‘Will,’ she called, ‘are you there?’ but there was no reply from Will, whoever he was. ‘Will,’ she called again and he had a moment to wonder at the guardedness in her, then he stepped from the shadow of the hedge into the sunlight.
They did not speak nor move then. She stood, a lovely frozen statue of gold and bronze and amber in her soft woollen outfit and every vestige of colour left her face and the blood drained from her brain and she thought she would faint. In her hand was the trowel and she gripped it so fiercely the fine bones of her hand threatened to break through the white skin which covered them. Her eyes, brilliant as golden crystal in her ashen face clung to his and she whispered his name, knowing of course that he was a figment of her imagination as he had been the last time and in that moment as the years and the experiences which occupied them slipped away, her love for him filled every cavity and hollow of her which had been emptied when he left, and she was in agony with it!
His lips, that beloved mouth moved to form her name but there was no sound and she knew it could not be him for he was dead.
Ghosts
make no noise and this one was silent, but he
looked
so real. She could see the incredible glow of warmth, of
life
in the depths of his brown eyes, see the shadow about his chin where it was unshaven, the tiny scar he had retained from the crash at Brooklands. The ghost lifted his hand and removed the cap from his head and dark hair fell in an untidy, uncut tumble about his ears and in the darkness there was grey. He took a step towards her and for a moment her eyes fell from his face and moved down his body, taking in the rough clothing, the shabby boots, then swiftly rose to capture his again.
Across the years Meggie Hughes and Martin Hunter looked at one another and still Meg’s brain would not accept it and yet her body, remembering the joy, registered with instant awareness who he was. But though her body knew, and her heart knew and rushed gladly to meet his in an ecstacy of reunion, her mind and her brain could not grasp it and lagged far behind.
‘How lovely you are,’ the ghost said and this time she heard the words and they frightened her for surely she was going mad. Twice now Martin Hunter’s spirit had come to her, vividly, vibrantly, rousing her senses, hurting her senses, bruising her own hard won but often fragile courage. He had held out his hands to her last time, smiling as he had always done, looking as he had always done but … but this time he did not smile, nor lift his eyebrows wryly in that humorous way he had, nor did he put his hands out to her. He was Martin’s ghost for he had Martin’s eyes but he looked nothing like the Martin she had known … dear God … oh sweet God!
‘Meggie.’ His voice was quite hoarse, his throat clogged with some great emotion and his eyes brimmed with tears. He said no more. He did not move. He seemed incapable of it now, just standing, his cap in one hand, the knapsack hanging awkwardly on one shoulder … waiting!
Meg dropped the trowel and the trembling began in her hands, moving up through her wrists and arms and shoulders and on until the whole of her body shook violently and her teeth chattered. Tears began to run silently from the corners of her unblinking eyes and she moved her head from side to side, and her mouth opened in a great wail of grief, for if this ghost should go away and leave her alone again she would be desolate.
‘Dear Lord … dear God … oh God, Martin … I cannot, just cannot bear it if it is not you,’ she cried. She put her clenched fists
to
her mouth and sank painfully to her knees on the grass and it was then he moved. There was no hesitating now, nor holding back. He dropped the cap and the knapsack and with a great joyous shout he was across the grass to her and she felt …
could feel
his hands on her arms lifting her up and she stared into his wildly laughing face, not even daring to blink and then his arms were about her, holding her along the hard length of his body. She could feel the rough texture of his coat beneath her cheek and under her desperately clutching hands and she strained to get nearer to him, to get
inside
him where she belonged and the rippling shudders moved them both now as they wept. His breath was about her face and neck and the warmth of him unlocked the frozen, untouched heart of her and the pain was unendurably exquisite as life returned. They did not speak. They could not and for five whole minutes they did not look again into one another’s face, just stood and rocked and wept and whispered the name each loved the best in all the world.
At last, though he did not let go of her he put six inches between them and she looked up into his face, then with the delicate touch of smoke on water he laid his lips on hers. They kissed reverently as though they had just exchanged marriage vows, then gripped one another fiercely again, kissed, and looked, and stood in a timeless, endless embrace, home again, both of them, where they truly belonged. Their cheeks were wet with their shared tears, of pain and regret, of anger at what could have been and of joy for what was!
‘Meggie …’
‘Martin … oh … oh my darling … Martin … where?’
‘Hush, hush … there will be time …’
‘I am in a … I have dreamed …’
‘I know, my sweet girl … and I …’
‘But how …?’
‘Later …’
‘I love you so … I have never stopped … never.’
‘I know …’
‘I thought I would die when they told me …’
‘Sweet Jesus, Meggie … if I could …’
They were smiling into one another’s eyes, the pale sunshine capturing them in a shaft of golden beauty, their arms still about one another when Tom Fraser came round the corner of the house, his hand held in that of Martin Hunter’s daughter. He was
smiling
. He had found the gardening fork Meg had sent him for, right at the back of the potting shed, just where he remembered putting it … the other day … last week was it … no, longer than that … when … but his little girl, his lovely Beth had helped him and though he knew they had been gone a long time for they had seen many things to interest them, not only in the shed but along the path they had followed, he knew Meg would not mind. She had suggested they put a bed of bright peonies against the house wall and though it was a bit late, he said dubiously, to plant them, they could give it a try. He had helped Will propogate them from seed, in the cold frame and had been quite childishly delighted with his success.
She was there, just where he had left her, as he knew she would be for she never let him down but … but there was someone with … someone with her … a man … a tall man who … a man who had his arms about and … Oh God, Andy … she was kissing him. She … his wife … his Meg was … and the man was kissing her and rubbing his face against her cheek … and …
He stopped in his own garden and the flash of the exploding shell dazzled him and he couldn’t see them any more and the little hand which held his … not Andy … no … shook his … and …
‘Daddy … what’s the matter, Daddy? Does your head hurt …?’ for Beth Fraser had become used to Daddy’s headaches and knew that when he had one he went to bed until he was better. The small hand pulled on his and he held on to it with every ounce of strength he had for if he should leave go … bloody hell … he’d be lost forever, he knew he would. He must not leave go of Beth’s hand, not for a minute or he would float away across the mud and the blood and the craters filled with … filled with … and there would be … barbed wire and … there was someone waiting there who … oh God … oh God, please don’t …
It was then that the miracle happened. It must be that for what else could you call the sight of the man who had been his brother and the sound of that familiar voice which long ago … how long … it must be … and the strong arms which had held him and the fists, fierce and protective which had kept a frightened five-year-old from those who would hurt him. He had been a child then and now he was a man but still he knew Martin Hunter would always give him a hand.
‘Martin! Is it you … is it really you?’ His voice was high with the incredible, unbelievable joy of it. Martin,
their
Martin, who
they
had thought to be dead, was come home to them … Martin! He let go of the little girl and on trembling legs began to run across the grass, reaching out with the hand she had recently held. ‘Martin … bloody hell … where’ve you been … Martin … dear God! I can’t believe it … Martin.’
They met, the three of them, in the centre of the lawn and their arms rose on either side of him and drew him into the circle of their love and they stood together, the three of them and wept. The little girl put her finger in her mouth and her own eyes filled with tears and her mouth trembled for Mummy and Daddy and the man frightened her, but Annie came to swoop her up and carry her into the kitchen where she had made gingerbread men and then she was held in the comfortable lap before the fire and she was allowed to eat
two
as a special treat.
He had bathed and shaved and changed into a pair of Tom’s flannels and a warm sweater before he would tell them what had happened and the whole time he was from her sight Meg fidgeted about, longing to throw off Tom’s trusting hand, longing to run after Martin, help him bathe, help him shave, help him … Oh dear God … she wanted to be with him, alone, in a room,
any
room, to peel away the jumble of old clothes he wore, to soothe his weary body, to cleanse it, caress it … to rest with him, hold him,
alone
… to lock the door and shut them all out, to listen to his voice as he explained what miracle had brought him back to her … what horror had kept him from her … to tell him about Beth … and Tom.
To be alone with him
!
They could not eat, any of them, though Annie put her best before them and they did
their
best. As she cleared away the table of their almost untouched plates she knew that Megan Fraser was as tight as a cork in a bottle and if she was not released soon, the bottle would shatter. She could hardly keep her hands off him, nor her eyes and they shone out from her face in two incredulous beams of love, lingering over his gaunt face, agonising over the slenderness of him, glowing and sighing and dreaming. Annie was afraid, for Tom, though as yet he had noticed nothing strange for he was himself in a delirium of joy over the return of his beloved friend, was not blind!
‘I’ve been in a prisoner of war camp, Meg.’ Martin’s eyes were just for her as they sat before the fire when Annie had gone. The
curtains
were drawn and Meg had switched on one lamp and the room was soft and lovely and so was she, his expression said.
‘How …?’
‘We went up that day … a lad … I can’t remember his name … on a patrol. It was at the beginning of November and I hadn’t been there long but I thought I would be home for Christmas, remember Meggie?’ He stretched out his hand for hers and she took it and it was then he noticed she held Tom’s with the other, but he thought nothing strange in it for were they not the three musketeers together again, drawn in that unbreakable circle.
‘We’d only been up for half an hour or so when, for no reason, my engine stalled.’
‘Oh Martin!’ She knew the fear of that at first hand, did she not, her expression said, but she would tell him about that later. ‘Could you not …’
‘I couldn’t get it started. There was no reason, none, why it should have happened. My speed and height were correct. My forward speed had not eased which is what often causes it. I was not pointed up beyond the maximum lifting angle but, there I was, in a stall and beginning to spin. I put all the controls at neutral and held them there. I pushed the stick forward until the wind began to whistle a bit, then pulled it back gently which should have enabled me to carry on but, nothing happened! I just … kept going down …’
‘Dear God …’ Meg let go of Tom’s hand and both hers gripped Martin’s and as she held them she felt the scar tissue which ridged across the back of each one and in the palms. She looked down and saw them then, for the first time. She had been so absorbed in his face, his eyes, the tall leanness of him, the grey in his hair, the paleness of his usually amber skin that she had not looked at his hands. Now she turned them over, running her finger tips tenderly across them and in a moment would have put her lips to them and his eyes said, ‘Yes, go on,’ but Tom’s voice slipped through their total concentration in one another, like a child who cannot wait for the parent to continue the story.
‘What happened then, Martin? You must have got out of it, but how … in hell’s name?’
‘I managed to glide in, don’t ask me how, Tom but I did and as I hit the ground the bloody engine went …’
‘On fire?’ Meg’s voice was no more than a thread of sound in the silence.
‘Yes!’ He put his hand to his eyes for a moment as he re-lived that appalling moment. ‘But, as they say, the devil looks after his own,’ he smiled, ‘and I was thrown into a hedge. God only knows how. My suit was on fire, about the arms … and … and the front apparently, but I couldn’t tell you what happened next, or for weeks after. I got a clout on the head. I was pretty badly burned about the hands and arms but when I came to I was in a hospital bed and the stupid thing was … I couldn’t speak! I didn’t know French, or German, but it wouldn’t have made any difference because I couldn’t even speak my own bloody language. Shock, the doctor told me later, but of course, they had no idea who I was. The airplane was burnt out, along with its identification markings. They had stripped me naked when they put out the flames, the ones who brought me from the hedge and my papers, identity papers were all destroyed. And so I sat there, or lay there, week after bloody week trying desperately to tell them my name and my rank and all the other paraphernalia we are allowed to give them, and I couldn’t even ask for the bloody bed-pan. My hands and arms were heavily bandaged so I was unable to write …’