Matron chose to call the Full Expression of Married Love.
The following morning Julia was wearing the cream dress again, which looked to Rose sacrificial.
Rose hoped things would improve after she left them alone together. ‘Be gentle with him,’ she had whispered to Julia, kissing her goodbye when she left to return to Folkestone. Julia had given her a rather amazed look. Was Rose really telling her how to behave towards a husband? Too funny.
Rose recognised the look from visiting wives at the hospital, kind, good, ignorant women with no idea what they were up against. Poor Peter , she thought.
*
Peter sat in his chair, his father’s old chair, feeling the support of familiar old cushions, the shape of them formed by the backsides of generations of Lockes of Locke Hill. His grandfather’s books stood dark on the shelves, a little gold tooling gleaming dimly here and there in the firelight. His great-grandfather’s dress sword, in its glass case, lay on the table behind the chintz sofa. Here he was, in the arms of his ancestors.
The newspaper, whose versions and analyses of the battle of Loos he did not recognise, stood as it were of its own accord, hardly needing the support of his heedless hands. He found he was blinking fast, trying to chase away images he could not live with.
‘Darling,’ said Julia. She crossed the drawing room to his chair, and made to creep into his arms, inside the newspaper. ‘Darling, we’ve hardly had a moment. How are you, my love?’
He did not know how he was. How could she expect him to know? How could she expect him to answer?
He had lost fifteen men at Loos: Burdock, Knightley, Atkins, Jones, Bloom, Bruce, Lovall, Hall, Green, Wester, Johnson, Taylor, Moles, Twyford and Merritt. The Allies had been seven to one against the Hun, and fifteen men had died under his command.
And then he had been sent home. Before he could – could what? Could be with the other survivors: huddle in a pile with them, smoking in silence, sharing air, sleeve to sleeve, being not alone. And before he could find out if fifteen was many or few – well, God, of course it was fifteen too many, but by war logic, by the bitter standards of Over There, he didn’t know if it was many or few; he didn’t know if he had done well or badly in comparison with others; he didn’t know if it was all right to ask himself that question, and he didn’t know who to ask if it was or not. He didn’t know how the boys were now. The paper told him none of this. But he saw Ainsworth’s muddied face over the rim of a shell-hole, asking him for something that he couldn’t make out, and he saw some limbs, just limbs, lying there, and Burdock, Knightley, Atkins, Jones, Bloom, Bruce, Lovall, Hall, Green, Wester, Johnson, Taylor, Moles, Twyford and Merritt were dead. His men. He thanked God for Purefoy, who turned out to have the knack as well as the guts: he knew whether or not to put a hand on a shoulder, at which moment to offer a smoke. Purefoy knew that when you had to say something, and there was absolutely nothing a man could say, it didn’t much matter what you said. Purefoy had the tone of voice. Whenever any bloody fool carped on about promotion from the ranks diluting the quality of officer stock and all that idiocy, Locke would point out Purefoy.
Julia was sitting on his lap, nestling a little, moving her lovely bottom. His arms closed around her and he dropped the paper, as she wanted. He held her. Such a little woman. She could just break. It was for her , really, all of it. To keep her safe. Not to let the Hun do to her what they’d done to Belgium.
He’d carried the boys back in bits. An armful of Atkins; Bloom’s head on his shoulder and his arm round his neck, resting like a woman’s or a tired child’s. His own long-fingered hand white against Bloom’s hair, embracing the dead head to keep it from flopping.
She was looking at him in that shy way, the up-and-under the eyelashes look. He knew
The following morning Julia was wearing the cream dress again, which looked to Rose sacrificial.
Rose hoped things would improve after she left them alone together. ‘Be gentle with him,’ she had whispered to Julia, kissing her goodbye when she left to return to Folkestone. Julia had given her a rather amazed look. Was Rose really telling her how to behave towards a husband? Too funny.
Rose recognised the look from visiting wives at the hospital, kind, good, ignorant women with no idea what they were up against. Poor Peter , she thought.
*
Peter sat in his chair, his father’s old chair, feeling the support of familiar old cushions, the shape of them formed by the backsides of generations of Lockes of Locke Hill. His grandfather’s books stood dark on the shelves, a little gold tooling gleaming dimly here and there in the firelight. His great-grandfather’s dress sword, in its glass case, lay on the table behind the chintz sofa. Here he was, in the arms of his ancestors.
The newspaper, whose versions and analyses of the battle of Loos he did not recognise, stood as it were of its own accord, hardly needing the support of his heedless hands. He found he was blinking fast, trying to chase away images he could not live with.
‘Darling,’ said Julia. She crossed the drawing room to his chair, and made to creep into his arms, inside the newspaper. ‘Darling, we’ve hardly had a moment. How are you, my love?’
He did not know how he was. How could she expect him to know? How could she expect him to answer?
He had lost fifteen men at Loos: Burdock, Knightley, Atkins, Jones, Bloom, Bruce, Lovall, Hall, Green, Wester, Johnson, Taylor, Moles, Twyford and Merritt. The Allies had been seven to one against the Hun, and fifteen men had died under his command.
And then he had been sent home. Before he could – could what? Could be with the other survivors: huddle in a pile with them, smoking in silence, sharing air, sleeve to sleeve, being not alone. And before he could find out if fifteen was many or few – well, God, of course it was fifteen too many, but by war logic, by the bitter standards of Over There, he didn’t know if it was many or few; he didn’t know if he had done well or badly in comparison with others; he didn’t know if it was all right to ask himself that question, and he didn’t know who to ask if it was or not. He didn’t know how the boys were now. The paper told him none of this. But he saw Ainsworth’s muddied face over the rim of a shell-hole, asking him for something that he couldn’t make out, and he saw some limbs, just limbs, lying there, and Burdock, Knightley, Atkins, Jones, Bloom, Bruce, Lovall, Hall, Green, Wester, Johnson, Taylor, Moles, Twyford and Merritt were dead. His men. He thanked God for Purefoy, who turned out to have the knack as well as the guts: he knew whether or not to put a hand on a shoulder, at which moment to offer a smoke. Purefoy knew that when you had to say something, and there was absolutely nothing a man could say, it didn’t much matter what you said. Purefoy had the tone of voice. Whenever any bloody fool carped on about promotion from the ranks diluting the quality of officer stock and all that idiocy, Locke would point out Purefoy.
Julia was sitting on his lap, nestling a little, moving her lovely bottom. His arms closed around her and he dropped the paper, as she wanted. He held her. Such a little woman. She could just break. It was for her , really, all of it. To keep her safe. Not to let the Hun do to her what they’d done to Belgium.
He’d carried the boys back in bits. An armful of Atkins; Bloom’s head on his shoulder and his arm round his neck, resting like a woman’s or a tired child’s. His own long-fingered hand white against Bloom’s hair, embracing the dead head to keep it from flopping.
She was looking at him in that shy way, the up-and-under the eyelashes look. He knew
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