results of the tests came through, and he suspected Geordie knew as well. But all Geordie ever said was: ‘It’s the bayonet wound playing me up.’
If Nick hadn’t gone to France he might have regarded Geordie’s theory as merely ignorant, but he’d stood beside him in the empty arches of Thiepval, looking up at Harry’s name on the wall, and from that perspective Geordie’s belief in the power of old wounds to leak into the present was not so easily dismissed.
In the hospital Nick stares blankly at the empty bed. He isn’t prepared for this. How can they not have been told? Why didn’t they ring? But perhaps they did. Perhaps they rang Frieda, but she couldn’t contact him. A nurse squeaks up on rubber-soled shoes. ‘Are you looking for Mr Lucas?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s in a side ward.’
Nick goes back along the ward, where men anonymous in pyjamas turn to stare at him as he walks past. He stares through the portholes in the doors of the side wards, and spots him at last. He pushes the door open. The sides of the bed have been raised. It looks as if he’s lying in a cot. Eyes tightly closed, humiliation visible in every muscle of his clenched jaw.
‘How are you, Grandad?’ Nick smells the sourness of sweat on his skin as he bends to give him a hug.
A nurse follows him into the room. ‘He was in the sluice room last night at two o’clock,’ she says. ‘Weren’t you, love?’
Geordie doesn’t answer her.
‘What were you doing in there?’ Nick asks after she’s withdrawn and left them alone.
‘God knows.’
‘Dreaming?’
‘Something like that.’
Nick thinks: I can’t bear this, and a second later is appalled by the selfishness of his response. If Grandad can bear it, he can.
‘It’s the pills,’ Geordie says. ‘I’ve never been one for pills.’
It’s not the pills, and they both know it, but somehow the hospital prescribes the kind of conversation they can have with each other. Nick just wants to see Geordie back in his own home, in his own bed, as fast as possible. ‘I forgot to mention it this afternoon,’ he says. ‘Helen wants to know when she can come and see you?’ When there’s no reply he adds, ‘You remember Helen?’
‘Of course I remember Helen, I’m not daft.’
‘What shall I tell her?’
‘I don’t want her seeing me like this.’
He always made a fuss when Helen was coming. Got bathed, shaved, wore a suit and a tie. Frieda used to say, ‘Look at him, all done up like a shilling dinner. His girlfriend must be coming,’ and bizarrely, behind the teasing, there was real jealousy.
‘Give it a few days,’ he says now, reluctantly, and then, abruptly, brings up the real problem. ‘I want these bloody bars down. I’m like a ruddy great baby sat up in a cot. I can’t have anybody seeing me like this.’
‘They’ll put them down in the morning.’
‘They’d better. If they don’t I’m out of here.’
Nick grips his wrist through the bars. ‘I should be going now. I’ll see you at the weekend.’
‘Aye. Perhaps.’
‘Now what’s that supposed to mean?’
No answer.
‘Auntie Frieda’ll be in tomorrow.’
Nick hovers, knowing that in his grandfather’s position he would find this lingering impossibly irritating. He bends down and holds the thin shoulders whose bones seem to become a little more prominent every day. Old soldiers never die – they only fade away. Though the man who shouts and rages and cries out for Harry in the kitchen or the sluice room isn’t fading away, whatever else he’s doing. ‘I’ll ring and see how you’re getting on,’ he says inadequately, and then walks out down the grey shining corridor, past the WRVS stall with its flowers and balloons and fruit, and out into the car-park, where the stars burn pale against the sodium orange of the lights.
SEVEN
At the exit from the motorway Nick hesitates, then, to the immense irritation of the driver behind him, flicks his indicator from right to left and
If Nick hadn’t gone to France he might have regarded Geordie’s theory as merely ignorant, but he’d stood beside him in the empty arches of Thiepval, looking up at Harry’s name on the wall, and from that perspective Geordie’s belief in the power of old wounds to leak into the present was not so easily dismissed.
In the hospital Nick stares blankly at the empty bed. He isn’t prepared for this. How can they not have been told? Why didn’t they ring? But perhaps they did. Perhaps they rang Frieda, but she couldn’t contact him. A nurse squeaks up on rubber-soled shoes. ‘Are you looking for Mr Lucas?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s in a side ward.’
Nick goes back along the ward, where men anonymous in pyjamas turn to stare at him as he walks past. He stares through the portholes in the doors of the side wards, and spots him at last. He pushes the door open. The sides of the bed have been raised. It looks as if he’s lying in a cot. Eyes tightly closed, humiliation visible in every muscle of his clenched jaw.
‘How are you, Grandad?’ Nick smells the sourness of sweat on his skin as he bends to give him a hug.
A nurse follows him into the room. ‘He was in the sluice room last night at two o’clock,’ she says. ‘Weren’t you, love?’
Geordie doesn’t answer her.
‘What were you doing in there?’ Nick asks after she’s withdrawn and left them alone.
‘God knows.’
‘Dreaming?’
‘Something like that.’
Nick thinks: I can’t bear this, and a second later is appalled by the selfishness of his response. If Grandad can bear it, he can.
‘It’s the pills,’ Geordie says. ‘I’ve never been one for pills.’
It’s not the pills, and they both know it, but somehow the hospital prescribes the kind of conversation they can have with each other. Nick just wants to see Geordie back in his own home, in his own bed, as fast as possible. ‘I forgot to mention it this afternoon,’ he says. ‘Helen wants to know when she can come and see you?’ When there’s no reply he adds, ‘You remember Helen?’
‘Of course I remember Helen, I’m not daft.’
‘What shall I tell her?’
‘I don’t want her seeing me like this.’
He always made a fuss when Helen was coming. Got bathed, shaved, wore a suit and a tie. Frieda used to say, ‘Look at him, all done up like a shilling dinner. His girlfriend must be coming,’ and bizarrely, behind the teasing, there was real jealousy.
‘Give it a few days,’ he says now, reluctantly, and then, abruptly, brings up the real problem. ‘I want these bloody bars down. I’m like a ruddy great baby sat up in a cot. I can’t have anybody seeing me like this.’
‘They’ll put them down in the morning.’
‘They’d better. If they don’t I’m out of here.’
Nick grips his wrist through the bars. ‘I should be going now. I’ll see you at the weekend.’
‘Aye. Perhaps.’
‘Now what’s that supposed to mean?’
No answer.
‘Auntie Frieda’ll be in tomorrow.’
Nick hovers, knowing that in his grandfather’s position he would find this lingering impossibly irritating. He bends down and holds the thin shoulders whose bones seem to become a little more prominent every day. Old soldiers never die – they only fade away. Though the man who shouts and rages and cries out for Harry in the kitchen or the sluice room isn’t fading away, whatever else he’s doing. ‘I’ll ring and see how you’re getting on,’ he says inadequately, and then walks out down the grey shining corridor, past the WRVS stall with its flowers and balloons and fruit, and out into the car-park, where the stars burn pale against the sodium orange of the lights.
SEVEN
At the exit from the motorway Nick hesitates, then, to the immense irritation of the driver behind him, flicks his indicator from right to left and
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