The First of July(63)

There was no cheerful musical notation to start or end the letter.

He felt numb where he knew he should feel happy. Theo had made it. Was coming back: coming back to do the thing he loved. He would fly. He would be Theo. With any luck, they would both return home one day. But Theo would never, could never, play the organ again. The pain and grief Benedict felt was all-consuming and at the same time ridiculous, because Theo himself seemed to have no regrets for the loss of his vast gift as long as he could fly.

Over the last weeks, the engineers had been building roads, wells, and railways, and soldiers of every regiment were, with bad grace, extending the trenches that might save their lives. The battalion drilled and went out on the hated patrols. It was hard to maintain discipline in these protracted periods of waiting. Men drank themselves into unconsciousness, went absent without leave, appeared daily before the M.O. with trivial complaints; they squabbled, fretted, stole, or became inert. To keep them battle-ready, whatever that meant (but it certainly didn’t mean fighting each other), companies were moved to the rear to practice storming German trenches. All this they did with enthusiasm, at least at first. They were undaunted, knowing that no one was actually going to shoot them. There were football matches, a concert. There were pep talks from visiting High Command; these, at least, seemed to bring amusement. But little could be done to hide the fact that machinery and soldiers were pouring into the area hourly and that the end of the waiting was going to demand everything these men could give.

Benedict felt it was his duty to spend all his time with them but, in truth, without Theo, Harmony Cottage had become a lonely place. Nevertheless, when his own leave came—just four days—he chose to return to Harmony Cottage, hoping that Theo was back.

The Theo who had returned was not the same Theo.

After surgery, Theo had gone home to rehabilitate, then taken leave, seen his father, was vague about his meeting with Agnes. He said nothing at all about Gloucester. He spoke of spending time in London with Novello, going to nightclubs and meeting his famous friends. Novello, he reported excitedly, had also joined up as a pilot.

If it had sometimes been hard to get through to the real Theo, now there was something more frenetic about him. The hand was misshapen, although more or less functional, but it was obvious that it caused him pain. Benedict tried not to look it.

Theo had a medicine case he’d brought with him when they joined up, at the recommendation of a cousin who was a regular. It was a beautiful thing—dark polished wood with a moiré silk lining. Each amber glass bottle stood in its allotted place, and powders were stored in a drawer. They had laughed at the names on the labels, speculating on what the various drugs were for: Mist Pot Cit; Mist Asp; Quinine; Cocaine; Chlor. Squills; Ammonia; Charcoal; Tincture of Benzoin. “For piles from sitting in a staff car for hours at a time,” Theo had suggested.

The only two Benedict could remember them using were iodine and syrup of figs. Now the powder wrappers were scattered about Theo’s bed and the silver hypodermic was missing. They had once laughed at tablets called “Forced March,” which, the label promised, “Prolong the Force of Endurance,” but it was hard to miss the empty bottles in the fireplace. Every time Benedict came back to the billet, Theo was drinking or restlessly asleep. He was flying longer hours than ever. His face was drawn with pain. Another of the RFC lads had told him Theo was only back on flying probation, but he never spoke of it himself.

Then in June he came in to find Theo shirtless and washing. Benedict saw for the first time that Theo’s right arm was withered and scarred way above the wrist.

“What are you staring at?” Theo looked at him as he might a stranger. “A freak show? All these weeks of you averting your fastidious eyes. Or are you some kind of nancy boy? Do you want to kiss it better?” He waved the damaged arm at him.

“I’m sorry.” He looked away, hurt and ashamed. He could smell the drink on Theo’s breath.

“You can be top boy in Gloucester now.”

“I don’t want—”

“You don’t want to fight a war. That’s it. You want to play hymns for old ladies until you smell of mice and mildew.”

He didn’t, couldn’t answer. Then he started, stupidly, he knew, to defend himself, say something about beauty and having something to believe you’d go back to.

“Just a game, Ben. It was all just another merry, merry jape.” Theo smiled, baring his teeth.

“What’s the matter?” It sounded plaintive—whining.

Theo threw his metal shaving bowl across the room, his razor still held in his better hand.