The Return of Captain John Emmett

She had a wide, pretty mouth and when she talked a dimple appeared to one side. She looked genuinely delighted to see him, and only dark smudges under her eyes hinted at sadness.

They took a bus, which drove slowly past the Botanic Gardens—a dark-green jungle behind tidy railings. The warm stone buildings of the ancient coleges lay on either side of them.

'Now,' Mary said as they got off by Magdalene Bridge, 'here we are at the crossroads of duty and pleasure: we could go home but if we do we'l get caught up with Mother and Aunt Virginia. She lives with us now, as a companion for my mother.' She made a face.

Laurence waited to see where the other road led.

'Or,' she continued, 'seeing as it's such a perfect day, we could go out to Granchester for early tea. We could take the bus or even punt. Do you punt?'

'Wel, I could punt more than a decade ago. I suppose I could test my surviving punting skils if you feel brave?'

'I can actualy punt myself.' She smiled. 'It's just much more fun to be a puntee.'

However he had thought the day might turn out, Laurence had never expected to be drinking lemon squash under trees so heavy with fruit that under their weight the branches had curved to the ground to form green-latticed caves. They made good time up the river. After tying up next to a couple of other boats, and swatting away midges at the water's edge, they walked through meadows to the tearooms. Apart from their footsteps in the dry grass, the only sound was a distant corncrake.

Mary asked whether he'd read Brooke's poem about the vilage and Laurence felt absurdly glad to be able to recite at least some of it.

'I met him, you know,' Mary said. 'I don't think he was very impressed—I was far too young and not nearly clever or beautiful enough for his set, but John liked him. They'd come over here and talk and read. That's how I first knew of the tearoom. But I love the river. Cambridge can be so dusty and yelow but the river is always so cool and green. It reminds me of our old house out here. I'd live on an island or a houseboat if I could.'

'You'l be horrified to know that when I was at Oxford I used to think you were like a water nymph,' he said. For a second he couldn't believe he had blurted out something so ridiculously inappropriate but she looked so delighted and happy at his absurd revelation that he laughed with her.

Laurence began to wonder whether the whole day would pass without either of them mentioning the reason for his visit. It was only the almost untouched seed cake on her plate that suggested Mary Emmett was more anxious than she appeared. He was fighting off sleepiness from the punting and the sun as he sat in his shirtsleeves, eyes slightly screwed up against the light. He had become adept at sensing the turn of a conversation so that he could head off any direction that led to Louise and sympathy. Now he found himself on the other side, trying to reach a place where John could be there quite naturaly.

'Is your mother al right?' It was a lame question.

'No,' said Mary. 'No, she's not, actualy. She was never very strong and she's just retreated from the world. Al the anxiety about John during the war, and then a brief happiness when he came back. Then it was soon obvious things were badly wrong, and she was scared and embarrassed by his violent outbursts. He got involved in a fight, miles away, and was arrested. He wouldn't talk about it but he would have been charged if he hadn't been admitted into a nursing home. Al the same, she wasn't sure whether she should have let him be put away—because we were putting him away; we both felt it. He wouldn't speak and something was wrong with his arm; it made his life even harder that he couldn't use it. He needed us. Needed somebody who loved him.'

'I'm sure he understood,' Laurence said. 'I'm sorry, that sounds such a cliche.' However, he was wondering whether John might also have needed distance from his over-protective mother.

'Yes, but the place was too far away and he was among strangers and I'm not even sure they—the people in charge—were al very nice people. Not very kind.

And the worst thing of al was that truthfuly it was quite a relief to have him out of the house.'

Her voice wobbled. Laurence automaticaly put out his hand to comfort her and cursed himself for being a fool as it neither reached her nor was noticed. After a second he withdrew it. There was silence for a minute or two, except for wasps buzzing round the jug of cordial.

'Do you realy think he was mistreated?'

'Wel, not actively mistreated, but not always understood. He was complicated.'

She described what she knew of John's last days, though the story she told was not greatly amplified from her long letter. John had settled into Holmwood, an institution in the market town of Fairford in the Cotswolds. It had long been a hospital specialising in neurasthenia. Before the war it had taken men and women in more or less equal numbers but soon it began to fil with troubled officers.

'Shel-shock: that's what they cal it now. To give them their due, they got John speaking and he'd put on a bit of weight by the last time I saw him.'

'Who was actualy in charge?' asked Laurence.

A Doctor Chilvers was in charge medicaly but his son had a share in ownership, I think; he seemed to have a lot of influence in how things were done. Although Dr Chilvers was quite old, he seemed to be doing his best. His son, George, was thirty-five or so but I didn't get the feeling he'd served in the war. He's a solicitor. I didn't like him. The staff were nervous of him, I thought. And either there's family money or they're doing quite nicely out of Holmwood. Is that unfair? I suppose it is.'

She rushed on, 'Why shouldn't they do wel? Somebody has to care for these poor men.'

'Did anyone expect things to turn out so badly?'

'I would have said suicide was the last thing he'd do. Earlier, maybe. Not then. I saw him about six weeks before he—escaped—and he was a bit restless. But in a way I thought that was good. He hated being cooped up; said he had things he needed to do, which must mean he intended to have time to do them in, surely? He talked a bit. About Suffolk. Lots about our father. He said he had regrets—he didn't say about what but I assumed the war. Yet that last time I thought he was more himself, if anything. In fact, I went back more hopeful than I had for ages. I even suggested Mother went over to see him.'