After the War Is Over (17 page)

A blur of background voices, and then, “Hello? Charlotte?”

“Lilly.”

“I’ve been meaning to call. How are you?”

“Feeling rather dazed after a visit from your mother.”

Lilly gasped in dismay. “From Mama? Oh, Charlotte. I
am
sorry. Was it about Edward?”

“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I meant to, honestly I did. But we were away until July, and then there was all the
bother with the painters and movers and so forth, and getting settled in the house.
We scarcely saw him all summer.”

“When did he break his engagement?”

“Last week, I think. It was long overdue, of course, and fortunately Helena took it
well. I saw her the other day and she told me she was relieved.”

“And the drink?”

“We’d been worried. But we honestly hadn’t realized the extent of it until just the
other evening. Robbie went to visit him and Edward emptied the better part of a bottle
of brandy.”

“Has this been going on all summer?”

“I think so. Perhaps even for longer.”

“Has he mentioned having any headaches? Any dizziness?”

“He has, yes. He complains of his head pounding day and night. But when I ask him
if he’s spoken to a doctor about it, or if he’ll agree to let Robbie examine him,
he simply walks away. When poor Mama asks, he shouts at her. I was going to ring you,
just to ask if you might suggest anything else. If perhaps you had any advice as a
result of your work during the war.”

“I do. At least I think I may.”

“Thank heavens.”

“I told your mother I would come to London and speak to
Edward. See if I can persuade him to accept help. I haven’t yet spoken to Miss Rathbone,
but I feel certain she’ll give me a few days of leave.”

“Thank goodness.”

“I’ll ring again as soon as I know more.”

“You will stay with us, won’t you? The house is a shambles, boxes everywhere, but
I’m ever so keen to show it off.”

“Of course I’ll stay. Give Robbie my regards, and I’ll see you soon.”

T
he train was slowing, shunting from track to track, the hiss and grind of its locomotive
descending to a statelier register as it approached Euston station. As soon as it
had lurched to a stop, Charlotte pulled her valise from the luggage rack above her
seat, shouldered her handbag, and set forth along the platform, intent on arriving
at the station’s taxi rank before the queue stretched down the street.

On the other side of the barrier, however, Lilly and Robbie were waiting for her.

“I told you I would take a taxi,” Charlotte protested.

“You did. I then said I preferred to collect you,” Lilly replied, embracing her friend.

“You can’t expect her to pass up a perfectly good opportunity to drive her new car,”
added Robbie as they walked outside.

“New car?” Of course Lilly had been an ambulance driver while she was in the WAAC,
but Charlotte had assumed her friend’s interest in motoring had ended at the same
time as her demobilization.

“My wedding present from Robbie. There she is.” Lilly pointed to a Model T Ford parked
just beyond the taxi rank.
“It’s a 1915 model, but she runs like new. Go on and sit in the front.”

After stowing Charlotte’s bags in the backseat, Robbie cranked the engine while Lilly
started the car via a series of entirely mystifying actions. Having never ridden in
the front seat of a motorcar, Charlotte had little notion of how one worked. Once
the engine was purring away nicely, Lilly nodded to her husband and he climbed into
the backseat, albeit rather awkwardly, as the motorcar’s single door was shared by
both banks of seats.

“I wish you could have seen my face when Robbie had Henrietta delivered. I nearly
fell over,” Lilly said, steering them between the massive pillars of the great Euston
Arch and into the London traffic with the calm assurance of an old hand.

“Henrietta?”

“Well, actually she’s Henrietta the Second. I named her after my little ambulance—the
one I crashed while we were evacuating the Fifty-first. Who in turn was named for
Henry Ford.”

“I see,” said Charlotte, although she couldn’t imagine why anyone would give a motorcar
a name. “You really are a very accomplished driver.”

“Thank you. Practice makes perfect. I was nervous at first—I hadn’t driven since I
was invalided home—but it really is ever so much easier driving here. The roads are
in far better shape, to begin with. Now, tell me,” she said, downshifting as they
swung into a huge roundabout, “if you had any difficulty getting time off work. I
mean, it was such short notice.”

“I called Miss Rathbone yesterday afternoon. I told her what was happening—that is,
I told her that a friend of mine had fallen ill and his family had asked me to visit.
It’s a version of the truth, I suppose.”

Skirting the truth with Miss Rathbone had made her desperately
uncomfortable, but the details of Edward’s condition were not hers to share with anyone
outside his family.

“So Miss Rathbone didn’t object?” asked Lilly.

“Not in the slightest. I was well ahead with all my work, which helped, and I’ll be
back for Tuesday morning.”

They turned off one large road onto another, and almost immediately Lilly swung right
onto a small street of Georgian cottages that ended in a cul-de-sac. The houses, charmingly,
were painted in a spectrum of pastels, from palest pink to a vibrant primrose yellow.
The Frasers’ house was at the end of the street, its frontage rather narrower than
the rest, its paint the exact hue of a robin’s egg.

Once they were through the front door, Robbie carried her bags upstairs while Lilly
led the way into the sitting room. It was large and beautifully proportioned, and
had been sparely furnished with older pieces, their upholstery soft and faded, their
wood warm with age.

“Almost everything came from the attics at Cumbermere Hall,” Lilly explained. “Edward
told me to help myself. You wouldn’t believe how much was stuffed up there, all covered
in dust and spiderwebs, simply because it had fallen out of fashion. There was enough
for ten houses at least.”

“Where is the shambles you spoke of on the telephone?”

“As soon as I knew you were coming we carried all the unopened boxes into the garret,”
Lilly admitted. “We still have to unpack our books, and there are crates of paintings
and photographs and so forth to set out, but otherwise we’re feeling quite settled.”

Robbie set a plate of sandwiches on the occasional table next to Charlotte. “Ruth
made these up before leaving for the night. And I’ve a pot of tea brewing in the kitchen.”

As if by mutual consent, their conversation that evening entirely avoided the subject
of Edward. Instead they spoke of the Frasers’ honeymoon in Cornwall, Robbie’s return
to work at the London Hospital, and Lilly’s studies with a dauntingly serious tutor.

“I’ve begun to have nightmares about my Latin and Greek, but Mr. Pebbles insists we
press ahead.”

“Mr. Pebbles? Is that honestly his name?”

“It is.” Lilly giggled. “Dorian Pebbles.”

“Poor man. Is he a good tutor?”

“Excellent. Very patient. He thinks I have a good chance of passing the entrance exams
for university in the spring.”

“Of course you will,” Robbie said. “I’ve no doubt at all.”

“Have you thought of where you’d like to study?”

“Yes.” Lilly took Charlotte’s hand in hers and squeezed it tight. “You must know that
you’ve always been an inspiration to me. So I’ve decided to apply to the London School
of Economics, and do a degree in social policy.”

Lilly thought
her
an inspiration? She opened her mouth, about to respond with praise for her friend
who had been so courageous, so stalwart in her every endeavor since leaving home,
but the words, or perhaps they were tears, clogged her throat and left her mute. She
found the handkerchief she’d tucked in her sleeve earlier, wiped her eyes, and blew
her nose.

“Thank you, Lilly. I . . . I feel the same about you. Both of you.”

“I think it’s high time we are all off to our beds,” Robbie interjected. “Charlotte’s
had a long day, and we’ll all be on tenterhooks tomorrow. Let’s get some rest while
we can.”

“Shall you come with me to see him?” Charlotte asked.

Lilly looked to her husband for confirmation. “Not right away. Not unless you need
us. I don’t want him to feel as if we’re
press-ganging him. Perhaps once you’ve spoken with him, and possibly made some headway,
you could ring us here?”

“I’ll work from home tomorrow morning,” added Robbie. “We’ll be straight over if you
need us.”

“That sounds very sensible. Good night, then. Until tomorrow.”

N
ATURALLY IT WAS
raining again in the morning, and although Charlotte wore her mackintosh and carried
an umbrella, her skirts, and nerves, were thoroughly dampened by the time she reached
Edward’s house, though it was but ten minutes away by foot.

Only a few hundred yards from the Thames, it was part of a row of comfortably imposing
town houses, their brick-and-stucco exteriors as plain as Puritans. She knocked, listened
for footfalls inside, knocked again. At last the door was answered.

She recognized the man who greeted her, though she couldn’t recall his name. He’d
once been a footman at Cumbermere Hall.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Miss Brown. Do come in.”

“I beg your pardon, but I can’t quite—”

“It’s Andrews, ma’am. I see to Lord Cumberland when he’s in residence here at Cheyne
Row.”

“Of course. Mr. Andrews. I’ve come to see his lordship, although I suspect he’s still
abed.”

“That he is.”

“Would you be so kind as to inform him that I am here and will not be leaving until
he agrees to see me? I’ve come at the behest of Lady Cumberland and Lady Elizabeth.”

A spark of hope flared in the man’s eyes. “I will, ma’am. Would you care to wait in
here?” He took her coat and hat and showed her
into the sitting room, a dull and somber chamber that looked to have been furnished
with the contents of an undertaker’s parlor.

When Mr. Andrews returned, only a few minutes later, his deflated expression told
her everything.

“He’s awake, ma’am, but he won’t come down. I don’t know what to do.”

“Then I shall have to go up. Don’t worry,” she called back as she started up the stairs,
“I’ll say I barged past when your back was turned.”

“Good luck, Miss Brown. It’s the door to your right on the first-floor landing.”

At this time of day most houses, especially those of the aristocracy, were a ferment
of activity, with much cleaning of hearths, beating of carpets, making of beds, and
so forth. Here, by contrast, a deathly quiet prevailed, without even the gentle sounds
of belowstairs activity drifting up to puncture the atmosphere of funereal decay.

She knocked once, sharply, and let herself into Edward’s bedchamber. The draperies
were drawn tight, and it was so dark she could barely see, so she stood at the threshold
and waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. The air felt close and suffocating,
and as she took her first tentative steps forward her nose was assailed by a wretched
miasma of cigarette smoke, spilled brandy, and stale coffee.

She could see better now, if imperfectly. Edward was in bed, facing away from the
door, one hand flung over his eyes. His prosthetic leg lay on the floor.

“Did you send her away?” he mumbled.

“He did not.”

When he said nothing further, she moved to his bed and, emboldened, sat gingerly on
its bottom corner.

“Aren’t you going to throw back the curtains? Shout at me to get up?”

“No, because that would only make things worse. I think you ought to stay where you
are, just for now, and tell me what is wrong.”

“Well, you see,” he began, “back in the summer of 1914 the Archduke Franz—”

“Don’t make a joke of it. Not today, at least. What are your symptoms? Tell me exactly.”

“Splitting headache, nearly all the time. Not from the drink; this is different.”

“Go on.”

“Light-headed, though not so regularly I can predict it.”

“Have you fallen because of it? Fainted?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“What of light? Does it hurt your eyes? Do you have difficulty reading—not in making
out the words, but in focusing on the page without it hurting you?”

“Yes to both. Any light bothers me—sunlight, lamplight. Feels like an ice pick at
my temples.”

“Are you exhausted by simple activities? Exclude anything that has become more difficult
since you lost your leg. I mean things like having a conversation on the telephone
or getting through a meal in company.”

“Yes.”

“Are you able to sleep?”

“Only once I’m at the point of exhaustion. Even then I wake up after a few hours.”

“I see. Why are you answering my questions so readily? You’ve refused to speak to
Robbie about this.”

“Meddling Scot. Always thinking he knows what’s best for me.”

“You’ve decided it can’t possibly get any worse. That’s what I think,” she said.

“It might. You’re about to tell me I have something incurable, aren’t you? Don’t be
shy. I’d welcome it.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I need to ask you a few more questions. The night you were taken
prisoner, you were knocked down by a shell that exploded nearby. Is that correct?”

“Yes. We were cutting wire, well into no-man’s-land. It was our own artillery that
shelled us. I heard it hit, about eight or nine yards distant, and I was knocked down.
That’s all I recall.”

“I know your leg was injured, but do you recall if you hit your head as well?”

“I might have. Can’t be certain.”

“How did your head feel when you woke up? It might be difficult to distinguish that
pain from—”

“Sore. It felt like someone had taken a cricket bat to the base of my skull.”

“And what of your neck?”

“Stiff, I suppose. Painful.”

“How long did the pain persist?”

“I don’t know. Weeks? When my leg became infected, and then they took it off, the
pain of that drowned out everything else.”

“Of course. Understandably so.”

He turned, just enough to grasp her hand. His skin was cool and unpleasantly clammy.

“What’s wrong with me? You must tell me. Nothing can be worse than living like this.”

“Bear in mind that I’m not a physician, and as such I’m not qualified to make any
sort of diagnosis. But I will say that I’ve seen men with symptoms similar to yours.
They had suffered
severe concussions, as I suspect you did when you were first injured. Amid the chaos
of your capture, and then the loss of your leg, the concussion went untreated.”

“That’s all? A concussion?”

“You’ll need to be seen by a physician. We could ask one of the doctors at my old
hospital to assess you.”

“No.”

“Then what about Robbie? He won’t tell a soul. We
must
get to the bottom of this.”

“If it’s a concussion, won’t it go away on its own?”

“Not without help. I’m going to telephone for Robbie now, and then we shall all discuss
what is to be done. While I’m gone, I should like you to get out of bed and get dressed.
Pajamas and a robe are fine if that’s all you can manage.”

She hurried downstairs and was shown to the library and its telephone by Mr. Andrews.
She relayed the heartening news to Lilly, who sounded as if she were holding back
tears.

“We’ll be there straightaway.”

“Good. Can you ask Robbie to bring some aspirin? I doubt Edward has any proper medicine
on hand.”

Mr. Andrews was hovering, clearly hoping for some good news, but the battle was not
yet won. She only smiled and asked him to bring her some tea, hot buttered toast,
and a soft-boiled egg. “I’ll wait here and take it up.”

“Thank you ever so much, ma’am. It’ll be the first thing he’s eaten since yesterday.”

Edward was sitting in a chair by the time she returned. He had put on trousers and
a shirt, and was wearing his prosthetic leg, but hadn’t on any shoes or socks. The
contrast between his bare foot and the dull aluminum form of his prosthesis was faintly
obscene.