Meg, convinced Tom was sufficiently recovered in the three months he had been home, and thinking to stimulate his awakening interest in what had been
her
work, and would be again, put him in the Vauxhall one fine spring day in March, sitting him beside her as she drove cheerfully down the drive and out through the gateway, turning in the direction of Camford.
At first, in the manner of an animal which senses danger, not awfully sure of where the danger lay, but sniffs around warily in the hope of discovering it, Tom allowed himself to be led about the hangar. His hand was shaken by a score of well-wishers for though they did not know him, they were glad to see him, a soldier, back from the trenches and in one piece. Though those who spoke so welcomingly to him, respectfully too for he was the husband of the owner, were disconcerted by his silent, staring face and flaccid hand, they told each other the poor devil had gone through four years of war and could you blame him for being a bit quiet.
Fred walked protectively beside him pointing out what he thought might interest the husband of Megan Fraser, no engineer
certainly
, but a man and most men were curious about these machines which they had seen in the skies above their heads in France.
It was as they approached the skeleton of an aircraft being erected at the back of the hangar that Tom began to show signs of real distress. Meg, thinking he might be embarrassed should she hold his hand as she had done ever since he had come home, had allowed him to step ahead with Fred but even as she smiled and bent her head to listen to the voice of Peter Dobson, the clever young aircraft designer, above the racket of the bustling hangar, she could see Tom’s growing agitation in the rapid jerking of his head and the pitiful sight of his hand reaching out to where he imagined hers might be!
It was the noise of the riveter! Its cheerful chatter echoed about the corner of the hangar as it poured forth its lethal, agonising, fear inspired despair into the damaged mind of Tom Fraser. The man who held it was leaning into what would be the cockpit, directing it into the framework he was putting together and he was whistling as he spilled the machine gun like sound towards the metal.
Meg saw Tom’s expression for a second as he turned to look for her. His mouth was open, a black hole of agony in his chalk white face. Deep lines carved his flesh from cheekbone to chin and his eyes were dead as charcoal in the unbearable horror which consumed him. He turned away from her towards the aircraft and the cheerful man who worked there, and even above the tumult of the busy workshop they all heard him scream.
‘NO! For God’s sake, no! Get down, oh Christ, quickly Andy … oh Christ … where are you hit, lad …
stretcher bearer
… oh Christ … Andy … no, no, lie still … no … oh Jesus … it’s … no, don’t move. I know … I know it hurts, lad … I know … its the barbed wire … its … you’re caught in it but I’ll get you out, Andy. Keep your head down … lie still … lie still.’
Tom had backed into a corner of the hangar and every man in it felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle in horror and every one of them watched, pityingly, some almost in tears as Tom Fraser re-lived that moment which was, it seemed, the one which had finally driven him to madness.
He sank down on his haunches, his arms about some unseen body, cradling it to him in infinite tenderness, rocking backwards and forwards and from the corner of her eye Meg saw Fred move
towards
the office. She took a step towards Tom, scarcely able to bear his pain, tears flowing unnoticed across her face, but something told her not to touch him, to let him live out this moment in his broken life.
‘Hush now … hush lad … there … I’ve got you … they’ll be here soon, no … don’t cry Andy, yes lad … I know it hurts but the stretcher bearer will be … no … please Andy … don’t move … yes lad … your mother’s coming in a minute … keep still … keep still.’
He became quieter then as though the burden in his arms slept for a moment, staring out over the devastation he saw in his mind, then, just when Meg thought she might go to him, gather him up into her compassionate arms he began to struggle, hitting out with clenched fists and drawing back from something, holding the comrade he protected.
‘No! No! No! please lads … let me stay with him … you can’t just leave him … no, no.’ He began to scream helplessly, mindlessly, sobbing and shaking his head and one of the men who watched turned away, moaning.
‘
He’s still alive, dammit
… he’s still alive, you bastards … Andy … Andy … I’ll not leave you. No … no, please lads … you can’t leave him hanging on this wire … see, he’s still alive … no … look … let me get him free … I’ll cut the bloody wire.’ Then a subtle change, deeper, deeper until his voice was an angry snarl, ‘Kill him then … kill him if you won’t save him … for Christ’s sweet sake … here … you … give me that pistol … Sir … if you won’t do it, I will.’ A change again, quiet now, peaceful, soothing, ‘there, lad … there, that’s better … there … no pain now … there.’
It was later, as he lay beneath the heavy blanket of drug-induced sleep administered by the doctor Fred had summoned that Meg Fraser finally knew that Tom would never again be the easy going, impishly grinning man who had gone gladly, eagerly to the service of his country. He had come home unmarked but his simple philosophy of good will to his fellow man had been taken from him, and he simply could not function without it. She had thought to heal him with her love, had even believed she was doing so; with the peace and trust and mutual love he shared with her child but now she knew she could not do it alone.
He was seen by a specialist. A man who, with others like him, ministered to the thousands who came back to their families,
broken
and tormented and who now lived in a world peopled with spectres and Meg was told he must be allowed to live in peace, in the safe and untroubled calm only his family could give him, in his home, in the familiar,
secure
surroundings where there was nothing to frighten him. He was not dangerous, the quiet man told her, merely … destroyed. His shell remained and a slender thread of what had once been the bright and merry mind of her husband but he must not be confounded by anything more stressful than the drifting by of one peaceful day upon another. And if he was to be left alone, he said, knowing of Mrs Fraser’s business enterprises she must employ a man, someone unobtrusive but trained for such things, who would care for Mr Fraser whilst she was away. A strong dependable man. Would she like him to supply one such for her?
‘I know of someone who would help me, Dr Carmichael but I’m afraid he is not a trained nurse. He is not young, older than Tom but he is strong … and kind. Tom is very fond of him … trusts him. This man has a great affinity with those who are … hurt. He has … been hurt himself. He has infinite patience with Tom. Do you think …?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Fraser. I would have to speak with him, assess his character and be convinced he is suitable. When I said “trained” I was thinking of someone who has worked with such men as your husband but many of these are not medically qualified. Many of them were conscientious objectors and worked, not as fighting men but helping those who were wounded. Some of them have remained to care for those who will never recover but if you would like to bring your man to the hospital I will give you my opinion as to his suitability.’
They sat on a bench in the winter sunshine and their breath curled about their heads. They had their backs against the wall of what had been Tom’s potting shed. She had brought him out a mug of tea from the kitchen, and one for herself and they sipped it in the serene silence Will Hardcastle seemed able to spin about himself.
A pair of whitethroats had built their nest in the bramble bush at the back of the shed and as Meg had approached he had been standing watching them wing fearlessly back and forth in the sunshine. They had flown away, startled by the sound of her voice
but
as she and Will sat and talked, the birds came back, reassured by the peace.
A robin slipped from beneath the roots of an old oak tree, burrowing among the campions which grew at its base but seemed unalarmed by the presence of the man and the woman.
‘You know why I am here, Will?’
‘I can guess, Mrs Fraser.’
‘I must get back to work, you see. The factories need someone at their head and there is only myself. I have run them now for four years and though I had hoped … well, my first love is the hotel, you know that?’
‘Aye! I remember when you first came to “The Hawthorne Tree”. They said you couldn’t do it, those about. A slip of a lass! Taking that old place and turning it into an inn. They laughed, Mrs Fraser, but I reckon you showed ‘em.’
She sighed sadly. ‘Yes, I showed them.’
Will shifted on the bench, lifting his crippled leg into a more comfortable position. ‘You will again, Mrs Fraser. Happen you could put someone in to see to the airplanes and that, then you could get back to “Hilltops”.’
‘Perhaps … one day but in the meanwhile I cannot let the factories run down. There is so much to be done. This is the era of the machine, Will. The airplane and the automobile and we will see great things in the next ten years. I cannot let what I have been … been given … slip away!’
Will sipped his tea and watched the robin, saying nothing, letting Meg Fraser talk and his calm acceptance of life, of his own infirmity and the hardships he had shared in his early life with his mother, settled the despair in the woman at his side and gradually the tension eased from her. She felt the sun gently warm her face and listened to the birds call to each other.
‘I’ll see to him, Mrs Fraser. Don’t you fret. You go and do what you must. He’ll be safe with me.’
And so he was. In the lovely serenity of the surrounding countryside, the acres of parkland, the gardens, the land behind the house which held the vegetable plot, Tom Fraser found the peace he needed. Meg bought a bit of farmland, twenty acres or so which lay to the rear and side of ‘Hilltops’ and with a sense of continuity, remembering Tom’s love of the animals he had cared for and the
land
he had tended at Silverdale, told Will to do with it as he liked.
He and Tom, of whom he was in discreet charge, the doctor had told him, explaining what that meant, went off each day to overlook the small herd of cows, the pigs, the hens, the growing kitchen gardens and the paddocks in which Meg intended to put a pony for Beth. Two men just back from France were taken on, to help with the extra work which the added land entailed and often accompanied by the little girl, four years old now, a couple of puppies, young collies which Will had bought from a local farmer, they would form a protective phalanx about the fragile man who was Tom Fraser. Meg thanked God for Will Hardcastle as she watched him, like the Pied Piper himself, moving about the property with a trailing group of children – for what else could she call Tom – and animals at his back.
She watched the dreadful sorrow fade from the closed-up face of her husband in the peaceful routine of his days and even heard him laugh as he tried to milk one of his cows. She was tranquil in the knowledge that the land, the woods, the fields in which he walked, the animals he cared for, the certain surety of the changing seasons would bring a small measure of hope to the man she loved. Hope!
Now, somehow, she must heal herself for she had not gone unscathed in the battle.
IT WAS APRIL
. Tom was in the garden, his hand protectively in that of Meg’s daughter as they watched the playful, excited antics of Will’s new puppies, bought to take the place of the old dog whom they had sadly missed, farm dogs of the kind used for sheep and to be trained for work when they were ready, Will said, though of what sort he did not specify. They leaped about the garden chasing shadows and each other and Meg heard Beth laugh and saw her rest her face against Tom’s hand. Tom looked down at her and his eyes were in that moment, calm, the haggard look of fear gone in the child’s loving acceptance of him.
The wind lifted the peak of his cap and mischievously whipped it away, and for several minutes the child and the puppies were engaged in an exhilarating chase which brought roses to Beth’s cheeks and a smile to Tom’s face.
The garden was filled with the young growing things of spring. The lawn was a smooth emerald green and the dogs made a frantic eddy of movement on it as they raced round from the back of the house. Tom followed slowly behind, moving with the leisurely step of the country man. He had developed it at Silverdale, ambling at the gait of Atkinson, the gardener, an elderly man with his origins in the soil where crops were planted and harvested in season, where cows calved and mares foaled all in their own good time so what was the sense of hurry. It had embraced Tom, that view on life and now his damaged mind had need of it, was more secure in the ways and pace of what grew in the earth and of the animals he helped Will to tend.
When he had first come home, white-faced and trembling at the least noise, his hand fumbling for hers, often clutching at the very air in his desperate need of something to hold, Meg had remembered how he had once smoked a pipe. She had bought him another one day when she was in Buxton and given it to him, not to smoke as he used to, but just to allow those thin, fluttering hands a focus in their dreadful search for deliverance from terror.
For
a week or two he had held it gratefully, clung to it when the trembling began and it had seemed to comfort him, giving him a frail lifeline back to safety.