An Indecent Obsession (2 page)

Well, that was it. He was launched. Frail human ship, frailer than most or he wouldn’t be here, setting his sails into the storms and swells and calms of ward X. God help him, she thought. There doesn’t look to be a thing the matter with him, but there must be. He’s quiet, yes, but that seems natural to him. And there is a strength, a core of resilience quite undamaged. Which in my duration on ward X is unique.

She looked sternly from one man to another. ‘Don’t be so touchy,’ she said. ‘Give poor Michael half a chance.’

Subsiding onto the bench, Neil Parkinson laughed, and slewed himself sideways so he could keep one eye on Luce while he addressed his remarks to the latest recruit.

‘
Chance?
’ he asked. ‘Oh, Sis, come off it! What sort of chance do you call it to wind up in here? Ward X, this salubrious establishment in which you find yourself, Sergeant Wilson, is really limbo. Milton defined limbo as a paradise of fools, which fits us to a tee. And we wander our limbo about as much use to the world and the war as tits on a bull.’

He paused to check the effect of his oratory on Michael, who still stood beside Sister Langtry: a fine young man in his full tropical uniform, his expression interested but undismayed. Normally Neil was kinder than this, and would have served as buffer between the newcomer and the other men. But Michael Wilson didn’t fit the X mold. He was not uncertain, emotionally impoverished, dazed, any of the multitude of things he might have been and still fitted. Indeed, Michael Wilson looked like a hard, fit, young but veteran soldier in full possession of his wits and in no need of the concern Sister Langtry was plainly suffering on his behalf.

Ever since the news had come several days ago of the cessation of hostilities with Japan, Neil had felt the anguish of time outstripping him, of decisions not yet satisfactorily made, of strengths returning but untested. What time was left to Base Fifteen and ward X he needed, every second of it, without the disruption a new man was bound to cause.

‘You don’t look troppo to me,’ he said to Michael.

‘Nor to me,’ said Luce with a chuckle, and leaned to poke the blind man in the ribs a little too hard and viciously. ‘Does he look troppo to you, Matt?’ he asked.

‘Cut that out!’ snapped Neil, his attention diverted.

Luce’s chuckle became a laugh; he threw back his head and roared, a barrage of sound without amusement.

‘That’s
enough!
’ said Sister Langtry sharply. She looked down at Neil, found nothing to help her, and then looked at each of the others in turn. But their resistance was complete, they were determined to show themselves to the new patient in prickly, squabbling disorder. At such times her impotence tormented her, yet experience had taught her never to push them too hard. Moods like this never lasted, and the worse the mood, the stronger the swing in an opposite direction was likely to be when it was over.

She finished her scansion of the group with Michael, and discovered his eyes on her intently, which was a little disquieting too, for unlike most new patients, his eyes had erected no walls to hide behind, held no rudderless plea for help; he was simply staring at her as a man might regard a charming novelty, or a pup, or some other article of great sentimental appeal but little practical value.

‘Do sit down,’ she said to him, smiling, concealing the irritation she felt at being so dismissed. ‘You’re probably weak at the knees by now.’

He picked up immediately the fact that her comment about being weak at the knees was more a reprimand to the other men than sympathy directed at himself, which surprised her. But she got him settled in a chair facing Neil and the others, then seated herself where she could see Neil, Michael, Luce and Benedict, and leaned forward, unconsciously smoothing the grey cesarine of her uniform.

Used to focussing her attention on those among them who seemed to warrant it at any particular time, she made a mental note that Ben was beginning to look restless and distraught. Matt and Nugget had the happy knack of ignoring the bickering which was a permanent thing between Neil and Luce, where Ben flinched from the discord, and if it was allowed to go on would become very distressed.

Luce’s eyes, half shut, were dwelling on her with the kind of chilling sexual familiarity her whole character, upbringing and training found offensive, though since being in ward X she had learned to suppress her disgust, had become more interested in discovering just what made a man stare at her so. However, Luce was a special case of it; she had never managed to make any headway with him at all, and sometimes felt a little guilty for not trying harder. That she did not try harder she readily admitted was a consequence of the fact that during his first week in ward X he had fooled her gloriously. That she came to her senses quickly and with no harm done either to him or to herself could not mitigate her original lack of judgment. Luce had a power, and he stirred a timorousness in her which she hated to feel but had perforce to endure.

With an effort she turned her gaze away from Luce and back to Ben; what she saw in his long dark drawn face caused her to glance casually down at her watch, which she wore pinned to the breast of her uniform. ‘Ben, would you mind seeing what’s become of the kitchen orderly, please?’ she asked. ‘Dinner’s late.’

He got jerkily to his feet, nodded to her solemnly, and stalked inside.

As if the movement had triggered some other train of thought in him, Luce sat up straighter, opened his yellowish eyes fully, and let them drift to Michael. From Michael they wandered to Neil, then back to Sister Langtry, where they rested very thoughtfully, no sexuality in them now.

Sister Langtry cleared her throat. ‘You’re wearing a lot of spaghetti, Michael. When did you join up? In the first batch?’ she asked.

His hair was cut very short and glittered like pale metal; his skull was beautiful, and he had the sort of face which made an onlooker think of bones rather than flesh, yet it didn’t have the death’s-head look of Benedict’s face. There were fine lines in the skin around the eyes, and two deep lines furrowing between cheeks and nose. A man, not a boy, but the lines were premature. Single-minded sort of chap, probably. His eyes were grey, not the changeful camouflaging color of Luce’s eyes, which could turn green or yellow; an ageless and remorseless grey, very still, very self-controlled, very intelligent. Sister Langtry absorbed all that in the fraction of a second it took him to draw breath to reply, unaware that every eye was fixed on her and her interest in the newcomer, even the eyes of blind Matt.

‘Yes, I was in the first batch,’ said Michael.

Nugget completely abandoned the dog-eared nursing dictionary he had been pretending on and off to read, and turned his head sideways to stare fixedly at Michael; Neil’s flexible brows rose.

‘You’ve had a long war,’ said Sister Langtry. ‘Six years of it. How do you feel about it now?’

‘I’ll be glad to get out,’ he said, matter-of-fact.

‘But you were anxious to go in the beginning.’

‘Yes.’

‘When did your feelings about it change?’

He looked at her as if he thought her question incredibly naive, but he answered courteously enough, shrugging. ‘It’s one’s duty, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, duty!’ sneered Neil. ‘That most indecent of all obsessions! Ignorance got us in, and duty kept us in. I would love to see a world that raised its children to believe the first duty is to oneself.’

‘Well, I’m darned if I’d raise my children to believe that!’ said Michael sharply.

‘I’m not preaching hedonism nor advocating the total abandonment of ethics!’ said Neil impatiently. ‘I’d just like to see the establishment of a world less prone to slaughter the flower of its manhood, that’s all.’

‘All right, I’ll grant you that and agree with you,’ said Michael, relaxing. ‘I’m sorry, I misunderstood you.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Luce, who never missed an opportunity to irritate Neil. ‘Words, words, words! Is that how you scored all your kills, Neil, by talking them to death?’

‘What would you know about kills, you sideshow freak? It’s not a duck shoot! They had to drag you into the army squealing like a stuck pig all the way, and then you dug yourself into a nice cushy job well behind the lines, didn’t you? You make me sick!’

‘Not as sick as you make me, you stuck-up bastard,’ snarled Luce. ‘One of these days I’m going to have your balls for breakfast!’

Neil’s mood altered magically; his anger fell away, his eyes began to dance. ‘My dear old chap, it really wouldn’t be worth the effort,’ he drawled. ‘You see, they’re such
little
ones.’

Nugget sniggered, Matt whooped, Michael laughed aloud, and Sister Langtry dipped her head suddenly downward to look desperately at her lap.

Then, composure recovered, she terminated the exchange. ‘Gentlemen, your language tonight is offensive,’ she said, cool and crisp. ‘Five years in the army may have improved my education, but my feelings are as fine as they ever were. When I am within earshot, you will kindly refrain from bad language.’ She turned to glare fiercely at Michael. ‘That goes for you too, Sergeant.’

Michael looked at her, quite unintimidated. ‘Yes, Sister,’ he said obediently, and grinned.

The grin was so infectiously likeable, so…
sane
, that she sparkled.

Luce got to his feet in a movement which was both naturally and artificially graceful, slid between Neil and Benedict’s vacant chair, and leaned over to ruffle Michael’s hair impudently. Michael made no attempt to jerk away, nor indeed showed anger, but suddenly there was a quick, guarded watchfulness about him—a hint perhaps that here was someone not to be played with? wondered Sister Langtry, fascinated.

‘Oh, you’ll get on!’ Luce said, and turned to look derisively at Neil. ‘I do believe you’ve got yourself a bit of competition, Captain Oxford University! Good! He’s a late starter, but the winning post’s not in sight yet, is it?’

‘Push off!’ said Neil violently, hands closing into fists. ‘Go on, damn you, push off!’

Luce got himself past Michael and Sister Langtry with a boneless sideways twist and headed for the door, where he collided with Benedict and stepped back with a gasp, as if he had been burned. He recovered quickly, lifting his lip contemptuously, but standing to one side with a bow and a flourish.

‘How does it feel to be a killer of old men and little children, Ben?’ he asked, then disappeared inside.

Benedict stood so starkly alone, so devastated, that for the first time since entering ward X Michael experienced a stirring of deep feeling; the look in those quenched black eyes moved him profoundly. Maybe that’s because this is the first honest emotion I’ve seen, he thought. The poor bastard! He looks the way I feel, as if someone has switched off all the light inside.

As Benedict moved to his chair with a monk-like shuffle, hands folded one on top of the other across his midriff, Michael’s gaze followed, studying the dark face intently. It was so eaten away, so consumed by what went on behind it, so very pitiable. And though they were not alike, Michael found himself suddenly reminded of Colin, and he wanted so badly to help that he willed the withdrawing eyes to look back at him; when they did, he smiled.

‘Don’t let Luce get your goat, Ben,’ said Neil. ‘He’s nothing more than a very lightweight twerp.’

‘He’s
evil
,’ said Benedict, bringing the word out as if it chewed its way into utterance.

‘So are we all, depending how you look at us,’ said Neil tranquilly.

Sister Langtry got up; Neil was good with Matt and Nugget, but somehow with Ben he never managed to hit the right note. ‘Did you find out what’s happened to dinner, Ben?’ she asked.

For a moment the monk became a boy; Benedict’s eyes warmed and widened as they looked at Sister Langtry with unshadowed affection. ‘It’s coming, Sis, it’s coming!’ he said, and grinned, grateful for the consideration which had prompted her to send him on the errand.

Her eyes on Ben were soft; then she turned away. ‘I’ll help you get your stuff sorted out, Michael,’ she said, stepping inside. However, she wasn’t quite finished with the group on the verandah yet. ‘Gentlemen, since dinner’s late, I think you had better have it inside, shirts on and sleeves rolled down. Otherwise you won’t beat the mossies.’

Though he would rather have remained on the verandah to see what the group was like when she wasn’t present, Michael took her request as an order and followed her into the ward.

His webbing, his pack and his kit bag lay on the bed. Arms folded, standing to watch him. Sister Langtry noticed the methodical ease with which he proceeded to dispose of his possessions; he commenced with the small haversack attached to his webbing and unearthed toothbrush, a grimy but precious morsel of soap, tobacco, shaving tackle, all of which he stowed neatly in the drawer of his locker.

‘Did you have any idea what you were getting into?’ she asked.

‘Well, I’ve seen plenty of blokes go troppo, but it isn’t the same thing as this. This is a troppo ward?’

‘Yes,’ she said gently.

He undid the roll of his blanket and groundsheet from the top of his pack, then began to remove socks, underwear, a towel, clean shirts, trousers and shorts from the pack’s interior. As he worked he spoke again. ‘Funny, the desert never sent a tenth as many men around the bend as the jungle. Though it stands to reason, I suppose. The desert doesn’t hem you in; it’s a lot easier to live with.’

‘That’s why they call it troppo… tropical… jungle.’ She continued to watch him. ‘Fill your locker with what you’ll need. There’s a cupboard over there the rest can go in. I’ve got the key, so if you need anything, just yell… They’re not as bad as they must seem.’

‘They’re all right.’ A faint smile turned one corner of his nice mouth up. ‘I’ve been in a lot loonier places and predicaments.’

‘Don’t you resent this?’

He straightened, holding his spare pair of boots, and looked directly at her. ‘The war’s over, Sister. I’ll be going home soon anyway, and at this stage I’m so fed up I don’t much care where I wait it out.’ He gazed around the room. ‘It’s better housing than camp by a long shot, and the climate’s better than Borneo. I haven’t slept in a decent bed in ages.’ One hand went up, flicked the folds of mosquito netting. ‘All the comforts of home, and a mum too! No, I don’t resent it.’