Wild Geese Overhead (26 page)

A small shiver of apprehension made him turn round. At a few yards a woman was approaching. Behind her were two young men, and overtaking them, with a hurried limp, an old ragged man. Some distance beyond, a group of people were interested or arguing about something. Beyond them, the lights were bright over the roar of a main thoroughfare.

The woman came straight towards him, stopping and enticing him in a wheedling voice. At once he side-stepped, saying: “Sorry.” But she wasn't letting him pass so easily: “Ah, duckie, you darlin', come now! What's all your hurry?” His voice hardened: “No, nothing doing.” But she had him by the lapel of his coat, and spoke on in her beseeching wheedling voice. The old man hurried by. The youths stopped. “That's enough!” said Will firmly, grasping her hand to remove it. In a shrill, choked voice, she cried: “Don't! Don't!” as if she were being hurt.

“What's the game, mate?” asked one of the youths.

Will looked at him. The snout of his cap came down over his left eye. The youth who had followed him from the close! At once he saw the whole thing was a “plant”. But instead of warily meeting the situation, he got angry; body and brain were caught in a flame of anger.

“What's
your
game?” he rapped out.

“Oh-ho! So that's the way is it? Caught you red-handed.”

“You damned tout!” Will took a step forward and was immediately tripped up from behind by the other youth, whom he had forgotten, and fell full length. But it was only four years since he had played his last rugby game, and before he had quite hit the ground his body was gathering and preparing to roll free. He rolled over so swiftly that the boot that was launched at his stomach did no more than graze his ribs. He had picked himself up and was almost upright before the second blow got him, but already he had been staggering away from it, and he kept his feet.

Now he had them! By God, he had them now! With his left, he caught the second youth smash in the face, as he came in. To Will, school boxing had always been an exciting game, and though he lacked weight, the explosive force, he had been agile, had shown a nimble swaying pliancy that was extremely tough and could be backed to do its best in the last round—if it got that length. But it had always been a game (he had refused to go in for championships), a keen singing laughing game of the flesh.

He saw something gleam in the first youth's hand. At sight of the steel, the girl cried out genuinely: “Help! Help!” Will retreated as the youth came for him. The second youth, on his feet, was coming in on his left side. Will pretended not to see him, but whirled round and ducked at the final moment, swinging his right to the pit of the stomach. The youth doubled up and sat down with an astonished grunt. Then Will bolted, the fellow with the razor on his heels. At fifteen yards, when they were stretching towards top speed, Will flopped, and the youth shot clean over him. Instantly Will picked himself up, and dived, grabbing at the right arm and twisting it round, his knee between the shoulders. The razor was not in the hand. He wanted the razor. But now others were closing in. He had to watch himself. The girl came forward crying. He was being surrounded. He got up, with half an eye on the lad on the ground.

“What's this?”

Will looked up swiftly. It was Jamie.

“He tried to do me dirty!” whined the girl.

The youth got up. “The—bastard,” he said, “trying to get something from her for nothing.”

Jamie's face was white and the eyes small, black, and shut in by the gathered eyebrows. He came slowly forward, his mouth puckering tensely. “You bloody swine!” he said. Will saw the hand coming, but it raised no physical response, and the smash of the blow on his face was heard beyond the ring of onlookers. Will staggered, dropped his head, and stood still.

There was a commotion; a girl was pushing herself through, crying shrilly. But no one paid attention to her, for now they were jeering at Will's cowardice.

Jamie was waiting for him with his one hand. And when Will stood, beaten, he said: “Even a rat has some guts. Keep to your own end of the town, you filthy swine!”

But the girl had won through. “You shut up!” she cried to Jamie. “You bloody well shut your mouth!”

“Here—here—what's the row?” asked the fellow she had been with, his burly body barging in.

She swung round on him. “You shut up, too, Jake,” she cried. “This is a dirty plant! I know this chap. It's a dirty plant!”

“Oh, you know him?” said Jake, taking Will's measure. “Hmff! Gode!” His tone implied that there wasn't much to know, but then Jake had been a human punch ball in a boxing camp in his day, had punched and been punched by names in the sporting news, and, though he was forty, the scars on his flattened face still made his companions think twice.

“Yes!” cried Ivy. “I know him! And he's a damned sight decenter than you or the whole pack of you put together. And that's flat!”

“Is he, begod?” said Jake, advancing upon her. “Is he—you black bitch!” He drew up his open hand as if to slap her. The action released Will and before the hand could fall, he stepped forward, caught Jake's uplifted wrist, twisted it swiftly backward over the elbow, and, before any one quite knew how it had happened, Jake was on his back.

A gasp went up from the crowd, of astonishment, of fear, of wild expectation.

“Get out!” said Ivy to Will. “Run!” He smiled to her. “For God's sake,” she cried, “clear out!” In her desperate anxiety, she pushed at him. Jake's hand caught her by the shoulder and whirled her aside. Will landed with all his might between Jake's eyes. Jake staggered back a step, shook his head, and, lowering his forehead, regarded Will with the killer's look.

Instinctively the crowd pushed back out of harm's way and formed a fair-sized ring.

Will was now feeling intensely happy. His blood was singing in him. Three rounds, he knew, would drain away the last ounce of his strength; but for about that time he could go all out. His body and toes had never felt so light. He had never fought with bare fists before, and the jar on his knuckles when he had hit Jake had jangled with joyous pain. For the best of it was, he did not mind what happened. He had no fear of the burly battering-ram of a figure. As he danced around at first, the crowd jeered, and cried to Jake, who was following him like a wary bulldog, head between shoulders, to chassis. But when Jake did step aside and forward and Will, after a duck and a sidestep, lashed in a swift one and danced back, the mob's stupid jeering ceased. Jake's main trouble was too much beer. Even in that poor light, and though he could not read Jake's eyes, Will could see the intention to let out gather in Jake's shoulders like a public announcement. So long as he kept Jake from cornering him, Jake should not hit him. And he must not let Jake rush him to a clinch. Once or twice Will's escape was narrow enough, for the crowd was wildly in Jake's favour, and he had distinctly felt a boot trying to trip him as he dodged back. If they got him down, he was done for. And—gee!—if that one had got him it would have killed him! The missed blow swung Jake almost off his feet, and Will took the opportunity of clipping the right ear with all his pith. Will was scoring steadily, but not damaging Jake so much as his load of beer was doing. Then Jake landed one by a clever feint that was quite a brilliant touch of the old ring days. It sent Will staggering back against the human ropes. A yell went up as Jake went in for the kill, but there was Will dancing away again, spitting blood from his gums, and smiling. If Jake managed the same punch again but with a little more shoulder behind it, Will knew he would be out for the count.

And Jake very nearly did, lashing out with both hands and exposing his face to Will's longer reach in an effort to get near enough to feint, draw Will's counter, and smash. But Will saw the whole thing coming and just saved himself. He knew now that with his bare hands he could never hurt Jake's face—however he might hurt his own knuckles! Jake was panting and the only hope was a body blow to knock the last of the wind out of him. Will was manoeuvring for this when Jake hit him over the heart. He staggered away, for the instant not seeing Jake very well; something soft came swishing about his feet and tripped him and he fell. At the same moment there was a sharp cry of: “The peelers! The peelers!” and feet came surging against his body. Will doubled up, shielding face and vital parts in the scrimmage. The feet kicked him in the back severely and in the groin. Hands came thrusting at his breast-pocket. He bit them. There was a terrific smash on his chest, followed by a kick in the head that sent a thin tongue of flame across a world that vanished in darkness.

W
ill lay in a bed near the end of a long ward in the City infirmary. His bed was against the inner wall, and whenever his eyes opened they gazed at a square of sky, sometimes grey, sometimes blue. He lay on his back so that it was no effort to look at the sky, framed by the top part of the tall window. Its colour seemed to have something to do with his mood. When he was weary and sleepy, it was grey, but when he felt a bit brighter it was blue, and then the stiff dull aches of his body were not so tiresome. At first it was more comforting to be weary and sleepy; but by degrees the blue became less bright, more tender, and he could gaze at it for long periods, forgetting his weariness, forgetting even to blink his eyes.

He was glad when the doctor moved on or the nurse was finished with him, for then he could lie back and, after the turmoil of the visitation had subsided, could open his eyes and gaze at the sky with an added ease. He had not even to think of it as sky; in fact, he did not think of it at all: it was colour and light, far away and high up. Sometimes he so lost himself in this piece of sky that he became the piece of sky himself. It would come down to him, daze him slightly by its near presence, then take him away back with it through the air. He never saw anything on those trips; never wanted to see anything; he just became one with the piece of sky. Now and then it was a lovely airy feeling, and he fell asleep with a smile on his face, like a child in a cradle.

His nurse did not like this habit of childlike gazing. She was a well set-up, buxom girl from the Lewis, with plenty of energy, but with dark soft eyes. Her voice, too, was soft and pleasant, even when she made it cheerfully peremptory. But he did not want to bother with her very much, and was always glad to be left alone. Often he pretended not to be aware of her presence, particularly if the sister was with her; and one day he heard her say: “I don't like the way he lies there gazing for hours at the sky.”

“Why?” asked Sister coolly.

“I don't know,” said Nurse, with discomfort in her voice.

“Have you a superstition that he is to be taken away?” asked Sister, with light but penetrating irony.

“Oh no,” said Nurse, obviously sorry now she had spoken.

“Forget it then,” said Sister.

For the first time, a faint humour spread through Will, and that evening, as Nurse was going off, he beckoned to her.

“Do you think”, he asked in a solemn, if weak, whisper, “that I am to be taken away?”

Her eyes opened wide in dismay. “Oh no! What nonsense! You——” Then she looked at him more closely. “Are you trying to have me on?”

He wrinkled his brows as in vague lack of understanding, but could not keep the humour from welling in his eyes.

“You are!” she said. “You overheard me talking to Sister?”

He smiled at her, and a blush went right over her face. She nodded with business-like decision. “My lad,” she murmured, putting the sheets unnecessarily straight, “you watch if I won't sort you for this!” But her decisive tone did not seem at all vindictive.

“You have a soft way with you, Nurse.”

“Soft, did you say? I'll soft you before you leave here.”

“And——”

“Yes?”

“You are rather charming.”

She regarded him sternly. “None of your impertinence, young man, or I'll report you to Sister.”

“That's one thing you won't do anyway,” said Will, and closed his eyes. He opened them as she moved off and gave her the ghost of a wink. She looked very indignant.

The effect of this humour, the surprise of it, came back into his mind now and then. It was an odd new experience, like something softer to lie on, and his back was often painful enough. He did not care so much for the night nurse. She was too practical, too competent, and had no soft colour or light about her. During the night, however, when the sky was shut out, his eyes would roam occasionally over the other beds in the long ward.

His early reluctance to know anything about those beds, or the people in them, or what went on around him, was partly a desire to be left alone, to be left alone, for example, with the sky. This reluctance began to be pierced, not so much with human curiosity, as with the strange night pattern the ward made, the passage between the double row of beds up which the white-clad figure came, the dim light; everywhere whiteness and straight lines. It had provided him with an austere satisfaction, unearthly as his mood, but sometimes now when a voice moaned in its sleep or in pain, the mood was touched with an unearthly sadness.

Then one day Sister came up the ward with a tall broad man, and said to Will brightly: “I have brought a friend to see you.”

Will looked at the man and murmured: “Nice of you.” He did not want to be intruded upon by strangers.

“He says he has met you once or twice, but probably you have forgotten him,” Sister explained, watching Will.

The man was looking at him with a friendly steady smile. “We met at political meetings. My name is Joe, Joe Wilson.”

Will's brows troubled for a moment. “I seem to know your face,” he said politely.

“The Labour Rooms committee meeting,” Joe explained. “And once down by the river. I had to see a fellow called Jamie, who had lost an arm in an accident.” He spoke slowly. “You may not remember the circumstances. Jamie came for me the night you had your accident and told me all about it, so I thought I'd come along and see how you were getting on.”

“Thank you,” said Will. “I am getting along very well. They are quite good to me here.” He acknowledged Sister with a vague smile.

“He's quite a good patient,” she said to Joe pleasantly. “But he doesn't seem to remember anything about the accident. It must have come upon him very suddenly, for it's a complete blank. No wonder, in a way, because he got a bad smashing.”

“Did he?” said Joe. “Was there much damage?”

“You would think a herd of cattle had gone over him. But only two ribs broken. Wasn't he lucky?”

“He was indeed.” Joe smiled to Will. “You don't remember much about it?”

“No,” muttered Will, with a certain uneasiness, as if the conversation were aleady tiring him.

“You don't remember Mr. Wilson?” Sister asked Will.

“No,” he replied and let his head fall inertly back.

Sister gave Joe a significant look, and then said: “I have never got the right story about it. What exactly were the details?”

Joe spoke quietly to her, as if his remarks were meant for her alone. Will had closed his eyes. He went over the main incidents of the scene and fight as Jamie had described them to him.

“And who was this girl, Ivy?” Sister asked.

“Just a girl of the streets,” said Joe.

“She knew him?”

“Yes.”

Will had opened his eyes again and was staring at the patch of sky.

“Well,” said Sister, “wasn't it nice of Mr. Wilson to come and see you?”

“Yes. Thanks very much,” muttered Will.

“Good-bye,” said Joe. “I'll look in again to see how you're getting along.”

Will moved restlessly, but when they had gone he was relieved, and in a very short time had forgotten all about Joe's visit.

When he saw his day nurse coming towards him, he closed his eyes.

“So you've had a visitor, I hear,” she said cheerfully.

He did not open his eyes. She was going to add something, but thought better of it and left him.

When he saw the usual stately procession approaching of surgeon, house surgeon, sister, and, this time, two nurses, he felt himself getting stupidly tired, and what responses he gave were dull and automatic.

The surgeon was obviously puzzled. “I wonder now?” he said. “His symptoms don't seem to fit a simple case of concussion and exhaustion. Could there be a psychological factor involved also, do you think? A defence mechanism of some sort? Probably quite unconnected with what we have heard about him so far.”

“The scene”, replied the houseman, “was certainly rather extraordinary for a fellow in his position. Before he landed himself in it, I can't help thinking there must have been some unusual urge. I have talked to one or two of his friends. They were amazed. Sister here.…”

There came a thoughtful muttering from the surgeon to the effect that it seemed outside his province now. “… Better ask a psychologist to come up—probably Ross—he is good with this type of case.…”

Will caught the drift of the talk but without much real interest. There was a barrier made out of mist, behind his mind. And they had no idea of the energy it was going to take to tear it away.

A man trying to see the earth through a floor of white cloud. Well, he just couldn't see it.… And there was no great point in seeing it anyway, so long as he could see the blue sky and fly in light. Effort and stress would come soon enough.…

On the next visiting day, Joe came back. Will did not know him, and, to get over the discomfort of worrying over why he did not know him—for his loss of memory had now been openly discussed and the psychologist had sympathetically tried to get him to co-operate—he let Joe talk.

When Joe's head went up, Will followed the astonished look on his face. Nurse Macleod was bringing a girl visitor, and presently announced her as a friend to see him.

She was dark, with a rather thin face, made up, but not too noticeably. Her eyes were very bright; glittered, in fact, as if they had been washed in a drug. Her defensive manner, slightly, if unnaturally, militant, suffered an awkward moment when she looked at Will's bandaged head. He had been shaved that morning, and his face was death-pale and frail. His eyes gleamed at her from between half-closed lids; then automatically a tired smile came upon his face and it broke her stare.

The nurse tried to put her at ease. “He is getting on very well.”

“I'd be all right,” said Will, “only I have a difficult time with my nurse. You don't happen to be a nurse?”

“No,” she said.

He looked at her. “May I ask your name?”

“Ivy.”

His brows gathered for a moment. Then he slowly oscillated his head. “The old mechanism refuses to function.”

“It's all right,” she said. “I didn't think you would remember me. But I——”

“Please don't be upset because I don't remember.”

“I'm not upset—about that,” said Ivy, struggling with the emotions that the unusual situation was generating in her. “I only came because I hoped to be able to help you.” She looked mistrustfully at Nurse Macleod and at Joe.

“You may as well say it to me, too,” said Joe. “I'm looking after the case, as you know.”

Nurse Macleod withdrew, a little against her inclination, for she had heard about Ivy and had been taking long side looks at her.

“I know who did it,” Ivy said to Joe quickly. “I've got his pocket-book back. There's no money in it, but—I know. And I'll swear it. I'll go into court.”

“That's plucky of you,” said Joe. “That
is
plucky. But don't get that lot against you. You haven't told any one?”

“What do you think? How was I going to get the pocketbook back, unless I tore it out of the bas——, out of the fellow? I frightened him a whole lot,” concluded Ivy, correctly.

Joe smiled. “All right, Ivy. If you come and have tea with me when we go out, we'll get down to the business. We must be very careful what we say, and for goodness' sake don't let the police know what you know. Not any one.”

“Not likely!… But—why?”

“Well, you see, you know him.” He nodded towards Will. “Tell me, do you think he's capable of squashing the whole thing in order to save any one, even the young bastard who did it on him?”

Ivy looked at Will, then she looked away. “He is,” she had to acknowledge, nervously twisting the handle of her black bag.

“So what can we do? By the way, have you his pocketbook?”

“Yes. Will I take it out here?”

Joe nodded and Ivy produced a brown leather pocketbook. Joe opened it and then handed it to Will. “You don't happen to know this?”

Will slowly examined it. It was quite empty; money, visiting cards, stamps and odds and ends, all gone. “Can't say I know it,” he replied.

“Will I stick to it?” Joe asked Ivy.

She looked at him keenly, and then decided to trust him.

“This is simply a piece of evidence for the accident you were in,” Joe explained to Will.

Will smiled, but now a trifle wearily.

Joe looked at Ivy. “Well, I'll have to go. Would you care to come now or——”

Ivy glanced at Will, and found him staring down the ward with a terrible intensity. The nurse was walking towards them, accompanied by a tall golden girl carrying a small bunch of long-stemmed daffodils.

They came right to the bedside, but Nurse Macleod's cheerful words about another visitor were left unspoken in her amazement at the concentration of Will's gaze on the visitor's face. The concentration was so naked, so burningly intense in the eyes, that it was extremely painful even to look at. Then his body caught the concentration and strained upward a few inches, the head actually leaving the pillow, and hung there a moment, before it dropped back in a dead slump.

The nurse immediately went to him, and, turning round after a few seconds, said with an audible expulsion of breath. “It's only a faint, I think. Please go.”

As Jenny turned from the death-pale face and bandaged head, she met Ivy's eyes. For a few moments the two women looked at each other. Automatically Jenny's small social smile came to her face and, passing Ivy, she walked up the ward carrying her daffodils.

Though Jenny's advent “shocked” the memory into him, Will could see that the doctor or house surgeon was more worried than ever about him. He was sorry in a way, for he liked the doctor. Obviously he had been a country lad, not because his speech was without trace of the characteristic rhythm of the City speech, but because of the way he looked and held his head. Will could feel the country wind blowing about the head and shoulders, smoothing and shaping them, knitting the eyebrows over the sea-coloured eyes, that concentrated and stared. He was truly concerned about Will, but also he did not like to be beaten. More than that, he had contrived to make it plain that if a person in Will's condition had made up his mind to die, then nothing could stop his dying, and yet he wanted to make Will live despite himself. Had they been boys in the country they would have had a fight over it and the doctor would probably have walloped him!