Chapter 33: Dream Not of Other Worlds

CHÂTEAU COUTHOVE, FLANDERS, BELGIUM

April 1918

The riot was broken up. Whistles and loud voices filled the square; military discipline slowly reasserted itself. Laura stayed in the safety of the doorway until it was done, scanning for Pim, for Faland, and, although she told herself she wasn’t, for a glimpse of Freddie’s russet hair. But she saw no one she knew. Not until she stumbled back to HQ and saw Pim, as composed as ever, talking again to Gage with Young hovering earnestly. When Laura, bedraggled, finally pulled herself through the door, Pim turned to her at once, with an expression of concern. “Oh, Laura, I’m so sorry. Did you go out looking for me? I didn’t—well, I didn’t get anywhere at all before I realized what a ninny I’d been—thought I saw someone I knew, as I told the general. Then I turned right around like a sensible woman.” Pim peered worriedly into Laura’s face. “Your poor lip.”

They were offered a lift back to Couthove in the general’s car, and they accepted. A pensive line, fine as floss, ran between Pim’s brows, and she was terribly solicitous of Laura. The car was ordered, and a man was tasked to follow on Mary’s motorcycle. There were ten thousand things Laura wanted to say, but none she could say in the presence of their driver. So silence reigned between them, all along the road to Couthove.

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· · ·Jones met them at the door, took one look at Laura’s face, and his expression turned dark. “Can take care of herself, she said.”

The drive back to Couthove had acquainted Laura with a large number of previously unnoticed bruises, and she was in no sweet temper. “Nothing a wash and a rest won’t mend.” Pim had already murmured “Good evening” and was disappearing upstairs. Laura made to follow.

“Iven,” said Jones.

“Doctor,” she said, shoulders stiff. “I don’t want—”

He made an impatient sound. “I will not say a single censorious word, if you will let me look you over. You look as though you’ve been in a four-day bombardment. What happened to your lip?”

“A mishap over dinner.”

“Some mishap.” He turned to the sterilization room, then just as quickly turned back. “There are three orderlies playing cards in there—will you come upstairs? I can call Shaw back if you want a female with you.” He looked uncomfortable as he said it, then impatient with his own discomfort.

Perhaps that was what made her say, dryly, “I suppose I’ll brave the lion’s den. But I can’t take a scolding tonight.”

He looked relieved. “I won’t, however much I’d like to. Now come up, before you drop.”

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· · ·Jones had a better room than Laura and Pim; it had been one of the château’s proper bedrooms before the war, although it contained nothing more than Jones’s spartan cot and his trunk, with an old-fashioned writing case and a book lying by. The window was open to the warm spring night.

His back was to Laura as he turned on the light and Laura said, “Do you think I’m mad?”

He turned around. His expression was cautious. “No, Iven.”

She was at the window, looking out at the lights of war on the horizon. “Is that your medical opinion?”

She heard his step cross the room, felt him at her shoulder. “You are very trying, to a man who promised not to pry, Iven. But yes, it is. Your mind’s all right, although your dress has seen better days. Come into the light.”

She looked down at herself. Saw rips, stains, dust. Jones took her elbow. Said, in a carefully neutral voice, “Someone kicked you. There’s a boot print there.”

“It was an accident,” said Laura.

“Was it?” His face was hard, but he didn’t ask. He pressed his palm to the print, and she flinched despite herself. “No pain round the ribs?”

“Only bruises,” said Laura. Why had she come? She could check herself over very well. Why had she agreed to this, to come to his room, to stand by his bed? She felt her own vulnerability. Very carefully, Jones took her jaw in his hand, turned it in the light. Touched the bruise on her jaw, another round her eye. Palpitated it delicately. “Any loose teeth?”

She shook her head. Men had clutched at Laura in pain, in fear, in loneliness ever since she joined the army. She had an arsenal of professional defenses against that. But had no armor at all, she realized suddenly, against his precise, undemanding fingers, and the concern in his eyes. She drew away, afraid of her own fragility.

“Iven?” said Jones, as she backed away.

“I—I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said. “I’m all right.”

“I can get you a salve for the—”

She fled.

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· · ·Laura went straight upstairs, and thankfully, Jones did not follow. She prayed that Pim was asleep already, so that Laura could submit her emotions to her pillow in silence and get up calmer tomorrow.

But Pim was not in bed. She was at their little table, a lantern burning before her, paging through her notebook. She didn’t turn around when Laura came in.

Laura sat down on her cot to take off her boots. Pim closed her notebook and turned. “I hardly dared ask before—did you get news of Freddie?”

“Yes,” said Laura.

Pim’s silence was expectant.

What could she tell Pim? Not that she’d spoken to a fugitive whom Kate White believed, against all logic, had escaped to go look for Laura’s missing brother. She hardly knew what to think herself. “His CO said he died on the Ridge.”

Pim’s eyes filled with sympathy.

Laura fumbled her damp stocking as she unrolled it. “Pim, how are you?”

“Me? Oh, but Laura…” She caught Laura’s eye and said reluctantly, “I’m all right. Quite well. Wasn’t dinner nice?”

“Did you go out looking for Faland?”

Pim gave a shamefaced nod. “It was silly of me. I couldn’t find him.”

“Did you and Young go looking for his hotel today?”

“Oh—no. I—I listened to you and saw sense. No point in hurtling all over looking for it. And of course Faland doesn’t seem to want to be found. I’m done looking.”

Laura stood up to take off her dress, relieved. “That’s probably for the best. You’re very thin. Mary’s working you too hard.”

“Not harder than you.” Pim’s mouth was set in that concealing smile that nice girls were taught in childhood. “I’m glad I’ve been writing so many letters. I hope it comforts people. I’d have liked a letter myself. In Halifax. From someone who was with Jimmy. And a sketch. What do you think of this one? I did it this morning. For Mila.” She reached again for her notebook, turned a few pages, pulled out a loose drawing of a grave, backed by a sunset. The headstone Pim had drawn in looked much nicer than the white wooden cross that Mila had actually got, and the imaginative tumble of flowers looked lovely. It would certainly comfort his mother, if they ever discovered who she was.

“This is beautiful,” said Laura. “But you ought to rest.”

Pim said, “I’m all right, honestly.” She hesitated. “Laura, I know you’re tired. But will you do something for me?”

“If I can.”

Pim didn’t reply in words, but reached up and began unpinning her hair. It was still plaited from dinner. Section by section, she took it down. It looked especially lovely, poignant somehow, falling loose in the wood-floored attic. Pim ran her fingers through it, scalp to hips. “I washed it yesterday. It was cold, so it took ages to dry. And I keep imagining I feel the feet—little louse feet—” Pim’s hand trembled as she dug into her bag and pulled out her shears. It was quiet enough in the room to hear the endless nighttime rustling of the wards below.

“Pim,” Laura said. “Why now? It’s not just about lice, is it?”

Pim looked away and said, “The general—he was so charming at dinner. So civilized. But I—I didn’t want to be beautiful for him. Or for anyone. Do you know, I felt more sympathy for the men in the street, running and shouting and breaking things? Sometimes, I should like to scream myself.”

Laura took the scissors.

Clean gold fell like light over her dress and Pim’s. Laura almost asked her for a lock of it, like a foolish knight, or a fond Victorian aunt plaiting hair into mourning bands. But she bit her tongue and finished the job in silence. Then she did the only thing she could think of. She set the shears aside and wound her arms round Pim’s shoulders. Pim didn’t cry, but she buried her face awkwardly in the crook of Laura’s elbow. They sat there together, weary, the warmth of their skin bleeding together, an instinct older than Armageddon, until Laura turned off the lamp.