QB VII (15 page)

MY BUDDIES VISIT ONCE IN A WHILE BUT IT’S A LONG TRIP FOR THEM. THE EAGLE SQUADRON HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED OUT OF THE RAF INTO THE AMERICAN AIR CORPS. SO, I DON’T KNOW WHAT I AM. I’M NOT MUCH USE TO ANYONE, ANYHOW.

A MONTH PASSES. PATIENCE, THEY TELL ME. JESUS, I HATE THAT WORD. THEY’RE GOING TO START SKIN GRAFTS SOON.

THEN SOMETHING HAPPENED AND THE DAYS DIDN’T SEEM SO LONG OR AGONIZING AFTER THAT. HER NAME IS SAMANTHA LINSTEAD, AND HER FATHER IS A SQUIRE WITH AN OLD FAMILY FARM IN THE MINDIP HILLS NOT FAR FROM BATH. SAMANTHA IS TWENTY AND A RED CROSS VOLUNTEER AIDE. AT FIRST SHE CAME IN ON ROUTINE THINGS LIKE TAKING LETTERS AND SPONGING ME OFF. WE GOT TO TALKING A LOT AND PRETTY SOON SHE BROUGHT HER PHONOGRAPH AND SOME RECORDS AND A RADIO SET. SHE’D SPEND A GOOD PART OF THE DAY IN MY ROOM, FEEDING ME, HOLDING MY CIGARETTE, AND SHE READ A LOT TO ME.

CAN A MAN FALL IN LOVE WITH A VOICE?

I NEVER SAW HER. SHE ALWAYS CAME AFTER MY MORNING TREATMENT. ALL I KNEW WAS HER VOICE. I SPENT HALF MY TIME IMAGINING WHAT SHE LOOKED LIKE. SHE INSISTED SHE WAS VERY PLAIN.

ABOUT A WEEK AFTER SHE CAME I WAS ABLE TO TAKE SHORT WALKS WITH HER LEADING ME AROUND THE HOSPITAL GROUNDS. AND THEN, SHE GOT TO TOUCHING ME MORE AND MORE.

“Light me up, Sam,” Abe said.

Samantha sat near the bed and held the cigarette carefully as he puffed. When she snuffed it out, she slipped her hand through the opening of his pajamas and rubbed the tips of her fingers over his chest, barely making contact

“Sam, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you’d better not come back to see me, any more.” Her hand drew away from him suddenly. “I don’t like the idea of anyone feeling sorry for me.”

“Do you think that’s why I come here?”

“You lie in darkness all day and all night and your mind can play tricks. I’m starting to take things more serious than I ought to. You’ve been a real wonderful person and shouldn’t be a victim of my fantasies.”

“Abe. Don’t you know how wonderful it is for me to be with you? Maybe when we see each other you won’t care for me, but I don’t want to change anything now. And you’re not going to get rid of me that easily, and you really aren’t in much of a condition to do anything about it.”

Samantha’s car passed on to the circular driveway of Linstead Hall. The tires crunched over the gravel and then halted before a small manor house of two centuries ago.

“There’s Mommy and Daddy. This is Abe. You can’t see too much of him, but his photographs are quite handsome.”

“Welcome to Linstead Hall,” Donald Linstead said.

“Pardon my gloves,” Abe answered, holding up his bandaged hands.

She led him carefully through a wooded land and then found a soft place in a meadow looking down on the manor and she described the scene to him.

“I can smell cows and horses and smoke and all lands of flowers. It must be beautiful up here. I can’t tell one flower from the other.”

“There’s heather and roses and the fires are coming from the peat bogs.”

Oh Abe! she thought. I do love you.

On the third visit to Linstead Hall the family received the happy news that Abe’s eye bandages would be removed for a few hours each day.

Samantha seemed edgy during the walk. In the darkness, one can sense things fiercely. The tone of her voice was different, the vibrations were tense.

It had been a long day and Abe was tired. A male nurse came in from the village to bathe and change him. Afterward, he stretched out on the bed, grumbling over his entombed hands. Patience. To be able to shave, to be able to blow my nose, to be able to read.

To be able to see Samantha.

He heard the door open and close and could tell by the turn of the knob it was Samantha.

“I hope I didn’t awaken you.”

“No.”

The bed sank as she sat beside him. “It’s going to be a great event when they take those bandages off your eyes. I mean your eye. You’ve been very brave.”

“Like I had a choice. Well, we sure know what humility is.”

Abe could hear the soft sobs she was trying to stifle. He wanted to reach out for her as he had wanted to a hundred times. What did she feel like. Were her breasts large or small. Was her hair soft. Were her lips sensuous.

“What the hell are you crying for?”

“I don’t know.” They both knew. In a sad strange way they had experienced something totally unique and it was going to come to an end and neither of them knew if the ending was final or would ignite a new beginning. Samantha was afraid she would be rejected.

She lay beside him as they had done after their walks, and her fingers unbuttoned his shirt, and she laid her cheek on his chest and then her hands and lips became like whispers all about his body.

“I talked to the doctor,” she said. “He told me it would be all right,” and she reached between his legs. “Just be still, I’ll do everything.”

She undressed him and flung her own clothing off and locked the door.

Oh, fantastic darkness! Every sensation was so vivid, the gentle slaps, the kissing of his feet, the feather soft whip of her hair. Samantha was in a controlled frenzy as he succumbed to her.

And then she cried and told him she had never been so happy, and Abe said he was really a better lover but under the circumstances he was glad some part of him worked. And then the love talk became silly, and they laughed because it was really quite funny.

7

D
AVID
S
HAWCROSS’S PHONE
rang angrily. He groped for the bed lamp, yawned his way to a sitting position. “Good God,” he mumbled, “it’s three in the morning.”

“Hello!”

“Mr. Shawcross?”

“Yes, this is Shawcross.”

“Sergeant Richardson, Military Police attached to the station in Marylebone Lane, sir.”

“Richardson, it’s three o’clock in the morning. Get on with it, man.”

“So sorry to disturb you, sir. We’ve picked up an officer, RAF chap, a Lieutenant Abraham ...C...A...D...Y, Cady.”

“Abe in London?”

“Yes, sir. He was rather intoxicated when we picked him up. Drunk as a lord if you don’t mind me saying, sir.”

“Is he all right, Richardson?”

“In a manner of speaking, sir. There was a note pinned to his uniform. Shall I read it?”

“Yes, by all means.”

“ ‘My name is Abraham Cady. If I appear to be drunk, don’t be confused. I am having a case of bends due to tunnel work on a secret project and must be decompressed slowly. Deposit my body to David Shawcross, 77 Cumberland Terrace. NW 8.’ Will you accept him, Mr. Shawcross? Don’t want to press charges on the chap, just out of the hospital and all that.”

“Charges. For what?”

“Well, sir, when we got to him he was swimming in the fountain in Trafalgar Square ... nude.”

“Bring the bugger over, I’ll take him.”

“So you were a German U-boat, were you now?” Shawcross taunted.

Abe groaned through one more cup of black coffee. At least the British call it coffee. Ugh!

“Flaunting your up-periscope in the middle of our stately fountain. Really, Abraham.”

“Shawcross, put out the goddam cigar. Can’t you see I’m dying.”

“More coffee, dear?” Lorraine asked.

“God no. I mean, no thanks.”

She tinkled a bell for the maid and helped her clear the dishes. “I’ve got to be trotting off. The queues are still dreadful and I’ve got to stock up. Our kiddies are corning down from Manchester tomorrow.” She kissed Abe’s cheek. “I do hope you’re feeling better, dear.”

When she left, David grumbled. “I suppose I love my grandchildren as much as the next grandfather but frankly, they’re spoiled little bastards. I keep writing Pam and telling her how dangerous it is here in London but damned if shell listen. Anyhow, I’ve been thinking seriously about taking Geoff into the business after the war. Now what’s all this nonsense about you and this girl, Pinhead, Greenbed ...”

“Linstead. Samantha Linstead.”

“Are you in love with her or what?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her. I’ve made love to her, but I’ve never seen her or touched her.”

“Nothing really strange about that. All lovers are blind in one way or another. I’ve seen her. She’s rather attractive, in an outdoorsy sort of way. Sturdy type.”

“She stopped coming to the hospital when they took the bandages off my eyes. She was afraid I wouldn’t like her. I was never so damned miserable in my life. I wanted to go beat the manor house door down and claim her, then I got all choked up, too. Suppose she was a real dog? Suppose she got a good look at me in the daylight and got sober? Stupid, isn’t it?”

“Very. Well, you’ll have to take a look at each other sooner or later. In the meanwhile do you have any company to forget Samantha with?”

“No, I’m out of touch in London,” Abe said. The first four calls I made last night, two were married, one pregnant, and on the fourth call a man answered.”

“Well, let’s see,” Shawcross said, diving his pudgy fingers into his vest and fishing out an address book. As he thumbed it he grunted in delight a few times. “Why don’t you meet me for lunch at Mirabelle’s at two. We ought to be able to come up with something.”

Abraham Cady, sobered and reassembled, turned Curzon Street all filled with the electricity of wartime London and into the plush sanctuary of Mirabelle’s. The maître d’ was expecting him. Abe stood a moment and looked over the room to Shawcross’s traditional table. He had come up with a redhead. Very British looking. Nice body from what he could see. Didn’t look too stupid. Seemed nervous. That was par. Everyone gets nervous before meeting a writer and usually disappointed afterward. They expect nothing but gems to flow from the writer’s brilliant mind.

“Ah, Abraham,” Shawcross said, struggling out of his seat. “Meet Cynthia Greene. Cynthia is a secretary to one of my colleagues in the publishing business and is an admirer of your book.”

Abe took the girl’s hand warmly as he always took a woman’s hand. It was a bit damp with nerves but otherwise firm. A handshake told so much. He detested the wet limp fish so many women gave. She smiled. The game was on. He sat down.

Nice going, Shawcross, Abe thought

“Waiter, a little nip of the hair that killed the dog for my friend here.”

“Whisky, over ice,” Abe ordered.

Shawcross commented that ice was barbaric and Abe told about an English girl he knew who drank a pint and a half of Scotch each and every day but would never take ice because she was afraid it would wreck her liver.

Cheers. They sipped and studied the fragile wartime menu. Abe surveyed Miss Greene.

The first thing he liked aside from her general looks and firm handshake was that she was obviously an English lady and kept her mouth shut. All women have volcanoes. Some compulsively erupted from the mouth with unending dribble. Other women kept their volcanoes dormant and exploded them at the right time in the right way. Abe liked quiet women.

The captain handed David Shawcross a note. He adjusted his specs and grumbled. “I know this sounds like an obvious ploy to get you two alone but the Russians have called me. Uncivilized bastards. Try to muddle through without me. Now, don’t you try to steal my writer for your house. He’s due for a good book, soon.”

They were alone.

“How long have you known Shawcross?” Abe asked.

“Since he began visiting you in the hospital.”

There was no mistaking that voice. “Samantha?”

“Yes, Abe.”

“Samantha.”

“Mr. Shawcross loves you like a son. He phoned me this morning and told me you cried half the night I’m sorry I ran. Well, here I am. I know you’re terribly disappointed.”

“No ... no ... you’re just lovely.”

8

F
ROM A MEADOW IN
the Mindip Hills Abe and Samantha watched wave after wave of airplanes flying toward the Continent. The sky was black with them. Lumbering bombers and swarms of fighters. They passed and their sounds faded and the sky was blue. Abe stared pensively down to Linstead Hall.

Samantha felt a sudden chill. She placed her sweater on her shoulders. The flowers bent to the breeze and her soft red hair danced. She went so well with the countryside. Samantha looked as though she were born riding a horse.

The hospital agreed that he could take a furlough as long as he reported for twice weekly treatments. Dr. Finchly also strongly advised Abe to stay out of London. He needed the peace of Linstead Hall. Heather and horse manure. But the daily flights of planes constantly reminded him that there was a war out there.

“So pensive,” Samantha said.

“The war is passing me by,” he said.

“I know you’re restless but when all is said and done perhaps you were never meant to be anything but a writer. I know you’ve a book churning inside you.”

“My hands. They start to hurt after just a few minutes. I may have to have one more operation, yet.”

“Abe, have you ever thought of me being your hands?”

“I don’t know if you can write a book that way ... I just don’t know.”

“Why don’t we try.”

The thought of it brought Abraham Cady to life. It was very awkward at first and difficult to share a novelist’s thoughts. Each day he became better able to organize his mind. He learned to dictate until he was capable of pouring out a torrent of words.

The furlough ended. Abe was discharged from the Air Corps. A farewell bust at the Officer’s Club with his old buddies and back to Linstead Hall to write.

Samantha became the silent partner and privileged observer to one of the most unique of all human experiences, the writing of a novel. She saw him detach himself from the first world of reality and submerge into the second world of his own creation and wander through it alone. There was no magic. There was no inspiration that people always look for and imagine in the writer. What there was was a relentless plodding requiring a special kind of stamina that makes the profession so limited. Of course there came those moments when things suddenly fell into a natural rhythm and even more rare, that instant of pure flying through creative exhilaration.