In The Garden Of Stones (36 page)

Her
fingers move through his hair in delicate comforting strokes, and
after a few moments staring at the door, waiting for the monster to
burst in and catch him with his guard down and eat him alive, his
eyes fall closed and she feels his shoulders relax beneath her. He
sighs out a deep juddering expulsion of air as, utterly spent, both
physically and emotionally, he lets go and slides into
sleep.

Lying
there with his head in her lap she thinks he looks more like a
little boy afraid of the dark than a leader of men who has worn his
uniform and shed blood for his country. So frail, so vulnerable;
it’s heartbreaking.

No man should have to suffer that kind of pain in his soul,
in his heart, such that it turns him inside out with fear and
grief.

For him
the war will never be over. It lives in him every moment, in
memories, in smells and sounds and tastes. The smell of mud makes
him sick; a clap of thunder has him throwing himself to the ground
with his hands over his head, crying. He can’t even bear the sight
of the colour red. She understands everything now.

Behind
those dark feverish eyes his mind rages with the most unspeakable
apparitions, living movies in which pals and comrades are shot,
blown up, and burned before his eyes. In full glorious colour he
witnesses their mutilations, disfigurements and dismemberments,
over and over again on a never ending loop, and the love and peace
that once resided in his poor battered heart is displaced by
unimaginable - unquenchable terror and grief.

His
burned and scarred flesh is still raw, and when the ever present
pain breaks free from the suppressing blanket of medication, it
flows through him like a tsunami of boiling oil, his missing legs
continuing to persecute him with their phantom presence.

He’s
given his all, his flesh, his blood, his sweat, his tears, to do
his duty as any good man should, and his undeserved reward will be
to spend the rest of his days in a fruitless pursuit of the one
thing that will evermore be denied him – peace.

Is this
to be his reward for daring to survive, for not having the decency
to become another battlefield statistic? To spend his days in
mental and physical torment, struggling to hang onto every shred of
sanity, in fear of it unravelling like a piece of knotted string,
until at last he is given the final order,

“
Stand down soldier. Rest easy. Your duty is
done.”

She
strokes his cheek, flushed and warm, and bends to kiss it. As her
lips touch his skin she feels something move inside her, a
fluttering in her chest, like a bumble bee trapped in a bottle. The
rapid thrumming makes her light headed and hitch in a
breath.

Could
this
be what love feels like? Has her self constructed carapace
been breached at last, the crack just wide enough to admit
something soft and warm into the empty space inside, where it lies
like a hot ember nestled in the ashes of long dead
passion?

She wants to fan it and see, to make it spark, to bring it
to a flame, to burn long and bright until, like a phoenix it rises
up and totally consumes her. But can she risk lowering her
emotional blast shield? Dare she risk it? For this man, she thinks
she can. For
this
man she makes another promise.

“
You are not going to give in, Colin,” she whispers as she
strokes his hair. “You will get better. You will leave that place.
You will not just exist, you will live…live
and
love, and I’m going to move heaven
and Earth to make damned sure of it. I swear on my own
life.”

Another
kiss to his head seals her promise, and dares anyone or anything to
get in her way.

Chapter 36

Saturday
comes round at last, and Grace is on the bus to Pelham Chase, a
picnic basket on her lap and determined hope in her heart, although
as she strides up the driveway towards the red brick building,
nervousness creeps up on her.

“
If you have any problems, ask for me. That’s what Simon
said,” she tells herself. “Ask for me, I’m on duty ten until
six.”

With
this in mind she steps through the automatic sliding doors and
towards the reception desk.

“
I’m here to see Colin McLeod,” she says confidently to the
young woman behind the desk.

“
Can I see your visitor’s pass please?”

Grace
hands over the laminated card and steels herself for the
rejection.

The
receptionist examines the card and then introduces it to the
flashing red scanner. A few taps on her computer and she holds out
the card for Grace to take.

“
Thank you, Miss Dove. East Wing. Room 28.”

Grace
just looks at the proffered card. “Really? I can go in?”

“
Yes. Through the doors–”

“
I know where he is, thank you very much.” She takes the
card, turns to leave, and then wheels back. “Is Charge Nurse Gibbs
around?”

“
He’s about somewhere. Do you want to speak to
him?”

“
I don’t want to bother him if he’s busy, but if you see
him, could you give him a message?”

“
Certainly.”

“
Could you ask him … if he has the time, if he would like to
join Colin and me for our picnic lunch?”

“
Your … picnic?”

Grace
holds up the small wicker hamper. “He’ll understand.”

The
receptionist eyes both the hamper and Grace with curiosity. “Sure,”
she says, and scribbles the message on a yellow Post-It.

Grace
lets herself into Colin’s room, expecting to find him sitting up in
bed, nestling in the pile of pillows.

Instead
he is by the window, strapped into his chair, head resting on the
support, eyes closed. Asleep?

She
shrugs off her jacket and drops it and the hamper onto his bed
before tiptoeing over and kissing the top of his head.

“
Hey sweetie. You having a nap?”

He opens
his eyes, blinks and looks up at her. “No, I’m awake,” he says.
“Just resting my eyes.”

“
I thought you might still be in bed. That’s what you men do
when you get sick isn’t it? Claim to have a dose of the 'man flu',
take to your beds to be waited on hand and foot. Cough, splutter,
moan, whine.” She puts the back of her hand to her forehead in a
parody of a Victorian maiden with a touch of the vapours. “Oh, poor
me, peel me a grape.”

“
Pfft. Ye have a heart o’granite. Ye ken they had me oota ma
bed and back in the chair first chance they got. Better for ma
breathing to be upright, they said. Less chance of developing
bronchitis, or worse, pneumonia.”

“
Or in your case new-moan-ia. A wise precaution I suppose,
even though you weren’t that kind of sick.”

“
S’pose not. Just sick in the heid,” he murmurs, clearly
referring to his brainstorm and the trashed garden and smashed up
greenhouse.

She
kisses him again. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better and back
to your old happy-go-lucky self.”

He sighs
deeply. “Aye. It’s bein’ sa cheerful that keeps me going. That and
a good shag.” He sniffs. “No trouble getting in today,
then?”

“
None at all. I gave the lady at the desk my shiny new
visitor’s card, flash, beep, and Bob’s your proverbial. Cripes who
combed your hair? You look like you’ve got an electrocuted weasel
on your head. Where’s your comb? We’ll soon put that
right.”

Grace
opens the drawer of his bedside cabinet and rummages through the
contents.

“
Ma hair’s fine. Stop being such a fussbucket.”

“
If you’re going outside where others can see you, you need
to be nice and tidy. You’ve got standards to keep up you
know.”

“
Outside? I’m no gain–”

“
Yes you are. I told you we would if you were well enough
and it was a nice day. You are and it is. I brought a picnic …
sandwiches and ginger beer and some rather splendid cupcakes from
that new place in Union Square. Where the hell is your
comb?”

“
I canna eat cake ye silly woman. I’ve got this–” He points
to the naso-gastric tube snaking up his nose like a long white
worm. “–or did ye no notice?”

“
Couldn’t fail to could I, grumpy drawers, and yes you can.
All you have to do is try.” She holds the comb up triumphantly.
“Aha, found it. Now let’s see if we can’t make you look halfway
decent.”

She
teases his hair with the comb, soon snagging it in the unruly nest
of waves and curls.

“
Ow!”

“
Sorry.”

And
again.

“
Ye did that on purpose.”

“
Did not, but I think it proves my point, don’t you?
Get-a-hair-cut.”

“
Sod off.”

She
giggles and combs more carefully. “I hope you don’t mind, but I
asked Simon to join us for lunch,” she says.

Colin
stares up at her. “Fit the fuck fer?”

“
Language, please! Remember where you are. To help you out
of the chair so you can sit on the grass, of course.”

“
No chance.”

“
Yes, chance. And I’ll need his help to–”

“
Feed me? Like a baby?”

“
Unless you pull your finger out and do it yourself.” She
stops combing and stands back to regard him critically. “That’s
better, but not much. I’ll have a word with Simon. See if he can
get a barber to make a house call.”

Colin
shakes his head, undoing most of her good work. “Pah!”

She
folds her arms and scowls at him. “Now that was just
childish.”

The
catches are tricky, tight security at work again, but a little
fiddling and jiggling has the French windows open, admitting a
softly warm waft of air and giving them an unobscured view of a
beautifully maintained lawned area.

“
Breathe deep,” she says, filling her lungs to capacity. “I
bet that’s the first fresh air you’ve had in here for weeks. Now
let’s see … ” She looks around for a good spot. “By the willow tree
looks just about perfect. We need something to sit on.”

She is
helping herself to a blanket from the linen cupboard when Simon
Gibbs enters the room.

“
You wanted to see me?”

She
smiles across at him. “Hello Simon. You’re just in time. We are
going out. If you can push Colin’s chair, I’ll carry the blanket
and the hamper.”

“
Out? Hamper? I don’t think –”

Grace
cuts him off. “Don’t you start. A bit of fresh air and sunshine
will do him a world of good. Won’t it sweetheart?”

Colin’s
reply is sullen. “No.”

“
Stop sulking,” says Grace. “You’ll enjoy it once you get
out there. If you’ll do the honours please, Simon.”

She
steps over the sill and outside.

“
Crikey, there’s no arguing with her is there, sir?” Gibbs
says, letting the brakes off Colin’s chair.

Colin
keeps his face straight, eyes focused somewhere in the middle
distance, silent.

Grace is
waving “Get a move on,” at them from across the lawn, pointing to
the willow tree, its long delicate fronds swaying in the breeze,
offering rippling shade. A few moments later they are with
her.

“
Is there any way Colin can sit down here with us?” she
asks, unfolding and spreading out the blanket, straightening the
edges until they are all even and the corners square.

Gibbs
shakes his head. “Not really. He needs to keep his neck and head
supported.”

“
Okay.” She screws up her eyes and juts her chin. “How about
I lean against the tree … like this?” She sits with her back to the
tree’s trunk. “And Colin rests against me? I’ll take his weight,
and his head can go here … ” She pats her collar bone. “He’s all
skin and bone so I’ll hardly feel him. You’ll be fine on me, won’t
you Colin?”

“
Wi ma heid in yer boobies? Aye, I think I can cope wi
that?” He grins and winks slyly. “They’ll make a fine pair of
cushions.”

“
Simon can lift you down, can’t you Simon?” she says. “Big
strong lad like yourself.”

Colin
says, “He won’t do it.”

“
Can’t,” says Gibbs.

Grace:
“Why not? He doesn’t weigh more than a sack of straw.”

Colin
and Gibbs, in unison: “Health and safety.”

Grace:
“Rubbish!”

Gibbs:
“Rules are rules, Grace. No single handed lifting.”

“
Then get help.”

“
Which would first require a meeting with my superior, a
risk assessment–”

“
Oh for goodness sake!”

“–
and a winch.”

“
What?”

“
Told ye. Re-gu-lay-shuns,” says Colin in an annoyingly
melodic way.

“
Shut up.” Grace gets to her feet and brushes herself down.
“It’s your own fault, you know, Colin. If you would eat properly
and get better–”