asks.
‘He did, yes, well he mentioned it.’
‘I told him that’s what it was,’ he says, turning to Frieda, triumphant. ‘I said that’s what it was, didn’t I?’
What’s it all about, Nick wonders. The wound’s given him no trouble for eighty years, why on earth should he suppose it’s started playing up now? But it’s not just the wound that’s moved into the forefront of his mind. For years he’s been free of nightmares, flashbacks, hallucinations, all the dreadful baggage he brought back with him from France, yet in the last few months they’ve returned. His nights, recently, have been terrible to endure. Terrible to witness. Worse than that, he’s actually become quite dangerous. Auntie Frieda’s been mistaken for a German soldier more than once.
Geordie’s finding the hard seat and the upright posture more and more uncomfortable. He drags impatiently at his second cigarette, no longer enjoying it, just stocking up for the famine ahead.
‘That’s enough,’ Frieda says. ‘It’s time you were back in bed.’
He doesn’t argue, but stands up at once.
‘Are you coming back later?’ he asks Frieda, on their slow progress back to the ward.
‘Not tonight,’ Nick says, before she can answer. ‘I’ll look in again before I go.’
They get him back into bed and settled under the sheet. He eases himself right down, his sparse grey hair rucked up by the pillows, and lies flat at last. His hands flap like fish along the counterpane, unhappy with the hospital tightness of the sheets around him. He wants to pull the eiderdown up to his chin, and burrow down into the warmth the way he does at home. ‘Dress rehearsal for a bloody coffin,’ he complains.
‘Why don’t you try to sleep?’ Nick says, bending down to give him a hug.
The pale blue eyes fasten on his face. He’s disconcerted by their sharpness, their awareness of the unintended irony of his suggestion.
‘I’ll sleep soon enough.’
When they reach the end of the ward and turn to look back, he lifts his hand in a gesture that’s almost more a salute than a wave.
SIX
‘Trouble is, he thinks I should be there all the time,’ Frieda says, as they walk back to the car. ‘I don’t think he realizes what an awkward journey it is. I have to change buses twice.’
She’s enjoying her grumble, but Nick knows he mustn’t make the mistake of agreeing with her, because that will put her back into defensive mode. The wheel’s turned full circle. Grandad’s her baby now.
He unlocks the car door on her side, and sees her seat belt fastened before he turns the key in the ignition. There’s a smell of wood smoke in the air. Autumn with its pre-packaged nostalgia is just around the corner. He feels a passionate desire to cling on to the last of the summer. He won’t spend tomorrow covering up the wall painting, he decides; he’ll take Fran and the kids out somewhere instead, and then finds himself yawning. He feels too tired to concentrate on anything.
‘Perhaps if you told him what time to expect you? Then he’ll know how long he’s got to wait.’
‘Hm,’ Frieda says, unconvinced. She doesn’t want to be rescued. But she can relax in the car, doesn’t have to wait at that draughty bus shelter they’re just passing, full of women like herself with pinched faces, belts knotted tightly round non-existent waists, clutching plastic bags full of dirty nightdresses and pyjamas, looking up the road for a bus that doesn’t come.
‘You look tired,’ Nick says.
‘I haven’t been sleeping. Can’t sleep. When I was up and down to him all the time I used to think, Oh, if only I could have a good night’s sleep, but you see, I’m still listening for him. I was convinced last night I heard him get up and go out.’
Grandad’s taken to wandering. Or going out on patrol. One or the other.
The car heater’s making Nick drowsy. He opens the window on his side and a few spots of cold rain blow on to his face.
‘You know
‘He did, yes, well he mentioned it.’
‘I told him that’s what it was,’ he says, turning to Frieda, triumphant. ‘I said that’s what it was, didn’t I?’
What’s it all about, Nick wonders. The wound’s given him no trouble for eighty years, why on earth should he suppose it’s started playing up now? But it’s not just the wound that’s moved into the forefront of his mind. For years he’s been free of nightmares, flashbacks, hallucinations, all the dreadful baggage he brought back with him from France, yet in the last few months they’ve returned. His nights, recently, have been terrible to endure. Terrible to witness. Worse than that, he’s actually become quite dangerous. Auntie Frieda’s been mistaken for a German soldier more than once.
Geordie’s finding the hard seat and the upright posture more and more uncomfortable. He drags impatiently at his second cigarette, no longer enjoying it, just stocking up for the famine ahead.
‘That’s enough,’ Frieda says. ‘It’s time you were back in bed.’
He doesn’t argue, but stands up at once.
‘Are you coming back later?’ he asks Frieda, on their slow progress back to the ward.
‘Not tonight,’ Nick says, before she can answer. ‘I’ll look in again before I go.’
They get him back into bed and settled under the sheet. He eases himself right down, his sparse grey hair rucked up by the pillows, and lies flat at last. His hands flap like fish along the counterpane, unhappy with the hospital tightness of the sheets around him. He wants to pull the eiderdown up to his chin, and burrow down into the warmth the way he does at home. ‘Dress rehearsal for a bloody coffin,’ he complains.
‘Why don’t you try to sleep?’ Nick says, bending down to give him a hug.
The pale blue eyes fasten on his face. He’s disconcerted by their sharpness, their awareness of the unintended irony of his suggestion.
‘I’ll sleep soon enough.’
When they reach the end of the ward and turn to look back, he lifts his hand in a gesture that’s almost more a salute than a wave.
SIX
‘Trouble is, he thinks I should be there all the time,’ Frieda says, as they walk back to the car. ‘I don’t think he realizes what an awkward journey it is. I have to change buses twice.’
She’s enjoying her grumble, but Nick knows he mustn’t make the mistake of agreeing with her, because that will put her back into defensive mode. The wheel’s turned full circle. Grandad’s her baby now.
He unlocks the car door on her side, and sees her seat belt fastened before he turns the key in the ignition. There’s a smell of wood smoke in the air. Autumn with its pre-packaged nostalgia is just around the corner. He feels a passionate desire to cling on to the last of the summer. He won’t spend tomorrow covering up the wall painting, he decides; he’ll take Fran and the kids out somewhere instead, and then finds himself yawning. He feels too tired to concentrate on anything.
‘Perhaps if you told him what time to expect you? Then he’ll know how long he’s got to wait.’
‘Hm,’ Frieda says, unconvinced. She doesn’t want to be rescued. But she can relax in the car, doesn’t have to wait at that draughty bus shelter they’re just passing, full of women like herself with pinched faces, belts knotted tightly round non-existent waists, clutching plastic bags full of dirty nightdresses and pyjamas, looking up the road for a bus that doesn’t come.
‘You look tired,’ Nick says.
‘I haven’t been sleeping. Can’t sleep. When I was up and down to him all the time I used to think, Oh, if only I could have a good night’s sleep, but you see, I’m still listening for him. I was convinced last night I heard him get up and go out.’
Grandad’s taken to wandering. Or going out on patrol. One or the other.
The car heater’s making Nick drowsy. He opens the window on his side and a few spots of cold rain blow on to his face.
‘You know
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