Orphan of Angel Street (21 page)

‘Wait there . . .’

They returned in moments, the stretcher empty.

‘Where?’ the front man asked.

‘Over towards the railway. Look, I’ll know when we get there. I’m coming too.’

The sun was paler now, higher, and its rays straining through a sulphurous mist which curled over the surface of the mud and between the blackened stumps of trees. Not a blade of grass, not a hint of any green, living thing remained in this place. For as far as the eye could see was nothing but mud, wounded trees, water reflecting pale sky. The guns had ceased firing except for the occasional report of snipers’ bullets. The battlefield was littered with the debris of slaughter.

Johnny walked slightly ahead of the stretcher-bearers, all of them slipping and trying to retain their balance.

They had gone only a short distance when Johnny started to panic, realizing just how difficult it was going to be to find the place. There was nothing to give you a bearing, all landmarks wiped away: woods, farms, villages annihilated in the two years of bombardment. But he wasn’t going to show the men that he had scant idea where he was going. Soon he saw the dim shape of the embankment and relief surged through him.

‘That way.’

All round them as they waded and hauled themselves so painfully slowly through no man’s land, the early morning air was filled with cries and moans. Men lay where they had fallen. Others had taken shelter or tumbled into shell holes, and each hole had its ration of bodies, living and dead, from both armies. As they struggled on, Johnny couldn’t look into the eyes of those still alive. They all kept their eyes on their feet. Blood bubbled up from the mud from time to time. The edges of civilization, of decency, of meaning, of the obligation to mercy had simply been blown away. There was nothing here to redeem it, nothing . . . except Tom. Tom’s life.

‘If you don’t find it soon we shall simply have to take someone else.’ The stretcher-bearer spoke tersely.

‘Sorry – only it was dark. Just a bit further.’

And at last, barely visible, poking up like a tiny matchstick, Johnny caught sight of the shovel. ‘There!’ he roared. ‘See? In there!’

The team of stretcher-bearers, hurrying now, followed him to the edge and stood looking down into the watery morass of the shell hole. They watched as Johnny, with infinite gentleness, hauled the torso of another young soldier into his arms, head bent over him.

There came a small shred of sound from the wounded soldier.

‘What’s that, mate?’ they heard Johnny say.

‘Ooom . . . Mo-o-o-m . . .’

Johnny put his head back and turned to them as they stood outlined by the sky where rain clouds were gathering once more.

‘Quick,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘’E’s alive!’

‘Mercy – it’s Tom. They’ve brought ’im home!’

Mercy, only just out of bed with her hair tumbling all over the place, stared at Elsie, unable to make any sense of what she’d said as she burst into their house early one morning.

‘’E’s been wounded – came in on the hospital train . . .’E’s up at the university!’ Elsie was displaying the first signs of animation that she’d shown for months, and her blue eyes shone with hope. ‘That means ’e’s out of it. ’E’s safe!’

Mercy found herself saying Thank God over and over in her mind. She went out to the privy and had a cry in private, relief and joy flooding through her, overflowing down her cheeks. Only then did she realize how numb with worry she’d been.

Suddenly she felt excited. Tom, home – long before she’d expected to see him! She could visit, help look after him. He was here in Birmingham, only just up the road!

They visited later that day, Mercy with Elsie and Bummy. The bus stopped on the Bristol Road, almost opposite the rather awe-inspiring university building.

‘Looks more like a church, don’t it?’ Elsie said, her worn face upturned as they passed the tall brick campanile in the middle of the university grounds. ‘Imagine working here!’

Mercy was trembling with anticipation. In one part of her mind she was preparing herself. Tom was injured: suppose, like a number of the wounded men she’d seen in the streets, he’d lost an arm or leg? Or both? But he’d still be Tom, wouldn’t he? She’d still love him whatever, and she couldn’t wait to see him, be close to him. As he was wounded he might be home a long time. He might escape the rest of the War altogether!

‘They bring ’em in through Selly Oak goods station,’ Bummy was saying. He kept clearing his throat with nerves. He and Elsie had put on their Sunday best to come out here and see their son, Bummy in a battered old Homburg which looked too small on his bullish head.

‘Ooh!’ Elsie took Mercy’s arm and squeezed it. ‘I feel all of a flutter. I can’t believe we’re going to see ’im!’ She seemed quite light-hearted. Whatever had happened, her boy was home and he was alive.

When they got inside the makeshift hospital, they couldn’t find him.

‘I’ll look on the list for you,’ one of the orderlies said, eyebrows puckering as he ran his eyes down the list of names.

‘It’s a feat of organization, I can tell you. There’re a thousand beds here now. Oh – here we are.’ He looked up at them solemnly. ‘I’m sorry, I hope you haven’t come too far . . .’ Elsie clutched Mercy’s arm as he spoke. ‘Tom Pepper? Yes, he’s been moved . . .’ Elsie let out a shuddering sigh. ‘To Highbury Hall – living in style.’ He tried to joke, then seeing their bewildered faces added, ‘Over in Kings Heath. Joseph Chamberlain’s mansion. That’s a hospital as well now.’

They thanked him and he said, ‘Never mind, just another bus ride.’ He watched them walk back towards the entrance. ‘Highbury.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor bastards.’

‘When he said “I’m sorry” like that, I thought my heart was going to pack in,’ Mercy said as they walked down the road.

‘I know, me too.’ Elsie was nervy now, tight-faced. The energy had gone from the day and the delay felt ominous. None of them was excited any more, just weary and anxious.

Highbury Hall, though much smaller than the university, felt even more imposing with its long drive and country house splendour, although now there was an ambulance parked outside and the garden was looking unkempt and overgrown.

They walked through an arched doorway into the dark interior of the Hall, the incongruous hospital smell of disinfectant immediately once strong in their nostrils. They could see people bustling about, nurses, orderlies, but the atmosphere was a hushed, careful one.

‘Can I help?’ A doctor stopped, crossing the hall.

Bummy removed his hat and had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. ‘We were told you’ve got our son.’ Mercy felt Elsie take her hand for a moment, gripping it tight.

The doctor was brisk but gentle, obviously aware of the anxiety in their eyes. ‘His name?’

He seemed to recognize Tom’s name at once.

‘Ah.’ Mercy saw a tiny movement at the side of his jaw, knew he was clenching his teeth and her stomach tightened further.

‘How is ’e?’ she asked.

‘He’s – well, it’s very early days.’ The doctor seemed uneasy. ‘You could go up and see him for a short time, but you should prepare yourselves. He may not recognize you at this stage. He’s had a nasty bang on the head.’

They followed the doctor’s tall figure up the stairs. He stopped at the entrance to one of the rooms and spoke to a nurse. Even more gently now, he ushered them in.

Crammed in along either side of the room, were rows of black iron bedsteads, and between them, down the middle, two small tables with vases of flowers and a leafy aspidistra resting on lace cloths.

Mercy looked round her, heart hammering. It was very hot in there and she felt overwarm after her walk and suddenly dizzy with heat and nerves. What she saw also began to make her feel sick with dread. In the beds lay young men, or what could be seen of them, so swathed were they in bandages and dressings, and mostly they lay very still and so silent it was impossible to be sure there was life in them. But as they passed, one or two let out chilling cries of anguish. One of them, his face half-covered by a bandage, thrust his arm up above his head, crying in a slurred voice. Mercy didn’t know where to look, averting her eyes.

But worst of all, they could hear a loud, inhuman sound, half groan, half gargle, coming from a heavily bandaged figure at the end.

Mercy heard Elsie catch her breath and say, ‘Oh Lor,’ in a faint voice.

The noise grated on, insistent, nerve-rending. The doctor was steering them towards that bed.

‘No!’ Elsie stopped, adamant. ‘That ain’t Tom. That’s never my son making that noise.’

There was nothing Mercy could associate with Tom. So little of the face could be seen. There was no smile, no voice or welcoming embrace. Was this him, this creature lying there, the man she loved? The one in whom she’d invested all her affection, her future hopes? She stood beside Elsie, the two of them paralysed at the end of the bed, as white lights began to flash at the edges of her eyes. She couldn’t get her breath: it was stifling in here.

It was Bummy who moved slowly round and bent his red, scrubbed face close to the wounded lad.

‘Son?’ He spoke softly. ‘Son. It’s yer dad.’

As he spoke, Mercy felt the heat and flashing lights swell until the lights clicked off and there was only blackness. She slumped to the ground at the end of Tom’s bed.

Tom had been taken from the Ypres salient to no. 46 Casualty Clearing Station at Proven (otherwise known as Mendinghem), with a bullet embedded deeply in his skull. After an operation to remove it he was sent home as a cot case on the ambulance train and finally reached Highbury Hall, which had begun to specialize in neurological cases and in a new technique still in its infancy – brain surgery.

‘Will he be all right? Will he learn to speak again? Will he walk?’ They kept on and on asking the doctors, wanting answers to the main question ‘Will he be our son again – our Tom?’ No one could give them straightforward reassurance. They were to operate again and see what progress could be made. But it was only right to warn them: damage to Tom’s brain appeared to be very severe, perhaps irreversible.

Coming home from that first visit, Mercy still sick and groggy, they were all sunk in shock. They had seen this ‘thing’ on the bed, hearing the sounds he made, but could barely recognize him as Tom. Mercy felt she was in a waking nightmare.

The next week when they visited she had a few moments with him on her own. Elsie and Bummy had already seen him together and said they’d wait outside. They had operated on Tom on the Tuesday and he was now in a different room. His head was still dressed thickly in bandages but this time they left both his eyes free.

As Mercy walked with weak legs towards the bed he was staring at the ceiling, lying absolutely still. She found herself tiptoeing, afraid to disturb this stranger for whom she’d dressed in her newest, prettiest frock decorated with rust-coloured autumn leaves which set off her hair beautifully.

There was a wooden chair squeezed between his bed and the next, and Mercy sat down, out of range of his view, watching him. His hands lay outside the covers of the bed and the one nearest her was never at rest, the fingers plucking at the turning on the sheet. She knew at last that it was truly him. She knew those hands, had known them for years so that they were now almost as familiar as her own. The hand beside her had gently held hers as they walked in the winter dark together.

She wanted to touch him then, but held back, sitting up very straight to look at his face. His cheeks were thin and pale against the yellowed bandages, and he lay as if he was in a trance.

Mercy could bear it no longer. She leant closer. ‘Tom. Tom—’ she half whispered, unsure whether any of the other prone figures around her could hear. ‘It’s me, Mercy. It’s me, my love.’

Slowly, he turned his head a fraction towards her and her spirits leapt with hope. She jumped to her feet and looked down into his eyes.

‘Tom, sweetheart – Tom?’ She picked up the twitching hand and pressed it to her cheek, her lips. ‘Say summat to me – just say you can hear me!’

She saw him watching her, his gaze focussing gradually on her face. But in his eyes she saw nothing of the affection that had been there before when his expression had softened at the sight of her. Now he glared at her, and at the heart of that look she saw a total blankness, a complete lack of engagement with her.

‘Oh my God.’ She dropped his hand, afraid, stepping back from this terrible coldness. ‘Tom? Tom, don’t look at me like that – don’t!’

She turned her head away, but each time she looked back at him the iron gaze was still fixed on her.

Unable to stand it any longer, she rushed from the ward. Those eyes followed her all evening and into her sleep. Nowhere in them could she see the soul of the man she loved. Wherever it was Tom had been, he had left there the key part of his very self.

Elsie, with a mother’s eternal optimism, was certain he would recover.

‘’E was looking at us, I know ’e was!’ she ‘d say after their first few visits. ‘’E knew us awright!’

Whatever Mercy had seen or failed to see in Tom’s eyes, Elsie clung to her conviction. ‘By Christmas ’e’ll be right as rain – the doctor said ’e’d improve, didn’t ’e?’

They visited week after week, feet swishing through fallen leaves on the pavements outside Highbury Hall, then the leaves were frosted white, then coated in snow. As the winter took hold, Elsie’s hopes slowly began to dissolve. Mercy went with her each time, dread hard in her as stone.

Elsie would sit at Tom’s side, her now fast-greying hair fixed up under her best hat, ankles neatly crossed, chatting to him, holding one of his clammy hands.

‘We’ve had a note from Johnny,’ she told him just before Christmas. ‘’E’s in Italy now. Says ’e’s awright. You comfy there, love? Anything I can get yer? Just say, won’t yer? Your Mercy’s ’ere to see you again – look, there she is, over there. Never misses a visit, she don’t. You got to get better for ’er, you know that, bab – and for me and your dad. Can’t ’ave you carrying on like this, can we?’

Bummy, when he came, would sit silently beside her, hat in hand. Mercy sometimes had to leave the room, choking back her tears on hearing Elsie talk, what remained of her bright hope still fluttering round her son.