The Charioteer

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll promise not to do anything, if you like. But it’s not because I feel any different, or … I mean I’d as soon do it now as ever. Sooner.” Some change in the quality of the pause made him lose the thread of what he was saying. He finished. “I don’t think things ought to be let happen like this.”

  “You don’t think at all.” Lanyon paused a moment, blankly. Then his eyes seemed to relax. Slowly a perverse and charming smile, unfamiliar to Laurie, lifted the ends of his mouth. “Your spontaneous reactions are going to land you in a lot of trouble, if you don’t look out.”

  “Are they?” said Laurie vaguely. Instinct caused him to keep some sort of conversation going; if someone had asked him a second later what he had said, he couldn’t have answered. So this, he was thinking, is what it’s all about, all Jeepers’ snufflings and fidgetings, all that bated breath. In a mingled exaltation, pride, and sheer consuming interest, he smiled back into Lanyon’s eyes. Scarcely aware of continuing the unheard, instead of the heard, conversation, he said, “Jeepers is just a dirty old man. People like that don’t know.”

  “Do you?” asked Lanyon, watching his face.

  “Anyway,” said Laurie, “I do now.”

  Lanyon seemed about to step forward; and Laurie waited. He didn’t think what he was waiting for. He was lifted into a kind of exalted dream, part loyalty, part hero-worship, all romance. Half-remembered images moved in it, the tents of Troy, the columns of Athens, David waiting in an olive grove for the sound of Jonathan’s bow.

  Still watching him, Lanyon made a little outward movement. He paused, and drew back.

  “To give them their due,” he said, his voice suddenly light and crisp, “dirty old men know one or two quite material facts. Incidentally, they’re quite material facts themselves.”

  Laurie listened with his eyes. This time there was no need to answer.

  “You’ll be taking this study over yourself,” said Lanyon in a businesslike way, “in course of time.”

  “Who? Me?” said Laurie, startled.

  “Obviously. Who else is there? I expect Jeepers will give you a frank little talk the first evening of term. Watch him carefully while he does it, and you’ll learn a lot. It’s not very edifying and rather a bore. However. Oh, just a minute.”

  He turned and went over to the wooden book-box that stood in the window. Instinctively Laurie followed him, and looked over his shoulder. Lanyon straightened abruptly; his light, fine hair flicked across Laurie’s cheek.

  “Get out of the light: d’you mind?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m just looking for something. Oh, yes, here it is.” He stood up with a thin leather book. The spine said The Phaedrus of Plato. Laurie hadn’t got much beyond selections from Homer. He thought Lanyon, in this practical mood, was bequeathing him a crib.

  “Read it when you’ve got a minute,” said Lanyon casually, “as an antidote to Jeepers. It doesn’t exist anywhere in real life, so don’t let it give you illusions. It’s just a nice idea.”

  Laurie was strongly aware that as he took it their hands had touched. He said, “I’ll always keep it. Thank you.”

  “It’s a pity you and I couldn’t have talked a bit sooner.”

  Laurie looked up from the book. “I wish we had.”

  “Well,” said Lanyon briskly, “it’s too late now.”

  Laurie continued to look up at him. With a feeling of great strangeness and astonishment he knew that they were no longer the head prefect and a fifth-former, but just two people in a room.

  “Is it?” he said.

  Lanyon sat down on the edge of the table, looked at Laurie, and shook his head. “Spud,” he said quite gently, “you mustn’t be difficult.”

  Laurie didn’t answer. He felt like someone who tries to read a book when the pages are being turned a little too quickly.

  “I’ve been watching you,” Lanyon said, “for a long time. You’re on the way to being something, and I don’t know what, not for certain. So I’m not going to interfere with it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Laurie slowly. “I feel as if you had already.”

  Lanyon smiled at him and he had to look down.

  “That’s only because you don’t know what it’s all about. Look, if you want to know, one reason why not is because it would mean too much. To me, too, if that’s any satisfaction to you. Anyway, no. Too much responsibility.”

  “I can take my own responsibility. I’m not a child.”

  “That’s what you think. Stop making such a bloody nuisance of yourself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. You’ll see the point of all this later.”

  Laurie turned and looked out of the window. He couldn’t think what had come over him. Lanyon had taken it pretty well.

  From over by the fireplace, Lanyon said, “No good getting ideas, Spud. It doesn’t get you anywhere. It’s all just a myth, really.”

  Presently Laurie said, “What are you going to do? After you leave, I mean?”

  “Merchant seaman.” He spoke with the effortless-seeming decision he might have used on a matter of House routine. “I’m going straight down to Southampton tomorrow.”

  “Are you all right for money?” It was strange to feel so natural about asking Lanyon a thing like this. “I’ve got about a pound I could lend you.”

  “No, thanks. I can get a ship quite quickly. I know a man who’ll fix me up.”

  “Oh,” said Laurie flatly. “That’s all right, then.”

  “We ran into each other. He’s not so bad. I don’t know him very well.”

  Suddenly they had come to the end of all that there was to say.

  “Well, I’d better finish packing,” Lanyon said. He looked at Laurie, telling him to go. Laurie stared at him, mutely; but there wasn’t anything one could say. Lanyon said, briskly, “Take these lists on your way down, will you, and pin them on the board. The usual order. You know how they go.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all, goodbye. What is it, then? Come here a moment. … Now you see what I mean, Spud. It would never have done, would it? Well, goodbye.”

  “But when can we—”

  “Goodbye.”

  After a moment Laurie said, “Goodbye, Lanyon. Good luck.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” said Lanyon as they parted.

  3

  THE TWO LINES OF beds converged in a neat perspective on the desk at the end. The crude design on the cotton counterpanes was shrill and unfaded, hard reds and blues on a buff ground. The deal lockers, the low beds, even the prefabricated walls were new. New things were everywhere; it was only the men in the beds who looked shabby and worn. None of them were old, and many were no older than Laurie, who was twenty-three; but they had had a good deal of hard use.

  It was ten minutes to eleven of the Sister’s morning off, which began at ten-thirty. As usual she was still there, giving last reminders to the Charge Nurse, who as usual resented it.

  “Don’t forget that Major Ferguson is doing the sequestrectomy after the arthrodesis.”

  “No, Sister.”

  “And do see that there’s no muddle about the injections, this time.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  Laurie, overhearing this, unstrapped his watch; later he might get drowsy and forget. He pushed it across the locker to Reg Barker, who said, “Uh-huh,” and put it on. They always looked after each other’s on operation days.

  The Sister said, “Oh, and Nurse. I want Wilson moved out of the side ward for today, and Corporal Odell put in there when he comes back from the theater. He was very noisy coming round last time.” Two of the men exchanged grins and her back stiffened.

  “There,” said Reg Barker to Laurie when she had gone. “Put in solitary. That’ll learn you, Spud.”

  “Suits me,” said Laurie, who had had this joke in every way. “I’ll get a bit of sleep.”

  “Sleep! We know. Mind, now, I’ll be li
stening. Minute I hear a woman scream I’ll be there. You watch out, Spud, she might be more oncoming when she gets you alone.”

  “Comment? Pardon?” Laurie stifled a sigh. Charlot hated to miss anything. None of the nurses spoke French, so they had put Laurie next him to interpret. His father and three brothers had been killed by machine-gun fire in the boat after their fishing smack had been bombed. Charlot, the sole survivor, had been picked up unconscious, drifting with the corpses. He had been shot in the spine, and after three months and two operations was still in plaster from chest to hips. His legs were paralyzed; Major Ferguson thought that it was functional. So now Laurie explained to him what they had all been laughing at, as brightly as he could. It gave Charlot the chance to try out some of his English vocabulary; Laurie wasn’t the only one to give him lessons.

  “Now, boys,” said the Charge Nurse, “I don’t need to ask if that was a dirty one; I can tell by the sound. Odell, have you used the bottle yet?”

  “I can go through, Nurse; I’ll look after the leg.”

  “Don’t you dare. If you think we’ve got time to prep you again at the last minute. Ask for one when you have your injection.”

  “I was wondering about my X-rays, they don’t seem to be here.”

  “Oh, yes they are, they’re on the desk. I know what you are, reading your notes and getting half-baked ideas. Shakespeare says a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

  “Sorry, Nurse.”

  “That put you in your place,” said Reg. “Time you was kipping down, ain’t it? They going to fix the knee so you can bend it, this time?”

  “I can now, a bit.”

  “Ah,” said Reg with foggy tact. He changed the subject. “You was supposed to be done first. They ought to be more careful, drawing it out how they do.”

  “Oh, well. When we were lying out on the beach we wouldn’t have minded swapping for this.”

  Reg replied in the conventional way, which was to mill over a number of old grievances. No one discussed what he had really felt; they took it out on other things. They were an extremely touchy society, but most of them were aware of it.

  What with one thing and another, Laurie felt as touchy as anyone that morning; but he was anxious not to let it loose on Reg, to whom he was bound in a kind of blood-brotherhood. The stretcher party had dumped them side by side on the Dunkirk beach, and they had had time to get used to one another. Laurie had had two shots of morphia inside an hour, which removed apprehension to some extent but seemed hardly to touch the pain; so it had sometimes been a relief to know that Reg was then totally blind. The bomb which had splintered his arm had mildly concussed him, and his eyelids had swelled and stuck together. He was sure he had lost his eyes, and, the concussion having destroyed his inhibitions, begged loudly to have a bullet put through his head. It was months since either of them had referred to this even obliquely; but now Reg said, “I wonder I didn’t do you when you shoved me eyes open. If I could have found me rifle I’d have done for you sure. Set me mind at rest, though, that’s a fact.”

  “I’m starting to forget half of it now. All for the best.”

  “Never been able to think how you moved that far.”

  “Dope. Doped to the eyes.”

  “Well, here’s another coming for you now. Be turning you into a flipping drug fiend, this rate.”

  Laurie rolled up his sleeve. The ice-cold evaporation of the spirit, the wasplike sting of the needle, once more set his teeth on edge. When the nurse had “settled” him, he ran his eye over the paraphernalia on the locker-top: enamel vomit bowl and cloth, tongue forceps and spatula. The absence of the notes and X-rays fidgeted him. There was a new nurse on and they might get forgotten. Well, she would probably not resent being reminded as the Charge Nurse would. She hadn’t minded his shaving the leg himself while she was called away from the screens. One glance at her face had assured him that she wouldn’t shave it far enough up, in which case Major Ferguson, who gave no marks for modesty, would make her sorry she had ever been born a country vicar’s daughter or whatever it was. It was a job for an orderly, but the whole place was in a chronic muddle.

  He ought to shut his eyes now and give his sedative a chance. He wished he could cure himself of fighting drugs and anesthetics, since this only seemed to make it worse. The Night Nurse, a comfortable person, had said that nurses were far too busy on operation days to listen to all the rubbish they heard, which meant nothing anyway and all sounded alike. Laurie, who had no great sense of his own importance, was very ready to believe this; but it never quite reassured him.

  Seeing him move restlessly, Reg said, “Doing you this late, you could have had breakfast.”

  “Hell, don’t remind me. They can’t help it here, it’s all fixed in the theater.”

  “Post’s late today. Heard from Madge yesterday, though.”

  “She and the boy okay?”

  “Had a bomb in the next street. That’s the nearest yet. She’ll have to go to her auntie in St. Albans. I keep telling her. Don’t know what makes her so obstinate.”

  Laurie, who had met Madge Barker several times, thought he could guess. Lest his face should hint at this, he got down into the bedclothes.

  “That’s right. Get yourself some shut-eye. And when they do you, you watch yourself and don’t get fresh with no officers, ’cause you’ll have to meet them again, see, you won’t be lucky like you was on that ship.”

  Laurie smothered the conversation with a sleepy-sounding grunt; this reminder came at the worst possible time for his self-confidence. He could remember very little about the crossing from Dunkirk; he had lost a good deal of blood by then, since they couldn’t keep a tourniquet on all the time, and had had some more shots of morphia. Barker, who was seeing by then as his swollen lids contracted, had told him a little. Laurie only knew that the ship was small and crowded, and that sometimes his life had seemed to be going out on a cold wave of nausea. Once, returning to himself for a few minutes, he had looked up to find a bearded face peering into his. It hung there persistently saying something and asking questions he felt too ill to deal with. Dimly he reflected that he was filthy and unshaved, and that his leg felt like some extraneous decaying mess. This attention was very flattering and suddenly, weakly funny. His inhibitions must have been at their lowest; for he remembered giving a wry kind of smile and saying, “Sorry, dearie. Some other time.” The face had disappeared rather quickly; he couldn’t remember seeing it again. Luckily, Reg Barker had his own version of this story. “Old Spud was a one coming over. The captain took a look at him to see he was still alive, like; and old Spud was that far gone, he took him for some tart and give him the brushoff. Chap with a mucking great beard and all. Laugh!”

  A fuzzy dullness was creeping over his brain. He recognized the effects of morphia and atropine, being too old a hand not to have found out by now what the syringe contained. Resolving not to doze off, he lay staring at the ceiling. He was in a punt on the Cher at Oxford, lying on cushions and looking up at the leaves. Between the willow banks he saw Charles swimming toward him. “Come along,” said Charles, “the water’s absolute heaven. You know you can swim really.” “Perhaps I can,” Laurie told him, “but I don’t want to. It’s not allowed, I’m having an operation.”

  The theater trolley came squeaking up to the bed; the orderlies said, “What, you again? Watch after the towels, Sid,” and lifted him onto the cold, taut canvas. He was aware of it all but it couldn’t have mattered less. They went out through an unwalled covered way, roofed with iron, to the theater. Here was the anesthetic room with the awkward ledge in the doorway. The previous operation was still going on; one of the orderlies went, the other whistled between his teeth and looked out of the window. Captain Hodgkin, the anesthetist, came out masked and gowned, holding a big syringe. Laurie thrust out his arm.

  “Well, Odell, back again. How’s it been?”

  “Coming along, sir, thanks.”

  “Good. Clench your fist.”


  The vein inside the elbow corded and stood out. The needle went into it. “Count.”

  “One. Two. Three. Four.” Nothing was happening. “Five. Six.” Nothing. “Seven … Nine. …”

  The trolley beneath him ceased to be palpable. He floated, soared. The doors of a forgotten home opened to receive him.

  He was being lifted and put down. They were putting him on the table. They hadn’t given him enough, he wasn’t under; they would start to operate if he didn’t tell them now. He struggled with a sore throat and furred mouth. His knee felt sore; good God, they must have begun.

  “Hi.” It came out like an animal grunt.

  “All right,” said a girl’s voice. “Keep quiet. It’s all over.”

  He opened his eyes; he was back in bed. “Sorry,” he said. “Silly. Always do this. Awfully sorry. So damned silly.”

  “Sh-sh. Go to sleep again.”

  “Sorry to be so silly. Do excuse me.”

  “It’s all right, but you ought to be resting.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I know you, you’re the new one. So sorry to be a bother. What’s your name?”

  “Nurse Adrian. Don’t talk now.”

  “Goodnight”

  He shut his eyes, but opened them again.

  “Nurse.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re staying with me, aren’t you? You won’t go?”

  “Not if you’re quiet and don’t get excited.”

  “No, really, Nurse. I’m not excited at all. I just think it’s so very good of you. I don’t deserve it, you know. If you knew all about me, you wouldn’t be good to me like you are.”

  “Hush, you’ve had an operation, you must keep quiet.”

  “I’m always having operations. I’m quite used to it. Don’t go back over there. I want to hold your hand.”

  “Sister says you’ve got to keep still.”