The Return of Captain John Emmett

Finaly her eyes moved, almost pleading, to Laurence's.

'He was brought back to England. It became obvious that he would live, but also obvious that he would never be able to do anything for himself. The damage to his brain was never going to heal. He was a child. An infant. He knew no one and nothing, he could not move. He—' She paused. 'He even has to wear baby napkins.

So he was lost, you see—the man he was, the man I'd loved. He came here and here he wil stay for the rest of his life. He wil never walk, wil never see his lovely Downs or winter seas again. A few friends come from time to time, but less and less often. His doctor is an immensely kind, wise man. It's his car, actualy. I bumped into him at the concert we went to. I thought you'd seen us talking together; I wanted to explain but to start to tel you the whole story was too much then. I didn't know you wel enough and I wanted you to like me, and the alternative was to lie, which I didn't want.'

He stroked her arm. 'It's al right.'

'As for his wife, despite her scruples before, she eventualy divorced him and married her lover. I would have married Richard then, even as he is, especially as he is, but legaly he can't make the vows. She can divorce him, but I can't marry him unilateraly. Besides, he has no idea who I am.'

She looked at Laurence and shrugged.

'So that's that.'

He removed his hand as an older nun, wearing a white apron, came into view and beckoned them to folow her. They went up a shalow flight of black oak stairs and turned into a long dormitory. The first thing Laurence noticed were the large Gothic windows, which filed the long room with light. The views over the hil and past the Long Man in al his vigour were superb. The second thing he noticed was the row of beds and the peace. Younger nuns in slightly different habits attended the patients. One man groaned as two nuns turned him from his back on to his side. The occupant of the bed nearest the door lay on his back, one eye half open, his hands moving jerkily under the sheets. A shining line of saliva ran down his chin. Laurence looked away, feeling embarrassed.

He had thought their guide might have taken a vow of silence, but now she was talking quietly to Mary as they moved down the beds. Finaly she left them at the last one, under a window in the corner. Mary leaned over and kissed the supine form, his head supported on either side by pilows. She looked back at Laurence, who was hovering uncertainly, and motioned him over.

'Richard, this is Laurie Bartram,' she said in a low but even voice.

Sitting down on a plain wooden chair by the bed, she brought the man's hand out from under the covers and held it.

'He's been wonderful in finding out what happened to John.' She leaned forward to do up a pyjama button that had come adrift. Then she sat in silence for a while, stroking his fingers.

Laurence studied Mary's lover's face. He was freshly shaven and his hair was slightly damp. Mary was right: he was a handsome man. He looked wel, were it not for the puckered crater of healed tissue visible on the nearside of his head and the absolute lack of any facial response. His eyes were open, his irises very blue, yet Laurence could detect not a single indication that he had any awareness of their presence. When Mary let go of his hand, it fel loosely to the cover. She tucked it away, under the blanket.

'I can't stay today. But I went to see the house this morning and it's looking at its best. They've repaired the window frames and since the boys came home from the war, the gardens are getting back into shape. Mr Strangeways tels me they've had a wonderful year for roses—most of them stil blooming until the last few weeks.'

She stood up, bent over and stroked Richard's brow, then looked down at his face intently, as if she couldn't believe what she saw. 'Bye bye,' she said, finaly.

'I'l be back to see you soon, darling.'

She nodded to a nun by the door. 'Thank you,' she said simply.

They walked down the stairs and out into the open towards the church.

'The house is gone, of course,' she said. 'I haven't seen it since before the war. Strangeways, the head gardener, has gone to work at Compton Place. The court-appointed guardians decided that, as Richard had no heir, they needed to raise funds for his care throughout his remaining life and the house was too dilapidated to leave empty.'

She walked down the path between gravestones made smooth by time and through the Saxon doorway into the church. He folowed.

'Then there was a fire. Some mischief by local lads.' She wrapped her arms about herself. 'Not that he wil ever know.'

They sat in the empty church. It was cold. The tiny vestry held one of the most beautiful stained-glass windows Laurence had ever seen, simple and ful of colour. St Francis stood among butterflies and birds, al depicted as identifiable specimens. Beneath its rich light, the parish registers lay on a table.

'So you don't consider yourself free to make a life with anyone else?' asked Laurence.

'No, I don't. I'm not. Who knows, one day...'

'It's fine. You don't have to say anything. I should have liked ... Wel, you must know ... But I'm sad. Not mostly for me,' he hoped this was true, 'but for you and for him.'

'It was one of the reasons I wanted to know more about John,' she said. 'I was so angry when he kiled himself. Perhaps not with him but with God or fate.

There was Richard, a body without a working brain, and there was John, only slightly injured, with a proper life if only he'd grasp it, and it seemed that he'd just thrown it away. I know that's unfair. I knew his mind was probably as damaged in its way as Richard's, but I needed to know that for certain. I needed to grieve, not rage.

That's why I got in touch with you, I suppose.'

'Yet I turned out to know John a lot less wel than you thought,' said Laurence. 'Less than you, certainly. And Eleanor Bolitho knew him best.'