He got into the back seat of the Vauxhall, the same model old Mr Hemingway had once owned, the ‘Prince Henry’ which Meg had bought at the beginning of the war. It was comfortable and roomy, big enough to accommodate an active child, picnic baskets and all the paraphernalia which a family might carry around. Meg had taught Will to drive it since it was convenient on many occasions to have him drive her to the factory and then use the vehicle on errands to Buxton or Ashbourne. When she was tired after a long, exhausting, demanding day at the field she was often glad to have him drive her home and had taken the opportunity many tines to snatch half an hour’s sleep in the back seat. Now she sat beside her husband, the child between them. Beth took Tom’s hand in hers and watched him unblinkingly with the vivid interest of a child who has something new and novel, touching the sargeant’s stripes on his greatcoat, fingering the badge on his
cap
and telling him seriously of the lovely tea Annie was preparing for them. Her chatter ran smoothly over Tom’s shrinking figure and gradually he relaxed a little, his eyes never leaving hers and the need to make conversation – about what? Meg agonised – was dispelled.
Will, with a sad backward look at Meg, put the motor car in gear, accepting, as thousands and thousands were accepting, the stranger who had come home to them. Though Tom had looked through him, his gaze as vacant as a new born child, not seeming to know who he was, Will made no comment but merely drove him carefully home.
Annie was there at the door and though Edie clapped her hand to her mouth and ran silently back to the kitchen as Tom shrank away from her affectionate greeting, overcome with grief at what had been done to Mr Tom, Annie took his hand and without allowing him to stumble or flinch on who she might be, or, when he had remembered her identity, how he could cope with it, she led him into the familiar, fire-warmed beauty of the hall and sat him down on the chesterfield. Meg and Will hovered uncertainly, and Annie held his hands between her own strong ones, murmuring of nothing which needed an answer. In her wisdom she gave him half an hour, with something to hold on to, her hands, whilst his eyes wandered fearfully about the hallway in which once he had whistled cheerfully and grinned endearingly as he welcomed guests to his
his
hotel. Beth sat on the rug before the fire, a row of dolls beside her, chattering tenderly to them all and Meg watched as Tom Fraser began at last to recognise where he was.
‘Meg …?’
‘I’m here, my darling.’
‘Oh Meg …’
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
But it was all he could manage as the tears began again and Beth stood up, disconcerted by the sight of a grown-up crying for she had never seen it before. She touched his knee in sympathy, asking him where he hurt as Mummy did when she herself cried, and when he could not stop crept up on to his knee and put her arms about his neck and kissed him.
That night, in the soft, fire-lit warmth of their room, Meg made no attempt to make love to her husband, nor he to her. He clung to her, holding her gently curving, white-fleshed, eternal femininity to him in a passion of love, but she recognised that it
was
not the love of a man for his woman but that of a lost and terrified child in the arms of his mother. She held him through that night and the one following and the one following that, as he lived again in the hideous state of terror he had contained within himself for most of the four years he had been in France. The repression of it had been necessary to keep not only himself functioning, but those who fought beside him and who had come to look upon him as the living, breathing proof that there were
some
who could survive it, but it was now no longer needed and, quite simply, for several weeks he went mad with it.
Hour after hour he wept his pain and bewilderment, his face like sweating dough, his eyes staring at some unimaginable shadow in which moved phantoms of those men, who, in their thousands upon thousands had died, horribly mutilated, or what was worse,
lived
, horribly mutilated, whilst he had survived. Why, he asked her, a dozen times a day? Why had he lived without so much as a scratch, he begged her to tell him, when his Liverpool Pals, everyone of them, had fallen, most at the Somme, dying of bullet wounds, of lyddite shrapnel which pierced their tender flesh in a score of places, tearing their limbs from their bodies and even their heads from their necks. They died from the mines on which they innocently trod, from shells which burst indiscriminately above their heads and from the choking gas which infiltrated their almost useless gas masks. It seemed the worst torment to Sargeant Tom Fraser had been the order that on no account must he stop to help his fallen comrade, nor even to bend a knee to see if he was still alive, but must go on, leaving him to die, to suffer, to bleed into the already blood soaked ground of the battlefield.
In his fitful sleep he cried out of bombardment and gas, screaming to someone to ‘get your bloody mask on’, of salients and tanks and shellfire and wept over the pain another soldier suffered. A rat gnawed his hand one night and on the next he drowned in mud. He babbled endlessly in the dark of the trenches and of the men in them and sometimes seemed to confuse all those he had known and loved in that comradeship which had been born there, as he screamed of shattered bones and blood and torn flesh and fear. He said his head hurt from the shock of the explosions and he felt sick and dizzy and why did she not remove the mountain of rotting men which piled up about him for really the smell was more than he could bear.
Meg never left him. For the first time since she had opened the
inn
at Great Merrydown, the one in which Tom had so ably partnered her, nearly eight years ago now, she abandoned her work, leaving Fred Knowsley and the other managers to cope without her direction, trusting them to administer the two companies in the best way they could. She was here, on the other end of the telephone, she told them, if they should need her in an emergency, knowing that with the war’s end and the resulting cancellation of government contracts, one could easily arise! There would be a lull, naturally, as the need for the machines of war finished but there would be others to take their place and soon, if she was to be as successful in peace as she had in war, she must prepare her organisation for them, but first she must restore Tom to some semblance of normality for unless she did how was she to ever leave him?
He grew stronger physically, fed three, or if she could manage it, four of Annie’s wholesome meals each day. Soup made from shin of beef, a knuckle of veal, or a ham shank, thick with vegetables, into which, for good measure she put a ‘dollop’ of cream, eager to flesh out his bones in any way she could. Barley gruel, easy to digest and tasty to tempt his poor appetite, with a tablespoonful of sherry in it. A cutlet of lamb with mint sauce and Brussels sprouts, grown by Will and fresh from the garden. Egg wine and eel broth and stewed rabbit in milk, chocolate mousse, light and frothy with fresh cream, milky rice pudding and succulent pork pies with pastry which flaked in the mouth.
At first he had refused, pushing away his plate apologetically saying he would ‘eat it later and not to throw it out’ in a fair imitation of his old self and Meg became frantic as he continued to lose weight. He had been home for three weeks, the doctor shaking his head, wondering, he told Meg, whether it might perhaps be wiser if Mr Fraser was transferred to a hospital he knew of, for soldiers recently returned from the front. There were many like her husband, he said sadly, who had not yet got to grips with civilian life and the problem would not go away, not in weeks, not in years, though he did not say so.
He had wandered away from her that day, in the withdrawn and dream-like manner of a ghost who does not know where to lay itself to rest, haunted by other ghosts which crowded about him, his face sombre and shaded, whatever was in his mind hidden from her. She followed him from room to room, not speaking nor touching him rather as she imagined one would with a sleepwalker.
He
touched things, a porcelain figurine, the petal on a chrysanthemum, in a bowl which stood on the window sill, the fall of the velvet curtains. He was confused, muttering under his breath and once saying quite clearly, ‘… this is nice, Andy. Shall we take it back to the billet?’ tucking a cushion under his arm with a smile of triumph.
He went up the stairs and Meg’s heart plunged for in this dreadful show of – dear God, she could only call it derangement – how might he affect her daughter if he should go into the nursery? He was always gentle with her, often vague and not really listening to her chatter, but as loving as he had always been.
‘Hello Daddy,’ the child said cheerfully as she looked up from the nursery table where she was having her tea. There was bread and butter and a pot of honey, milk and biscuits and fruit. There were toys, balls and dolls, a teddy bear and books and the cheerful crackle of the fire. There was the discreet presence of Sally Flash sitting beside the child, sewing on some small garment. It was lovely, the very heart of Tom’s home and in it was the sanity he needed to mend him.
‘I’m having my tea, Daddy,’ Beth continued, holding up a chocolate biscuit in proof. ‘Would you like one?’ she said for her mother had taught her politeness was important.
‘Why … thank you, sweetheart … but …’
He hovered in the doorway in that hesitant wary way he had, looking about him, one assumed, for German soldiers, or whizz bangs, or worse, his dead and mutilated pals, but there was nothing but the warmth and the blithe and lovely spirit of the child. Her unquestioning love reached out and drew him in.
He ate a biscuit, and when prompted by the little girl, two slices of bread and honey, a glass of milk and an apple. To Beth’s everlasting delight he ate most of his meals with her from that day on, though she was not to know the reason why. Whatever she ate so did he. As she tucked in to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, cut up into small pieces so that she might feed herself, so did Tom Fraser and he was soothed by her joyful pleasure in his company. Her artless babble on the small but momentous happenings in her day did not allow terror into the simple child world of the nursery.
Christmas came and went and when Beth was with him he was quiet, even smiling a little, his weariness of spirit put aside for her
sake
, holding her hand, walking with her in the garden, looking out from the rough ground beyond the small lake, across to the winter beauty of the snow-capped hills and the meandering path to the Dovedale valley.
He began to put on weight and in the sunshine and clear fresh air in which he had started to spend his days with Beth and Will his face took on a little colour. He became stronger and with Will not far behind, Meg and he and Beth would walk a mile or two, moving across crisp frozen snow in which the little girl threw herself, calling to Daddy to catch her, squealing with laughter as he began, slowly, carefully, hesitantly to play with her. He stood with Meg in a timeless moment of peace to admire the golden sprays of bracken which pushed their way through the snow and the bright thickets of holly, glossy prickly leaves and brilliant berries bright against the white landscape. They sat on one of the drystone walls which cobwebbed the hills and he held her hand and the only habitation was a white-washed cottage and all around there was nothing to hurt him, just peace and silence, the laughter of the child and the healing love of his wife.
Meg began to hope!
He took to following Will about the vegetable garden at the back of the house and finding nothing there to alarm him, turned over a square foot or two of black soil, then sat for an hour with a handful of it clutched painfully to him. Will was wary, keeping an eye on him as he himself continued digging, for what would he do next? What was in his troubled mind as he held the black dirt in his hand, but Tom stood up quite normally, remarking, ‘Bit of good soil that, Will,’ throwing it back on the garden and brushing his hands together carelessly.
She made her mistake in March. He had been progressing steadily, walking the hills now with Beth sometimes on his shoulders, Will, or Meg always beside him. He was sleeping better, more quietly and his hesitant smile lit his eyes as he helped Will in the garden, or read to Beth, or sat beside Annie in the kitchen as she baked. He helped Edie to polish the windows, delighting her for it was a treat to see him more his old self, she said, telling her that he had cleaned more windows when he was a lad than she’d had hot dinners. Meg was exultant believing that at last she could get back to work.
There were changes coming now in the world of aviation. The new ‘Wren’, the ‘Wren III’ she would be, was bigger and to be
used
not only by the many wealthy men who wished to fly for their own pleasure but for what Meg was convinced, for had it not been Martin’s dream, would be the start of air transport as a business. And if that was so, would it not follow that an aircraft which carried freight, could also carry passengers? This business which had, through the war, made her into a successful and wealthy airplane manufacturer was not to die away now that the war was over. They had an embryo ‘airline’ company and with the bright new designer Fred had found, one who had survived four years in the Royal Flying Corps, at the drawing board and the gigantic new factory which was to be built on the airfield, they would, one day, she was certain, be operating one of the first British ‘airline’ ventures in the country.
And the motor car! Now that the war was over would not the demand for new designs, light, high-speed engines, the family automobile for the family man which Martin had envisaged, and the racing motor for the racing enthusiast, now be brought down from the shelf where the war had temporarily placed it. Sadly the ‘Huntress’ still wrapped carefully away at the back of the factory awaiting Martin Hunter’s return, was obsolete now, her design, so innovative in 1912, out of date but another could be built, by the right engineer, surely?