Pat Barker - Toby's Room

Gillies’s face, not smiling now.

YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF, DIDN’T YOU?

‘No,’ he tries to say. ‘No, I didn’t.’

But the words gurgle down a plughole and all of him flows after.

For one mad moment he’d thought Brooke was talking to him.

‘You did this to yourself, didn’t you?’

Not a trace of compassion. But he couldn’t dose this lad on laxatives and send him back. His left arm was shattered, with splinters of bone sticking through the mangled flesh.

‘You may as well tell me, I know anyway.’

How did he know? Oh, yes, of course . Burn marks round the bullet-hole. Unless there’d been a German in the funk-hole with him, this had to be a self-inflicted wound.

The boy was — how old? Seventeen? His teeth were chattering with shock, he could barely speak. ‘Can’t stand it, it’s no use going on at me, I can’t, I can’t …’

Brooke turned away. ‘Give him some rum, for God’s sake.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Cut the burn out, of course.’ He caught Neville’s expression. ‘What else can I do? Can’t let the miserable little bugger get shot.’

They worked alone: the fewer people who knew about this the better. Technically, Brooke was aiding and abetting a deserter; he could get into a lot of trouble for this. When the pain got too bad, Neville held the boy down, stuffed a roll of bandages into his mouth, ended up with one knee on his chest. Brooke scraped and scooped the burnt flesh from around the wound, poured iodine into the hole, and applied a dressing.

‘Right, that should do it.’

The boy was crying for his mother. The whimpering grated on Neville’s nerves. ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up, you should be bloody grateful.’

Brooke turned away. ‘You might like some rum yourself,’ he said, over his shoulder, as he started to scrub his hands.

Was that a reference to the state of Neville’s nerves? It couldn’t have escaped Brooke’s notice that he jumped and flinched at the sound of every shell or that he’d developed a persistent tremor that made him almost useless as a dresser. He spent more time now as a stretcher-bearer in the front line than in the Casualty Clearing Station behind it.

That night, Neville lay on his bunk, exhausted, but too tense to sleep. He kept thinking about the boy who’d put a rifle against his arm at point-blank range, and fired. Not the easiest thing to do with a rifle … Unless, of course, he’d managed to get his hands on a revolver. And Brooke: so callous, so unfeeling, on the surface, and yet prepared to take that risk. It only needed the boy to start blabbing — and he might easily do it too.

Where was Brooke? The bunk opposite was empty, as it often was around this time. Boiler and Hen Man were snoring and muttering in their sleep. Evans was in the next room, not asleep yet, reading, and Wilkie was along the corridor, on night duty, tending to a burly Scotsman who had pneumonia and wasn’t responding to treatment. So where was Brooke?

He might have walked up into the front line. He often did that, couldn’t seem to keep away from the place. He’d spend a couple of hours talking to the men, spotting the ones who were struggling with illness but wouldn’t give in till they collapsed. Sometimes a couple of days’ rest was all it took to keep a man in the line. Take more than that to keep me in it, Neville thought, as he drifted off to sleep.

He was jerked awake by somebody saying, ‘Right then. Let’s get him on the stretcher.’

Wounded coming in. Get up, get up …

‘Calm down, we’re just taking you back to the ward.’

A burst of shellfire close at hand. Every object on the table jumped; the bunk underneath him shook. He put up a hand to his face … Something seemed to be sticking out of it.

‘Naughty, naughty .’ He felt the back of his hand being slapped. ‘You mustn’t touch that.’

My God, Nanny Barnes. How did she get in?

He was being wheeled along; either that or the bunk was floating. When he opened his eyes, he saw Brooke, sitting beside the table in shirt and braces, taking his boots off. He sat for a moment, wiggling his toes, revelling, as they all did behind the lines, in the sheer pleasure of being able to take his boots off. In the next room the gramophone had started playing. Evans was beyond a bloody joke: same bloody song over and over.

And when I told them how beautiful you are,

They didn’t believe me. They didn’t believe me.

Briefly, Neville registered that he was back in the hut with the screens round his bed. The noises of the daytime ward were muffled, except for the wretched gramophone that cut through everything.

Your lips, your eyes, your cheeks, your hair,

Are in a class beyond compare.

Tossing and turning on his chicken-wire bunk, Neville fell into a deep, but far from dreamless, sleep. He woke with a cry, afraid that he might have been heard, and the nature of the cry recognized. His eyes fell on Brooke’s sleeping face. So he was back, but where had he been?

And the dream … My God, whatever next? But it was only because Brooke looked so much like Elinor. It had been Elinor, really, in the dream.

He woke again to find Gillies perched on the side of his bed.

‘Well, that went well,’ he said.

‘Did it?’ He was tied to the bed again. In his sleep, when he’d struggled, the leather straps had cut into his wrists. ‘When can I get my hands free?’

‘Today, I’ll do it for you now, if you like. But you’ll have to put them on again tonight.’ He was unbuckling the straps as he spoke. ‘We daren’t risk another infection.’

‘And when can I go out? I’ve got to paint.’

‘I’m sure we can find you a room …’

‘No, not here. I can’t —’

‘Tonks mentioned it, actually. I’ll see what I can do.’

After Gillies had gone, Neville rubbed his wrists and stared round the ward. Every time, it was like returning from the dead. An orderly, pushing a squeaking trolley, was dispensing tea: two slices of grey bread and a blob of plum-and-apple jam. His mouth flooded with saliva: he was famished. He could hardly wait for the food to get to him. And what was more, what was better than anything, he was going to get out of here.

Even at night, with the restraints back on his wrists and a bitter-tasting sleeping draught winding its way through his veins, he still felt the same fierce joy. It was almost indistinguishable from anger. The night nurse sat at her table in an island of light. Snuffles, snores, creaks, groans: the usual cattle noises, but at least the gramophone was quiet. Though that blasted song followed him into sleep.

And when they ask us, how dangerous it was,

Oh, we’ll never tell them, no, we’ll never tell them …

Lying in his bunk, listening to the flickering rumble of the guns — very close they sounded tonight — Neville couldn’t stop thinking about the boy who’d shot himself. It was becoming an obsession. How desperate he must have been to do that.

A few nights later, back in the line, they went out to bring in a wounded officer and while the others were lining up the stretcher Neville slipped his hand into the officer’s holster and pulled out the revolver. Nobody saw him do it. He slipped the revolver inside his tunic, feeling the metal cold against his skin. He’d taken it without forethought, almost without volition, and he was briefly tempted to put it back, but he didn’t. By the time they got back to the British lines, the revolver had become a warm bulge against his side, part of him, almost, and yet still foreign. Like a tumour.

He didn’t know where to put the bloody thing. In the end he just pushed it into a sock and shoved it down to the bottom of his kitbag. He told himself he wouldn’t think about it again. Only he did, all the time. It lay heavy on his mind and, especially on night duty, when there wasn’t enough going on to distract him, it throbbed and ached like an infected wound.