Mac chuckled. 'Eh, mon, dinna fash yoursel'. But you certainly gave the impression you enjoyed it.' He bent down to Peter Marlowe, who had been watching. 'Eh, Peter?'
'I think you're both ready for a piece,' said Peter Marlowe, smiling faintly.
'He's well paid, but you two go offering your services, tempting him. But what he could see in you two old farts, damned if I know.'
Mac grinned at Larkin. 'Ah, the wee laddie's better than somewhat. Now he can pull his weight for a change. And not, how is it the King puts it —ah yes — and not 'goof off.''
'Is it two or three days since the first injection?' Peter Marlowe said.
'Two days.'
Two days? Feels more like two years, Peter Marlowe thought. But tomorrow I'll be strong enough to get the money.
That night, after the last roll call, Father Donovan came to play bridge with them. When Peter Marlowe told them about the nightmare quarrel he had had with them, they all laughed.
'Eh, laddie,' Mac said, 'your mind can play strange tricks with you when there's fever on you.'
'Yes,' Father Donovan said. Then he smiled at Peter. 'I'm glad your arm is healed, Peter.'
Peter Marlowe smiled back. 'There's not much that goes on that you don't know about, is there?'
'There's not much that goes on that He doesn't know about.' Donovan was very sure and completely peaceful. 'We're in good hands.' Then he chuckled and added, 'Even you three!'
'Well, that's something,' Mac said, 'though I think the colonel is far beyond the pale!'
After the game, and after Donovan had left, Mac nodded to Larkin. 'You keep a lookout. We'll hear the news, then call it a night.'
Larkin watched the road and Peter Marlowe sat on the veranda and tried to keep his eyes alert. Two days. Needles in his arm and now he was cured and had his arm back. Strange days, dream days, and now it was all right.
The news was enormously good, and they all went back to their beds.
Their sleep was dreamless and contented.
At dawn, Mac went to the chicken run and found three eggs. He brought them back and made an omelet and filled it with a little rice he had saved from yesterday and perfumed it with a sliver of garlic.
Then he carried it up to Peter Marlowe's hut, and woke him and watched while he ate it all.
Suddenly Spence rushed into the hut.
'Hey, chaps!' he shouted. 'There's some mail in the camp!'
Mac's stomach turned over. Oh God, let there be one for me.
But there was no letter for Mac.
In all there were forty-three letters among the ten thousand. The Japanese had given mail to the camp twice in three years. A few letters.
And on three occasions the men had been allowed to write a post card of twenty-five words. But whether these cards were ever delivered they did not know.
Larkin was one who got a letter. The first he had ever received.
His letter was dated April 21, 1945. Four months old. The age of the other letters varied from three weeks to more than two years.
Larkin read and reread the letter. Then he read it to Mac, Peter Marlowe and the King, sitting on the veranda of the bungalow.
Darling, This letter is number 205, it began. I am well and Jeannie is well and Mother is staying with us and we live just where we've always lived.
We have had no news of you since your letter dated February 1, 1942, posted from Singapore. But even so we know you're well and happy, and we're praying for your sqfe return.
I've started each letter off the same, so if you've read the above before, forgive me. But it's difficult, not knowing if this one will reach you, if any of them have. I love you. I need you. And I miss you more than I can bear at times.
Today I feel sad. I don't know why, but I am. I don't want to be depressed and I wanted to tell you all manner of wonderful things.
Perhaps I'm sad because of Mrs. Gurble. She got a post card yesterday and I didn't. I'm just selfish I suppose. But that's me. Anyway, be sure to tell Vie Gurble that his wife, Sarah, got a post card dated January 6, 1943.
She is well and his son is bonny. Sarah is so happy that she is back in contact again. Oh yes, and the Regiment girls are all right. Timsen's mother is just grand. And don't forget to remember me to Tom Masters. I saw his wife last night. She's well too and making a lot of money for him.
She's in a new business. Oh yes and I saw Elizabeth Ford, Mary Vickers . . .
Larkin looked up from the letter. 'She mentions maybe a dozen wives.
But the men're dead. All of 'em. The only man who's alive is Timsen.'
'Read on, laddie,' said Mac quickly, achingly aware of the agony that was written in Larkin's eyes.
Today's hot, Larkin continued, and I'm sitting on the veranda and Jeannie's playing in the garden and I think this weekend I'll go up to the cottage in the Blue Mountains.
I'd write about the news, but that's not allowed.
Oh God, how do you write into a vacuum? How do I know? Where are you, my love, for the love of Christ,
