Dulce Et Decorum Est (Naughty or Nice) (3 page)

George shot his new friend a glance. Matthew’s tone had been rueful, but there was no sign of bitterness in his face. “Don’t you mind?” he asked, and could have kicked himself. “Sorry. That was awfully personal.”

Matthew’s face broke into one of those winning smiles George was in grave danger of starting to regard as one of life’s essentials. “Well, I won’t deny it can be a bit of a bore—but really, I got off awfully lightly. There are lots of fellows far worse off than I am, and that’s without counting the ones that aren’t here at all. Ah—here we are.”

They turned into the grammar school grounds, where a number of other players were already milling about in the sunshine, some clad in red-and-white stripes like Matthew and others sporting a garish shade of yellow. Matthew went over to greet his fellows while George hung awkwardly about the edge of the playing field with assorted young ladies and other hangers-on.

On the far side, he could see a dour-faced man smoking away like a factory chimney. “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 their star striker until he was called up in ’18. 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 anymore 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’re shot, the chances are it’s a clean death.”

“I—I just remembered, I need to get back,” George 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 hot and sick, despite a stiff breeze that had begun to blow in from the North.

George had half a mind to walk himself calmer, but the streets seemed suddenly filled with reminders of the war—scarred old soldiers sitting on benches enjoying 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. MacDonald’s. He sat at his desk staring at a book on trust law, but at the end of an hour he couldn’t recall 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.

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. He’d barely lasted a day. Now Matthew would question him, would want to know why he’d acted so strangely. Would find out all about…. Bowing to the inevitable, George called for him to come in. If Matthew rejected him now—and he would—it was no more than George deserved.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Matthew began. “That was incredibly thoughtless of me—going off about the war like that.”

George found himself unable to speak. Of all the things he’d expected and feared, an apology hadn’t even made the list.

Matthew gestured with his left arm, the remainder of his right flapping oddly as it tried to follow suit. “I mean to say, I realize we all had our bad experiences during that time, and I should have known better than to, well, spout on about things that are obviously painful for you. I shan’t do it again.” He paused. “I hope we can still be friends?”

“I—yes, of course.” As if in a dream, George rose from his desk and grasped Matthew’s shoulder. Shaken by his extraordinary reprieve, he nevertheless managed to dredge up a smile. “Of course we’ll be friends.”

Matthew’s pale, open face broke into a smile of sheer relief. “Good man! Now, how about coming down for a cup of tea? Marmaduke’s been pining for you,” he added hopefully.

George’s smile this time was almost entirely genuine. “The day that monstrous beast pines for anyone or anything except his dinner, I’ll eat my hat.”

M
ATTHEW
’
S
predictions regarding the weather proved to be well-founded. In the course of the week, it turned bitterly cold, with frost and snow flurries and the promise of worse to come. Mrs. Mac started to grumble both about her joints and the price of coal, and George and Matthew took to wearing sweaters under their jackets even in the house.

The football match due to be played that Sunday was cancelled owing to the pitch being a foot deep in snow, a circumstance met by the once-again present Watkins with disgust and sour insinuations that the government was somehow to blame, by Matthew with cheery fatalism, and by George with concealed relief.

Instead, therefore, George and Matthew decided to take a stroll. “Isn’t it amazing how a simple coating of white powder can make the place so extraordinarily beautiful?” Matthew remarked, gleefully kicking up clouds of snow.

“Yes, and isn’t it amazing what a detrimental effect it can have on the public transport system?” George reminded him. “We’ll have the devil of a job getting in to work tomorrow if the trains and buses don’t run.”

“Oh, I doubt it’ll last, anticyclones over Scandinavia notwithstanding,” Matthew prophesized confidently. “The snow in London never does. The days of frost fairs on the Thames are long gone. Still, no reason not to enjoy it while it’s here!” So saying, he gathered a handful of snow from a garden wall—and promptly hurled it at George from only three feet away, striking him on the shoulder.

“Oh, you’re for it now!” George promised, gathering ammunition of his own. “Damn it!” he cursed as his missile sailed past its target, Matthew having seen it coming and ducked.

“Language, Mr. Johnson!” Matthew chided him. As George looked up, a loosely-packed snowball hit him square in the face. He spluttered and immediately retaliated, this time scoring a hit on his friend’s ear and knocking his hat flying.

“Ow! Not fair—your snowballs are hard!” Matthew complained, rubbing his ear with his mittened hand.

Worried, George ran up to his friend. “I
am
sorry—I didn’t mean to—” His words were cut off as Matthew, apparently bending to retrieve his hat, instead scooped more snow up and launched it at George. “Now who’s not being fair!”

Laughing, Matthew raised his hand in a gesture of peace. “You’re right, that was a dirty tactic! I’m sorry. Shall we call a truce?”

George grinned. “I think we’d better. People are beginning to stare.”

L
ATER
that week the weather was still bitterly cold. Nevertheless, George found himself staying up late with his books, reading up on tort law with a blanket wrapped round himself for warmth. It was strange, really—he’d never even contemplated the law as a profession until old Withersby, the family solicitor, had made his diffident approach. One of the few people George had known who’d had some sympathy for him, Withersby had kindly offered to introduce him to Mr. Meyer of Meyer & Little, who was apparently an old school friend.

By that time George would have taken anything that would mean he’d be able to get away from the intolerable situation at home and support himself. He’d accepted the offer with alacrity, little dreaming that he’d find himself fascinated by the intricacies of the English legal system. It was doubly gratifying, as he had already been determined to do well and repay the old man’s trust in him.

But even so, George’s interest in larrikins (who or whatever they might be) throwing squibs into crowds couldn’t sustain him long past midnight, given that he’d been up at six that morning and would have to do the same on the morrow. Yawning, he closed his books and shed his clothes, shivering as the chilly air struck his bare flesh. As he hastily pulled on his pajamas, he was startled to hear someone speaking. The words were indistinct, but George was almost certain they came from Matthew’s room. Quietly opening the door, he could see no one there, which rather settled the matter—unless they were on the street? A quick glance out of the window confirmed that the street was empty, all good citizens presently tucked up in their beds and the bad ones gone for richer pickings than could be had in Allen Street. But who could Matthew be talking to at this time of night?

Perhaps he always talked in his sleep, and George had simply never been awake to hear him before? Listening guiltily, George realized it sounded as though Matthew were distressed. A nightmare, then, poor fellow. George had had his share of those.

He was certain Matthew wouldn’t thank him for poking his nose in—he’d probably be mortified to know that his night-time woes were audible to others. Climbing into bed, George stuck his head under his pillow and tried to ignore the noises from next door—but a vigorous thump on the wall right by his ear, followed by the unmistakable sound of a sob, was too much for him to endure. Matthew might hate him for it, but George just couldn’t leave his friend in such distress. Flinging off the blankets, he pulled on his dressing gown and padded to Matthew’s door in his slippers.

Uncertain whether to knock, George stood on the landing for a moment, irresolute. A further cry from within prompted him to pull himself together and open the door.

He hadn’t thought to light a candle, but like his own, Matthew’s room looked out on the front of the house, and a faint glow from the streetlamps filtered through the curtains. It was enough to make out Matthew’s form, writhing in the bedclothes which had wrapped themselves around him like a shroud. “Matthew,” George whispered, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Matthew started violently. “Matthew,” George repeated, more loudly this time. “It’s just a dream.”

George started to unwind the sheets from his friend’s sweating form. It seemed to help—as Matthew’s limbs were freed, the thrashing eased. “Hush,” George kept repeating. “It’s all right. Just a bad dream.”

“George?” Matthew’s voice was hoarse. “George, what are you doing here?”

“I heard you cry out. I think you had a nightmare.”

“God, George… I was back there in the trench, when it collapsed, just after I got shot…. Oh, Lord—you don’t want to hear about this. I’m sorry, George. Just being a bit of an idiot. Sorry to have woken you.”

“You didn’t wake me—I’ve only just finished studying. Now, will you be all right, or would you like me to stay a while?”

“I… would you mind awfully? I’m being a wretched nuisance, I know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” George said a little more sharply than he meant to. “And is there anything else you need?” he asked in a softer tone.

“Do you think you could light the candle? It’s on the bedside table, and the matches are in the drawer.”

Feeling more than seeing his way, George managed to locate the matches and lit one with a blinding flare that left him blinking for a moment before he could find the candle. Once lit, the candle showed him Matthew’s pale face, his hair plastered to his forehead in little curls. He was sitting up, his right pajama sleeve flopping forlornly where he hadn’t bothered to pin it up. George’s chest felt curiously tight at the sight of him. “Does it happen often?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Lord, no. Hardly at all, these days. I must have had too much cheese for supper, or something,” Matthew said with a ghost of a grin. “Or possibly Sherlock Holmes is a little too racy for bedtime reading for one of my advanced years.”

“Advanced years?” George asked in a light tone. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.”

“I can, you know. I’m twenty-five and six—no, seven months, now.” Matthew’s smile seemed much more genuine, and his color was returning. George didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful. It was such an intimate situation—he in his dressing gown and Matthew in bed not six inches away from him. George felt a fierce yearning to close the gap between them, to seal their friendship with a kiss—and did he only imagine that Matthew’s lips had parted, his eyes half-closed, ready to welcome his embrace…?

He couldn’t do it. If he was mistaken, then the best that could happen would be Matthew never speaking to him again—and in any case, he couldn’t take such a step without telling Matthew the truth. If he did that, it would be the end of everything. A wave of grief washing over him, George stood. “Well, you’ll be all right now, won’t you? I’d best get to bed—work in the morning, you know how it is.”

He didn’t look behind him as he left the room. If Matthew were watching him go with an air of disappointment, it would do him no good to see it—and if he
had
only imagined that Matthew returned his feelings, he was too much of a coward to want to know.

T
HE
next morning, neither of them made any allusion to the events of the night as they sat at their bacon and eggs. Matthew was his usual cheery self, and George was half-convinced he must have dreamt it all. But as they trudged through melting slush to the Underground station together, Matthew spoke a little hesitantly. “I really am awfully sorry about last night. Such a bore, to be disturbed like that after an evening’s hard study.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” George said, relieved to find that the subject could, apparently, be mentioned. “I’m just glad if I was able to help at all.”

“You helped a great deal, George,” Matthew said, an odd look in his eye—but then it was time for them to join the bustle of people heading for the Hampstead Tube, and no more conversation could be had—at least, none that they didn’t mind a dozen other people overhearing.

M
ATTHEW
came home from work that evening in high spirits. “I’ve been allowed to branch out,” he explained excitedly to George as they sat at supper. “Listen to this: ‘Smooth away the years with Marley’s Miracle Age Reducing Ointment.’ That’s all mine—and would you believe, Mr. Marley likes it so much he’s going to put the word ‘miracle’ in the name of his product?”