To Love a Traitor (7 page)

“Go again! Go again,” she cried, clapping her hands. “That was ripping!”

Matthew grabbed the toboggan’s ropes and hauled it up the slope once more. He insisted on steering this time, with the predictable result—as when the toboggan veered to the left, he couldn’t so easily force it to the right—that their progress was only half as fast, and at least as much lateral as downhill.

“Wretched thing,” Matthew complained as they dismounted, although George wasn’t sure if he meant the toboggan or his missing arm. “That wasn’t nearly so much fun. You’d better steer it from now on.”

George didn’t protest, having his own reasons for preferring Matthew at his back, rather than nestled snug between his thighs—layers of clothing notwithstanding.

They went down several times more, each time somehow managing to avoid collisions even if only by a whisker, before relinquishing the toboggan back into the hands of its rightful owners, who were heartily thanked.

Wet, chilly and a little bruised, the two young men returned to Mrs. Mac’s in high good humour. It turned, in George’s case, to guilt as he sat down at his desk to pen a quick missive to Mabel. He was supposed to be investigating Connaught, not larking about like a child with him.

Then again… Hadn’t Sheila said he shouldn’t be too precipitate with his inquiries? Should take the time to gain the man’s confidence? Put like that, playing snowballs and hurtling down slopes with Matthew was practically a national duty. George gave a rueful chuckle at that excellent piece of self-justification. Damn it. The trouble was, he was having a hard time believing Matthew capable of any underhand behaviour.

And this wasn’t getting his letter written. George took up his pen.

Dear Mabel,

I write, as promised, to reassure you of my continued existence. Really, you needn’t worry on my account. I haven’t even set one toe into danger just yet. Miss P_ (late of Military Intelligence) seemed to think it a good idea that I should start by befriending Connaught, so that’s just what I’ve done. We had a minor skirmish today, but as our ammunition was entirely comprised of snowballs, no casualties were sustained.

Has it snowed back home? I always used to love the sight of the fields clothed in white. Here in the city, it isn’t quite the same—the Heath is a vision in white, of course, but although the trees along the streets are still lovely, the streets themselves soon lose their lustre with all the traffic that passes.

And yes, please do visit poor Wharton. Tell him I’d no idea until recently it was his influence that got me into Sir Arthur’s department, and that I’m very inexpressibly grateful for his help. I should have visited him myself while I was down in Buckinghamshire if I’d had any idea my company would be anything other than unwelcome. Tell him Sir Arthur remembers him fondly—probably best not to add the old man thought he was a damned fool for insisting on going to sea. Which, by the way, I don’t agree with. Sir Arthur doesn’t know what it was like for a young man seen out and about in mufti during the war—I don’t think there was a single man in our department who hadn’t, at one time or another, been handed a white feather. It was hard enough to bear for the civilians among us—imagine what it must have been like for a career Navy man.

Oh, and please call me George in your letters. Not that I’m planning to leave them around for anyone to read, but I had a narrow scrape when I opened your last without thinking at the breakfast table—it was just luck that no one saw the salutation. To be perfectly honest, what with being Mr. Cottingham to everyone at work, and George here at home, I think I’ve half forgotten who that fellow Roger is in any case.

Affectionately,

“George”

Chapter Seven

The following day, George’s dire warnings regarding the trains having sadly failed to bear fruit, they had to return to work. The streets of London, far from being paved with gold, were covered with rather revolting grey-brown slush due to the passage of traffic both horse-drawn and motorised, and George feared his trousers would need a good brushing once he returned home.

In the ordinary course of things, George would have expected the snow to supply the main topic of conversation for the week, but it was eclipsed by a rather more startling affair. His fellow clerk, Mr. Phillips, turned up to the office that Monday morning with a black eye.

George hesitated to say anything, unsure if it would be politer to simply ignore it, but Mitchell had no such scruples. “Good God, man, what happened to you? Did someone mistake a brick for a snowball and lob it at you?”

Phillips shook his head with the caution of one who has found to his cost that sudden motion can be jarring to a bruised and swollen face. “You might say as it was more in the nature of a political disagreement.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Mitchell rolled his eyes at George, then turned back to Phillips. “What happened?”

Phillips’s movements, as he sat down at his desk, betrayed some stiffness in his frame, but he went on cheerfully enough. “Friday night down the pub, some foreign-looking fellow comes in to ask for directions. Some of the men at the bar, they get it into their heads—where, I might add, there’s plenty of room for daft ideas to fit, on account of them not having a brain between ’em—that he’s a German, and they starts calling him Jerry and Fritz, and shoving him about. So in I steps—”

“Of course,” Mitchell interrupted in long-suffering tones.

“—and I tells them, they should ’ave more fellow-feeling with their fellow man, and besides, we ain’t at war with Germany no more, not but what it was an unjust war what should never have happened, and
then
one of ’em ups and says
oi, are you one of them cowardly Jerry-loving conchies
, and
I
says, I’m proud to say I was indeed a Conscientious Objector, and I stand by it to this day. Whereupon he, not having any reasonable co’erent answer to that, slugs me in the eye, and it ends with us all being hauled off to the cells for the night.”

“Well, I hope you gave as good as you got,” Mitchell said, frowning.

“You can bet I did. Him what gave me this?” Phillips pointed proudly to his black eye. “He’s wearing his jaw in a sling now. The police, which for all they’re the tools of an oppressive regime, treated us very fairly, said we was all as bad as each other and we was to be bound over to keep the peace.”

“Hmph. Does that mean you’ll henceforth hold your peace about your wretched socialism? If I’d known that was all it would take, I’d have slugged you in the eye myself a long time ago.” Fighting words, perhaps, but they were said in a tone of fond exasperation, and Phillips appeared to take them in that spirit.

“You can knock me down, Mr. Mitchell, as many times as you has a mind to, but I’ll stand straight back up for my beliefs,” he said with a proud smile.

Mitchell shook his head and addressed George. “You see how it is? There’s no helping the man. None at all.” He bent his head back to his work, while Phillips gave a raucous laugh and took out his pen.

George wondered how it could have escaped him until now just how much affection they held for each other, their disparate views notwithstanding.

Later that week the weather was still bitterly cold. Nevertheless, George found himself staying up late with his books, reading up on tort by candlelight with a blanket wrapped around him for warmth. It was extraordinary how fascinating the English legal system could be, built as it was in the main upon individual cases.

But even George’s interest in larrikins (who or whatever they might be) throwing squibs into crowds couldn’t sustain him long past midnight, given that he’d been up at six that morning and would have to do the same on the morrow. Yawning, he closed his books and shed his clothes, shivering as the chilly air struck his bare flesh. As he hastily pulled on his pyjamas, he was startled to hear someone speaking. The words were indistinct, but George was almost certain they came from Matthew’s room. Quietly opening the door, he could see no one there, which rather settled the matter—unless they were on the street? A quick glance out of the window confirmed that the street was empty, all good citizens presently tucked up in their beds, and the bad ones gone for richer pickings than could be had in Allen Street. But who on earth could Matthew be talking to at this time of night?

Perhaps he always talked in his sleep, and George had simply never been awake to hear him before? Listening with guilty avidity, George realised it sounded as though Matthew were distressed. A nightmare, then, poor fellow. George had had his share of those.

He was certain Matthew wouldn’t thank him for poking his nose in—he’d probably be mortified to know that his night-time woes were audible to others. Having snuffed his candle and climbed into bed, George stuck his head under his pillow and tried to ignore the noises from next door—but a vigorous thump on the wall right by his ear, followed by the unmistakeable sound of a sob was too much for him to endure. Matthew might hate him for it, but George just couldn’t leave the man in such distress. Flinging off the blankets, he pulled on his dressing gown and padded to Matthew’s door in his slippers.

Uncertain whether to knock, George stood on the landing for a moment, irresolute. A further cry from within prompted him to pull himself together and open the door.

He hadn’t thought to re-light his candle, but like his own, Matthew’s room looked out on the front of the house, and a faint glow from the streetlamps filtered through the curtains. It was enough to make out Matthew’s form, writhing in the bedclothes which had wrapped themselves around him like a shroud. “Matthew,” George whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder. Matthew started violently. “It’s all right,” George reassured him. “It’s just a dream.”

George started to unwind the sheets from the sweating form. It seemed to help—as Matthew’s limbs were freed, the thrashing eased. “Hush,” George kept repeating. “It’s all right. Just a bad dream.”

“George?” Matthew’s voice was hoarse. “George, what are you doing here?”

“I heard you cry out. I think you had a nightmare.”

“God, George… I was back there in the dugout, when that wretched shell landed and it collapsed… Oh Lord—you don’t want to hear about this. I’m sorry, George. Just being a bit of an idiot. Sorry to have woken you.”

“You didn’t wake me—I’ve only just finished studying. Now, will you be all right, or would you like me to stay for a while?”

“I… Would you mind, awfully, staying for just a little while? I’m being a wretched nuisance, I know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” George said a little more sharply than he meant to. “And is there anything else you need?” he asked in a softer tone.

“Do you think you could light the candle? It’s on the bedside table, and the matches are in the drawer.”

Feeling more than seeing his way, George managed to locate the matches and lit one with a blinding flare that left him blinking for a moment before he could find the candle. Once lit, the candle showed him Matthew’s pale face, his hair plastered to his forehead in little curls. He was sitting up, his right pyjama sleeve flopping forlornly where he hadn’t bothered to pin it up. George’s chest felt curiously tight at the sight of him. “It must be a wretched place to go back to in your dreams,” he said.

“Do you know, it’s the only time I remember anything about it at all? In my dreams. If it even
is
a memory and not something my beastly mind has cooked up all by itself.”

“Does it happen often?” George asked before he could stop himself.

“Lord, no. Hardly at all, these days. I must have had too much cheese for supper or something,” Matthew said with a ghost of a grin. “Or possibly Sherlock Holmes is a little too racy for bedtime reading for one of my advanced years.”

“Advanced years?” George asked in a light tone. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.”

“I can, you know. I’m twenty-five and six—no, seven months, now.” Matthew’s smile seemed much more genuine, and his colour was returning.

George felt horribly torn and confused. It was such an intimate situation—he in his dressing gown, and Matthew in bed not six inches away from him. George knew he should be thinking of a way to use the situation to his advantage, to find out more about Matthew’s time in the trenches, but all he felt was a fierce yearning to close the gap between them, to hold his friend tight—and did he only imagine that Matthew’s lips had parted, his eyes half-closed, ready to welcome his embrace…?

He couldn’t do it. If he was mistaken, then the best that could happen would be Matthew never speaking to him again. He’d have failed utterly in his task—and in any case, it would be the act of a scoundrel to take such a step whilst concealing so much from Matthew. But if he told the truth—the whole truth, so help him God—it would be the end of everything. A wave of grief washing over him for what he could never have, George stood. “Well, you’ll be all right now, won’t you? I’d best get to bed—work in the morning, you know how it is.”

He didn’t look behind him as he left the room. If Matthew was watching him go with an air of disappointment, it would do him no good to see it—and if he
had
only imagined that Matthew returned his feelings, he was too much of a coward to want to know.

The next morning, neither of them made any allusion to the events of the night as they sat at their bacon and eggs. Matthew was his usual cheery self, even giving George an arch look at the arrival of another lavender envelope, although he would undoubtedly have been disappointed had George shown him the contents—a single sheet of paper containing Mabel’s thanks for George’s last, her repeated exhortation to write often, and confirmation of her intent to visit Pip Wharton.

George was half-convinced he must have dreamt it all. But as they trudged through melting slush to the Underground station together, Matthew spoke a little hesitantly. “I really am awfully sorry about last night. Such a bore, to be disturbed like that after an evening’s hard study.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” George said, relieved to find that the subject could, apparently, be mentioned. “I’m just glad if I was able to help at all.”

“You helped a great deal, George,” Matthew said, an odd look in his eye—but then it was time for them to join the bustle of people heading for the Hampstead Tube, and no more conversation could be had—at least, none that they minded a dozen other people overhearing.