chance. Be grateful I haven't arrested you already."
Prentice stared at him just long enough to realize he meant it, then turned on his heel and went off, shambling unevenly, feet slithering on the boards, physical and emotional shock making him dizzy.
Joseph went back inside the hospital hut to see if Charlie Gee would live, not certain if he wanted him to. If he did, what could Joseph say or do to make his life bearable? It was too much. He remembered how alone and inadequate to the burden he had felt when his parents were killed, and suddenly he was the head of the family, expected to know the answers, and have the strength and the inner certainty to help.
That had been nothing compared with what he needed to do now. No teaching, no ministry prepared you to have answers for this. What kind of a God hurled you into this hell without teaching you what you were supposed to do, to say, even to think,
in order to keep your own faith? There was no answer, only numberless men, young, broken, and in desperate need. He went up the step and in through the door.
It was several days after Matthew had returned from seeing Mary Allard in Brighton before he could take the time to go up to Cambridge and find an opportunity to speak with Aidan Thyer. It was a bright spring morning with a sharp wind and sunlight glittering off the wet cobbles of the streets.
The porter let him into St. John's College. Apparently he had been told to expect him, because he walked with him across the outer quadrangle, under the arch and into the smaller, quieter inside quad where the Master's Lodgings were situated on the further side.
"There you are, sir," the porter said respectfully. All men in uniform were regarded with a special dignity, whether he knew them or not, and he remembered Joseph with affection, and a peculiar awe for his part in the previous summer's tragedy. He did not want to be intrusive, and the indecision was in his face, but he had to ask.
"How is the Reverend Mr. Reavley, sir? We think of him often."
"He's well, thank you," Matthew replied.
"He's in Flanders, isn't he?" It was a statement, and there was pride in it.
"Yes, near Ypres." Matthew was surprised how much pride he felt in it himself. He realized how little he knew Joseph. He had half expected him to stay at home, or to find a post in administration, perhaps in one of the command headquarters far behind the lines. His language skills might possibly have been useful. He could very easily have avoided the worst of the violence and the pain, and no one would have blamed him.
The porter nodded. He was a quiet man, stolid, fond of a quiet beer in the evenings, and a walk beside the river. "We've got a few of our young men there. Many in France too, o' course. An' Gallipoli. It isn't like it used to be. Don't hear young people laughing around the place like it was, playin' the fool, an' getting' up to tricks." He sighed, his blunt face full of loss. "Daft, half the time. No harm in
'em, mind, just high spirits. Dead now, some of 'em. Young Mowbray, what was studyin' history, lost both his feet. Frostbite, they said it was, then gangrene. Don't think of that in war, do you? Think of shots, and things like that." He took a deep breath. "That's the Master's house, sir. He's expecting you."
Matthew thanked him and walked across the short space to the door. It opened the moment he knocked on it. A maid of about sixteen led him into the dining room where french doors opened on to the Master's garden. It was presently filled with pruned rose bushes, bare-sticked, waiting for warmer weather, and gaudy splashes of late daffodils in bloom. Here and there were dense clumps of violets in the damp, shaded earth.
Aidan Thyer was sitting in his armchair, a pile of papers on the table beside him, presumably essays, theses on one thing and another. He stood up at Matthew came in. He was a little taller than average, but the striking thing about him was his flaxen hair, so fair it seemed
Prentice stared at him just long enough to realize he meant it, then turned on his heel and went off, shambling unevenly, feet slithering on the boards, physical and emotional shock making him dizzy.
Joseph went back inside the hospital hut to see if Charlie Gee would live, not certain if he wanted him to. If he did, what could Joseph say or do to make his life bearable? It was too much. He remembered how alone and inadequate to the burden he had felt when his parents were killed, and suddenly he was the head of the family, expected to know the answers, and have the strength and the inner certainty to help.
That had been nothing compared with what he needed to do now. No teaching, no ministry prepared you to have answers for this. What kind of a God hurled you into this hell without teaching you what you were supposed to do, to say, even to think,
in order to keep your own faith? There was no answer, only numberless men, young, broken, and in desperate need. He went up the step and in through the door.
It was several days after Matthew had returned from seeing Mary Allard in Brighton before he could take the time to go up to Cambridge and find an opportunity to speak with Aidan Thyer. It was a bright spring morning with a sharp wind and sunlight glittering off the wet cobbles of the streets.
The porter let him into St. John's College. Apparently he had been told to expect him, because he walked with him across the outer quadrangle, under the arch and into the smaller, quieter inside quad where the Master's Lodgings were situated on the further side.
"There you are, sir," the porter said respectfully. All men in uniform were regarded with a special dignity, whether he knew them or not, and he remembered Joseph with affection, and a peculiar awe for his part in the previous summer's tragedy. He did not want to be intrusive, and the indecision was in his face, but he had to ask.
"How is the Reverend Mr. Reavley, sir? We think of him often."
"He's well, thank you," Matthew replied.
"He's in Flanders, isn't he?" It was a statement, and there was pride in it.
"Yes, near Ypres." Matthew was surprised how much pride he felt in it himself. He realized how little he knew Joseph. He had half expected him to stay at home, or to find a post in administration, perhaps in one of the command headquarters far behind the lines. His language skills might possibly have been useful. He could very easily have avoided the worst of the violence and the pain, and no one would have blamed him.
The porter nodded. He was a quiet man, stolid, fond of a quiet beer in the evenings, and a walk beside the river. "We've got a few of our young men there. Many in France too, o' course. An' Gallipoli. It isn't like it used to be. Don't hear young people laughing around the place like it was, playin' the fool, an' getting' up to tricks." He sighed, his blunt face full of loss. "Daft, half the time. No harm in
'em, mind, just high spirits. Dead now, some of 'em. Young Mowbray, what was studyin' history, lost both his feet. Frostbite, they said it was, then gangrene. Don't think of that in war, do you? Think of shots, and things like that." He took a deep breath. "That's the Master's house, sir. He's expecting you."
Matthew thanked him and walked across the short space to the door. It opened the moment he knocked on it. A maid of about sixteen led him into the dining room where french doors opened on to the Master's garden. It was presently filled with pruned rose bushes, bare-sticked, waiting for warmer weather, and gaudy splashes of late daffodils in bloom. Here and there were dense clumps of violets in the damp, shaded earth.
Aidan Thyer was sitting in his armchair, a pile of papers on the table beside him, presumably essays, theses on one thing and another. He stood up at Matthew came in. He was a little taller than average, but the striking thing about him was his flaxen hair, so fair it seemed
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