Pat Barker - Toby's Room

Tonks had come out of the door and was standing immediately behind Paul. Together they watched the last wheelchair as it moved out of sight.

‘I’m always rather glad when they go,’ Tonks said. ‘At least inside they’ll be warm.’

Paul expected him to say a few brisk words and walk on, as he generally did, but today he lingered.

‘Kit Neville’s back.’

Paul struggled to take it in. ‘Wounded?’

‘Shrapnel injuries to the face.’

How did he know? There’d been nothing in the newspapers. ‘Is he in Queen’s Hospital?’

‘Yes, he was admitted a few days ago. I only found out yesterday.’

‘Is he well enough for visitors?’

‘He doesn’t want to see anybody; well, except his parents, of course. He’ll come round to the idea, but he shouldn’t be rushed. A lot of them don’t want to see people at first.’

‘Well, give him my regards, won’t you? If you do see him.’

Tonks nodded and walked off. No sooner had he turned the corner than Paul thought of half a dozen questions he should have asked, but the news had shaken him: he couldn’t think clearly. Elinor must be told; that was the first thing. And Catherine. He probably ought to tell Catherine the news in person. This wasn’t a difficult decision to reach: he was longing to see her.

The Friday before last they’d gone to the Aeolian Hall to hear a Schubert Octet, almost miraculously beautiful it had seemed with Catherine sitting beside him, and then afterwards they’d gone to Spikings for tea and walked round Piccadilly arm in arm, looking in shop windows and listening to raindrops peppering his umbrella. Its black silk canopy created a world within a world. He had felt totally at peace.

Now there was a crater in the pavement where they’d walked. Low-lying mist had made the Zeppelins miss their targets and they’d unloaded bombs at random. One of them had landed just opposite Swan & Edgar’s, blowing out the windows. Next morning queues of people had been crunching over broken glass, trying to peer into the hole. Why? God knows.

Too restless to wait for the bus, he set off to walk, head down, watching his feet devour the pavement, thinking about Neville. Shrapnel in the face. My God, he’d seen injuries like that. He shrank from trying to imagine Neville’s despair and yet, even now, the old, stupid rivalry surfaced and he caught himself thinking: hmm, he won’t be doing much painting for a while. Immediately, he cringed with self-contempt.

He arrived at Catherine’s lodgings out of breath and doubting whether he should have come at all. He knocked, waited, knocked again, and was just beginning to think she must be out when the door opened and there she was, looking rather flushed and dishevelled, with her hair down and the top three buttons of her blouse undone.

‘Paul.’ She seemed so taken aback that for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to ask him in, but then she stood aside. ‘Come in. Sorry, I was just getting changed …’

‘My fault, I should have …’

‘Is anything wrong?’

‘No, well, yes. Kit Neville’s been wounded. Tonks just told me.’

She took a step back. ‘Is it bad?’

‘Quite bad. He’s in Queen’s Hospital.’

‘Queen’s … That’s facial injuries, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, my God.’ She pushed her hair off her face. ‘You’d better come up.’

He followed her upstairs and into the living room. Two cups lay side by side on the draining board. He sat on the sofa. Catherine stood with her back to the fire, twisting her fingers together, almost wringing her hands. He hadn’t known people actually did that.

‘Has Tonks seen him?’

A door clicked open and Paul turned to see Elinor in her grey silk dressing gown. So she’d come to London and not told him …

Catherine was looking over his head. ‘Kit’s —’

‘I know, I heard. How long’s he been back?’

‘A few days.’

‘So, this wound — it’s not the reason he didn’t write?’

‘No, they ship you back pretty fast if it’s a bad wound. Especially facial injuries because they just don’t have the facilities out there. Everybody goes to Queen’s.’

Belatedly, she came across and kissed him. He felt warm flesh through the thin silk — she must be naked underneath — and her hair smelled of rosemary. It felt awkward, embracing her like that in front of Catherine; he was relieved when she pulled away.

‘I’ve got to see him,’ she said.

‘Tonks says he doesn’t want visitors.’

‘Too bad, I’m going.’

‘Elinor, for God’s sake, he’s got a shrapnel wound in his face.’

‘I don’t give a damn what he’s got, I’m going.’

‘ No . You can’t —’

‘Oh, I think you’ll find I can.’

She was pacing up and down the small room as she spoke. At one point she leaned against the sink, only to push herself off it again immediately. She went to the bedroom door; he thought she might be going to shut herself away, but then she turned and came back into the room. At last she came to a halt, standing by the fireplace, chafing her arms under the loose sleeves of her gown.

‘Grief’s bad enough at the best of times,’ she said. ‘But when you don’t know …’ Her voice hardened. ‘I’ve got a right to know.’

‘And Neville’s got a right to privacy. Look, why don’t you leave it a couple of weeks, let him settle in, and then we’ll go together.’

‘No. Now. I owe it to Toby.’

The mere mention of his name produced a paroxysm of grief. Paul could do nothing but hold her close and wait for it to pass. He saw Catherine, who’d been reduced to a bystander in all this, watching them, and sensed her confusion. She was visibly withdrawing from him, as she realized how deeply involved he still was with her friend. He could have howled.

Instead, he went on holding Elinor, rocking her, until at last her sobs subsided into hiccups. Finally, in despair, he caught her face between his two hands and kissed her, lightly, on the forehead. ‘There, there. Come on, now, it’s all right.’

Elinor freed herself. ‘It’s not all right, nothing’s all right . I want to see him.’

Exasperated beyond bearing, Paul went and looked out of the window, leaving the two women to whisper together. A young soldier came staggering along the street, weaving from side to side as if the pavement were the deck of a ship labouring through heavy seas. As he passed the house, he almost overbalanced, clutched at a lamp post and clung to it, his fair, foolish face dazed with drink and shame. Shame, because he’d never intended his precious leave to be anything like this.

‘Paul,’ Catherine said.

He turned to face them. They were sitting on the sofa, their arms and legs so entwined it was difficult to see which limb belonged to which girl. There was something accusing in their joint stare. His fantasy was rapidly turning into a nightmare.

‘She’s going to see him, Paul. Whatever you say. Wouldn’t it be better if you went with her?’

‘Why don’t you go?’

‘Because he wouldn’t want to see me. I’m the last person … But he might want to see you. You’re a soldier — he knows you won’t be shocked. I just think it’d be easier, that’s all. Easier for him .’

This was defeat, and he knew it. Turning to Elinor he said, ‘When do you want to go?’

‘Now.’

‘Don’t be silly, it’s far too late.’

‘Tomorrow, then. First thing.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll see you at Charing Cross Station at ten o’clock. I don’t know what time the trains go, but they’re quite frequent, so I don’t suppose we’ll have long to wait.’

He didn’t want to stay after that. They both came to the front door to see him off. He walked away from them, conscious of his limp, feeling them all the time behind him, watching, though when, eventually, he turned round, they’d gone inside and the door was shut.