The Charioteer (32 page)

With a cold barren weariness that quenched the dry glow of anger, he thought, What can you do about these people? The terrible thing is, there are such a lot of them. There are so many, they expect to meet each other wherever they go.

Not wicked, he thought: that’s not the word, that’s sentimentality. These are just runts. Souls with congenitally short necks and receding brows. They don’t sin in the sight of heaven and feel despair: they only throw away lighted cigarettes on Exmoor, and go on holiday leaving the cat to starve, and drive on after accidents without stopping. A wicked man nowadays can set millions of them in motion, and when he’s gone howling mad from looking at his own face, they’ll be marching still with their mouths open and their hands hanging by their knees, on and on and on. … No, Andrew wouldn’t like that.

When they got to the hospital, Bunny said, “I suppose you won’t be able to run to Ralph fast enough with all this.”

“You’re afraid of him, really, aren’t you?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” said Bunny shrilly. “He never caned
me
at school.”

“No,” said Laurie. “Quite.” He got out of the car. “Don’t worry; I shall never mention you to Ralph again if it’s possible to avoid it. He’s a friend of mine. It’s a good old English word and I’m using it in the literal sense, if that conveys anything to you at all. Good night.”

He got back to the ward within seven minutes of the time limit; but Andrew, he found, had finished his work and left.

He had got to see Andrew. He felt a need more imperative than any he had experienced in the keenest crisis of personal love. He wanted to recover his belief in the human status.

The late-pass men who had got off the last bus were still having cocoa in the kitchen; fairly drunk, but sober enough to be solemnly careful of the Night Nurse’s modesty, simmering with the things they had to tell when she had gone. As the door shut behind her, out it came. Laurie didn’t wait. It was no longer supposed, he thought, to be anything to do with him. He knew where Andrew would be: in the next ward, washing up and cleaning the kitchen. There were two night orderlies for four wards. He walked to the outer door; Nurse Sims came out from the linen room as he reached it.

“Odell! Whatever on earth do you think
you’re
up to?”

“Oh, sorry, Nurse.” He wasn’t in the least embarrassed, only occupied with the certainty that he would do what he had determined. “I’ve got to speak to Andrew Raynes for a moment. You don’t mind, do you? I won’t be long.”

“Well, really, I don’t know. I suppose you’ve got enough sense not to let Sister see you. Don’t be there all night, then, will you? What a pair you two are. I always call you David and Jonathan.”

Ward A kitchen was just the same as the one in Ward B, except that all the fittings were on the opposite sides, which gave one a feeling of stepping through the looking-glass. Andrew was at the sink with the taps running; their noise covered the sound of Laurie’s approach. Moving quietly, he got without being seen almost to Andrew’s elbow. You could tell it was his second lot of washing-up; his hands were red, the front of his hair was loose and limp. He had the look of hard concentration which Laurie recognized as his substitute for worry. Yes, Laurie thought with inexpressible comfort, Andrew was solid. One could imagine oneself being involved with him in utter disagreement, in exasperation even; but one would never chip the facing and find rubble behind. There was a number of demands one could never make on him; but perhaps this, which he had given unasked and unknowing, was in the end the best of all.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Laurie said.

“Why, Laurie!” His look of startled happiness gave Laurie a sense of sudden inadequacy; there was more joy here than his tossed mind was capable of receiving. “Where did you come from?”

“I didn’t want to turn in without saying good night.”

“I thought by the time I could get back you’d be asleep.” He was holding a dish in his hand; he stared at it, smiled, and put it aside. “Is this all right? Don’t get yourself crimed whatever you do.”

“Nurse Sims said I could. She says she always calls us David and Jonathan.”

“Does she? How nice. Did you have a good time?”

“The first part was all right. It got a bit boring later; too many people.”

“How’s Ralph?”

“He got a bit bored too.” It was a silhouette of trouble, flat now and unreal.

Laurie picked up a tea-towel and they began drying the things together.

“Did they tell you?” said Andrew. “Is that why you came?”

“Tell me what?” The moment’s security dissolved; the secret wilderness crept back again, in which no good could be assumed of the unknown.

“You just came,” said Andrew, as if a natural trust had been confirmed. “You don’t know about Dave, then?”

“No, is he ill or something?” His treacherous imagination formed a picture of Andrew spending days at Dave’s bedside, claimed by an older loyalty.

“I hope not, though it’s enough to make him. They sent for him to London. Cynthia’s been killed.”

“Is that his sister?”

Andrew stared at him. “But have I never—surely I—Cynthia’s his wife.”

“His—!” Laurie realized after a moment that stupefaction was a lame response. “I’m most terribly sorry. Was it in a raid?”

“Yes.” He stared at the cup he was rubbing, and added, “Dave’s got to identify her.”

“God, I’m sorry.”

“She was older than Dave. She must have been sixty at least.”

“Have they got any children?”

“They had one who died, and after that she couldn’t. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Dave’s always been so kind to me.”

Laurie polished the china, thankful that with Andrew it was always possible to be silent.

“I know the same thing’s happening all over the world,” said Andrew. “But I keep thinking about him. He’ll have to go to some gray mortuary and look at whatever there is, and then fill up forms, and when he’s done that someone will read what he’s written and say probably, as they did to another c.o. I knew in similar circumstances—no, he wouldn’t want me to tell anyone, even without the name.”

“Dave’s big enough to take that,” said Laurie helplessly. Yes, he thought, I’m the one who was such good form just now at the gate. And worst of all I can feel the cold draft around my inferiority complex because I learn that he isn’t one of us.

He stayed for another five minutes or so, to the limit of Nurse Sims’s estimated patience. Shortly before he left he said, “I say, Andrew. Do you believe in the proposition that all men are created equal?”

“Not in the fact. Of course not. It would be a bit like believing in a flat earth, wouldn’t it? But I believe in the proposition right enough. It’s what you might call the working hypothesis of Christianity.”

“Simple, isn’t it, after all?” He himself was unsure whether he spoke in irony or not.

The All Clear sounded after he was back in bed. For a little while he lay awake, without quite owning to himself what he was waiting for. He hadn’t really supposed for a moment that Ralph would ring. It had been good enough to scare Bunny.

“Can’t you sleep, Odell? Is it the leg?”

“It’s not too bad, Nurse, thanks. I wouldn’t mind some A.P.C. next time you’re passing.”

The telephone was silent. Laurie thought, He’s been in hospital himself, he knows what an uproar it makes if it rings late. Sensible of him really. Of course, he’s probably still asleep. Bunny will just come in and—

“Oh, thank you, Nurse. No, I’ll be fine. I’ll drop off in a minute.”

The All Clear was a long time going. I wonder what it was like back there. If anything happened to him, there’d be no one to tell me.

“H
ERE, SPUD.”

“HELLO,” SAID
Laurie, peering into the bathroom from which Reg’s voice had come.

“Thought I recognized your step. Have to listen for it now. Just a bit heavy on the one foot, that’s all.”

“Want any help?” asked Laurie, coming in. Reg hadn’t needed any since the days of the airplane splint, but he had heard from Madge that morning and Laurie had seen his face as he read the letter.

“That’s it,” said Reg. He shut the bathroom door. They sat down on the large wooden board which, placed over the bath, made a table for scrubbing mackintoshes. Their embarrassment was enhanced by the precarious nature of their privacy. Laurie said, “Let’s have a fag on it,” and then, “I suppose I can guess.”

“No prizes offered,” said Reg with bitterness.

“It’s a damned shame,” Laurie said.

For a moment they were linked in a vague nostalgic coziness. Then Reg cleared his throat, and consciousness fell between them. Laurie said, “Same chap again?”

“That’s right. Offered her a job in his business now. Cooked meats and fish bar. Edgware way.”

“Not much future in that. Can’t you stop her?”

“Well, see, Spud, that’s it. Don’t hardly like to ask, but can you lend me seventeen and a tanner till next month?”

“I could.” As a matter of fact he was very short. “But what about asking the Major? Urgent private affairs?”

“Won’t wait till tomorrow,” said Reg, staring at the wooden bath mat. Laurie realized he hadn’t been told everything.

“French leave?” he said.

“I had about enough, Spud. I’m going today and fix it.”

Laurie looked at his face. “With the chap, you mean?”

“I’m going to fix it. Never mind the rest.”

Laurie took another look. The glasshouse, he thought, if nothing worse. Absurdly, the fact that he couldn’t spare the money kept obscuring his judgment; he felt he was being mean.

He said, “Reg, honestly. I wouldn’t do it.”

Reg leaned rather elaborately across the bath to throw his ash into the space behind. “Well, Spud, maybe not. It’s all according, see what I mean?”

His face was crimson. Laurie saw what he meant.

He was overcome by a sudden, stifling claustrophobia. Charles’s and Sandy’s friends had tried to lock the door on him from inside. Now Reg was doing it from out in the street. There was a difference: he liked Reg much better.

“Look, Reg, I’m not taking that.”

Reg stared at him in mute horror. “What you mean, Spud? Not taking me up wrong, I hope?”

“And what a hope. Not bloody likely. Now look, Reg, there’s nothing fancy about this, I know what you feel, like anyone else. It’s people that matter; if not, what are you worrying about, what’s Madge got that you can’t have for a bob against the railings? You care about someone and they let you down. It can happen to anyone; where’s the difference?” As soon as he had said it he knew that it wasn’t a hundred per cent honest argument, and perhaps didn’t deserve to succeed.

“That’s right,” said Reg slowly. “That’s true enough, Spud, you got something there. Forget what I said. Half silly with worry, that’s what.”

“I know.” He considered. No, he thought; Reg is the sort that prison would do something to forever, and she isn’t worth it. “Trouble is, Reg, now I think, I doubt if I’ve got seventeen and six, till I hear from home. I spent a bit in town.”

“That’s all right, Spud. Forget it.” To his surprise he saw a struggling respect fighting the disappointment in Reg’s face. “You hang on to that. Got to be independent. Make ’em think all the more of you.”

Suddenly Laurie got it. Christ, he said to himself, has Reg really been thinking … But he won and it was Reg who dropped his eyes. “Hell, Reg, what do you think I am?”

“You’re okay, Spud.” He knew it wasn’t the apology Reg minded, it was the exposure. “Knew that all along. Shoving my oar in. No offense meant, honest to God.”

At least, he thought, one could do something for Reg out of this ephemeral ascendancy. “Tell you what. Leave it for today. It can’t make all that difference.” He couldn’t help that, and Reg hadn’t spirit enough to resent it. “I’m going to do a bit of thinking. Okay?”

“Okay, then.” Laurie knew he had rushed Reg into this, chiefly by terror of what he might say next. They got up from the bath cover. Laurie stood holding the door, to make sure it didn’t swing back against Reg’s arm. Reg cleared his throat. He hung back. “ ’S okay, Spud. Shan’t be a minute.”

Reg’s prudery being what it was, there might have been many reasons for this; but this time something arrested Laurie and illumination struck him. Oh, no, but
no,
he thought in helpless protest: it really was, at last, too much; suddenly it collapsed into an outrageous joke. He stood in the doorway and rocked with laughter. “But it’s—” he gasped. He gazed at Reg and imagined him creeping coyly out after a discreet delay, like a
femme galante
at a houseparty. It was excruciating.

Reg was grinning sheepishly. He looked curiously comforted and relieved.

Laurie leaned in at the door. “I shouldn’t worry, Reg. If you like, I’ll give you a certificate.”

The post office was only ten minutes down the road. He pulled a telegraph form from the string-tied pad. Reg had had a couple of leaves in between operations; Laurie had written and forwarded letters, and knew the address by heart.

“Your husband’s condition grave please come immediately.” He signed it with the name of the hospital; Madge wouldn’t notice a thing like that.

An hour or two later, when it was too late to undo all this, he did what he had known he must, and went to warn the Sister. He would have thought poorly of her if she hadn’t been angry. “I’ve never known a patient take such a thing upon himself, never in all my years of nursing. Perhaps you’ll pay more attention to Major Ferguson in the morning. You’ve been here too long and you’ve got thoroughly above yourself.”

“Yes, Sister. I’m sorry.”

Luckily it was in the Staff Nurse’s duty period that Ralph rang up.

When the message came through he hesitated, wondering whether to send word by someone that he had just gone out. He hadn’t expected to hear from Ralph again.

On the morning after their last meeting Ralph had telephoned. They had been evasively facetious till it had stuck in both their throats; Ralph had approached the question of next Tuesday with awkward casualness; Laurie had said that he was sorry, this time he would have to get back. Ralph had taken it very quietly; there was no way of knowing what Bunny’s story had been. Now, to know that he had rung again, and was waiting, was full of excitement and inevitability, like a suspense story with a happy ending; but, he thought, still hesitating by his bed, there could be nothing but sadness in these perfunctory gestures of farewell. Involuntarily he felt at the leg-pocket of his battle-dress; he had got into the way of keeping the
Phaedrus
there again, as he had in the south coast training camp and afterwards in France. Now it no longer stood for something rounded off and complete, but for confusion and uncertainty and pain and compassion, and all the tangle of man’s mortality. And yet, he thought again, it was for such a world that it had been written.