The Opened Cage Page 11

  ‘I don’t know how you stand it,’ she said. ‘I really don’t.’ And Joss knew she had lost someone close to her.

  It was the first time anyone back here had acknowledged what was happening. He walked on. Stopping he held the quayside rail; the white paint had peeled showing the rusting metal beneath, like the truth beneath the lie. Further back, several seafront villas were boarded up. An elderly street sweeper was singing despondently as he worked, and the drizzle had turned into a steady, chilling rain. A cafe was open and huddles of people sat around tables. The windows ran with condensation. Taking a table by the back, furthest from the door, Joss sat down and ordered strong coffee and hot buttered teacakes. Then it hit him, the full horror of what might be happening to Tom at this moment. Wasn’t it said that the explosions from the Front could be heard on the English south coast? His hand started vibrating so he gripped the handle of the mug the waitress brought over, but slopped tea over the tabletop. She tutted and went to get a cloth. Joss stared out of the window into nothing.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ his mother said as she met him on the drive. Joss stepped back and stared at her, and then up at the front of Woodham Hall, at its Georgian, emotionless neatness. Mrs Deerman was a tall, slim woman nearing seventy, with grey hair piled elegantly into a bun, and she wore a long cardigan over a plain skirt. Her face was slim and she shared her son’s unusual dark blue eyes. In social circles she was referred to as ‘handsome’ rather than beautiful, a description that amused her.

  ‘It’s not exactly the Ritz out there,’ said Joss, putting down his kitbag as they entered the large hallway. He looked around, saw, as if for the first time, its rather pointless lavish proportions. The hallway echoed as they walked through it to the drawing room.

  Mrs Deerman looked at the rings of blueish-grey around Joss’s eyes, like old bruises. Several badly-healed spots plagued his neck; a few had become infected.

  ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you near a fire.’

  He shrugged off his greatcoat and hung it over the end of the banister. Mrs Deerman noticed this.

  ‘I am sorry we don’t have the staff to receive you,’ she said. ‘All the men servants were called up.’ She spoke with a wearied air.

  Joss bit down on the impulse to make a sarcastic quip but instead looked at his large muddy boots which were dropping dried mud on the floor and which he was surreptitiously trying to smudge away.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that!’ she said. ‘It might do this place a bit of good to see reality.’

  They sat in the sumptuous warmth of the drawing room in front of a crackling fire.

  ‘How have things been here?’ Joss asked sitting down and flinching as an intense, nauseating pain shot up his back. ‘Back’s a bit pulled around,’ he explained, catching her surprised look. ‘Lugging people around on stretchers is hard work.’

  She did not answer.

  ‘So how are things?’ he asked again.

  ‘Jumbled,’ she said vaguely. ‘Jumbled.’

  ‘How’s Father?’

  ‘Well. All told.’

  ‘And the siblings?’

  A ghost of a smile caught on her lips. ‘Very well.’ She frowned. ‘Does it sound too awful to say I’m glad your elder brothers are too old to have been caught up in it?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Well, we are something of a military family,’ she mused. ‘With your uncle and Roger.’ She considered the sentiment. ‘I suppose you could call us a partly-military family.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She glanced over to him. ‘I suppose not.’ She walked over to the bell, pulled it.

  ‘So you do have some staff?’

  ‘Girls. They do their best.’

  The atmosphere was starting to stifle.

  ‘How’s Edith?’ Joss knew his sister would be a safe topic of conversation.

  Mrs Deerman’s face brightened. Joss knew his sister was the child his mother found the easiest, the one whose company she enjoyed most.

  ‘Oh, she’s very well. Eric is very well too, and the boys are thriving, so all good news. In fact, Edith says George is getting a very good seat.’

  Joss smiled and nodded. At that, a maid appeared at the door holding a large tray. Joss went to take it from her, felt his mother’s light but restraining hand. His mother poured the tea while he tried to manoeuvre into a less painful position.

  ‘You need to see a doctor about that, dear,’ she said.

  Joss nodded. ‘I’m afraid that’s par for the course.’ Along with the pulled muscles, split knuckles, cracked skin...the list seemed endless.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘An unavoidable consequence. One of the officer’s is very keen on golf.’

  ‘Does he play much out there?’

  Joss looked at his mother in astonishment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was a stupid question.’

  Joss demolished two toasted teacakes in a few mouthfuls. His mother looked on, relieved.

  ‘Well, at least there’s nothing wrong with your appetite!’ she said, remembering how she used to chide him as a boy for being too greedy with his food. Joss grinned.

  ‘So how is it really, dear?’ she asked.

  Joss hesitated. ‘Pretty awful, but I don’t think the war will go on for much longer. Both sides are exhausted.’

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘How’s Roger getting on?’ The brother who was just above him in the family order.

  ‘As Roger does. I had a letter from him last week saying he thinks it won’t be long before he becomes a colonel.’ Her voice was emotionless. ‘I think he should stay as he is.’

  Joss frowned at her.

  ‘I think he pushes himself too far sometimes.’ Her expression closed in. ‘I probably shouldn’t have said anything,’ she added, waving her hand. ‘Forget what I said, please.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Another uncomfortable silence, then: ‘Is there any chance of a bath?’ Joss said. ‘I’ve been dreaming about that on the way up.’

  Mrs Deerman clapped her hands. ‘Of course you can, dear! There’s unlimited hot water remember – the fires heat the water and the radiators.’

  Joss shook his head. How had he not noticed the radiators before? Those majestic iron contraptions radiating warmth, regardless of the world outside. The luxury. The beauty of them.

  He went to get up and his mother caught his arm.

  ‘Why won’t any of you say what it’s really like?’ she asked. ‘I’ve tried talking to some of the young men who come back on leave in the village, but they all hold it in. You all keep it tucked away, like a big secret.’ Her expression was earnest, anxious.

  Because if we told you, we might never stop, thought Joss. Wouldn’t that be too cruel? Isn’t our sanity saved by saving yours?

  Joss rubbed his back and merely said, ‘I could do with that bath. May I go up and run it now?’

  ‘One of the servants will do it for you, John.’

  ‘Do let me do my own, then I can get it how I really want it.’

  She acquiesced and he left the room.

  Lying neck-high in glorious hot water about half an hour later, Joss considered, perhaps Tom was right. Perhaps this war kept going because they put up with it, and they wouldn’t talk back home. Out there, there was censorship, bans, the inhibition of outright feeling. They survived on orders, finding perhaps, as he did, a secret intimacy amongst friends. Yet, how often had they told each other about how they felt, about the fear, the terror, the nightmare visions, which were not visions? They chivvied each other along, bolstered, supported, none of them saying ‘I’m terrified. I’m broken’. How often in the line had he concentrated so hard on smoking a cigarette so he could master the shaking in his hand, which would otherwise flick ash around erratically. It was only then that the immediate fears paled, but only momentarily. Now it seemed the habit of concealment had stuck, even within himself.

  Mrs Deerman had
looked after him as he closed the drawing room door, and reflected. John had been what her social circle had called a ‘late baby’: born late in life. She winced as she recalled her surprise, alarm even, when at forty years old, she had found she was expecting again. She felt her rounded belly and knew then she had not stopped her monthly cycles from age, but from renewed maternity. Her doctor had confirmed the pregnancy. She had taken a few days to tell her husband, George, remembering how he had said recently that it would be a relief to finish with school fees after Roger had left school. How they might do a little travelling together. Then this late pregnancy, and the need for a nurse, a nanny, a governess, and then school fees. She had settled down in the drawing room with her husband one evening and told him. He had beamed, then poured them a small sherry and clinked glasses. George had been unabashedly delighted, and with the pregnancy being surprisingly easy, she had tried to look forward to the birth. When this came, it too was remarkably easy, with very little of the travail she had had with the older children. It seemed soon after labour had begun she was presented with the pink, very blond-haired baby, a boy, as healthy as the doctor had seen. George had been allowed in, once she was sitting up in bed cradling the infant, and he had smiled the proudest, widest smile of a new parent, and kissed her and his new son.

  The next months were re-runs of her experiences as a mother, but this time there was a tinge of unease. Had she really felt so stupid at not realising she was pregnant, and did it really matter? As a small baby, John had stared at her unflinchingly and, she felt, without emotion, as though he was trying to decide who she was. That look had unnerved her, and she did her best to make him smile – those heart-breaking gummy smiles he bestowed so freely on his father and his nurse, but somehow rationed for her. She had shaken her head when she caught herself thinking these things: how could a small baby withhold his affection to punish her? It was not possible. Yet, he had pulled away from her at times, had cried when he had been given to her to hold, and she had felt hurt and inadequate. She sighed deeply, wished there was some way she could get rid of these repetitive memories. Then, as though in renewed punishment, she remembered how she had stared on, pinched-faced, in the nursery as a succession of governesses had tried to get John to sit still, learn his letters and numbers. How she had heard squeals and laughter from the schoolroom, and had opened the door to find the flustered young woman trying to catch hold of the blond-haired, cherubic little boy who hid behind chairs and under desks to avoid capture, and ran screaming with delight when he evaded her. Several governesses had been employed but left with the flimsiest of excuses. She winced as she recalled how pleased she was when John was finally sent off to school at the age of eight.

  The next morning Joss sat in the breakfast room. It was still dark and no-one was awake, not even the few servants who had the earliest chores. Sleep had stopped at 4 a.m. Convincing himself he should try to get more, he closed his eyes, tried to empty his mind, but images infested it, and his back throbbed viciously. By five o’clock it seemed less painful both mentally and physically to get up and dress. Then he had sat in the curtained-drawn drawing room and tried to relax in an armchair, but his back went into another spasm and he screwed his face up, realised he needed a hard, straight-backed chair. He walked painfully to the dining room and sat in the dark, waiting for the morning light to come, his head in his hands.

  Mrs Deerman found him crouched at the dining table and immediately sent for a doctor. The next hour or so was a blur of activity around him, with him sitting, and then lying, helplessly in bed. Then a deep oblivion as a sedative took effect. Joss had no idea how long he had been unconscious but awoke to full consciousness on a sunny morning. He pulled himself up and then looked around, noticed something was missing: the pain. Ringing a bell, a young, shy-looking servant opened the door. He asked her for a toothbrush and water and cleaned his teeth, then asked to see his mother or father. Mrs Deerman came into the room, quietly a few minutes later.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’ Joss asked. Unconscious sounded too dramatic.

  ‘Nearly a week,’ she said.

  Joss sat back, startled.

  ‘The doctor decided total rest was what you needed,’ she explained.

  ‘But I had to be back at the Front within a week.’

  ‘That’s been dealt with,’ she said. ‘You have an extended furlough.’

  ‘Via Uncle Richard I suppose.’

  She nodded. ‘You were also seen by a RAMC doctor.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You weren’t conscious.’

  Joss sat bolt upright. ‘Tom.’

  ‘A Thomas Fielder is expected soon. Your captain sent me a letter saying Fielder was due leave and wanted to see you.’

  ‘What, he’s coming to stay here?’ Joss was smiling broadly.

  ‘No, dear, he’s coming to visit you.’

  ‘We live cheek-by-jowl in the trenches, so you could at least invite him to stay.’

  Mrs Deerman looked affronted. ‘We don’t know him. What’s his background?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A very dear friend of mine–’

  ‘Yes, we gathered that from your letters.’

  ‘And a very decent human being.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have a family to go to?’

  ‘Tom’s parents died when he was a small child.’

  ‘He’s from an orphanage?’

  ‘No, his grandfather bought him up, but he’s dead now. Tom was left his grandfather’s house, but he’ll be alone if he goes there.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Joss looked directly at his mother. ‘Do you think it’s humane to expect a soldier, just out of battle and in much the same state I was in, having to fend for himself when he could stay here?’ He knew this would have the desired effect.

  ‘What was his grandfather?’

  ‘Postmaster at Durnley.’

  ‘You say he has his own house?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joss snapped. ‘But–’

  ‘And he’s in the same state you were in?’

  ‘Bar the back.’

  Mrs Deerman sighed. ‘All right. We’ll invite him to stay here when he arrives,’ she said, but could not hide her reluctance.

  ‘Knowing Tom, he’ll probably not want to put you to the bother, but make him stay.’

  Mrs Deerman sighed more heavily, nodded and left the room.

  Trying to get out of bed for a pee, Joss tottered, then got his footing and slowly made his way to the bathroom – the bathroom – what a luxury. He peed for what seemed a very long time and idly wondered how he had managed this while unconscious, then, re-focussing, he felt his back tensing painfully, and started manipulating. Waddling back to his bed, he found two maids changing the sheets; his mother helped him into a nursing chair.

  ‘You wait here,’ she said, ‘while we run you a bath’. She bustled out before he could ask when Tom was due or how long he was to stay bedridden. The helplessness of sudden disability, the total reliance on another, hit him. Soon she was back.

  ‘How long do the RAMC doctors think I will be like this?’

  Mrs Deerman shrugged, ‘A few weeks. You will have to be seen by a board–’

  ‘The famous boards,’ he said bitterly and did not explain. How could he explain he needed to go back, that he needed to be with Tom? Opening his mouth to speak, he was cut short by one of the maids saying that the bath was ready now, ma’am. The nurse assisted him into the water and helped him wash, as though he was a young child. His mother and the nurse then helped him lie down in bed. He felt himself being given an injection and glided into sleep.

  It was in the evening when the door of his bedroom opened and Joss heard his mother’s voice and then…

  ‘Tom?’

  Tom walked in, a huge smile breaking over his face as though in a shout of delight but voiceless, his shoulders raised up like a child who was about to walk in on his birthday celebrations. It had to
be mute of course so Mrs Deerman could not see the depth of his delight. Joss beamed, his dimples indenting his rounder, healthier-looking face. In fact, he smiled harder to hide the fact he was teetering on the edge of breaking down.

  Mrs Deerman hovered in the door then looked in.

  ‘I’ll send a tea tray up,’ she said. ‘Are you strong enough to sit up, John?’

  Joss looked at her with a distracted air. ‘Yes...Yes. Thanks.’ The door shut. Tom moved over to the bed, stooped down and hugged him around the shoulders. Joss clung onto him.

  ‘What happened?’ Tom asked as they pulled apart.

  Joss explained, then, ‘But you. What’s been happening? Where were you on the line? Is everyone still all right?’

  Tom pulled up a chair. ‘Where do I begin?’

  ‘With yourself.’

  ‘I’ve been all right,’ he said, as though surprised by the fact himself. In fact, he had been very surprised. When Joss had walked away down the trench, he had stared after him, mind blank. That night he’d wrapped himself tight in his trench coat and used their blanket like a material tent. Nico had crawled beneath it and lain against Tom until daylight. What surprised him was that his anxiety began to drain away. The numbers’ game was banished like an old, pointless bartering tool because Joss was safe. Over the next few days, he found he could go through the mind-numbing routine of the day without thinking beyond the task and he did not have to think or bargain. It had appalled him to acknowledge it, but it was easier without Joss. Not that he hadn’t missed him so much it hurt, or that he hadn’t ached for him, the closeness, the touch, the emotional security, but Joss was safe. Now all he said was ‘And Nico’s fine. I’ve left him in the capable hands of the sanitary men and the cooks. Even Barratt said he would keep an eye out for him.’

  Joss looked at him smiling. Tom certainly looked better than he remembered from the few weeks before. Almost looked as though his face had filled out, the constant anxiety that seemed to squint his eyes, gave a constant partial frown, had gone, and his expression was open, relaxed, joyous and his eyes big. A knock on the door sent Tom bolting to his feet; he strode over to open it. The small maid thanked him and went to struggle in with the tray.