‘You’re not going to hang yourself, are you?’
We shoved the table into place and I clambered up. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. Using wide arm movements, I sketched in a black sky, lit with starburst shells. Stark figures raced and fell across a lunar landscape. I drew faster and faster, unable to stop, taking the pictures in my head and transposing them on to the wall. I drew the explosions, the cold, the terror, the heart-breaking waste. I drew limbs, heads, and blood. I drew men dying on the wire, drowning in the mud, eyes wide, mouths gaping, hands clawing. It poured out. Beside me, Kal added her own contributions. At some point, Dr Foster came in, watched, and surprisingly said nothing. We moved the table out and I drew the Reception tent. I drew rows of soldiers, wrapped in blankets and coats, all stiff and heavy with mud and blood. I drew cold, grey, vacant faces; contorted faces; screaming and crying faces. The last piece of charcoal crumbled and flaked with the pressure. A hand touched my shoulder and Dr Foster said, ‘Enough.’
I looked round. A crowd of people had gathered behind us; the entire medical team, Farrell, Dieter, Doctor Dowson, and some more. I waited for the trouble coming my way but it didn’t happen.
We washed our hands and Nurse Hunter brought us a cup of tea. Then we switched out the lights and fell asleep.
We got over it, of course. You have to. We wrote our reports and submitted them to Dr Bairstow. We spent an afternoon with him and Chief Farrell, talking them through everything before they made the final report to Thirsk for them to present to the client. And then it was nearly done.
Kal and I accompanied Dr Bairstow to the Remembrance Day ceremony in Rushford that year. We were smartly turned out as he always insisted we were in public, wearing the full, formal uniform, hair up, shiny shoes, and make-up. We paid our private respects while he laid a wreath on behalf of St Mary’s, as he did every year. In my mind I saw the tents, the rows of wounded, saw the faces, heard the guns that never went away.
The Last Post sounded, thin in the cold air and the echoes took a long time to die away in more ways than one. I thought of the blind soldier and of that young major from the Glosters whose presence of mind had saved so many lives and wondered if they had survived the conflict. I dragged myself back to the present. We joined in the prayer.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them, not the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Sussman didn’t come.
There was a curious postscript. A small event that had enormous consequences. I had a birthday soon after. Left outside my door, I found a small box, neatly wrapped in coloured paper. This must be from Sussman. Typically, he’d never talked about the explosion and fire at all, just carrying on as if nothing had happened and expecting everyone else to do the same. I wondered if he was trying to make amends with a present. If so, he’d certainly succeeded.
Inside the box nestled a small statue. A model of the Trojan Horse. About six inches tall and exquisitely made. From its delicate features to the trapdoor in its belly, it was absolutely perfect.
That evening, however, Sussman handed me a box of chocolates. I was surprised but did remember to thank him, although this didn’t solve my problem. Who left the horse for me? I pondered this as I ran downstairs and collided with Chief Farrell who was going up. We’re supposed to keep to the right.
‘You’re supposed to keep to the right,’ he said, mildly.
‘Sorry, Chief. You OK?’ And then I got it. I don’t know how I could ever have thought Sussman could have come up with anything so exquisite. Whatever had I been thinking? Sudden realisation swept over me. He’d given me a gift, a perfect gift, a wonderful gift. I was so happy. An inner voice said, ‘Don’t read too much into this,’ but how could I not?
I said, without missing a beat, ‘Thanks very much.’
He smiled back at me. ‘Keep it safe.’
I felt a little offended he thought I might lose or break it. I don’t have so many possessions I can afford to be careless with any of them and certainly not this one.
‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘I mean it, Miss Maxwell. Keep it safe and keep it accessible. It’s important.’ Then he was gone again, leaving me, happiness subsiding, bewildered and just a little bit uneasy.
We had the usual big noisy party that evening, but not all the music, dancing, and drinking in the world could mask the underlying tension. I don’t know if anyone said anything to Dr Bairstow, but Sussman and Kal never went on another assignment together again.
Chapter Six
Another all-staff briefing from Dr Bairstow.