The Return of Captain John Emmett

Wiliam shook his head.

It took Laurence nearly an hour to tel Mary about the afternoon and his impressions. She had not interrupted once although at one point she picked up a biscuit, broke off a piece, dipped it in her tea and carried it to her mouth, al without dropping her eyes from his face. He liked her for it.

'Bolitho was a good man. Perhaps you'l meet him one day. His wife too. If it helps, John's money must have made a big difference to a decent couple. There's a child too: a little boy.'

Mary looked thoughtful. Finaly she spoke. 'Thank you. It means a lot, even these little bits: John's war in mosaic. He never told us how he got injured. We didn't think much of it; we saw it more as a good way of keeping him from the fighting for a while. We didn't know Captain Bolitho had saved his life, only that he'd been in the same regiment. John simply wrote and told us that he'd been in an accident. He didn't mention the sergeant at al, but being trapped would have been helish for him: John hated being in smal spaces or, realy, being constrained in any way. Even rules irked him.'

Laurence nodded. It had been obvious at Marlborough. He wondered again why on earth John had rushed to volunteer, to become part of such a regulation-bound environment. 'But didn't Eleanor Bolitho tel you some of this in her letter?'

She frowned. 'They never bothered to write. None of the beneficiaries wrote,' she said, with a trace of bitterness.

'How odd,' Laurence said.

It didn't sit with what he'd seen of the Bolithos and contradicted what Wiliam had told him.

'Look, we need to push on to catch the concert, but I did wonder whether I should go and see Mrs Lovel soon. Unlike Bolitho, we realy haven't a clue how John knew her but she must know why she was a beneficiary. Although Bolitho was certainly surprised, he wasn't completely at a loss as to why the bequest came to him. One thing I did mean to ask you was where John was when he got in the fight you mentioned? Presumably he was wherever it was for a reason?'

She shrugged.

'Never mind. It's probably nothing but then there's Coburg,' he went on. 'It was written on that list John had.' He could see he had lost her. 'It's just that Coburg's in Germany, in Bavaria. And you said John had been engaged to a girl there, in Munich I think you said, which is also in Bavaria.'

Mary didn't respond.

'I know it's al a bit far-fetched. I just wondered whether he'd had any correspondence with someone there.'

Mary stil didn't answer. She looked down at her lap, turning the clasp on her handbag and finaly raising a solemn face to him. 'He didn't tel me much. Ever.'

She seemed keen to change the subject. 'Look, I ought to give you some money. I do have some. From John. It's not fair that you do al this charging about at your own expense.'

She gazed at him intently. He couldn't help smiling. She was so beautiful and so alive. A long lock of hair had falen forward and curled towards her lips. She blew it away, then tucked it back behind her ear.

He almost let slip that he was enjoying al the 'charging about', but it seemed tactless. 'It's good to be busy, funnily enough,' he said. 'I haven't realy done anything, not since the war.' He paused. 'Not since Louise—died. Not realy. I've only been writing because I had to do something.'

Suddenly, her hand was on his, and stayed there, calm and warm. She said nothing.

They had to hurry to the concert hal. The concert began with Elgar's Salut d'Amour, and then there was some Debussy, which he liked less, though he thought how Louise would have enjoyed it. Next was a Brahms quintet, which drew enthusiastic applause. Mary was rapt. He was aware, al the way through, of her closeness.

From time to time her knee touched his. A couple of times he stole a glance at her in profile. The second time she caught him and returned a smal smile.

As they left the auditorium he left her for a moment while he went to fetch her coat. She was standing behind him as he queued. Reflected in the wal of mirrors above the attendant he saw that a man had stopped to greet her and had even taken her hand in his. Their bodies were very close as they talked, Mary's head bent towards his to catch his words. Then she looked towards Laurence's back and obviously said goodbye. The man was quickly gone. The attendant handed Laurence their belongings and he returned to Mary, expecting her to explain, but as he helped her into her coat she simply said, 'Wasn't that fun!' Her face, however, was serious and pale.

Al the way to the station he wanted to ask her who the man was but could think of no way to raise it that didn't seem clumsy. He told himself that if the meeting had been insignificant, surely she would have explained. As the wish to know loomed larger, the opportunity to do so receded. He could think of nothing else to say.

Mary kept looking at her watch in the dark of the cab. From time to time she gave him a nervous and, he thought, slightly distant smile. She was no longer eager to talk but anyway they made it with just minutes to spare. As she stepped up into the carriage, she placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. He waited until her train had gone, waving with a joliness that he didn't feel.

He decided to clear his head by walking back. The city was quiet. The monumental architecture of the great financial institutions rose up either side of him, dark and oppressive. He supposed they had fought to protect these as much as they had the idea of vilage greens or royal palaces, had fought to keep things as they were. The dome of St Paul's came into view against the night sky, its silhouette softened by a veil of cloud. The night was cool and slightly damp; autumn was wel on its way now with leaves beginning to fal from the plane trees. He felt indescribably sad.

That night was the first bad one for a while. The banshee scream of shels. The distant crump of other men's catastrophes. The stink of burning and sweat, and al the time his heart pounding. He placed his hand on his chest to steady himself but his heart pulsed loudly through the dream. He put the whistle in his mouth. He was supposed to blow but couldn't get enough breath. Then somehow he was alone in the remains of a traverse, digging as fast and as desperately as he could. It was raining and Louise was there, under the earth. The wet soil made his hands ache with cold. His fingers found first her face and then her nose, entered her open mouth, felt the edges of her teeth. As fast as he dug, earth fel on her from above. Rain pooled in the crater he had dug to let her breathe and slowly, though he held her muddy hair, it filed up and she slipped away from him.