An Indecent Obsession (35 page)

She wanted to shriek: But I didn’t stop caring about you! I didn’t, I didn’t! All I wanted was something for myself for a change! There’s only so much you can go on giving without taking something for yourself, Neil! It didn’t seem a very large something at the time. My tenure in X was ending. And I loved him. Oh, God, I’m so tired of giving, giving! Why couldn’t you be generous enough to let me have something too?

But she couldn’t say any of it. Instead, she leaped to her feet and headed for the door, anywhere to get away from him. He grasped at her wrist in passing; swung her round and held her hard, grinding the bones of both her hands cruelly until she ceased to struggle.

‘You see?’ he asked softly, his grip slackening, his fingers sliding up her arms. ‘I’ve just held you a lot harder than Ben probably had to hold Luce, and I don’t think you’ll have any bruises.’

She looked up into his face, a long way further than Michael’s would have been, for Neil was very tall. His expression was both serious and aloof, as if he knew well all that she was feeling, and didn’t blame her. But as if, like a priest-king of old, he was fully prepared to endure anything in order to achieve the ultimate end.

Until this interview she had not even begun to understand what sort of man Neil was; how much passion and determination lay in him. Nor the depth of his feelings for her. Perhaps he had hidden his hurt too skillfully, perhaps, as he charged, her absorption in Michael had made it all too easy for her to assure herself Neil was not devastated by her defection. He had been devastated. Yet it had not prevented him from moving to contain the threat Michael presented. It had not stopped his functioning. Bravo, Neil!

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, sounding quite matter-of-fact. ‘I don’t seem to have the strength left to wring my hands as I say it, or weep, or go down on my knees to you. But I
am
sorry. More than you’ll ever know. I’m too sorry to try to justify myself. All I can say is that we, those who care for you, our patients, can be as blind and misguided as any patient who ever walked through the door of a ward X. You mustn’t think of me as a goddess, some kind of infallible being. I’m not. None of us are!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘But oh, Neil, you have no idea how I wish we were!’

He gave her a light hug, kissed her brow, and let her go. ‘Well, it’s done, and you know the old saying—even the gods can’t unscramble eggs. I feel better for speaking my piece. But I’m sorry too. It’s no joy for me to find that I can hurt you, even though you don’t love me.’

‘I wish I could love you,’ she said.

‘But you can’t. I know. It’s inescapable. You saw me the way I was when I first came to X, and it put me under a liability to you I don’t suppose I’d ever cancel, even if there had been no Michael. You fell for him because he started out as a man for you—a whole man. He never hid himself away, or blubbered with self-pity, or completely unmanned himself. You never had to change his pants or clean up his messes or listen for long boring hours at a time to a litany of his woes—the same woes you must have heard from two dozen men just like me.’

‘Oh, please!’ she cried. ‘I have never, never thought of it—or you—like that!’

‘It’s how I think of myself, looking back. I
am
able to look back now. So it’s probably a more accurate picture of me than you’re prepared to admit. But I’m cured, you know. From where I’m standing now I can’t even see why it ever happened to me in the first place.’

‘That’s good,’ she said, walking to the door. ‘Neil, please, can we make this goodbye? Right now, I mean. And can you manage to take it for what it is, not a sign of dislike or neglect or lack of love? It’s just been the sort of day I want desperately to see end. And I find I can’t end it with you. I’d rather not see you again. Not for any other reason than it would be like holding a wake. Ward X is no more.’

He accompanied her out into the corridor. ‘Then I shall hold my own wake. If you ever feel you’d like to see me, you’ll find me in Melbourne. The address is in the phone book. Toorak, Parkinson, N.L.G. It took me a long time to find the right woman. I’m thirty-seven years old, so I’m not likely to change my mind in a hurry.’ He laughed. ‘How could I ever forget you? I’ve never kissed you.’

‘Then kiss me now,’ she said, almost loving him. Almost.

‘No. You’re right. Ward X is no more, but I’m still standing in its uncooled corpse. What you’re offering is a favor, and I want no favors. Never any favors.’

She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Neil. All the best of luck. But I’m sure you’ll have it.’

He took the offered hand, shook it warmly, then lifted it and kissed it lightly. ‘Goodbye, Honour. Don’t ever forget—I’m in the Melbourne phone book.’

The last trek from X across the compound; one never really thought it would come to that, even after one began to long for it. As if Base Fifteen represented a segment of life as huge as life itself. Now it was over. And it had ended with Neil, which was only fitting. That was quite a man. Yet she could see the truth in his saying he had started out with a big disadvantage. She
had
thought of him chiefly as a patient. And lumped him in with the rest. Poor, sad, frail… Now to find him none of those things was exhilarating. He implied his cure had come out of the situation in X during the last few weeks of its duration, but that wasn’t true. His cure had come out of himself. The cure always did. So, in spite of the grief, the horror, and the pain, she commenced this last trek feeling as if ward X had existed for a purpose, a good purpose.

Neil hadn’t even bothered to ask her whether she was going to try to exact the justice he felt was already done and she felt had been miscarried. Too late by far. Thank God Michael had told her! Knowing what they had done had freed her from a large measure of the guilt she might otherwise have preserved over her conduct toward them. If they thought she had betrayed them in turning to Michael, she knew they had betrayed her. For the rest of their lives they would have to live with Luce Daggett. So would she. Neil hadn’t wanted her told because he feared her brand of intervention would liberate Michael, and because he genuinely wished to spare her a share of the guilt. Half good, half bad. Half self, half non-self. About normal, that was.

Part 7

1

When Honour Langtry got off the train in Yass there was no one to meet her, which didn’t dismay her; she hadn’t let her family know she was coming. Loving them was one thing, facing them quite another, and she preferred to face them in private. This was childhood she was coming back to, and it seemed so very far away. How would they see her now? What would they think? So she had put the moment of reunion off. Her father’s property wasn’t far out of town; someone would give her a lift.

Someone did, but he was no one she knew, which meant she could sit back and enjoy the fifteen-mile drive in peace. By the time she arrived home the family would know she was back, of course; the stationmaster had welcomed her with open arms, found her the lift, and undoubtedly telephoned ahead that she was on her way.

They were all gathered on the front verandah, waiting: her father growing stouter and balder; her mother looking exactly the same; her brother Ian a younger, slimmer edition of her father. There were hugs, kisses, much standing back to look, exclamations and sentences that never got finished because someone else interrupted.

It was only after a fatted-calf sort of dinner that some semblance of normality returned; Charlie Langtry and his son went to bed, for their days began at dawn, while Faith Langtry followed her daughter to her bedroom, there to sit and watch her unpack. And talk.

Honour’s room was pleasant and unpretentious; however, it was large and had had money spent on it. No particular skill with color or line had been applied when the money had been spent, but the big bed looked comfortable, so did the chintz-covered easy chair in which Faith Langtry sat. There was a highly polished old table with a wooden carver chair to serve as a work area, a vast wardrobe, a full-length mirror on a stand, a small dressing table, and one more easy chair.

While Honour moved around between wardrobe, dressing table drawers and her suitcases on the bed, her mother sat fully absorbing her daughter’s appearance for the first time since her arrival home. Of course there had been periods of leave during the years in the army, but their lack of permanence, their atmosphere of urgency, had permitted no real and lasting impressions. This was different; Faith Langtry could look her fill without applying half her mind to what had to be fitted in tomorrow, or how they were all going to get through the next period of duty for Honour when it was bound to be dangerous. Ian hadn’t been able to go into the army, he was needed on the land. But when she was born, thought Faith Langtry, I never realized it would be my daughter I sent to a war. My firstborn. Sex isn’t as different or as important as it used to be.

Each time she had come home they had noticed changes, from the atabrine yellow in her skin to the little tics and habits which branded her an adult, her own woman. Six years. God knows exactly what those six years had contained, for Honour had never wanted to talk about the war when she came home, and if asked, parried the questions lightly. But whatever they might have contained, as Faith Langtry looked at Honour now she understood that her daughter had forever moved farther than the moon from the place which had been her home.

She was thin; that was to be expected, of course. There were lines in the face, though there was no sign of grey in her hair, thank God. She was stern without being hard, extraordinarily decisive in the way she moved, locked away without being withdrawn. And though she could never be a stranger, she was someone different.

How glad they had been when she chose to do nursing rather than medicine! Thinking of the suffering that decision would spare their daughter. But had she done medicine she would have stayed at home, and looking at Honour now, Faith wondered if that might not have meant less suffering in the long run.

Her service medals came out, and her decorations—how bizarre to have a
daughter
who was a Member of the British Empire! And how proud Charlie and Ian would be!

‘You never told me of your MBE,’ Faith said, a little reproachfully.

Honour looked up, surprised. ‘Didn’t I? I must have just forgotten. Things were pretty busy around that time; I had to hurry through my letters. Anyway, it’s only recently been confirmed.’

‘Have you any photos, darling?’

‘Somewhere.’ Honour fished in the pocket of a case, and produced two envelopes, one much larger than the other. ‘Here we are.’ She came across to the second easy chair and sat down, reaching for her cigarettes.

‘That’s Sally and Teddy and Willa and me… That’s the Boss at Lae… Me in Darwin, about to take off for I can’t remember where… Moresby… The nursing staff on Morotai… The outside of ward X…’

‘You look wonderful in a slouch hat, I must say.’

‘They’re more comfortable than veils, probably because they have to come off the minute you walk inside.’

‘What’s in the other envelope? More photos?’

Honour’s hand hovered as if not sure whether to take both envelopes away without revealing the contents of the second, bigger one; after a slight hesitation she opened it. ‘No, not photos. Some drawings of some of my patients from ward X—my last command, if I can put it that way.’

‘They’re marvelously well done,’ said Faith, looking at each face closely, but, Honour was relieved to see, passing over Michael as if he held no more significance for her than any of the others—but how could he? And how strange, that she had fully expected her mother to see what she had seen that first meeting in the corridor of ward X.

‘Who did them?’ asked Faith, putting them down.

‘This chap,’ said Honour, riffling through them and putting Neil on top of the sheaf. ‘Neil Parkinson. It’s not very good; he failed miserably when it came to drawing himself.’

‘It’s good enough for his face to remind me of someone, or else I’ve actually seen him somewhere. Where does he come from?’

‘Melbourne. I gather his father’s quite a tycoon.’

‘Longland Parkinson!’ said Faith triumphantly. ‘I’ve met this chap, then. The Melbourne Cup in 1939. He was with his mother and father that year, in uniform. I’ve met Frances—his mother—several times in Melbourne at one do or another.’

What had Michael said? That in her world she met men like Neil, not men like himself. How odd. She might indeed in the course of time have met Neil socially. Had there not been a war.

Faith leafed through the pile again, found the sketch she was looking for and laid it down on top of Neil. ‘Who is this, Honour? That face! The expression in his eyes!’ She sounded almost spellbound. ‘I don’t know whether I like him, but it’s a fascinating face.’

‘Sergeant Lucius Daggett. Luce. He was—he committed suicide not long before Base Fifteen folded up.’ Oh, God! She had nearly said he was murdered.

‘Poor chap. I wonder what could have led him to do that? He looks so—well, above that sort of thing.’ Faith gave her back the drawings. ‘I must say I like them much better than photos. Arms and legs don’t tell you nearly as much about people as faces do, and I always find myself squinting at photos to try to see the faces, and all I ever do manage to see is blobs. Who was your personal favorite among that lot?’

The temptation was too great to resist; Honour found Michael and held the drawing out to her mother. ‘That one. Sergeant Michael Wilson.’

‘Really?’ asked Faith, looking at her daughter doubtfully. ‘Well, you knew them all in the flesh, of course. A fine chap, I can see that… He looks like a station hand.’

Bravo, Michael! thought Honour. There speaks the wealthy grazier’s wife who meets Neil Parkinson at the races and knows her social strata instinctively, about as well as anyone can without being a snob. Because Mummy’s not a snob.

‘He’s a dairy farmer,’ she said.

‘Oh, that accounts for the look of the land.’ Faith sighed, stretched. ‘Are you tired, darling?’