Mad Joy (13 page)

I took Philip back on the evening bus. Gracie was jittery about it, accepting that it was the right thing to do, but clearly inconsolable that this poor young man should cut short her time with me. Just before I left she gave me a pale blue cardigan she had knitted with a matching short-sleeved jersey – a delicate magnum opus on number 13 needles and four-ply. She also gave me a maroon silk dress with a beautifully shaped bodice; another long-term project of hers. She begged me to try it on, and I did. I could have wept. There wasn’t time to pay the tribute it deserved. I could only turn about in front of the mirror and look at her gratefully, one eye on the clock and the last bus.

‘I hope it’s all right,’ she kept saying, ‘I hope it’s not too short,’ which was her desperate bid to prolong the process, to transform my reaction into the long delighted one she had been picturing for months. ‘Well, I can always alter it for you.’

It is hard to say what attracted me to Philip Bird. Perhaps it was his wistful grey eyes, his handsome jaw, or just a deep sense of pity for him. He seemed so lost and at sea. But then again, maybe there was an intrigue about him. My curiosity never
could resist a challenge. My injured airman was desperately unhappy about something, so unhappy he had wanted to put his life in danger and escape: and he had come to me.

When we reached the little hospital, Philip was surprisingly compliant. He allowed himself to be led away, head down without a fuss. The nurse at reception asked me if I wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, for Dr Rowse would probably want to have a word. I looked at her white veil clipped back from her face. Her eyes were little dark beads and her beak stuck out like a falcon’s. ‘… would like a word with you.’ I felt suddenly nauseous. I could feel the pulse in my head speeding up and I thought I would faint. I wanted to run, but I sat down heavily on a wooden bench instead.

‘Are you all right?’ she was saying, her face horribly close to mine as she bent down. ‘Would you like a lie-down – or some water?’

When I dared to look at her again, she had a gentle, plain face, and I could see she was barely older than I was and away from home. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’

Then the doctor emerged from one of the doors and came and shook my hand. He sat next to me for ten minutes and asked me a series of questions about Philip. What state had he been in when I found him? Had he fainted at all over the last twenty-four hours? Had he been nauseous? Had he been tearful?

I answered his questions as best I could, and then he asked if I would mind going to see Philip because he’d been asking for me. I was tired, but flattered, so I followed the doctor through a large oak door which he opened with a key.

‘Have you locked him in?’ I asked, startled.

‘Oh no! His old bed’s been taken up already, I’m afraid, what with the BEF returning home. So we’ve put him on his own. This just happens to be the drugs wing. Wouldn’t want anyone getting in here. We’re short on supplies as it is.’

Dr Rowse had a way of looking at me which made me uncomfortable. Not only was it patronizing, but it also
managed
to tell me that, although I was an experienced driver, exhausted by the day’s events and desperate for a cup of tea, I was first and foremost a sexual being brimming with lust and tempting him with my breasts, my hips and my hopelessly feminine being. I made sure he was in front, and as we reached the last door he opened it and turned, placing his hand very low down on my back. ‘This way … that’s it.’

The space he left for me to go past him was so small, his face came right up to mine and I could smell the strong fetid scent of him. I was nauseous again. The white coat. The smell. The door. ‘… that’s it …’

I swallowed hard, and was about to turn on my heels when I saw Philip before me, in a room on his own, propped up on some pillows.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. The door closed behind us, and Dr Rowse disappeared with it.

‘How are you now?’

He shrugged. I sat down on the bed and took his unplastered hand boldly in my own. ‘You’re going to get better. This is the best place for you.’

‘I can’t stand it here.’

‘I know. But you’ll be out soon.’

‘And then what?’

I didn’t know what to say. We sat together in silence for a while, and then the features on his face began to move. His mouth started to wobble, his nostrils flinched and his eyes closed tight. Large tears rolled down his face, and when he caught his breath great sobs came out: huge, unfettered sobs I knew he was ashamed of.

‘It’s okay,’ I kept saying, stroking his hand over and over. Then I stroked his head, and for a moment he stopped and looked at me.

‘It’s not okay. I’m sorry! But it’s not okay at all …’ His voice rose in pitch, way out of control. ‘I can’t face anything. I can’t … how can I go on after … what I’ve done?’

‘The pilot is alive. The men in my squadron told me. I’m sure he doesn’t think badly of you – I’m certain of it.’

‘I walked away! I’m a coward!’ More sobbing. ‘I walked away …’

I let him cry some more, and then I had an idea. I would find the pilot and bring him to visit Philip. He was sure to put his mind at rest.

‘What was his name?’

He sniffed and wiped his face. ‘Jim.’

‘Well, listen. I’m going to find Jim and bring him to see you.’

‘Oh God!’

‘He’ll tell you it wasn’t your fault.’

‘It’s all my fault!’

‘Well, if it was, you can apologize, can’t you? It’s much better that way, than sitting here tearing yourself up about it.’

He squeezed my hand in agreement. I looked at my watch and decided I had to go. I had no idea how to get back to my barracks at this time. As I neared the door he said, ‘You won’t let my mother visit, will you? Tell them not to let my mother see me.’

I nodded, and made my way back to the reception, where, thankfully, another driver was about to leave and offered me a lift. Before we left I told the nurse at reception about Philip’s mother, and asked about the pilot who’d been discharged a few days ago. ‘He’d like to see him. I thought I might arrange it. His name was Jim – do you remember him?’

‘Oh yes. Pilot Officer Buckleigh.’ Then she raised her
eyebrows
and looked straight at me, with an impish smile. ‘Very handsome!’

I was still on leave, officially, so when I turned up for duty the next day there wasn’t much for me to do. I explained the situation to the CO and asked if I could take my truck over to Woodside and fetch Pilot Officer Buckleigh so that Flight Sergeant Bird could see him. She agreed with some reluctance, and I had the distinct feeling that although she paid me more respect, she had gone off me rather since the plane crash. It didn’t do for the likes of me to be more heroic than the likes of her.

I paid far more attention to my appearance than I normally did. I dampened the front of my hair with water, and when I was out of sight of the barracks I pulled into the side of the road and sneaked on a bit of lipstick. Then I twirled bits of hair around my fingers to give myself kiss curls, and let them dry in the breeze as I hurtled along. Not that I was at all interested in James Buckleigh. Absolutely not. But I didn’t want to look foolish in front of him either. The thought of him or Beatrice laughing at my plainness behind my back was unbearable.

My engine seemed noisy in the sleepiness of the lane. I pulled up just before the gates so that I could be hidden from the house. For a moment, standing on the pounded yellow gravel in front of the wrought ironwork, I was my seventeen-year-old
self again, clad from head to toe in Gracie’s masterpieces, and on the brink of something wonderful. And then, just as suddenly, it was snatched away from me as those words hurled themselves at my stomach again and knocked the wind out of me.
Some grubby
little
village girl
. I closed my eyes at the memory, but when I opened them, the gate was still there, and the gravel drive beyond, and I had to go in.

Nearer the front door I could hear strains of music. It wasn’t like anything I had heard before on the wireless; it was deep and yearning and melancholic. I rang the bell and closed my eyes again, feeling more of an intruder than ever.

The door opened. A man in corduroy trousers and a Fair Isle tank top stood in front of me. His hair was greying, but his eyebrows were dark like his eyes, which looked kindly, it seemed, into mine.

‘Can I help you?’ he said, when I didn’t speak.

‘Oh … yes … Is James at home?’

The man smiled warmly and opened the door fully to let me in. ‘Why yes, he is, actually. You with his lot, are you?’

I realized then that I was in uniform, and that it was an amazing leveller. ‘Yes – sort of …’

‘This way … he’s out in the orangery …’

I followed him through hallways and rooms, and the leathery smell of the place clawed its way back into my head and unhinged me a little, just when I had felt in control.

This was indeed Howard Buckleigh then, and he was not quite what I had expected. He was a gentle, easy man – the gentleman caller – not the strange recluse I had imagined.

We followed the music, and it grew louder and more resonant until we reached the glasshouse. There sat James Buckleigh, his back to us, playing a cello. He had an
open-necked
shirt, and the back of his neck was quite tanned. His dark hair was shorter than I’d seen it before, and I took in the new experience of his silhouette against the green light of the
garden. I concentrated on the tips of his ears, which seemed miraculous as the sunlight made them almost translucent, and they sat in perfect symmetry, wide-open pathways directly to his soul on each side of his head. It seemed a vulnerable place to have them.

‘You should be resting that arm,’ said the kindly gentleman, and when James turned awkwardly on his stool I saw that his left arm was in a sling, and partially plastered. His father supported the cello for him while he stood up. When I saw his surprise at seeing me, I felt my face colour. It would take a minute or two to explain why I had come, and until I did, he would imagine I had come to see him on some social visit. For the whole duration of the intervening seconds, he would see me as a foolish village girl who couldn’t keep away. The time it took to explain stretched out in front of me like a long winding path, overgrown with brambles.

‘Oh … er …’ He offered me his free hand. ‘Have you just arrived?’

He seemed a little embarrassed as well, and I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or not.

‘I’ve come about Philip Bird.’

‘Bird? How is he? How do you …?’

I explained as quickly as I could, and Howard Buckleigh patted me on the shoulder. ‘We heard there was a jolly brave young lady involved – well done!’ Then he went off saying he’d make some tea, because it was Mrs Bubb’s day off.

Left alone with me, James looked almost confused. He invited me into a living room with print armchairs and a sofa, and urged me to take a seat.

‘I don’t understand. You say he thinks he deserted me.’

‘Yes.’

‘But that makes no sense.’

‘I didn’t think so either.’

‘So …?’

‘He says you were waving at him, begging him for help, and he left you. But I seem to remember – if it was you – (and it must’ve been) – that one minute you were there, and then you’d gone.’

‘Well yes – I got the hell out of there. And that’s why I was waving at him: to tell him to get away from the fuselage. He just kept right next to it. I knew it was going to go up. I was trying to tell him to move away. Surely anyone could see that.’

‘That’s what I thought too. Thing is, he’s got it into his head … I’ve no idea why, but he’s not quite … he’s lost it a bit, I think. I mean, I’ve no idea what he was like before, but I can’t imagine he could train pilots the way he is now. Won’t you come and see him? I’ll feel awful if I go back without you.’

His father came in with a tray of tea, grinning from ear to ear. James pulled out an occasional table, and a silver teapot with matching milk jug and sugar bowl were set down before me. Next to them on the tray were three flower-printed bone china cups with matching saucers, and a small plate of macaroons. ‘Shall I be mother?’ asked Mr Buckleigh. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and I began to relax. He was all fingers and thumbs: he spilt the tea in the saucers and dropped half of his macaroon in the milk. I liked him straight away. It was almost pleasant to be there, but very, very odd: sipping tea in the place I used to sneak around in, terrified Celia’s mother or father – this very man – would come home and spot me. How different now! Here I was, sitting on their fine sofa with a macaroon: a legitimate guest.

Mr Buckleigh thought James should go with me soon. He was no stranger to shellshock himself, and those shadowy illnesses of the mind should not be taken lightly. James said he completely agreed, and looked slightly irritated that he hadn’t said it first.

It was strange driving James. I couldn’t help but recall the last time we had been in a car together, and I suspect he was thinking of it too. And of course the thought of it reminded me how little we really had in common, and how huge the gulf really was between us, and how foolish I was to have been lulled into a sense of well-being in their home.

‘You’re a remarkably good driver,’ he said, perhaps to break the silence.

‘For a woman, you mean?’

‘No. What I meant was that you’re a good driver.’

‘Well, thank you. I ought to be.’

We made small talk for a while, but the picture of him shoving me away from Beatrice kept bobbing up in my head, and I wished he would stop being so pleasant and letting himself off the hook so easily.

‘How’s Beatrice?’ I said, after a while.

‘Fine, I think.’

There seemed nothing else to say. ‘Good.’

Later I had another go: ‘You must be quite excited?’

‘Excited? Oh! About seeing Bird, you mean?’

‘No! About the wedding!’

‘Oh Lord, no! She’s been going on about it for so long I think we’re all heartily sick of it!’

I didn’t care much for his tone. I felt almost sorry for Beatrice. ‘When is it – I thought she said July?’

‘Yes …’ He waved a hand vaguely. ‘… Sometime in July, I think.’

‘You
think
?’

He looked at me astonished. ‘Well, who cares?’

‘Well,
you
should, for a start. Aren’t you planning on turning up?’

‘Frankly, no.’

I swerved slightly to miss a rabbit, and almost drove us off
the road, but managed to retrieve control swiftly. ‘You bastard! Have you
told
her?’

‘Steady on! It’s not
that
important. God almighty!’

‘Not
that
important? Your own wedding day! How can you be so callous?’

‘My wedding day?’ He was astounded now. ‘It’s not my wedding.’ Then he chuckled. ‘You didn’t think … I was marrying …
Beatrice
…?’

I took a very deep breath and tried to think what to say. Once again I felt humiliated. Once again I looked an utter fool. ‘So … who’s she marrying then?’

‘God knows. Some poor bugger with lots of money and no sense, I should think.’ He could see I was shot to pieces, and tried to stop smiling. ‘She’s Celia’s friend, not mine. That’s why she was down here that Boxing Day – to take Celia back to Cirencester with her.’

I was glad I was driving: it was somewhere to look.

And then the unthinkable happened.

The truck began to slow down. I was suddenly not in control. I tried the accelerator but it didn’t work. I pretended nothing was wrong, but soon it was so obvious that James mentioned it.

‘It’s okay – it’s nothing,’ I said, as the truck slowly ground to a halt. ‘Nothing I can’t fix.’

I got out and looked under the bonnet for a while. If there was one thing I was certain of it was my ability to fix trucks. I would get it going in no time, and my competence in a man’s field would be a small victory, at least.

But there was nothing wrong with the engine, and I soon realized we were simply out of petrol. I kept my cool. I closed the bonnet efficiently and went to fetch the petrol can. He very sensibly said nothing, but watched me with what could well have been mistaken for genuine admiration.

I let out a moan.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, turning round in his seat.

‘No. Oh, no!’

The petrol can was there all right. Ken had given it back, but it was empty. I cursed him under my breath and kicked the wheel. My dainty Oxford shoe rebounded off it and I had difficulty concealing the agony.

‘Is that all it needs?’ he smiled. ‘A good kicking?’

I sighed; I closed my eyes; I sighed again. Then I explained that we would have to walk the rest of the way.

James Buckleigh was quite amenable to walking. He said he could do with the exercise, and if he was amused by my inadequacies with the truck I didn’t see it, for I avoided looking at him as best I could.

After we’d been walking a few hundred yards along the road he stopped, and said if it was the same hospital he’d been at, then he knew a much quicker way across country. I also knew a quicker way, but hadn’t dared to suggest it because it cut through a mile or so of beech trees, and I was afraid he’d think I was making some sort of pass at him. So I let him lead the way, and followed him – over a couple of fields – into the woods.