To Love a Traitor (8 page)

Chapter Eight

Matthew came home from work that evening in high spirits. “I’ve been allowed to branch out,” he explained excitedly to George as they sat at supper. “Listen to this: ‘Smooth away the years with Marley’s Miracle Age Reducing Ointment’.” That’s all mine—and would you believe, Mr. Marley likes it so much he’s going to put the word ‘Miracle’ in the name of his product?”

George laughed, delighted for his friend. “Congratulations! Does it work, by the way?”

“What, the ointment? Blowed if I know—or did you imagine I was actually some fifty-year-old roué, counterfeiting my youthful looks with the aid of some proprietary preparation?”

“If that were true, you’d be an astonishingly good advertisement for the stuff all by yourself!”

“Now there’s a thought. And quite an enticing one. Just think—there’d be pictures of me adorning every billboard. They’d quote me in newspaper advertisements, extolling the virtues of Marley’s Miracle. Now all I have to do is persuade my reverend father to lie about my age…”

He broke off, laughing, as George threatened him with a boiled potato, while Mrs. Mac tutted and rolled her eyes at the manners of young people nowadays.

After supper, they drank tea in the sitting room, Marmaduke condescending to sit on George’s lap and be stroked. “You know,” George said idly, “I always imagined a cat called Marmaduke would be ginger. I haven’t the faintest idea why.”

“It’s probably the association of words,” Matthew said with a smile. “Marmaduke does sound a lot like marmalade, after all.”

“Why on earth did you choose the name—I assume it was you who named him?”

“Oh yes! He turned up here, oh, at the end of summer, it must have been, looking terribly thin and forlorn. Mrs. Mac wasn’t awfully keen to keep him at first, but we had a very timely infestation of mice which made up her mind for her.”

George gave his friend a sidelong look. “If I were a more suspicious man, I’d wonder if you’d arranged that infestation.”

“The prisoner pleads not guilty, m’lud! No, although I might not have been above exaggerating the severity of said infestation, and may perhaps have laid undue stress on the deleterious effects likely to ensue therefrom. Marmaduke did me proud, though—we haven’t found a single mouse dropping since.”

“And the name?”

“Oh!” Matthew grinned. “After a fifteenth-century bishop of Lincoln. Never let it be said that I have no respect for Mother Church.”

The following evening, however, Matthew walked into the sitting room with his shoulders slumping in dejection. “I can’t find Marmaduke anywhere. And it’s
hours
past his dinner time. This really isn’t like him.”

“Where have you looked for him?” George asked, looking up from his newspaper and privately thinking this behaviour was, actually,
just
like Marmaduke. He’d wondered where on earth Matthew had got to. It was rather lonely in the sitting room without him.

Matthew shrugged helplessly. “Oh, all the usual places—round by the rabbit hutch, next door’s chicken coop, you know.”

“Maybe we should take a walk and see if we can spot him?” George suggested, more out of a desire for Matthew’s company than any real concern about the animal, which had always given every indication of being well able to look after itself.

Matthew’s ready agreement to set out on a bitter midwinter’s night was testament to how worried he was about his pet. They wrapped up as best they could in coats and scarves, then braved the icy air, George rushing back at the last minute to fetch Marmaduke’s dish. “I thought we could bang it on the wall, like you did the night we first met,” he explained, his face a little hot at having described their first encounter rather as a lover might have done.

“Good idea,” Matthew said gratefully, apparently oblivious to George’s embarrassment.

They walked along the street, calling Marmaduke’s name and banging the tin, but to no avail. The only reaction they got was from the odd passerby, muffled up to the eyes and hurrying home. Undaunted, they carried on their search, until Matthew flung out his arm to stop George in mid bang. “Wait—hush a minute. I thought I heard something.”

They stilled, ears straining. George was just about to pronounce it merely the whistling of the wind, when it came again—the soft, plaintive yowling of a cat. “This way!” he cried, and they both sped down the street, heedless of the ice.

They came to a stop at the foot of a large sycamore tree, almost at the end of Marlbury Crescent. “He’s there—look!” Matthew pointed, and George could just make out a pair of bright green eyes in an area of black-on-black. “Oh, you silly animal! How am I going to get you out of there?”

“Maybe he’ll come down if you call him?”

“Don’t you think he’d have come down by now if he could?” Matthew’s voice was anxious.

“Well, it’s worth a try, isn’t it?” George said practically.

“Marmaduke! Marrrrrrmaduke! Din-dins!”

Both of them called for what seemed like hours, coaxing and wheedling and banging the tin for all they were worth, but Marmaduke merely yowled at them and refused to budge. Matthew looked around for a moment. “There’s nothing for it. George, would you give me a leg up?”

George stared at him in disbelief. “Have you lost your mind? It’s dark, and it’s icy, and in case you’ve forgotten, you’ve only got one arm. And you want to go climbing trees?”

“I can’t leave him there all night! He’ll freeze!”

“I wasn’t
suggesting
we leave him there. Come on, if you go down on one knee, I’ll use you as a ladder until I can reach the lower branches.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Now, come on before we
all
freeze.”

His face tight with worry, Matthew did as he was bid.

Jamming his hat down firmly on his head, George clambered awkwardly up, instinctively attempting the impossible feat of standing on his friend’s leg and shoulder without actually putting his full weight on the man. It was doubtless a relief to both of them when he finally managed to swing himself up into the branches of the tree.

There was already a thin layer of frost limning the branches. George’s leather gloves slipped on the bark, so he pulled them off with his teeth and let them fall, only to discover that frozen fingers were little better. Nevertheless, he climbed grimly onwards, determined to reach his goal if only to prevent Matthew trying anything ridiculous. Marmaduke yowled encouragement, while a faint “Be careful!” warmed his heart from below. His hat was an early casualty, and twigs snagged George’s hair and caught on his woollen scarf, pulling out great loops of wool and impeding his progress. Still he struggled on.

It seemed like an age before he was able to look up and see Marmaduke’s eyes, not three feet away. George inched along the branch, its protuberances digging painfully into his stomach, queasily aware he was now level with the second-story windows of the nearest house. As he got within a foot of his quarry, it suddenly occurred to him that he had absolutely no idea how he was going to climb down with a cat in his arms.

Marmaduke solved that problem neatly by employing George as a sort of human ladder, gratefully digging his claws into George’s flesh as he went.

George was vaguely surprised to find that there were actually parts of him that hadn’t gone numb. He watched the cat disappear into the darkness below, and heard Matthew’s cry of welcome, before steeling himself to attempt the descent, his arms shaking a little with the unaccustomed effort.

Halfway down, his foot slipped. George let out an involuntary yelp and wrenched his arm painfully, grabbing on to a branch with all his might to stop himself falling.

“George! Are you all right? Look, stay there—I’ll fetch a stepladder. It’s what we should have done in the first place.” Matthew hardly sounded like himself, his voice was so high and frightened.

“Don’t be an idiot, I’m fine,” George shouted down, hoping his tones sounded more reassuring to Matthew than they did in his own ears. “I’ll be down in two ticks.” More cautiously this time, he eased his way down, grimacing every time his injured shoulder took the weight. He dropped the final few feet with a strong sense of relief, hoping he wasn’t about to land on anyone.

He didn’t. Matthew stood a few feet away, Marmaduke nestled in his arms. His face was pale in the dim glow of the streetlights. “I can’t believe I let you do that. You could have been killed!”

“Don’t be silly—it’s only a tree,” George said, pleased to find his voice didn’t shake.

“Yes, but the ground’s like iron. Next time I get idiot ideas about climbing trees after cats, for goodness’ sake let me be the one to risk my neck!”

Marmaduke yowled as Matthew’s arms tightened upon him involuntarily, and George felt absurdly gratified. “I was never in any danger, silly,” he lied fondly. “Now come on. Let’s get this troublesome animal back for his dinner.”

Chapter Nine

Later that evening, George and Matthew, now fortified with hot cocoa after their hair-raising ordeal, sat reading the papers in Mrs. Mac’s sitting room. The rescued Marmaduke purred in state upon Matthew’s lap, making it exceedingly difficult for him to turn the pages, although one wouldn’t know it from the fond glances Matthew kept throwing his way.

After an interval of silence broken only by the rustle of papers and the crackling of the fire, Matthew spoke up. “I’d have to confess I’m terribly curious about your mysterious correspondent, she of the lavender notepaper. Or is it a he? One shouldn’t make assumptions, of course. Go on, tell me it’s just an aged uncle of the confirmed bachelor variety.”

George laughed. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Mabel really is just a friend. We played together as children.”

“And now she’s like a sister to you? Or is it worse than that—is it that you’re like a brother to her?”

“Don’t worry, there’s no unrequited love on either side. She… Well, she was engaged to be married to my brother, as it happens.”

“Oh, I am sorry. Poor girl. The world seems full of young women who’ve lost the man they loved, these days. I suppose I should say something trite like
at least you have each other
, but I don’t imagine for one moment it really answers, not for either of you.”

“No. No, it doesn’t. But it
is
a comfort, so I’m grateful for it.” George gave a twisted smile. “Do you know, I was quite horrified when they first took a liking to one another? Although I shouldn’t have been at all surprised at her falling for him. H-he was the golden one, you see. Literally, in fact. He was tall and fair—rather like you, in fact—whereas I always seemed like some kind of changeling next to him. Although apparently I’m very like my maternal grandmother.”

“And you thought your friend would have no time for you, when she had this perfect specimen of manhood, this English Adonis, to lean upon? You know, if I were she, I’d have been exceedingly cross with you for even contemplating such a thing.”

“You’re quite right. She was.” George sighed. “I think it would have been rather wonderful, actually. To have her as a sister, to be uncle to her children.”

Matthew gave a cheery smile. “I think to be a bachelor uncle must be splendid. I’m very much looking forward to it. I shall spoil the little blighters rotten and lead them into all kinds of scrapes.” He paused. “You don’t think Mabel will marry now?”

“I can’t imagine she will. She doesn’t seem at all interested.” Some devilish spirit made George add, despite himself, “But perhaps I should introduce her to you?”

“Good Lord, no. That is, I should be delighted to meet her, but not with any idea of marriage in mind. Not the marrying sort, I’m afraid.” He stared into the fire a moment. “How about you, George? Think you’ll ever marry?”

Perhaps it was time to put the screen across the fireplace. Certainly, George’s face was far hotter than was comfortable. “I… No. I don’t suppose I shall.”

There was a pause, which seemed to George heavy with meaning. Not quite sure himself whether his motive was a change of subject or to take advantage of the atmosphere of intimacy, he plucked up the nerve to ask a question. “Matthew? Can I ask you something?”

Matthew grinned. “Obviously, since you just did. Oh Lord, don’t look at me like that. Come on, out with it, although I shan’t promise to answer.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. I just…” George found he had to stop and take a deep breath. “What happened when you…when you lost your arm?”

“Oh. That.” Matthew’s smile wavered and fell. “Well, you already know some of it, I think. Old Jerry scored a lucky hit with one of his blasted shells, and the dugout collapsed on top of me. I was pretty lucky, actually.” He shrugged.

“
Lucky?
” George stared at him.

“Well, yes. The men were marvellous—wouldn’t stop digging until they found me—but even then it’d have been too late if I hadn’t been over in the corner at the time. I was pinning up a postcard Mother had sent me from the Isle of Wight, would you believe it? Trying to brighten the old place up a bit. Well, being in the corner, the framework protected me a little and gave me a pocket of air to breathe. Poor old Wilkins wasn’t so lucky—they got to him first, as it happened, but he’d already suffocated in the mud, poor chap.” Despite the fire, Matthew shivered.

Marmaduke gave a yowl of displeasure and vacated Matthew’s lap for a more stable resting place upon the hearthrug.

“God, that must have been awful.” George felt ill to think of it—the pain, the darkness and, God, the fear of it all. When he’d been in prison with the other C.O.s, they’d talked—when they were allowed to talk—of being buried alive in those wretched cells, but here Matthew had experienced that for real. “But your arm?”

“Too mangled to save, they told me.” He laughed suddenly. “Do you know, I didn’t even realise at the time? Some of my memories are a little mixed up, but I distinctly remember hearing one of the stretcher bearers saying ‘That arm’ll have to go’, and telling him quite crossly there was nothing wrong with it.”

“Good God. It must have been a fearful shock to wake up without it, then.”

“It was and it wasn’t. After all, there are worse things to lose than an arm. And of course, it meant the end of the war for me. I couldn’t help thinking how pleased Mother would be to at least have most of me back.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t have put it quite like that!”

“That, dear fellow, is where you’re wrong. She put it
exactly
like that when she came to see me in hospital, once I’d been shipped back to Blighty.”

“Then I can see where you get your sense of humour.” George paused. “Were you glad to be out of it? Or sorry?”

“I…” Matthew hesitated. “You know, I was going to say
glad
, most definitely, but I
was
sorry to leave the men behind. It wasn’t all bad, you know. There were rest times, and officer training, when we’d be billeted well back behind the lines. Some of the chaps would get friendly with the nurses in the local Casualty Clearing Station, and we’d go on picnics in the woods.” He grinned. “Sounds absurd now, doesn’t it? As if we didn’t know there was a war on, guns firing and shells falling, only a few miles away.”

“And did you get friendly with any of the nurses?” George couldn’t help but ask.

“Me? Lord, no. There was one orderly I was rather close to… But, well, we quarrelled, and then that blasted shell fell on me, and I never saw him again. I often wonder what he’s doing now.” Matthew got up to put some more coal on the fire, a business that seemed to take longer than it ought.

George’s heart was pounding. That almost sounded like… But it didn’t matter, did it? No matter what common ground he might have with Matthew, he was here to investigate the man.

“So where did you serve?” Matthew asked, turning around suddenly. “Assuming you did, of course. Judging from your intrepid scaling of that tree earlier, I imagine you were off somewhere doing something fearfully brave.” He flopped back in his chair, seemingly unaware of the bombshell he’d just dropped.

George’s gut twisted. He’d been so focussed on Matthew, he’d almost forgotten such a question would be inevitable, given the topic of conversation. “I’m not brave. Not in the least.” He paused, a horrible sick feeling squirming inside him. But hadn’t Sheila said a confidence invited reciprocation? He swallowed and stood to stare into the fire. “I’m not the least bit brave,” he repeated. “While you were fighting for King and country, I was cowering back in England. In quod with all the other Conchies.”

There was a silence. Oh God. Was this to be the end of their friendship?

Matthew’s tone, when he spoke, was unwontedly sombre. “A good friend of mine from school became a conscientious objector. I’ve always thought it must take a lot of courage to stand up for one’s beliefs in the face of so much opposition.”

“Beliefs! Cowardice, more like. It was in my case, at any rate.” George stared resolutely into the flames, unable to bear seeing his friend’s expression turn from compassion to derision, but equally unable to stop himself from confessing all, now the subject had at last been broached. “Perhaps I should have lied at the tribunal. Said it was against my religious beliefs to go and fight. But I doubt they’d have been deceived. I’ve never been much of a church-goer, and I’m certainly neither a Quaker nor a Christadelphian. Really, I was just too much of a coward.” His view of the fireplace blurring, he carried on, driven by a strange compulsion to get it all, finally, off his chest. “I’ve never been able to stand guns, you see. Not since my first grouse shoot. There was an accident—one of the beaters got into the line of fire. I didn’t know he was there… I wasn’t paying enough attention, most likely. He took a blast in the stomach and died right in front of me—they said nobody could tell who killed him, but he was right in front of me. They were just being kind. I know it must have been my shot that killed him. His screams… I still have nightmares, sometimes, about his screams. And God, his poor wife. I just couldn’t bear to do that to anyone ever again.”

George flinched as a hand touched his shoulder, and struggled to comprehend as it squeezed gently and stroked in a soothing manner. “How old were you?” Matthew asked softly.

“Eleven.” He’d been so proud to be entrusted with a gun at last. As if he were a grown man, at least in his father’s eyes.

Matthew’s voice shook slightly. “George… I saw a lot of dreadful things in the trenches, but you know what the worst of it was? Watching men—friends—go to pieces from the horror of it all. And God, man, you were only a child! It’s no wonder such a terrible accident left you with a lasting dread of firearms.”

“It was over a decade ago! Only a coward still runs from the things he feared as a child!”

“Only a fool isn’t scared of death and blood and horror!” Matthew’s tone was so sharp that George whirled in shock, throwing off the arm around his shoulder. “Do you really suppose that the men who survived the trenches will ever forget what they saw? Do you suppose
I
will?” He sighed, his gentle, cheerful nature unable to sustain the fury for long. “There were men like you on the battlefield, George. Men who’d seen too much, and couldn’t bear it any longer. One of them…one of them was a chap in my brigade. Popular fellow, always ready to share a cuppa and a joke. But the noise out there, from the guns and the shells… God, the noise. It never ends. He’d just had enough of it one day, and when it came time to go back into the front-line trenches, he had a sort of fit, put his hands over his ears and said he wouldn’t do it. They shot him for cowardice—marched him out in front of a firing squad and shot him. You know what? It didn’t do a damned thing to win the war for us, and neither would sending you out to die have done.” Hesitantly, Matthew reached out his good arm to lay it once more around George’s shoulder. “He wasn’t a coward, George, and neither are you.”

To his shame, George found that he was weeping. “My family—my family thinks otherwise. My mother said that I was a disgrace to the family name, and my father won’t even speak to me. Two of my cousins—girls I’d danced with in happier times—they sent me white feathers.”

Matthew squeezed his shoulders tightly. “They’re women, George, and your father’s a man past enlistment age. They didn’t have to fight, thank God. You can’t expect them to understand what it’s like.”

George gave a brittle laugh. “The men at the gaol were just as bad—and worse.”

He felt Matthew’s head come to rest on his shoulder. “There were a lot of beastly things done in the war. I’m just sorry you had to suffer any of it.” Matthew’s breath was warm on George’s neck, but for some reason, it made George shiver.

“You shouldn’t be the one to comfort me,” he whispered. “You lost so much in the war. I should be comforting you.”

“Maybe we should comfort each other,” Matthew whispered back. George froze as the weight of Matthew’s head lifted from his shoulder, and soft lips pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his neck. Matthew’s arm slipped from George’s shoulder to wrap around his waist. “Is that all right, George? I’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long. It is what you want too, isn’t it?”