Justin Go - The Steady Running of the Hour

She must have had a terrible time in the confusion of these last weeks. Three days ago Ashley received a letter from Eleanor in response to his postcard, and although Ashley quickly telegrammed Imogen in reply, he received no answer. It all seemed very peculiar, and in weaker moments Ashley wondered if her affections had wavered or expired altogether with the news of his death. There could be many reasons for Imogen’s silence and Ashley wasted hours considering and dismissing them in turn. Finally he began a letter explaining everything — the battle, his wounds, the colonel’s mistake — but it took him several attempts to write anything coherent. He sent the letter yesterday. He has only to wait now, and to keep himself from speculating.

In truth he knows so little of her. He had fallen for Imogen so quickly that there had not been time to decide what he truly thought of her, as if it mattered. He’d had no choice. Ashley had felt powerless to resist her magnetism, her peculiar beauty, her pervasive sense of certainty about everything. That certainty had spread to Ashley too, until he believed in their destiny as much as she did.

Still it feels strange to know so few facts about one’s lover. For Imogen had spoken always in abstractions, talking of beliefs or sentiments and sending any questions back toward Ashley. He can describe her habits or her interests, but when the other officers in the ward look at her photograph and ask the most basic questions, Ashley falters. She mentioned reading English at Somerville next year if she passed the exams. Was it true? Ashley never quite grasped why she hadn’t passed the first time, for she certainly seems clever enough. She had lived abroad, he knows that. She plays the piano. She had printed a few poems in little magazines. Ashley has not seen these poems, and though Imogen mentioned people like Mallarmé or Debussy with great familiarity, he would not be able to describe her preferences in any detail. He is not even certain whether she is nineteen or twenty, but when the other fellows ask, he always says nineteen to be consistent.

So long as she cared for him, none of this mattered. In the first week Ashley had eagerly watched the VAD distribute letters, his eyes following the envelopes and parcels as she handed them out from the mail cart, some of the men grinning, others not even turning to look, their faces swathed in white bandages. The post was usually distributed in the afternoon, but the VAD knew Ashley was eager for a letter and it seemed to him that she deliberately gave out the mail while he slept, for he often woke from naps to find the young lieutenant next to him reading a letter, his lips moving swiftly and silently.

By the second week Ashley ignored the distribution. He slept in the afternoons when he could, and if he heard the porcelain casters of the mail cart rolling down the hallway, he turned in bed and shut his eyes.

At the end of the fortnight he finally gets his answer. The weather is clear in the morning and Ashley paces the garden in weaving formations, making figure eights among the shrubs and flower beds. He still limps slightly, favoring his right leg. When he returns to his ward there is a letter on his nightstand. There is no address or stamp on the cover, only his name in the familiar script.

My Darling —

I stand at the reception of your hospital, but they will not allow me in. Only terminal cases are allowed visitors here & they say you are quite well. You cannot imagine how happy this makes me. They say you are being discharged tomorrow, but they will not say where.

Do not be alarmed by my visit — all shall be explained when we meet. I am perfectly well & staying with a M. Louchard, on the eastern edge of Laviéville. Have not been here long — took only a day to find you in this mess.

Is it possible for you to meet me out of hospital tomorrow? Immediately on the eastbound road out of Laviéville you will see a yellow house beside a small copse, the only house in the vicinity. I stay in the cottage at the back, but you may call on M. Louchard first to let him know you have come.

If you cannot come, send word at least.

Your own true

Imogen

Ashley lies motionless in bed the rest of the afternoon. In the evening when the VAD comes to change the dressing on his leg, she does not give her usual cheerful greeting. She pulls back the sheet and looks gravely at his leg, staring at the cotton bandage as though she had never seen it before. She begins unwinding the bandage and speaks in a whisper, not lifting her eyes.

— Your wife was here this morning. You’ve read the note?

— Yes.

— I didn’t see her. The doctor told me about it. She made a terrible row. She seemed to think you were at death’s door. Why on earth is she here?

— I don’t know.

— They had to send her away. We can’t accept visitors, you know. But you ought to have enough time to see her after you’re discharged tomorrow. Is she really your wife?

Ashley hesitates.

— Never mind, the VAD says. I don’t want to know.

The next morning Ashley receives orders to board a military train at 20:20 for Amiens and to proceed by a second train to No. 6 Convalescent Depot, Étaples. He decides to ignore these orders. He has been given two days to go sixty miles on ancient French trains that move at walking speed and halt every half hour. He is sure that if he can find his own transport he can see Imogen and still arrive at the depot early.

Ashley wishes to say good-bye to the VAD and thank her, but she is not on his ward that morning. He changes from the soft hospital clothes into his stiff khaki uniform. At once he feels different in the heavy tunic and breeches and riding boots. He pulls on his raincoat, the dried blood scraped off but the gabardine stained and shredded in one patch where the shrapnel had struck his leg. Ashley takes a final walk around the hospital. He sees the VAD at the far end of a roped-off corridor where the nurses have their canteen. She is with another nurse but she looks his way and it is a moment before she smiles at him. Perhaps she did recognize him in uniform. The VAD seems almost to wave as she turns into the canteen, the white straps of the apron on her back crossed in a large X.

Ashley is discharged from the hospital and it is afternoon by the time he walks into the town center. At a private garage he buys a V-twin Royal Enfield that some enterprising mechanic has stolen or salvaged from the army, then repaired and repainted in flat black. Ashley haggles for five minutes, then pays double what the motorcycle is worth. The garage owner calls the teenage apprentice into the yard to demonstrate the motorcycle’s engine. The apprentice has spent weeks learning the secrets of the English machine. He seems regretful to part with it.

— Monsieur has ridden this machine before?

— A similar one.

— Le mécanisme est très facile. It runs beautifully. I will show you how to start it.

The apprentice moves quickly in his soiled coveralls. He opens the shutoff valve on the fuel tank, pushes the spark advance lever on the left grip, sets the choke and pulls the throttle lever on the right grip. He pulls the compression lever with his left hand, puts his foot on the starter and kicks hard. The engine coughs, hesitates, then roars awake with a cloud of smoke, settling into a throbbing idle.

The apprentice grins, wiping his hands on his coveralls.

— Now Monsieur will try?

Ashley nods and squints up at the sky. It will be dark in an hour.