The Lost Soldier (23 page)

“Sister Eloise?”

“That’s her. I asked her, when she came round, if I could go and see Harry.”

“What did she say?”

“She said ‘Tonday’. What’s that mean?”

“Tonday?” Molly wrinkled her nose, as she considered. “Did she say ‘attendez’, do you think?”

Tom shrugged, and winced at the movement. “Maybe. Sounded like Tonday Der Man.”

“Demain means tomorrow,” Molly said. “So I expect she said you could go and see him tomorrow.” She finished helping him with his meal and then pausing by the bed said, “Is there anyone you want to write to? I sometimes write letters for the men who can’t write because of their wounds.”

Tom shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “I ain’t got no one to write to.”

“Not even your mother?” suggested Molly

“No mother,” he replied briefly. “I’m an orphanage kid. I’ve only got my mates in the platoon, and I ain’t going to write to them, am I? They know where I am!”

The next few days Molly watched Tom grow stronger and Harry grow weaker. When his temperature was finally down to normal, Sister Eloise and Sister Jeanne-Marie agreed to let Tom visit ward three. Molly did not go with him, but she saw Tom’s face when he came back and flopped on to his own bed. She left the washing-up she was doing in the ward kitchen and, braving Sister Eloise’s displeasure, went and perched on the edge of Tom’s bed.

“How was he?” she asked softly. She, herself, had not been into see Harry that day.

“He looks bloody awful, begging your pardon, miss. Looks like he’s dying. Didn’t know who I was. His eyes was open, but they didn’t seem to look at me, like. They was sort of staring, up at the ceiling, but not looking at nothing. When I spoke to him he didn’t even turn his head, like he didn’t hear me. I touched his hand, so’s he’d look at me, and it was burning hot. I said, ‘Harry, mate, it’s me, Tom. You’re going to be all right, mate,’ I said to him. And then he started mumbling, something about the wire and his bayonet, all jumbled like…” Tom’s voice trailed off and he looked up at Molly his eyes stricken. “He ain’t going to be all right, is he? He’s going to die.”

Impulsively Molly took his hand and said, “We don’t know that, Tom.”

“Yes we do,” he replied dully. “There’s no hope.”

“There’s always hope,” Molly told him firmly, “as long as he’s fighting and we’re fighting for him.”

Tom said wearily, “But he ain’t fighting, no more.” He closed his eyes and Molly thought she saw a tear squeeze from the corner of one. Her heart went out to him, but the men she knew never cried and she turned away so that she should not see his tears.

Before she went for her breakfast next morning, Molly crept into ward three to look at Harry. Sister Jeanne-Marie wasn’t there, and another sister, whose name Molly didn’t know, gestured her to Harry’s bedside and went back to her round with the medicine trolley.

Harry was lying still as death in his bed, his grey face shrivelled and drawn, his hands, claw-like resting as always on the outside of the covers. His eyes were shut and even when Molly took his hand he didn’t open them. She felt for the pulse in his wrist, and it was some time before she could find the feeble flutter that told her his heart was still beating. As she looked down at him she knew Tom was right. Harry wasn’t fighting any more. His exhausted body had given up the battle, his weary spirit no longer urged it on.

She felt someone beside her and turned to find Sister Jeanne-Marie at her elbow.

“He has not long, now,” she said softly. “Will you fetch the padre from the camp?”

Molly nodded dumbly, and hurried out across the courtyard, through the gate and over to the camp beyond.

“I must see the padre,” she told the sentry. “I must find Mr Kingston, it’s urgent.”

The padre often received summonses like these, and the sentry let her through, saying he thought that the padre would be in the mess just now.

Molly could not go into the mess, but a message sent in soon brought Robert Kingston out to her, and together they hurried back to ward three.

“He’s just slipping away, padre,” she told him despairingly as they went. “We can’t save him.”

The padre heard the choke in her voice and said, “Try not to be too upset, Molly, you’ve all done all you could. It’s up to the Lord now. All we can do is pray for him.”

“Well I don’t think the Lord is listening,” Molly said bitterly, “if he’s there at all. How could this war be going on at all if there was a God? If God was real he wouldn’t let Harry die.” Tears ran down her face now and she dashed them away with her hand. “He’s only my age, padre, he hasn’t had a life yet.”

Robert Kingston took her hand awkwardly. “Molly, if it’s the Lord’s will,” he began, but Molly interrupted him, pulling her hand free: “If it’s the Lord’s will, then I don’t think much of the Lord,” she said angrily, and striding ahead, she led the way back into the hopelessness of ward three.

Sister Jeanne-Marie had drawn the curtains around Harry’s bed, so that the padre could be private with the dying man. She held the curtain aside to let the priest in, allowing it to fall behind him.

Molly turned to the nun. “I am going to fetch his friend,” she said. “He should not be allowed to die without his friends round him.”

Sister Jeanne-Marie started to say something, but Molly had already walked out of the ward and was heading across the courtyard to her own ward. Sister Eloise saw her come back in, and read the determination in her face.

“Well, Molly, what is it?”

“I’ve come to fetch Tom Carter,” Molly said in English, indicating Tom who was sitting out in a chair. “His friend is dying, he must come at once. Son ami, mort. He must venez, ma soeur, venez à la salle trois.”

Sister Eloise disentangled the words and nodded, but Molly had already turned away and was approaching Tom, who sat at a table at the end of the ward smoking a cigarette.

A smile broke across his face as he saw her coming, only to fade as he saw the sadness and compassion in her eyes. She crouched down beside him and took his hand in hers.

“Harry’s dying,” she said gently. “Will you come to him?”

For a long moment Tom stared sat her unseeingly and then his eyes seemed to snap back into focus and leaning heavily on the table, he stood up. Without a word he followed her out of the ward and across to ward three. He walked in quietly and on reaching the bed pulled the curtain aside and looked in. The padre was sitting by the bed, speaking softly to Harry, but as soon as he saw Tom and Molly, he moved aside to let them approach the figure on the bed. They stood one each side and looked down at Harry, so small against his pillows, and Molly took his hand.

“Harry,” she said gently. “Harry, can you hear me, Harry?”

There was the slightest movement of his head and then his eyes opened and he looked up, first at Molly and then at Tom. They closed again for a moment and then opened, this time with concentration, as if trying to see clearly who was there.

“It’s me, Molly,” Molly said. “Me and Tom. Can you hear me Harry?”

This time she felt the slightest pressure on her fingers and she said to Tom, “Take his other hand, Tom. Let him feel you’re there.”

Tom did as she asked and he too felt the faintest pressure on his fingers.

“Harry, mate,” he said gruffly, and then fell silent, not knowing what to say.

“Tom.” The word came as scarcely a breath. For a moment the eyes shut, but they opened again and he said, so quietly that Molly had to lean close to his mouth to hear his words, “Molly, tell Ma I tried. I did my best. I’m too tired to go home.”

“I’ll tell her,” Molly promised. “You’re so brave, Harry, a hero. I’ll tell her you were a hero.”

“So tired,” Harry breathed, and then with a shuddering sigh his eyes closed, his face relaxed and his pain was over.

Molly found the tears were streaming silently down her cheeks as she looked down at the worn-out husk of a man, the cousin who had shared her childhood. Very gently, for the last time, she tucked his hand in under the bedclothes, as if to keep him warm.

Tom dropped the lifeless hand he was holding, and without a word to anyone, turned on his heel and strode out of the ward. The padre was murmuring prayers and Sister Jeanne-Marie crossed herself, fingering the rosary that hung on her girdle. Ignoring both of them, Molly blew her nose violently, took a deep breath to calm herself, and ran after Tom.

Tuesday 9th November

Harry died today. Poor dear Harry! He was in such pain, but he never complained. His face got greyer and more drawn, he just seemed to shrivel away. In the end I think he wanted to die, to be done with it all, but I didn’t want him to die. He had his whole life ahead of him. Now his children will never be born, and his line becomes extinct. What a dreadful and final word that is. Extinct. He was too young to have to leave the world before he had experienced it. Perhaps he had experienced too much already, but I ache for him that he won’t fish the Belle any more, that he won’t go into the Arthur for a pint of bitter. He has been snuffed out like a candle which can never be re-lit. His poor mam and dad! At least they still have Mary at home with them, but Tony’s still in the trenches. How much life does he have left? Maybe he’s dead too and we just don’t know yet. I hate this war!

Tom took it very bad. I’ve never seen a man cry before, it’s not what men do. He told me about his friendship with Harry, almost like brothers, he said, and with me and Harry close as nippers, it’s made me and Tom friends as well. Now I have to write to Auntie Vi and Uncle Charlie. It will be the most difficult letter I’ve ever had to write.

Harry Cook was buried on the day he died; a bleak day in November with dampness, a fine mist, hanging in the air, and cold grey skies. Tom and Molly followed the padre into the little cemetery and stood at the newly dug grave. His coffin was carried by four men from the convalescent camp and they ranged themselves, bareheaded, on the further side of the grave. Behind them, stretching away in neat rows were white wooden crosses each bearing the name of the man, buried beneath it, who had given his all for his country. Now Harry was the latest, but soon his grave with its own white cross would be swallowed up, engulfed in the steady and unending regiment of crosses to come.

Tom stood to attention, his injured arm in a sling, his cap in his hand. He looked paler than ever, his eyes two dark holes circled with grey. Molly, watching him, thought he looked younger and more vulnerable than ever, his short-cropped hair brushed smooth on his head so that his ears stuck out like a little boy’s, but there was a firm set to his jaw and a look of determination in his tired eyes which made it clear he was not going to break down again.

When he had left the ward that morning in obvious distress, Molly had followed him, diffidently at first, not wishing to intrude her own grief on his. The feelings of loss and emptiness which hit her later had only just begun to invade her mind. They had not been particularly close in recent years, but Harry was part of her childhood, and although she had seen so much death lately, Molly felt an almost overwhelming surge of bitterness and anger at Harry’s life snuffed out, for the loss of his life, for the waste of his youth; for the Harry who’d taught her to swim and to fish in the Belle, but who’d never again stand in the chuckling waters of the river with a fly rod in his hand. Part of her childhood had died when he had closed his eyes for the last time, the pain finally smoothed from his face, and with the tears slipping down her cheeks she too had hurried from the ward, leaving the padre to his prayers and Sister Jeanne-Marie to her rosary.

Molly found Tom in the courtyard, leaning against the wall, his head pillowed on his arm. For a moment she paused, looking at him unnoticed, his grief making him unaware of her. She could see his shoulders shaking with sobs and she hesitated still. Molly had never seen a grown man cry before and it unnerved her. She knew too, that he would hate to be seen weeping, but he seemed so alone. Instinct came to her aid. She crossed the yard to him and taking his hand led him quickly into Reverend Mother’s garden. It was a private place, designed for peace and contemplation; a tiny walled garden with a rose bed in the centre and a carved stone seat on the southern wall. No sister entered it uninvited, and nor should Molly have done, but she gave no thought to that now.

Once safely hidden from inquisitive eyes, Molly put her arms round Tom, saying as she did so, “Don’t grieve so, Tom. Don’t cry, dear Tom. His pain is over now and he’s with God.”

“Is he?” demanded Tom bitterly. “Is he?” And then, echoing Molly’s demand made of the padre earlier, “Is there a God? Where is he in this bloody war?”

Molly didn’t answer, she simply held Tom gently in her arms as she might a small child, her cheek against his, and gradually his sobs diminished. As she stood there, feeling his tears on her face, she thought: What am I doing here, holding a man I scarcely know? And yet somehow it felt the most natural thing in the world, and as she gave comfort to Tom, she felt some of her earlier emptiness, seep away, and this man’s need for her take its place.

As Tom regained his composure, Molly led him to the seat and they sat down facing each other, their cheeks tear-stained, their eyes red.

“Sorry,” Tom said, his gaze sliding away from hers. “Sorry. Thing is, he was more than a mate to me, more like a brother. The brother I never had, you know? We joined up together, come through our training together, and well, we always looked out for each other. Tony, his brother—you know his brother?”

Molly nodded.

“Yes, of course, he’s your cousin too. Well, Tony, he never seemed to look out for Harry. Different sort of bloke. Had his own mates.”

“Tony’s much older,” pointed out Molly. “ I don’t think they were ever close at home.”

“Well, Harry and me was close. He saved my life. It was when he was getting me back to the lines that he got hit.” Tom’s eyes closed for a moment and Molly realised he was re-living whatever nightmare had happened.

“Tell me,” she said gently. “Tell me what happened.”

For a long moment Tom didn’t reply, and Molly thought he wasn’t going to say any more. Then he started to speak in a low, tired voice.