pen, he noticed, had jabbed through the paper on the last furious .
Chapter Seven
Locke Hill, Kent, December 1915
When Peter’s letter arrived, Julia was sitting in his library chair, re-reading the bulb catalogue, holding the fort. (She laughed a little at her military imagery.) Now, frost stiffened the lawn and only three icy pale roses lingered along the veranda – but she had planted next spring’s bulbs herself, wearing gloves, of course, and treating her hands afterwards with warm oil, for her hands, too, would have to be lovely for him, and, after all, Harker did the heavy work in the border. So – snowdrops for January, aconites and the astonishing miniature irises for February, daffodils, hyacinths, tulips, anemones and so on till July . . . the roses and shrubs would carry through . . . autumn crocuses; November would be a problem, unless the rudbeckia lasted, but there would be the wintersweet and holly and the Christmas roses . . . next Christmas! Well, it would certainly be over by then. And, anyway, there was this Christmas to think about . . . The image played across her mind . . . a wreath (made by her) . . . the red-berried holly, of course, and ivy; the iridescent coins of honesty seed heads, rubbed free of the little dry veily bit, to shine like pearl lustre; a little yew – or is that too funereal? He wouldn’t want that . . . rosemary, perhaps . . . and the fire crackling, the smell of the goose roasting, and champagne excoriatingly cold in the gold Viennese coupes, and the tall figure in his trenchcoat, tired and hungry, so glad to be home . . . Whatever time of year he might get leave, however long this terrible thing dragged on, the garden would be beautiful for him.
She read it swiftly, and telephoned at once to Rose to apply for leave from the hospital.
Four days later, two days late, Peter arrived. Julia had been standing on the doorstep patting her hair since the letter arrived – patting her hair, pinching her cheeks, and turning to check in the ormolu mirror how much older she looked since June.
‘You look beautiful,’ Rose said pityingly.
‘But I do look older,’ Julia said, with a little smile.
‘So will he,’ Rose reminded her.
It had been only ten months – they knew ten months was not very long, compared with some others. It wasn’t so simple that he had left a boy and returned a man, or left in the bloom of youth and returned a ruin, or that he had left a gentleman and returned a soldier. He was still twenty-seven, still six foot three, with his fine hair, and his slight stoop, his apologetic smile, his bony jaw, his blue eyes. He looked a little thin and pale – he always did. But there was a new papery tiredness on his fine skin, a new parched quality to his slenderness. Rose had to remind herself not to run to him to be the first to be embraced.
And then she had to remind herself not to look as Julia hurled herself into his arms, melted herself inside his greatcoat, her pale wool dress a streak against the darkness of his uniform like a headlight beam through night. It was as much their reunion as his return that brought a tear of relief to Rose’s eye.
*
Peter was affable, quiet, busy. He played with Max, the red setter, in the garden. He read the newspapers. He arranged to go to town for a meeting to do with Locke and Locke. He went to bed directly after dinner, and slept late in the morning.
‘That’s good, I think,’ said Rose, who had had some of the wounded from Loos in the hospital, and had listened to their nightmares and their midnight weeping. She had seen – God, hadn’t she seen! – how strange men could be when they came back from Over There.
‘What is?’ said Julia.
‘His sleeping so much.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
Julia was angry, and Rose knew why. Peter was not being affectionate with her. There was no warmth in his eye. During the night Rose had heard none of the little creaks and muffled gasps that she now knew betrayed what
Chapter Seven
Locke Hill, Kent, December 1915
When Peter’s letter arrived, Julia was sitting in his library chair, re-reading the bulb catalogue, holding the fort. (She laughed a little at her military imagery.) Now, frost stiffened the lawn and only three icy pale roses lingered along the veranda – but she had planted next spring’s bulbs herself, wearing gloves, of course, and treating her hands afterwards with warm oil, for her hands, too, would have to be lovely for him, and, after all, Harker did the heavy work in the border. So – snowdrops for January, aconites and the astonishing miniature irises for February, daffodils, hyacinths, tulips, anemones and so on till July . . . the roses and shrubs would carry through . . . autumn crocuses; November would be a problem, unless the rudbeckia lasted, but there would be the wintersweet and holly and the Christmas roses . . . next Christmas! Well, it would certainly be over by then. And, anyway, there was this Christmas to think about . . . The image played across her mind . . . a wreath (made by her) . . . the red-berried holly, of course, and ivy; the iridescent coins of honesty seed heads, rubbed free of the little dry veily bit, to shine like pearl lustre; a little yew – or is that too funereal? He wouldn’t want that . . . rosemary, perhaps . . . and the fire crackling, the smell of the goose roasting, and champagne excoriatingly cold in the gold Viennese coupes, and the tall figure in his trenchcoat, tired and hungry, so glad to be home . . . Whatever time of year he might get leave, however long this terrible thing dragged on, the garden would be beautiful for him.
She read it swiftly, and telephoned at once to Rose to apply for leave from the hospital.
Four days later, two days late, Peter arrived. Julia had been standing on the doorstep patting her hair since the letter arrived – patting her hair, pinching her cheeks, and turning to check in the ormolu mirror how much older she looked since June.
‘You look beautiful,’ Rose said pityingly.
‘But I do look older,’ Julia said, with a little smile.
‘So will he,’ Rose reminded her.
It had been only ten months – they knew ten months was not very long, compared with some others. It wasn’t so simple that he had left a boy and returned a man, or left in the bloom of youth and returned a ruin, or that he had left a gentleman and returned a soldier. He was still twenty-seven, still six foot three, with his fine hair, and his slight stoop, his apologetic smile, his bony jaw, his blue eyes. He looked a little thin and pale – he always did. But there was a new papery tiredness on his fine skin, a new parched quality to his slenderness. Rose had to remind herself not to run to him to be the first to be embraced.
And then she had to remind herself not to look as Julia hurled herself into his arms, melted herself inside his greatcoat, her pale wool dress a streak against the darkness of his uniform like a headlight beam through night. It was as much their reunion as his return that brought a tear of relief to Rose’s eye.
*
Peter was affable, quiet, busy. He played with Max, the red setter, in the garden. He read the newspapers. He arranged to go to town for a meeting to do with Locke and Locke. He went to bed directly after dinner, and slept late in the morning.
‘That’s good, I think,’ said Rose, who had had some of the wounded from Loos in the hospital, and had listened to their nightmares and their midnight weeping. She had seen – God, hadn’t she seen! – how strange men could be when they came back from Over There.
‘What is?’ said Julia.
‘His sleeping so much.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
Julia was angry, and Rose knew why. Peter was not being affectionate with her. There was no warmth in his eye. During the night Rose had heard none of the little creaks and muffled gasps that she now knew betrayed what
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