The Soldier
IT was one of those nights that made him feel he knew what it was like to be a blind man; not the shadow of an image for his eyes to discern, not even the forms of the trees visible against the sky.
Out of the darkness he became aware of small rustling noises in the hedge, the breathing of a horse some distance away in the field, the soft thud of a hoof as it moved its foot; and once he heard the rush of a bird flying past him low overhead.
'Jock,' he said, speaking loud. 'We'll go home now.' And he turned and began to walk back up the slope of the lane, the dog pulling ahead, showing the way in the dark.
It must be nearly midnight, he thought. That meant that soon it would be tomorrow. Tomorrow was worse than today. Tomorrow was the worst of all because it was going to become today—and today was now.
Today had not been very nice, especially that business with the splinter.
Stop it, he told himself. There isn't any sense thinking about it. It doesn't do anyone any good thinking about things like that. Think about something else for a change. You can kick out a dangerous thought, you know, if you put another in its place. Go right back as far as you can go. Let's have some memories of sweet days. The seaside holidays in the summer, wet sand and red buckets and shrimping nets and the slippery seaweedy rocks and the small clear pools and sea anemones and snails and mussels and sometimes one grey translucent shrimp hovering deep down in the beautiful green water.
But how could that splinter have got into the sole of his foot without him feeling it?
It is not important. Do you remember hunting for cowries along the margin of the tide, each one so fine and perfect it became a precious jewel to be held in the hand all the way home; and the little orange-coloured scallops, the pearly oyster shells, the tiny bits of emerald glass, a live hermit crab, a cockle, the spine of a skate, and once, but never to be forgotten, the dry seawashed jawbone of a human being with teeth in it, white and wonderful among the shells and pebbles. Oh Mummy, look what I've found! Look, Mummy, look!
But to go back to the splinter. She had really been rather unpleasant about that.
'What do you mean, you didn't notice?' she had asked, scornful.
'I just didn't notice, that's all.'
'I suppose you're going to tell me if I stick a pin into your foot you won't feel it?'
'I didn't say that.'
And then she had jabbed him suddenly in the ankle with the pin she had been using to take out the splinter, and he hadn't been watching so he didn't know about it till she had cried out in a kind of horror. And when he had looked down, the pin was sticking into the flesh all by itself behind the anklebone, almost half of it buried. 'Take it out,' he had said. 'You can poison someone like that.'
'You mean you can't feel it?'
'Take it out, will you?'
'You mean it doesn't hurt?'
'The pain is terrible. Take it out.'
'What's the matter with you?'
'I said the pain is terrible. Didn't you hear me?'
Why did they do things like that to him?
When I was down beside the sea, a wooden spade they gave to me, to dig the sandy shore. My holes were empty as a cup, and every time the sea came up, till it could come no more.
A year ago the doctor had said, 'Shut your eyes. Now tell me whether I'm pushing this toe up or down.'
'Up,' he had said.
'And now?'
'Down. No, up. I think it's up.'
It was peculiar that a neuro-surgeon should want to play with his toes.
'Did I get them all right, doctor?'
'You did very well.'
But that was a year ago. He had felt pretty good a year ago. The sort of things that happened now never used to happen then. Take, for example, just one item—the bathroom tap.
Why was the hot tap in the bathroom on a different side this morning? That was a new one.
It is not of the least importance, you understand, but it would be interesting to know why.
Do you think she could have changed it over, taken a spanner and a pipe-wrench and sneaked in during the night and changed it over?
Do you? Well—if you really want to know—yes. The way she'd been acting lately, she'd be quite capable of doing that.
A strange and difficult woman, that's what she was. Mind you, she used not to be, but there's no doubt at all that right now she was as strange and difficult as they come. Especially at night.
Yes, at night. That was the worst time of all—the night.
Why, when he put out his right hand in bed at night, could his fingers not feel what they were touching? He had knocked over the lamp and she had woken up and then sat up suddenly while he was feeling for it on the floor in the dark.
'What are you doing now?'
'I knocked over the lamp. I'm sorry.'
'Oh Christ,' she had said. 'Yesterday it was the glass of water. What's the matter with you?'
Once, the doctor had stroked the back of his hand with a feather, and he hadn't been able to feel that either. But he had felt it when the man scratched him with a pin.
'Shut your eyes. No—you mustn't look. Shut them tight. Now tell me if this is hot or cold.'
'Hot.',, And this?'
'Cold.'
'And this?'
'Cold. I mean hot. Yes, it's hot, isn't it?'
'That's right,' the doctor had said. 'You did very well.'
But that was a year ago.
Why were the switches on the walls, just lately, always a few inches away from the well-remembered places when he felt for them in the dark?
Don't think about it, he told himself. The only thing is not to think about it.
And while we're on the subject, why did the walls of the living-room take on a slightly different shade of colour each day?
Green and blue-green and blue; and sometimes—sometimes slowly swimming like colours seen through the heat-haze of a brazier.
One by one, neatly, like index cards out of a machine, the little questions dropped.
Whose face appeared for one second at the window during dinner? Whose eyes?
'What are you staring at?'
'Nothing,' he had answered. 'But it would be nice if we could draw the curtains, don't you think?
'Robert, what were you staring at?'
'Nothing,'
'Why were you staring at the window like that?'
'It would be nice if we could draw the curtains, don't you think?' he had answered.
He was going past the place where he had heard the horse in the field and now he could hear it again; the breathing, the soft hoof thuds, and the crunch of grass-cropping that was like the noise of a man munching celery.
'Hello old horse,' he said, calling loud into the darkness. 'Hello old horse over there.'
Suddenly he heard the footsteps behind him, slow, long-striding footsteps close behind, and he stopped. The footsteps stopped. He turned around, searching the darkness.
