Susan Hill - Strange Meeting

But by the time he had read it another letter had come, there were two in the same handwriting, the same postmark at which he could hardly bear to look.

I am letting you know that we received a letter from a Captain Franklin – we think he was your Adjutant? He could tell us nothing at all about David except that he was believed killed in the wave of men going forwards into fire at the battle of Barmelle Wood. But he wrote very sympathetically and kindly and now we have had forwarded to us some things of David’s, mainly books and clothing and odd personal belongings. There was also an unfinished letter which he was writing to us perhaps the night before the fighting. He had not dated it. We will not send it to you for fear that it may be lost – we still have no news of you. But if and when you come here to us, we should like you to read it. Unless you have already done so, for we know David shared his letters with you.

We are still hardly able to believe in this terrible thing, because there is no certainty. We hear stories of men who have been reported dead and who have walked in at their own front doors, fit and well, weeks later, and so we cannot stop hoping against hope, just because of this lack of final, certain news. David may be alive in a hospital somewhere?

Then, he wrote to them, because he could not do anything but tell them the truth. He half-thought of inventing a story, as he had done in the past about the deaths of other men, forming the usual, smooth phrases about gallant deaths, killed instantly, having suffered as little as possible. When Fawley had blown out his own brains, he had written such a letter, none of the man’s family would ever know. He thought of it.

He wrote.

I have to tell you that I do not know anything at all, anything , about David, but that it is now very unlikely indeed that he will be alive. There are not often unidentified men in hospital because we all wear tags and these are almost always forwarded to the Division. I do not believe that David can be alive after having seen where he was that day. It is likely, as the Adjutant has said, that he was walking into the line of fire and was shot down. But I do not know .

Please do not think that I am deliberately trying to kill your hopes but it seems best to me that you should know what is the most likely truth.

I am glad that you have now his things at home with you.

I am returning to England in two days’ time now, and will probably be in hospital and then convalescent near Oxford. I am out of the war for good, of course, but cannot look ahead at all. I am feeling better and learning to manage crutches.

Please, I would rather that you did not come and see me in hospital or especially, at home. I would rather wait for a while. But I should like to have a letter if you can write to me and I should like to come and see you when I am able. It will not be for some time. I want to see you in the places I have heard about. I will let you know when it can be.

No, I did not see the last letter, we were very busy for nights before the battle, and we saw very little of one another at all, for talking or reading. There were only a few hours, the night before the battle, when we had a word, and I will tell you of that, though there is little to tell, when I do see you.

It was another hour before they finally pulled away from the harbour. The boat was not so crowded as Hilliard had expected, and he managed to find a corner and ensure some privacy by hemming himself in with cases and crutches. For, more than ever, now, he wanted to be private, set apart, he drew back from anyone who tried to come near to him. Only within himself, he was forced to think, to think. The worst of it was that he did not know. Their letter had made him realize that. He would rather have seen anything, so long as it had been certain.

Would he?

He no longer knew. He wanted to return to the past, nothing more.

After some time, he got a Corporal who was passing to help him up on to his crutches and he tried to walk down the boat to one of the seats by a porthole. Twice, he overbalanced, as the ship rolled, fell and swore. They got him up again. He knew that it was easier here than it would be when he got home. Here, everyone was wounded, men were bandaged, deformed, sick, nobody stopped to stare, everyone had themselves to think about most of all. He dreaded the eyes that would follow him, once he got back. Dreaded everything.

The sea was grey as gunmetal and heaving, under a livid sky. It was snowing and the snow was taken up and whirled about by the wind and splattered softly on to the glass.

He did not want to be back in England.

A gull came out of the greyness of sea and snow, beating its wings and skidding over the water.

He had a sudden complete picture of Barton in his mind, he could have turned and seen him standing there, could reach out a hand and touch him. He could…’

The boat dipped, nose-down, into a trough of dark water, lifted again.

He would be at home for Christmas. Christmas…

He turned and began the painful journey back to where he had left his things.

At Dover the sleet blew down on an east wind into their faces. Some of the men were singing.

‘Is there anything you would like us to bring for you, John? We shall be coming early next week. Is there anything you would have us send?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Books? Do you have plenty to read?’

‘There’s a library here.’

‘Well, you should take advantage of it, you should be reading, dear, there is always some diversion to be had from a good book, it will take your mind off things.’

‘Yes.’ Then he remembered. ‘There are one or two books I should like.’

‘Well of course, but tell me quickly, dear, I have to be ready to leave at four, the Garnetts are coming to dinner.’ His mother took out the small gold notebook and the small gold pencil.

‘The collected works of Sir Thomas Browne.’

‘B-R-O-W-N?’

‘No, with an E at the end. And The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, and a novel called A Room with a View .’

‘Mr Forster.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yes, Harrods will have that, certainly.’

‘Harrods will have them all.’

‘Wouldn’t you like something light ? I could ask them to find you some more novels.’

‘No. That’s all I want.’

‘Do they feed you well enough? Shall I have Mary bake you a plum cake?’

‘They feed us very well. Don’t fuss now, mother.’

‘Well, it is the least I can do, to make sure you are properly cared for.’

‘I am.’

‘And how long before you will be home?’

‘About another fortnight. But they will let me come for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, before that.’

‘I should hope so!’

He did not want to think about Christmas. Constance Hilliard rose.

‘You look very beautiful, mother. You always look very beautiful.’

She inclined her head, smiled at him, as Royalty would smile. She wore a dark fuchsia dress, full-skirted, and with a coat of deeper, more purplish red, a hat with purple feathers. When she walked away, the other men in the room looked up from their books and letters, watched her go.

Hilliard turned back to the window.

It was an old house, someone’s mansion given over for the duration of the war, so that they sat among beautiful pictures and tapestries on beautiful chairs at beautiful tables. Down the long lawn between the beeches, a man swept up the last of the leaves. It was growing dark, the sky was full of great, scudding clouds. He knew no one here and had made no friends, he spoke as rarely as possible, so that they watched him and formed their own judgements, assumed that he was shell-shocked or unable to accept the loss of his leg. Men left, others came. Hilliard sat by the window, watching the sky and the black trees. He thought endlessly about Barton.