ll grovel if you like.’

‘I’m not interested in your grovelling. I’d rather you told the truth.’

Sassoon wriggled in his chair. ‘All right. I’ve had this idea floating around in my mind, for… oh, for five or six weeks. I thought if I could get myself passed fit and then go to London, I could see somebody like… Charles Mercier.’

‘Dr Mercier?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why on earth would you want to see him?’

‘For a second opinion. He’s all right, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes, you couldn’t do better. Except that… if you’d just been passed fit by the Board — why would you need to see Mercier?’

‘So they couldn’t say I’d had a relapse, if I went on with the protest.’

Rivers sat back in his chair. ‘Oh, I see.’

Silence.

‘And had you definitely decided to do that?’

‘I hadn’t definitely decided anything. If you want the reason I walked out, that’s probably it. It suddenly struck me that in a few hours’ time I’d be packing and I had no idea where I was going. And then at the back of my mind there was the idea that if I went to Mercier I’d be…’

Rivers waited.

‘Doing the dirty on you.’

‘You could’ve had a second opinion at any time. I’d no idea you wanted it. People whose psychiatrists tell them they’re completely sane don’t usually ask for second opinions.’

‘That is what they’d do, though, isn’t it? Say I’d had a relapse?’

‘Yes. Probably. I take it you’ve definitely decided not to go back?’

‘No, I want to go back.’

Rivers slumped in his chair. ‘Thank God. I don’t pretend to understand, but thank God.’ After a while he added, ‘You know the real irony in all this? This morning I had a letter from the War Office. Not exactly an undertaking to send you back, but… signs of progress.’

‘And now I’ve gone and ruined it all by having tea with an astronomer.’

‘Oh, I don’t suppose you have. I’ll write to them tonight.’

Sassoon looked at the clock.

‘Well, we don’t want him hearing it from Huntley, do we? By the way, late as it is, I think Major Bryce would still like to see you.’

Sassoon took the hint and stood up. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’

‘No idea. Roast you, I hope.’

Prior had never broken into a house before. Not that he was exactly breaking into this one, he reminded himself, though it felt like it, standing cold and shivering in the back yard, in a recess between what must be, he supposed, the coalhouse and the shithouse. He wrapped his coat more tightly round him and craned his neck to see the sky. Light cloud, no moon, stars pricking through, a snap of frost.

He was waiting for the signal of the lamp at Sarah’s window, but she was a long time coming, and there was a chill inside him that had nothing to do with the cold. The darkness, the nervousness, the repeated unnecessary swallowing… He was back in France, waiting to go out on patrol.

He remembered the feel of No Man’s Land, the vast, unimaginable space. By day, seen through a periscope, this immensity shrank to a small, pock-marked stretch of ground, snarled with wire. You never got used to the discrepancy. Part of its power to compel the imagination lay precisely in that. It was the difference between seeing a mouth ulcer and probing it with your tongue. He told himself he was never going back, he was free, but the word ‘free’ rang hollow. Hurry up, Sarah , he thought.

He was beginning to wonder whether she’d met her landlady on the stairs, when a light appeared at the window. Immediately, he started to climb, clambering from the rusting washer on to the sloping roof of the scullery. Nothing difficult about the climb, the only hazard was the poor state of the tiles. He shuffled along, trying not to make too much noise, though if they did hear they’d probably think it was a cat.

Sarah’s room was on the first floor. As he reached the main wall, he stood up, cautiously, and hooked his fingertips into the crack between two bricks. Sarah’s window was perhaps three feet away, but there was a convenient drainpipe. He swung his left foot out, got a toe-hold on the drainpipe — fortunately in a better state of repair than the roof — and launched himself at the dark hole. He landed safely, though not quietly, colliding with Sarah, who’d come back to see why he was taking so long. They froze, listening for any response. When none came, they looked at each other, and smiled.

Sarah was carrying an oil lamp. She set it down on the table by the bed, and went to draw the curtains. He was glad to have the night shut out, with its memories of fear and worried sentries whispering. She turned back into the room.

They looked at each other, not finding anything to say. The bed, though only a single, seemed very big. Their imminent nakedness made them shy of each other. In all the weeks of love-making, they’d never once been able to undress. Prior was touched by Sarah’s shyness, and a little ashamed of his own.

With an air of unconcern, he started to look round the room. Apart from the bed, there was a bedside table, a chair, a chest of drawers, and a washbasin, squeezed into the corner beside the window. A camisole hung from the back of the chair, and a pair of stays lay on the floor beside it. Sarah, seeing the direction of his gaze, kicked them under the chair.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m not tidy.’

The sound of his voice released them from nervousness. Prior sat on the bed, and patted it for her to come and sit beside him.

‘We’d better not talk much,’ she said. ‘I told them I’d be late back, but if they hear voices they’ll all be in.’

He couldn’t have talked much anyway; his breath caught in his throat. They stared at each other. He reached up and unpinned her hair, shaking it out at the sides of her head. Then they lay down side by side, still gazing at each other. At this distance, her eyes merged into a single eye, fringed by lashes like prehistoric vegetation, a mysterious, scarcely human pool. They lay like that for ten or fifteen minutes, neither of them wanting to hurry, amazed at the time that lay ahead.

After a while Prior rolled over on to his back and looked at the photograph on the bedside table, moving the lamp so he could see better. A wedding group. Cynthia’s wedding, he thought, and that rather fat, pasty-faced soldier, smiling sheepishly at the centre of the group, must now be dead. People in group photographs look either idiotic or insane, their faces frozen in anticipation of the flash. Not Sarah’s mother. Even in sepia, her eyes jetted sparks. And that jaw. It would’ve been remarkable on a man. ‘Your mother looks like my doctor,’ he said. He looked at the photograph again. ‘She’s not smiling much, is she?’