smoking away like a factory chimney with both hands in his trouser pockets and a thick muffler around his neck.
“That’s Arley,” Matthew said softly in George’s ear, making him jump a little, as he hadn’t noticed Matthew’s return to his side. “Used to be the team’s star striker before the war. Enlisted in ’16. Got a tin leg now—he lost the other one in Amiens, poor fellow. He comes every week to watch, though.” Matthew was silent a moment. “Hutchins must be poorly again. They usually come together. Hutchins can’t run these days either—got his lungs gassed out in ’15, poor blighter. That’s the thing that used to terrify me, far worse than the guns—at least if you were shot, the chances were it’d be a clean death.”
George felt hot and sick, despite a stiff breeze that had begun to blow in from the North. “I—I just remembered, I need to get back,” he blurted out. “A case—need to study the precedents. I’ll see you later.” He could feel Matthew’s astonished stare on his back as he almost ran from the field, but he couldn’t have stood it there a moment longer. He felt much as he imagined a soldier in a foxhole must feel when surrounded by the enemy. Except here, George was the enemy. How could he stand there with all those men who’d lost so much? What would they think of him if they knew he’d been a C.O.?
Or worse, if they knew the deception he was currently practising on one of their number?
Fleeing the grounds, George wandered aimlessly about town, attempting to walk himself calmer. The streets seemed suddenly and perversely filled with reminders of the war: scarred old soldiers sitting on benches enjoying the feeble warmth of the winter sun; the newly erected Memorial Cross; the Salvation Army mission—all of them bringing back memories that refused to stay buried.
In the end, he was forced to take refuge in his room at Mrs. MacPherson’s. He sat at his desk staring at a book on trust law, but at the end of an hour, he couldn’t have recalled a single sentence.
Not feeling up to facing Matthew around the supper table, George begged a couple of slices of bread and butter from Mrs. Mac, telling her he was feeling unwell, and took them back up to his room for a solitary meal he could barely stomach in any case. God, he’d lasted less than a day before messing things up royally. Sheila Pendleton would throw up her hands in despair at his incompetence. George sat at his desk, his head in his hands.
Around eight o’clock, there came a knock at the door. “George?” Matthew’s voice sounded hesitant. “May I come in?”
So this was it. Now Matthew would question him, would want to know why he’d acted so strangely. Could he lie? Make up some ghastly trench experience? George’s sense of honour rebelled at the thought—but in any case, he hadn’t a hope of spinning a yarn that wouldn’t be exposed as false almost instantly. Not to someone who’d actually been there.
George would have to tell Matthew about being a C.O. at least. Would have to admit to his cowardice. And it was too soon…far too soon. That confession should have waited—indefinitely, for preference, despite what Sheila had said, but at any rate, until he was on a firmer footing with Matthew. Now, though, there was a good chance Matthew would simply decide George wasn’t, after all, the sort of fellow he wanted to become friends with.
“George?” Matthew called again. “Please open the door.”
Bowing to the inevitable, George trudged to the door. If Matthew rejected him now—and he would—it was no more than George deserved in any case.
But when George opened the door, Matthew’s attitude seemed neither suspicious, nor hostile. If anything, he seemed glad to see George once more. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he began, to George’s utter astonishment. “That was incredibly thoughtless of me—going off about the war like that.”
George stared, unable for a moment to
“That’s Arley,” Matthew said softly in George’s ear, making him jump a little, as he hadn’t noticed Matthew’s return to his side. “Used to be the team’s star striker before the war. Enlisted in ’16. Got a tin leg now—he lost the other one in Amiens, poor fellow. He comes every week to watch, though.” Matthew was silent a moment. “Hutchins must be poorly again. They usually come together. Hutchins can’t run these days either—got his lungs gassed out in ’15, poor blighter. That’s the thing that used to terrify me, far worse than the guns—at least if you were shot, the chances were it’d be a clean death.”
George felt hot and sick, despite a stiff breeze that had begun to blow in from the North. “I—I just remembered, I need to get back,” he blurted out. “A case—need to study the precedents. I’ll see you later.” He could feel Matthew’s astonished stare on his back as he almost ran from the field, but he couldn’t have stood it there a moment longer. He felt much as he imagined a soldier in a foxhole must feel when surrounded by the enemy. Except here, George was the enemy. How could he stand there with all those men who’d lost so much? What would they think of him if they knew he’d been a C.O.?
Or worse, if they knew the deception he was currently practising on one of their number?
Fleeing the grounds, George wandered aimlessly about town, attempting to walk himself calmer. The streets seemed suddenly and perversely filled with reminders of the war: scarred old soldiers sitting on benches enjoying the feeble warmth of the winter sun; the newly erected Memorial Cross; the Salvation Army mission—all of them bringing back memories that refused to stay buried.
In the end, he was forced to take refuge in his room at Mrs. MacPherson’s. He sat at his desk staring at a book on trust law, but at the end of an hour, he couldn’t have recalled a single sentence.
Not feeling up to facing Matthew around the supper table, George begged a couple of slices of bread and butter from Mrs. Mac, telling her he was feeling unwell, and took them back up to his room for a solitary meal he could barely stomach in any case. God, he’d lasted less than a day before messing things up royally. Sheila Pendleton would throw up her hands in despair at his incompetence. George sat at his desk, his head in his hands.
Around eight o’clock, there came a knock at the door. “George?” Matthew’s voice sounded hesitant. “May I come in?”
So this was it. Now Matthew would question him, would want to know why he’d acted so strangely. Could he lie? Make up some ghastly trench experience? George’s sense of honour rebelled at the thought—but in any case, he hadn’t a hope of spinning a yarn that wouldn’t be exposed as false almost instantly. Not to someone who’d actually been there.
George would have to tell Matthew about being a C.O. at least. Would have to admit to his cowardice. And it was too soon…far too soon. That confession should have waited—indefinitely, for preference, despite what Sheila had said, but at any rate, until he was on a firmer footing with Matthew. Now, though, there was a good chance Matthew would simply decide George wasn’t, after all, the sort of fellow he wanted to become friends with.
“George?” Matthew called again. “Please open the door.”
Bowing to the inevitable, George trudged to the door. If Matthew rejected him now—and he would—it was no more than George deserved in any case.
But when George opened the door, Matthew’s attitude seemed neither suspicious, nor hostile. If anything, he seemed glad to see George once more. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he began, to George’s utter astonishment. “That was incredibly thoughtless of me—going off about the war like that.”
George stared, unable for a moment to
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