Long Goodbyes by Scott Hunter Page A

picture window to the expanse of garden beyond the glass. What had he seen?
    Orla said, ‘Shall I fetch us something to drink? A toast to our absent husbands would not be inappropriate.’
    ‘Bless you, Orla. A little strong sustenance - as we used to call it in Belgium - would not go amiss.’
    As Orla busied herself preparing the drinks I could hear a dog barking somewhere. Conall. My nightmare came back to me and I shuddered at the memory.  
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Orla said, reading my expression. ‘He’s locked up in the yard. You are quite safe.’
    ‘I know. I had a bad dream. I fear that Conall doesn’t like me very much.’
    ‘It’s odd. He’s such a friendly dog.’
    ‘ Is it odd, Orla?’
    She looked at me curiously, and changed the subject. ‘How did you bear it, the war?’ she asked, and handed me a glass of clear liqueur.  
    ‘Bear it?’ I replied. ‘What in particular?’
    ‘The field hospital. Those poor young boys. The blood. All of it.’
    I took a sip of liqueur and considered the question. The drink had a strong, nutty flavour, not at all unpleasant, and made my throat tingle as I swallowed. ’Truthfully? I don’t know. I think we were so busy we hadn’t time to reflect. After the first day I think that most of us just got on with it.’
    Orla sat down and shook her head. She held her glass in a very proper manner, her fingers delicately supporting the stem. I had often noticed how slim and articulate were her fingers, how expressive and artistic. I remembered a remark of Jack’s, that he had always admired artistic women. ‘I could never have worked in such a place,’ she said. ‘Never.’
    ‘If I had not volunteered I would never have met Jack.’
    ‘Of course. It was meant to be. Tell me, did you ever see the enemy?’
    ‘Once. A German pilot came to us, badly burned. I couldn’t see him as the enemy - he was so young. And brave.’ I felt a wash of emotion as the memory came back. ‘He died two days later. All he said was ‘mother’. Mutti .’
    ‘It is a foul thing, war.’ Orla rose to light candles, moving gracefully around the room in little pools of newly established light.
    ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But not many truly understand the nature of it; one has to experience it at first hand, you see. There is no glamour, Orla, no honour in dying the kind of deaths I witnessed each day. It is an ugly, unnatural thing. But it seems right and fitting that your William has been accorded the privilege of contributing to its ending - and at such lofty heights.’
    ‘It is hard for William.’ Orla returned to her seat. ‘He wanted a quiet life. But Lloyd George knew of him, you see. It was only a matter of how quickly George attained a position of power and influence, and after that simply a matter of time.’  
    ‘William must be held in high regard,’ I said. ‘What is his area of expertise?’
    Orla looked down at her hands. ‘I shouldn’t say, really. But it is only the two of us here, is it not?’ She brightened. ‘Very well. William is a naval man. Lloyd George is pushing home the necessity of the convoy as the safest insurance against the U-boats. He is quite convinced that such an arrangement will protect our shipping and bring an earlier end to the war.’
    ‘I know little of such things, but I am sure William will do all that is required of him, and to a high standard.’
    Orla played with a strand of her auburn hair. ’You are kind to say so. He will, of course, do his duty, but he had hoped to put distance between ourselves and Westminster. It is as if our old lives are calling us back, as if they cannot let us go.’
    The candlelight flickered as a gust of wind found the gaps around the window frames. Rain began to beat softly against the panes.
    ‘A storm is on its way,’ Orla observed. ‘But we are snug together. You will stay the night, Jenny, will you not?’
    I smiled. ‘If it would comfort you. But you haven’t yet told me why you are fearful of