A Wrinkle in the Skin

She pulled the bandage very tight, and he winced involuntarily.

  She looked up at him. “Sorry about that. But the tighter it is, the better.”

  “I know. It’s all right.”

  “Does it feel any better?”

  “A lot better. Have you been trained in nursing?”

  “Not nursing. First aid.” She sat back on her heels. “You don’t want a sock on, do you?”

  “No. I’m quite comfortable.”

  April nodded. “I learned it the time there was all the G.N.D. fuss. I agreed with them—about the Bomb—but sitting down seemed such a useless response. So I learned first aid instead. And how to cook a meal on an inverted plant pot, with a candle underneath. Of course, the whole object was learning how to manage life confined to one small room while the outer world was poisoned with radioactivity.”

  Matthew said, “Life does have its little ironies.”

  “Doesn’t it?” She looked at him curiously. “What did you do, Matthew, before the Bust?”

  “I was a grower. Tomatoes.”

  “Of course, Guernsey toms. Had you always been doing that?”

  “No.”

  She waited, and after a moment he went on. He told her briefly about the breakup of his marriage and how he had left London for the island.

  She listened, and said, “You’re very lucky, aren’t you?” “Lucky?”

  “You were already in retreat from things. You’d written the world off, hadn’t you, apart from Jane? And you won’t accept that Jane may be dead. So nothing has changed for you, really.” She saw him smile, and went on. “Well, of course, the surroundings have changed. That’s obvious. But in yourself. There’s been no need to readjust.”

  Matthew thought about it. “In that sense, perhaps not. You think that makes me lucky?”

  She hesitated, and said bitterly, “The change has to be for the worse. The ugliness all around is bad enough, but the ugliness in oneself is the thing that really disgusts.”

  She was talking, he thought, about her harshness to the two wounded men.

  He said, “The moments of stress are more intense, and one does wilder, more violent things in them. We all do. It doesn’t mean we’ve changed, really. And there’s no point in brooding over them.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s different. I agree, though, that there’s no point in brooding.”

  Lawrence returned, and she said, “Where have you put him?”

  “In among the laurels.” He held his hands out and took April’s. “You’re all right?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “How long had they been here?”

  “I’m not sure. About half an hour.” She went on more quickly, “I’ve been thinking about that. We made a mistake, you know, a stupid childish mistake.”

  “What?”

  “Keeping everything down in the cellar except the tilings we need for the day. That was what made them so sure there was a store somewhere.”

  “What do you suggest? Having part of it up here? There’s a good chance of finding it gone when we come back from foraging.”

  “Better than losing the lot—as we would have done, but for Matthew. We could find a second hiding place. Something that we could give up under pressure.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  April shrugged. “No. We could keep our eyes open.”

  Matthew said, “You expect this sort of thing to happen again?”

  “Well, of course. Quite apart from the possibility that one or more of this lot will pick up with one of the big gangs and bring them up here.”

  “You could move away,” Matthew said.

  She stared at him with sudden coldness. “What would be the point in that? Nowhere is safe any more.”

  There were a lot of arguments he could have used. The coming winter, in itself, represented one to which there could be no effective reply.

  Lawrence knelt down beside him and examined the bandaged ankle. “Fair enough,” he said. “You can stay here and rest, Matthew, while the boys and I go and bring the meat back. Fresh meat, April! That ought to cheer us all up.”

  She relaxed and smiled. “Yes. We need cheering up.”

  They did not go out foraging that day. After the remains of the bullock had been brought home, the women cut up the carcass and salted that part which was not going to be consumed in the immediate future, while Lawrence led the men off to make a more final disposition of the body that had been left among the laurels. He came back to where Matthew was sitting in the sun with Billy.

  “That’s that,” he said. “Not as far under as he might be, but deep enough to keep the dogs from digging him up again. A compromise between effort and hygiene.”

  Matthew said, “Aren’t you a bit surprised, as a medical man, that there hasn’t been more sickness—even plague?”

  “The millions of unburied dead? I don’t know. The kinds of sickness you get in war are not generally due to the dead, but to the conditions. Dysentery at Gallipoli, for instance—it was the living that kept that going. And there may have been outbreaks, for all we know. It’s still a communal life, but the communities are very small. We tend to dodge other groups of three or over, and the solitaries dodge us.”

  “Are there a lot of solitaries, do you think?”

  “Very possibly. But again, there’s no way of knowing. One spots them now and then in the distance, but they sheer off pretty rapidly. One sees their point. Hows that ankle of yours feeling?”

  “All right.”

  “The bandage will need reapplying from time to time. I’ll do it, if you like, while Aprils busy.”

  Matthew shook his head. “It can wait.”

  Lawrence looked across to where she was working with Sybil and Cathie. He said, “I don’t see how we could have managed without her. She has such courage.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not just in a crisis, but in the ordinary grind of life. What we call life these days. One has moments of weakness, despair. It’s a great help to have April around. She will not let herself be beaten, and she makes one ashamed of giving in. I remember when we first met, after the Bust.”

  He was silent, and Matthew waited for him to go on.

  He said, “It was a long time before I managed to get myself free—evening of that first day. And I was tired. I lay out in the open and slept. The following day I began to realize something of how big it was. I hunted around a bit in the ruins of my own house and those near, but there was no one alive. So I dug into my surgery and found the supply of Nembutal. I knew how much I needed to put myself out for good, and it seemed the only sensible thing to do. But I heard someone calling, and called back. It was April.”

  Lawrence paused. “I behaved like a fool. I ranted about there being no point in anything, told her I was going to end things. She listened and said I could do what I liked, but first I must have something to eat. She made sandwiches for me—the bread was a bit stale, but I ate them. I hadn’t eaten anything since it happened. After that, I felt better. I’ve had bad moments since, but shes always been there, to hang on to.”

  Matthew said, “Even knowing her so short a time, I can see she’s a pretty remarkable person.”

  Lawrence looked at him acutely. “It’s not a matter of a relationship—you understand? We’re different generations. I’m twenty years older than she is. She needs someone nearer her own age, with a strength that she can lean on when things get a bit tricky.”

  “As far as that’s concerned,” Matthew said, “I should have thought she might lean on the past. This house, the memory of her family.”

  “It’s not enough. To give, as she does, requires something else. So far she’s been living on her reserves, but there’s a limit to that.”

  “Is there? I suppose so.”

  Twenty yards away April was cutting up meat, with Sybil and Cathie helping her. The two men watched her in silence.

  For the midday meal they had a fry-up of offal—heart, liver and kidneys—but in the even
ing there were steaks. They were grilled over the open wood fire and served, as usual, in relays. As before, April had hers at the end, with Lawrence and Matthew.

  Along with the steak there were baked potatoes and fresh greens. Matthew commented on these, “They’re very good. Where did you get them?”

  “From the kitchen garden,” April said. “There are still a few things in it.” She smiled. “Some tomato plants, too, Matthew. They’re growing up through the ruins of the cold frame.”

  ‘Where is it?”

  “Over beyond the shrubbery.”

  “I’ll take a look in the morning,” Matthew said. “I can hobble that far.”

  She said wamingly, “The more you rest your ankle, the sooner you’ll be able to walk properly.”

  Lawrence tipped the rest of the bottle of wine into the enamel mug, and looked at it. “Not much more than a mouthful each,” he said. “But one small bottle of wine to this intolerable deal of people. We must roll it round our tongues and make it last. Its the occasion that counts. All the same, I’m glad I only opened the Beaujolais. Its nice to think the Leoville-Poyferre still lies inviolate.”

  “What occasion are you keeping that for?” April asked.

  “I’m tempted to keep it for a private one. Self-consolation, when at a low ebb.” He looked at her and smiled. “Or for some really big celebration, perhaps, such as a wedding.”

  Matthew said, “How one forgets things. The taste of really good fresh steak.”

  “Make it last,” April said. “God knows when we shall enjoy it again. Probably not ever.”

  “Two of the large animals survived on Guernsey,” Matthew said. “At least two. A donkey, and a cow which, by a stroke of luck, appeared to be in calf. I suppose there’s a fifty-fifty chance of its throwing a bull, and a reasonable chance, if it does, of the breed’s surviving. If that can happen on a small island, surely it’s bound to happen here as well.”

  “You’re forgetting the anthill syndrome,” Lawrence said. ‘We had a clear conscience about going after that beast because we told ourselves it was a bullock. But even if it had been fully sexed—well, I think we should have been tempted. After all, we don’t know that it would find a mate, or, if it did, that we should be likely to benefit from it. And we’re the relatively civilized ones. We have scruples, or so we tell ourselves. Most of the others aren’t going to bother about breeding stock.”

  “The animals might survive anyway,” April said. “The bullock did, until Matthew turned up with his shotgun.”

  “Now they might survive,” Lawrence said. “This summer, when the pressures are only those of idleness and appetite. Do you dig your own tins out, or do you get someone to do it for you? Do you make do with corned beef and stewed steak, or do you go out for a hunk of prime fresh fillet? There isn’t much of an edge to that. But when the tins get more and more difficult to find—what happens then? By the middle of winter, they would have brought the bullock down with their bare hands and eaten it raw. There may be entire beasts that have lived through it so far. The opposite sexes may even get together. But I wouldn’t put any money on there being a solitary bull or cow in these islands in a year’s time.”

  April said, “You underestimate Nature, Lawrence.”

  He smiled. “I would say you do.”

  “This is the soft country,” she said. “I suppose animals are vulnerable here. But up in the hills, in the mountain valleys, it’s bound to be different. They’ll survive up there.”

  Lawrence said, “You could be right.”

  “I’m sure I am.”

  “And so might we. Up in the hills.”

  There was a pause. April looked away, unresponsive, but Lawrence went on. It would be so much better for them in every way up in the hills: more food, more safety, the chance to farm eventually. They could live there, if not well at least with some sense of continuity and purpose. And the children could grow up there, forgetting the past, accepting a present that was bearable, looking to a future with some promise. He spoke doggedly and earnestly, and April said nothing. Finally his persistence failed before her silence.

  He turned to Matthew. “What have you been thinking about? You’re very quiet.”

  He would not associate himself with the implied criticism of her that ran through what Lawrence had said. The argument, he was sure, was good, but it was not the way to do things. He said, “How good a meal this is, principally.”

  “Compliments to the cook,” Lawrence said. His tone was placating now; he smiled at April. “I do agree.”

  She looked at Matthew directly. “And what else?”

  “What Lawrence said earlier, about killing beasts with bare hands. There are twenty-two rounds left for the gun. After that, except in the unlikely event of finding more cartridges, it’s useless. I was thinking about those light steel rods you have down in the cellar. What were they for, Lawrence?”

  “I don’t know. We picked them up in some ruin, and I thought they might come in handy for something. I’ve never worked out what.”

  “If one could notch the ends,” Matthew said, “and find something suitable to string them with—they might make bows.

  Lawrence said, “I know where there’s a wrecked grand piano. The wires might do. Arrows?”

  “One could cut those. Perhaps find some way of tipping them with metal.”

  “Yes,” Lawrence said. “It could work. That’s the wonder of the practical mind. Don’t you agree, April? You and I discuss the theory of survival, while Matthew works out the essential details.”

  “We were talking of the survival of species,” she said, “not of our own. What are you going to shoot arrows at if our fellow savages have dragged what few cattle there are down with their bare hands, and drunk their blood?”

  “In the hills…” Lawrence shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not just hunting. There’s self-defense as well.”

  “Of course,” April said. “Self-defense.” There was an edge to her voice. “Bows and arrows. You must let us have what other ideas you think up, Matthew, before you leave us.”

  Matthew thought of saying, Perhaps I shan’t leave; but the expressions on their faces stopped him. The different expectancies, the different shadows of regret. There might be a time, but not now.

  He finished his steak, and April said, “Pass your plate. There’s another one ready.”

  “I think I’ve had enough.”

  “Nonsense.” She took the plate from him. “This is an occasion for gluttony.”

  Lawrence said, “And drunkenness.” He peered into the depths of the enamel mug. “Just about enough for a libation, if one believed in the gods. Finish it up, Matthew.”

  13

  THEY USED an old well shaft for a decoy store. The brick surround at the top had been destroyed by the earth tremors, and a good deal of the lining had fallen in, but a couple of feet down one of the iron spikes was still firmly in place and they were able to tie a rope to it, holding a net with a reasonable quantity of items from the cellar store. Then they put a few boards across the top of the well and made it look generally untidy. It provided a reasonable concealment against any solitary who might come that way while they were out foraging.

  Though for the two days after the bullock killing, Matthew was there anyway. Billy and Cathie stayed with him, and he watched them playing about the grotto and the garden like ordinary carefree children. In the afternoon of the second day there was a series of tremors, and they stopped playing and came to him, their faces shocked and remembering. The tremors did not last long, and the earth did not move much, but these were the first since Billy and he had joined the group. For some time after all was over, the children sat near him, talking little and quietly.

  Matthew tried walking again before the others returned, and found that he could manage quite well. The sprain could not have been a bad one: There was some discomfort, but he could limp along without much trouble. He went to the kitchen garden April had spoken of and examined it. A long lin
e of rubble marked the wall which had separated it from the rest of the grounds, and broken branches of espaliered apple and pear trees poked through. Some still had green leaves, and in one place, incredibly, a small apple was growing—a Cox’s Orange, he thought.

  The garden was a mess. It had been raided haphazardly, and not looked after; there were more weeds now than plants. He discovered the tomato plants, and cleared some of the broken glass away to give them room to grow. But it was all too discouraging. It would take weeks of work to get it straight, and for what? He made his way back to the grotto, and watched the children playing.

  But he was restless and wandered off again after a time. He explored the grounds of the house more thoroughly than he had been able to do before, and was surprised at how extensive they were. It was difficult to tell just where the boundaries had been, but they must have included several acres. He wondered what profession April’s husband had followed—a pretty rewarding one, it seemed. He was thinking of this when he came to a rose garden, full of brightly flowering bushes and standards, beginning to run wild but still neatly metal-tagged with their old identities. There was, he saw, a cross on the other side of the barrage of color—crosses. He went round, and counted four of them. They bore no names. There was only one person to whom they could mean anything, and she would need no reminders.

  He heard her calling him from a distance, and walked away from the graves, so that he was some way from them when they met.

  She was faintly flushed, and smiling. She said, “The ankle seems to have improved a lot.”

  Matthew nodded. “I should think I could come out with you tomorrow. How did things go today?”

  “Only moderately. We thought we were on to a good thing in the morning. Charley turned up several tins together, and then the remains of a shop counter. But someone had worked the vein before us. Our total haul was two of sardines, one processed peas, one sauerkraut, and five of rice pudding.”

  “It could have been more interesting.”

  “Yes, indeed. We picked up a few other things later on, but nothing to remark on.” She put a hand on his arm; he was very much aware of the contact, of her physical presence beside him altogether. “Are you sure your foot isn’t hurting?”