The Happy Prisoner (33 page)

Painfully, yard by yard, pausing now and again to hear if the burglar were approaching, for he must get to the gun before that, he hitched himself towards the desk. He toppled over once and took quite a time to get up. The pain in his unsupported stump was considerable. Well, if he burst the wound and had to start his illness all over again, with transfusions and penicillin and all the trimmings, it would be their fault, and this time he would have a private room, please. He could never face a ward again after this solitary illness under the open window. They never had enough windows open in a ward, unless it was blowing a gale from the side where the windows were. When his head felt hazy and dizzy he had to stop and hang it down between his arms and shake the blood back into it. It had not been bad going over the rugs, but there was a stretch of boards on the last lap. When he reached the table, with his heart hanging in his jacket like the onions he had carried in his battle blouse from Arnhem, he let go of the floor with one hand, grasped the table top and, with breaking back, pulled himself up on his knee until his eyes looked along the bloom of the table top. He was at one side of the drawer; cunning that, because he could never have opened it otherwise. Holding on with one hand, he opened the drawer with the other.

He had not thought yet about what he would do if the gun was not there.

It was there. God bless Ma. God bless A-
mer
-ica, tum, tum, te tum. The gun was there, but where were the bullets? He rummaged about, in growing feverishness, but there was nothing else in the drawer but a ball of string, some papers and some packets of cigarettes he never knew he had. So that was Ma's game! Trust her to take the dangerous part of the gun away. He knew the bullets had been there, because he had seen Sandy put them in when she unpacked his things. He remembered the affected shudder with which she had dropped the gun and bullets into the drawer as if they would bite her and then looked round at him giggling, as if to say: “Aren't I feminine?” Only he was much too far gone after that long ambulance ride to play up to the poor old horse.

Well, a revolver without ammunition was good enough. He would not have shot at the man, anyway, and he could threaten him just as well with an empty magazine. Criminals had been held up with pipes before now—or was that only in books? Feeling his way down the table leg, he got to his all-threes position again, and swivelling on his knee, started off on the long trek to the door. There seemed to be acres of carpet before him. Halfway across, he glanced at his bed and thought it had never looked so inviting. His head came round again quickly, as he heard the footsteps go stealthily across the passage into the drawing-room. As he listened, he realised he was making a point, like a gun dog, the hand that held the revolver slightly raised, head on one side, eyes fixed.

Thank Heaven the man had not come in here first. He was not ready for him yet. There was not much in the drawing-room, except his silver tennis cups, but it would take him quite a time to search round. Oh God, the party! All the food and drink would be laid out. By the time he got there at this rate, the man would be quite tight. He would join him in a glass of champagne, probably several after this trip, and what a charming picture that would make for the returning wedding party: a one-legged man in odd pyjamas and a dirty old tramp with a sack full of silver sitting on the floor with their arms round each other's necks singing “The Red Flag.” Not that he knew “The Red Flag,” but the tramp would be sure to. Tramps were cultured these days, and wrote letters to the
New Statesman
.

Violet and John, glad to be released from the tension of waiting, had gone out in such a hurry that they had not shut his door properly. Good thing. He could never have coped with the latch, balanced on one quivering knee. He put his hand round the edge of the door, pulled it towards him, and started off along the passage. This was easier, because he could lean against the wall all the way, on the topheavy side. He was travelling on the heel of his right hand, pushing the revolver before him along the carpet. Funny how he had never properly seen the pattern of this carpet until he got down to its level. The drawing-room door was before him like a challenge, five yards away. Could he make it? And if he did, would he have breath enough to accost the man? Surely he would hear him panting long before he got there. He stopped and tried to swallow down the dryness in his throat, that was as raw as playing football on a foggy November day. When he started again the panting started too, independent of his control, like something accompanying him down the passage. His face was running with
sweat, and he could feel it trickling down under his jacket. He probably looked ghastly enough to give the man quite a shock.

“Hands up!” he was going to say, and find a bit of furniture—the seat of a chair or something—on which he could rest the gun. Unless they had moved it, there was an armchair just inside the door. Leaning on the arm of that, he could keep the man covered until the party returned. They couldn't be long now. He had been ages making this trip. They'd better not be long, because he could not keep going much longer. I bet my lips are navy blue, he thought, with some satisfaction. Here was the drawing-room door at last. A creak sounded on the other side. Good, he could place where the man was—over by the window, probably at his mother's desk. He would not find much there except neat files of receipted bills and all Oliver's letters from the Army tied up in a bundle, and every photograph of her family that had ever been taken, because she had a lurking fear that people would die if you threw away their photograph. Well, he might die, after all this trouble he'd taken to live since he was wounded. God knows he felt like it.

He did not put his hand round the door, in case the man turned and got warning of his coming. He pushed it with his shoulder like a dog, crawled round the edge, saw the armchair, plunged forward, missed it and fell flat on his face with a feeble croak that no one would have taken for “Hands up!”

Elizabeth, who had been doing something to the plates of food on one of the cloth-covered tables, turned, with her eyebrows in her hair and her mouth open. He saw her, just before his face hit the floor.

Now that he was lying down he felt much better. He lay recovering his breath, with his face turned to one side so that he could grin at her. It was so damn funny. His chest shook, too weak to make the sound of laughter. “I thought you were a … I thought you were a …”

“Don't try and talk,” she said, kneeling by him in the crisp linen suit that was the colour of cornflowers. “Just lie there and rest. It's all right; I'll help you back to bed.”

“I don't want to get back to bed.” He could not tell whether it was hysterical tears or sweat pouring down his face. “Prop me up against that chair so that I can laugh.” He had always been surprised to find that she was so much stronger than she looked. She was very strong now. He was a limp weight, but she hauled and turned him until he was sitting like a doll against the side of the armchair, with his chin on his heaving chest, his
leg stretched straight out in front of him and his stump blessedly at rest on the floor.

“And now,” she said, sitting back on her heels, “tell me what on earth you're playing at. And why the gun?” He raised his eyes without lifting his chin and saw that she was pale and that her hand was trembling slightly as she picked up the revolver. He had given her a scare. Serve her right for leaving him. Half a minute though, she hadn't left him. “What are
you
playing at,” he said, “when I thought you were at the church? Gave me the fright of my life. Damned inconsiderate.”

“I came back in the car that fetched Violet. Nobody knew. I didn't go into the church with the others, and I sneaked in at the back door here before John and Violet came out. I didn't like leaving you, and I see I was right. I might have known you'd get up to some crazy trick.”

“Crazy trick be damned. I thought I was a hero, saving the family silver. Why on earth didn't you tell me you'd come back, instead of creeping about like that?”

“I wanted you to think you were on your own. I thought it would be a good test for your nerves.”

“You planned this?”

“Days ago. That's why I didn't insist when you told me not to stay. I knew what I was going to do. How on earth did you get here? That's what I'd like to know.”

“Oh, I crawled,” he said airily. “It was nothing.”

“It was a pretty good effort. Shows you're fit for more than we think.”

“I'm not fit for much at the moment, Liz. How on earth are we going to get me back to bed before the others come? You swear not to tell? I should look such a fool.”

She got up, dusting her knees. “How about a drink?” she suggested.

“Champagne,” he said huskily, licking his dry lips.

“There's none open yet. Whisky would be best for you, anyway.” She gave him a stiff one, and it lifted the top right off his light head, and he sang all the way along the passage in his wheel-chair. As she was getting him into bed, they heard the first tyres crackle on the drive. She locked the door quickly.

To get back into bed and sink against the pillows was indescribable delight. He could not believe he had ever been away from this familiar softness pressing against him in all the right spots. “Did I ever do that?” he asked her. “Was I ever in the drawing-room pointing an unloaded revolver at you and saying: ‘Hands up'?”

“That reminds me.” She took the gun from the pocket where it had been dragging her suit out of shape and slid it quickly into the drawer. “Now, are you
sure
you're all right?” she said, hovering over him.

“I feel fine,” he said.

“You shouldn't. You should be practically passing out by rights. I'll try not to let you see too many people, anyway. You would have to do this on the one day I wanted you to be specially fit.”

“I
am
fit,” he insisted. “I say, Liz.” He caught hold of her arm as she was turning away to unlock the door. “D'you think me an awful ass for doing that?”

She shook her head. “I think you were pretty brave,” she said.

“I think it was pretty nice of you to come back from the church. Thanks, Liz.”

“Oh, nonsense,” she said, frowning. “I didn't want to see Violet marry Fred. Not enough to risk the health of my patient, anyway,” she added primly, with that maddening, withdrawn air, which she assumed like a cloak whenever the conversation began to get interesting.

“Thanks all the same,” said Oliver doggedly. He caught at her arm again, but she slipped away to open the door, behind which could be heard, two octaves higher than usual, the excited voice of Mrs. Fred Williams. “Must go and see Ollie first! Poor old Ollie, missed all the fun. Come on, Fred!”

Now that they were married, she was much more possessive. She no longer followed Fred about like a well-trained animal, but led him like a pig with a ring through its nose. It was “Come on, Fred!” all over the house at the reception. The guests made plenty of noise, but Violet's noise rose above them all, and through the drawing-room wall Oliver heard far more of her hearty laughs than there could have been witticisms in that company. She was
exaltée
, beside herself. Her laughter burst from her under inward pressure—any noise would have done—shouts and whoops that children give from sheer high spirits. Oliver hoped she would not laugh while she was eating or drinking and choke herself black in the face as she sometimes did.

She was usually so shy and dumb with visitors, but today something seemed to have gone to her head, long before it could be the drink. It seemed that until the ring was actually on her sturdy finger and the momentous words spoken and the register signed in her rambling loops and Fred's neat squiggle, she had not quite believed in her marriage. Something would happen to stop it; it would never come off. That was why she had talked
so incessantly about her wedding, to try and reassure herself. Since long ago, she had been accepted as the inevitable spinster, had accepted herself as that and planned her future accordingly. Even after her engagement, she still could not quite believe she was going to be married. That happened to other girls, not to her. Not to
her
, who had seen so many local young women grow up behind her and pass by her through the gates of matrimony, leaving her outside, an unchanging feature of the landscape—“Good old Vi”, whom one was told to be nice to at parties, who had always looked like that and probably always would.

But now that she was not “Good old Vi” but Mrs. Fred Williams, legally and inescapably, the lid of doubt had lifted and she bubbled over with exuberant pride. Elizabeth and Mrs. North were trying to keep the noisier people out of Oliver's room, but they could not keep out Violet, because it was her day.

Nearly pulling Fred off his feet, she dragged him in to see Oliver directly they got back from the church. She had taken off her hat in the car and the front curl which Heather had created flopped forward unanchored, like an errand-boy's quiff. Her belt had got lower than ever, her gardenias were hanging upside down from her coat, she had splashed her stockings in a puddle outside the church and scuffed her new shoes kneeling before the altar. But her face, on which the make-up was wearing off in patches, was one vast grin, embracing all the world, including Fred when she remembered about him. Oliver was relieved to see that he was not wearing the emerald-green suit, but a neat brown pinstripe, rather short in the trouser, showing the gaudy clocks which were his sole concession to wedding display. His shirt and tie were modest and his buttonhole the smallest carnation he could find. The hand that Violet was not clutching still held his hat, for she had rushed him in before he could find anywhere to put it down.

“Well—” said Oliver. “Congratulations!” He shook hands with them both, for Violet would not kiss him. Her handshake nearly took his arm out of its socket; Fred's was sticky and tentative. He was always afraid of touching any part of Oliver, as if he might break, like so many other delicate things he touched.