Until We Meet Again (25 page)

Word had got around the home that Tilly was a pianist, that she had, in fact, been a music student, intending to go to college, before she had taken up nursing. Very soon she was prevailed upon to play for the sing-songs that the men enjoyed. The piano that had been her pride and joy had taken some hammering from those patients whose touch was not as refined as her own, but it was all in a good cause, she told herself, and it could soon be tuned back to its normal concert pitch.

Maddy, also, was prevailed upon to use her talents as a singer, to the delight of the men. The more sentimental of them were moved to tears on hearing her sing her old favourites that she had once sung at the Pierrot shows. ‘Scarborough Fair’ and the lovely Irish melody, ‘I know Where I’m Going’.

There were more modern songs, too, which had an added poignancy in those uncertain wartime days. The men sang them with gusto but with a sense of yearning too. ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World’ was a great
favourite, and Jerome Kern’s recent song, ‘They Didn’t Believe Me’, which was rapidly gaining in popularity.

The men sang, thinking of their wives and girlfriends at home. The song that affected Tilly the most, though, was ‘Till We Meet Again’, which told of a poignant goodbye between a young soldier and his sweetheart, both praying for the day he when would return to marry her.

Alas, Tilly knew now that wedding bells would never ring for her and Dominic. But still the song haunted her; she could not get it out of her mind.

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
he young man in the hospital bed in the field centre near Calais was desperately trying to come to terms, not only with his injuries, but also with the big gap that existed in his mind. He could remember nothing, at first, apart from the massive explosion, the deafening sound when the earth around him had erupted, and after that, complete and utter darkness.

It was gradually coming back to him now, but very slowly, not nearly fast enough for his liking. He knew that he had been fighting in a war; they had told him so. He remembered, then, the trenches, the discomfort, the mud, the rats, the constant sound of guns firing and shells exploding, and then the last sortie into the unknown…

He knew that he had lost an arm. He felt all lopsided, his weight pulled over to the right
side. At least it was his left arm that had gone. Some innate sense told him it was a good job it hadn’t been his right arm. He recalled, from the dim recesses of his memory, that he had loved to write… But then the remembrance receded, like a dream that you tried to recall on waking but which vanished into the ether.

‘And how are you feeling today, Tommy?’ asked the nurse, the one who seemed to be mainly in charge of him. She was a pretty buxom young woman who, he understood, was called Mabel. That name struck a chord with him; the name of somebody he knew, maybe? But the faint recollection vanished before it could take shape.

He knew that his name was Tommy. Thomas Moon – at least that was what he had been told – and that he lived in a place called Scarborough. Yes…when they told him that he saw a picture in his mind, like the flickering of an image seen on a cinema screen; he remembered going to a cinema. He recalled a wide bay, a castle perched on a high cliff, and he could hear the screeching of seagulls. Then the vision faded.

‘I’m not too bad,’ he replied to the nurse. ‘I’d be better if I could remember who I am, what I am. It’s so frustrating. It’s like looking into a black hole.’ He shook his head in a bewildered manner.

‘Don’t force it, Tommy. It will come back in time, I’m sure,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ve dealt with patients like you before. Your memory might come back all of a sudden; it can happen like that sometimes. But at least we know who you are, don’t we? We’ve written to your parents to tell them that you’re safe and are doing well. I know they’ll be relieved to hear that.’

He understood that he had been unconscious for a long time, suffering from concussion; and also that for some reason he had been reported missing. Yes, he was sure that his parents – of whom as yet he had no recollection – would be pleased to hear that he was no longer missing. It was just his memory that was missing.

‘Scarborough…’ he said ponderingly. He knew, somehow, that that was an important link to his past. ‘I remember that now. I seem to remember going to school… There was a lad I was friendly with, but I can’t remember his name. He and I were really good mates. I seem to recall that we were inseparable… Was he there with me, when I lost this?’ he asked in a sudden moment of clarity, tapping at the stump of his left arm.

‘I don’t know, Tommy,’ said the nurse. ‘If you knew his name we might be able to find out. But I’ve told you, don’t try to force it. It will all come back to you in time.’ He looked dejected because,
once again, the fleeting image had disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced. ‘Now, let’s have a look at your arm. It’s time your dressing was changed…’

He had been told that, quite soon, when he was considered well enough to travel, he would be transferred to a hospital in England, one near to the channel port of Dover or Folkestone. And following that, it was usual for there to be a period of recuperation in a convalescent home before returning home. From what he had been told, though, the convalescent home and his own home were one and the same thing. Apparently his mother had disclosed the information in a letter she had written after learning that her son was, after all, alive and as well as could be expected. ‘Your mother, Faith Moon,’ the doctor had told him. ‘She’s in charge of the home in Scarborough. She sounds a lovely lady.’

But it meant nothing to him. The names he was hearing – Dover, Folkestone, the Channel, the name of his mother, and even his own name and address – did not ring that important bell in his mind, although he knew he must have heard them all before.

He could read and write, though. They were cognitive skills that he must have learnt as a child and ones he had not lost. What a strange thing
memory was, he pondered. There were so many things that he knew about, but he could not recall how or where or when he had learnt them. The memory of a school, though, kept recurring, and the lad who had been his best mate. A nameless and faceless boy though, at the moment; there was no picture of him forming in his mind.

The doctor who was dealing with his mental state told him it might help if he tried to write down anything that he could remember; anything, in fact, that he felt he wanted to write about. ‘You’ve still got the use of your right hand, you lucky chap!’ the doctor said. They were encouraged to look on the bright side and count their blessings, if possible, rather than dwelling on their misfortunes.

He was given a pad and pencil. He had cogitated for a while, his mind an utter blank. Then an image came into his mind of a woodland glade where he had loved to walk. He could visualise it in all the seasons of the year. The pale green leaves bursting from their buds, newly awakened by the spring sunshine; the rich verdant green of summertime; the multi-coloured hues of autumn, the russet, gold, and scarlet of the leaves as they fell from the trees, forming a rustling carpet he had walked through, hand in hand, he seemed to recall, with someone who had meant all the
world to him. But who, who was it…? He could see a wintry picture, too; the hoar frost on the bare branches of the trees, forming a silver filigree against the winter sky. And that was what he wrote about, this beautiful spot where he seemed to know he had spent many happy hours.

The doctor read his scribblings; that was what they were because once he started, the words came spontaneously to him and he couldn’t get them down fast enough. ‘By Jove!’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘You have a great command of language, Tommy. That’s real poetic stuff. Were you a writer before you joined the army? A journalist, maybe? Or perhaps you had ambitions to become a novelist? No, I realise you can’t remember,’ he added, looking at the young man’s puzzled face. ‘But you’re well on your way to recalling everything, I feel sure.’

He was remembering, hazily, how he had loved to write. How ideas had formed in his mind, quite easily, and he had had the urge to write them down at once before he forgot them. He remembered, also, how he had loved to read. He had been reading recently a book he had found in the small library that was available to the patients. It was called
Far from the Madding Crowd
by someone called Thomas Hardy. An enthralling story about a woman who was loved, in different ways, by three
men. Had he read it before? He was not sure; he might have done so. But it was a comfort to him to read it now, to lose himself in the intricacies of the plot and to escape for a while from the worries of his memory loss.

Another leisure activity enjoyed by him and by other patients who were recovering well from their injuries was listening to music. It was a solace both to the mind and to the body. The music lifted his spirits; he was able to forget for a time the fact that part of his mind was still a blank, and his physical pains, too, seemed to lessen as he heard the sound of soaring violins, the plaintive tones of the cello and clarinet and the rippling arpeggios played on a piano. He recalled that at home, wherever that was, they had had a gramophone with a large brass horn, similar to the one in the hospital sitting room. He remembered listening to music although the names of the composers that he read on the record labels meant little to him now: Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn, Schubert, Chopin…

He learnt to appreciate, possibly for the second time, the various symphonies, concertos and sonatas. He lost himself in the rousing climaxes to the Beethoven symphonies, but he found the works of Mozart to be more restful and peace inducing. There was a precision and order to the outpourings of this musical genius – apparently his
catalogue of compositions was colossal – which Dominic found calming and consoling.

Another composer whose works he was growing to love was Chopin. His compositions, in the main, consisted of works for the piano; waltzes, etudes, polonaises, mazurkas and nocturnes. Had he listened to them before, he wondered, in the time that was still a mystery to him? He was sure he must have done so. This music, more than any other, seemed somehow familiar to him.

He was sitting one afternoon with two of his fellow patients in the communal room where the men relaxed when they were well enough to leave the ward for a little while. They were listening to a particularly haunting melody: a nocturne, a piece of night music. He found it soothing and evocative of pleasant memories and feelings. Images that had lain dormant for so many months began to rekindle in his mind as he listened to the liquid notes of the piano music rise and fall.

Suddenly he could see a picture in his mind’s eye. The clarity of it made him gasp with shock and wonder. He could see a young woman with light auburn hair seated at a piano. He closed his eyes, fearing that the image would vanish as so many images had done before he had the chance to cling on to them. Then she turned and smiled at him, and in a blinding flash of recognition he
knew who she was. She was Tilly, the girl he had loved – and still loved – so much and had had to leave behind to go and fight on the battlefield.

But why were they calling him Tommy? It came back to him then with a force like a brilliant flash of lightning. He was not Tommy; he was Dominic, Dominic Fraser; that was his name. Tommy was the name of his red-haired friend, the school pal he had been so desperately trying to recall. Tommy Moon, and Tilly, the girl he loved, was Tommy’s sister, Tilly Moon.

He leapt from his chair with an agility he had not felt since entering the hospital, startling the other two men who were deep in a state of relaxation. ‘I know who I am!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve remembered! I’m called Dominic, Dominic Fraser. They’ve got it wrong. I’m not Tommy. I’m Dominic! Do you hear? I’m Dominic Fraser.’

The other two men stared at him in astonishment. ‘All right, all right, old chap, if you say so,’ said Charlie, another amputee who occupied the bed next to him. They had been in the hospital for the same length of time and had found that they rubbed along pretty well together. Charlie, a second lieutenant like his colleague – whom, of course, he had learnt to call Tommy – had lost an arm as well. They had commiserated with one another, at the same time knowing the profound
relief that they would never have to return to the conflict. The man they called Tommy, however, had had little recollection of all that. He said that all he could remember was the final sortie into the darkness when he had been wounded.

Charlie also jumped to his feet. He went over to his mate, who was staggering around in a daze as though he was drunk. ‘Come on, old chap,’ he said. ‘Sit down, there’s a good fellow. You look as though you’ve had a shock.’

‘I have, but a wonderful one,’ said the man he had known as Tommy, who was now saying he was called Dominic. He shrugged him away. ‘I’m all right. I’m not out of my mind,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. I’m…Dominic!’ He lolled back in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, and a look of satisfaction spread all over his face. He smiled in a way that Charlie had not seen him do before; the worried, tense look had gone from his eyes. ‘What a blessed relief!’ he sighed, closing his eyes in contentment.

‘I’ll go and get a nurse,’ said Charlie, making a hasty exit. Was this really a question of mistaken identity? he wondered. He had heard of such things happening before, and maybe it was not so surprising, with the amount of carnage and the melee on the battlefields. At any rate Tommy – or Dominic? – seemed very sure of himself.

‘Now, what’s all this about?’ asked the nurse called Mabel, the one who had been mainly in charge of him. He noticed that she didn’t use his name – Tommy, the name she had assumed was his – as she usually did.

‘I’ve remembered who I am,’ he replied. ‘It’s as simple as that. I’m not Tommy Moon – he’s my best mate. I’m called Dominic Fraser.’

‘Come along then,’ said Nurse Mabel. ‘Let’s have you back in the ward and we’ll have a chat. I’ll get Dr Ingham and you can tell us all about it…’

‘Now, tell me everything you can remember,’ said Dr Ingham. ‘This is wonderful news, if we’ve got a breakthrough at last. Take your time now…’

‘I’m called Dominic Fraser,’ he began, saying the now familiar name for the umpteenth time, ‘and I live in Scarborough… I’d remembered that before, though. It’s a seaside resort on the east coast. I live in Jubilee Terrace, just off the esplanade. My parents are called Mabel and Joseph. That’s why the nurse’s name was familiar to me.’

There seemed to be no doubt in the minds of the doctor and the nurse that the young man was who he said he was. He had gone on to tell them the name of his young lady. She was called Tilly Moon, and she had come vividly into his mind
when he was listening to the music of Chopin. ‘She was a wonderful pianist,’ he told them. ‘She was going to music college, then she changed her mind and decided to become a nurse, just after I joined up. She’s at St Luke’s hospital in Bradford.’