Susan Hill - Strange Meeting

This time he dreamed, and his dream was of swimming with Beth out beyond the point, in the bay at Hawton. The sun glittered and shone on the wrinkled surface of the water and he felt his body striking easily through it, felt a sense of jubilation, as he saw her moving in front of him. But when he caught up she turned, laughing, and it was not Beth after all, it was David Barton and they were not children, though the day was the same one that Beth had helped him swim out beyond the point because he was afraid. Looking back towards the house, he could see his father sitting in the deckchair on the lawn, wearing a panama hat tipped down over his eyes, hands folded in his lap, he could see the gardener going to and fro with the lawn mower. For a long time he swam slowly beside Barton, and then they lay on their backs and floated, looking up at the sky, pale as paint.

‘When we get back we shall have strawberries.’

‘The smell of strawberries is the most beautiful smell in the world,’ Barton said and Hilliard realized that it was true, that everything Barton said was true. He would never forget about the smell of strawberries, now. They went on floating and the sun shone, burning their skin, the house and the cliffs receded.

‘There’s my father,’ Hilliard said.

‘I like him.’

‘You like everyone.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I can’t, I can’t. I want to be like you but I can’t.’

‘Oh no, you should be quite happy as you are.’

‘Why? How can I be?’

‘Because it’s easy.’

‘But I don’t like myself much.’

‘Oh, you’re all right, John, you’re all right.’ Barton was laughing. A gull flew over their heads, silver as a bullet, they watched it land and begin to rock on the water.

‘I’d like to be a gull.’

‘ You are all right as you are . Listen, I know what I’m saying.’

Hilliard heard Barton’s voice in his ears sounding oddly distorted. ‘You’re all right, you’re all right.’ There was something else he wanted to hear, he wanted to know the answer to a question but he could not remember what it was. And where was Beth? Beth had been here with them, and was no longer here, where was she? She had not liked to swim so far out and he felt suddenly afraid, because he and Barton had not looked after her, had been so absorbed in themselves. Beth was a child, she was eleven years old, she needed them to look after her, most particularly because she was plain and afraid of the water.

On the lawn his father still sat asleep in the deckchair and in the sun-filled bedroom his mother stood before the mirror, admiring herself in the lilac dress and coat. For the wedding. For the wedding.

A terrible noise burst through his head.

His leg had gone numb. He was sick again.

Now it was completely dark and quieter, except for the odd burst of a shell somewhere far in the distance. He felt better, found his flask and drank the last of the rum and then ate two biscuits from his iron ration. But there was no water left in the bottle when he found that. He wondered if he could move, to look for one that might have been beside one of the dead men. When he tried, his leg was terribly painful, but after a moment or two he found that he could get used to it. What had happened to Parkin? Why hadn’t Parkin come back with the dressing? His trousers were stuck to the wound with dried blood and when he moved they began to tear away from it. He still had no idea when he had been hit. He hauled himself up on his hands, trying to get out of the shell hole, but it was raining again and the sides were slippery with mud, he could get no hold at all. His leg hurt so badly that he fell back again, his ears roared.

He came to another time to hear himself cry out and there was an answering cry. Someone had come, perhaps Parkin had returned with a dressing, or else it was some stretcher bearers. He did not mind who it was. He called out again. But after a long time, when the answering cry did not come any nearer to him, and when it sounded simultaneously with his own, he knew that it was another man wounded and crying out, probably not even hearing him. They were no help to one another.

Otherwise there seemed to be no life, only death, all around him. The moon had come out for a while and he saw for the first time that he was in fact among a pile of bodies at the bottom of a shell hole, and the revulsion of it made him determine to get up and out somehow, and he found a hold by grasping the shoulders of a dead man and climbing over his back. Once up on to the level ground, he flopped on to his face, exhausted by the pain in his leg and the effort he had made. He smelled a sweet smell and the dream took him again, he was in his own room, the scent of roses came up to him from the garden.

This time it was the rain which brought him round, his head and neck were cold and running with water, his tunic was soaking wet. A Verey flare shot up and as he lifted his head he saw that he was facing out of the wood, looking down the slope in the direction of their own trenches, though they were perhaps half a mile away. He turned over slowly, his leg throbbing, found another biscuit, but when he put it into his mouth, he could not swallow.

He knew now that if he was to get back it would be on his own, there would be no stretcher parties.

Above his head the moon had gone in, the sky was dark and rain-filled again and he did not want to move, he wanted to lie and drown, he could have gone back to sleep and dreamed his dreams of the sun and sea and his mother in the lilac dress, of Beth and David Barton.

Barton.

He sat up, his heart pounding. He was quite clear headed. Where was Barton? He had been further down the line and a little way behind. Hilliard had not seen him since they first went over the top. Where was he? He had to get back, he had to see him.

He got to his knees and tried to stand. Toppled over again at once. In the end he began to crawl, resting and then dragging himself forward, putting his whole weight on his arms, resting again. Several times he lost consciousness, he did not know for how long. From somewhere a shout. He shouted back. Nothing.

He said, ‘Barton.’

He was panting with the effort of trying to go more quickly, he was forced to stop and rest for a long time. But he was out of the wood now and going inch by inch through the mud. Every couple of feet he came up against a body or a pile of bodies, odd limbs or rifles, helmets, packs. A full water-bottle. He ripped the cap off and poured the contents down his throat, crying with the relief it gave him. The next few yards were better, he could get on to his knees for a short way.

Until he came upon Parkin. He did not see who it was until the man’s face was almost under his hand. He was lying on his back, arms stretched out wide and his chest and stomach half torn away. But his face was relaxed, his eyes open and looking up into the night sky, the rain splashed down gently on to him. Hilliard touched his flesh. It was cold, moist. He wondered why Parkin had come so far and whether he had been on his way back with the dressing. But looking behind him he saw that in fact he had only come a few yards out of the wood, it had taken perhaps two or three hours and felt like fifteen miles. He lay down, putting his face against Parkin’s arm, and wept with frustration. Somewhere close by another man was groaning. Hilliard said, ‘Shut up, shut up, for God’s sake shut up!’ But it was only a whisper. He felt helpless. He let his face fall forwards again.

The next time he moved, remembering that he had to get back to the dugout to find Barton, the whole of his left leg and part of his side had gone numb, so that crawling was easier, though he did it clumsily. The shells were bursting around him again now but they seemed to have nothing to do with him, and he went on. He only wished there were some other sign of life apart from the crying of the wounded and the blasting of the guns.