The Long Road From Kandahar, page 30
Ben is not the same person. His leg has been blown off. He has stomach wounds that make him hunch over. He used to be fit and strong and run for miles. He used to hold a sword and march on the parade ground. He is not the same man he once was. To pretend is … is … just being glad to be alive. Ben is kidding himself …
Finn stood in the doorway framed by the light and glared at the wheelchair in the corner. Then, abruptly his anger subsided and he hated himself. An unbearable sadness filled the void. He wanted to rush out and tell Ben he loved him, that he knew what Ben meant, that he was the same person inside. But he knew that could not be true either. It broke him up, made him want to kick something, to run away, because Ben had to kid himself. What else could he do?
Delphi and Ian came out onto the veranda carrying trays. ‘Is it warm enough to have drinks out here, do you think?’ she asked.
‘Of course, it is,’ Ben said. ‘This is the best part of the day, watching the sun go down.’
Mary jumped up to take the tray from Delphi. ‘It’s wonderful out here. I can smell summer around the corner, and we’ve got plenty of rugs …’
‘Darling,’ Delphi said to Finn, ‘I’ve made you a hot chocolate and left it on the kitchen table, it was too hot to carry … While you’re in there, have a quick look at the mermaid paintings I’ve been doing for Izzy. Tell me what you think because you’re the story-teller …’
The sun was slanting through the bars of the veranda and the sea was turning a mellow sepia. Finn turned to glance behind him as they lifted their glasses to toast each other. Ben was back in his wheelchair. Mary and Fergus were sitting on large cushions. Ian was in the old leather chair looking weary. Delphi was busy filling bowls with crisps and nuts. Finn saw that her hair was turning abruptly white.
It was nice to have the soft sound of laughter and familiar voices rising and falling, rising and falling against the sound of the sea. It felt both comforting and sad in a way Finn did not understand. A yearning for something that no longer existed. Not for a shabby, safe army quarter, but for everything loved and held within its walls … Izzy and Hanna and Ben. But the old Ben. Finn wanted the strong, happy Ben in uniform, always late for supper, calling, ‘Hi guys, I’m home! Where is everybody!’
This was the dream he dreamed at night and woke to in the mornings. He could not bear the truth. He could not bear the wheelchair, the crutches, the empty trouser leg dangling. Most of all he hated this … this … everyone pretending that everything was going to be fine. Grown-ups yak-yak-yakking and telling lies. When it could never be fine. Not ever.
He looked down at Delphi’s paintings on the kitchen table. He knew she was trying to involve him, and the little paintings were hauntingly beautiful. Silvery mermaids with long red hair riding golden sea horses through frothy white waves. Izzy would love them.
He lifted the paintings and felt a pang of longing for Hanna. For her green, grey eyes, for her beautiful shiny copper hair, for the spicy scent of her …
Ben used to call her his mermaid. Those days seemed so long ago. Finn often found he was unable to sustain his anger with Hanna for being the way she was. He just wished she was here, with him, in England. He missed her. He missed her so badly sometimes he doubled up with the thought of her gone forever. Izzy had a bad cold and Hanna had not wanted to book a flight until she was better.
He carried his hot chocolate to his room. It scared him seeing Delphi and Ian growing old. How terrible if they died. The very thought made him shiver. Life seemed to be constantly tilting and shifting under his feet. There was nothing safe to hold onto anymore.
At night, Finn tossed and turned into the sleepless dark. He knew he was going home with Raz more and more to escape Delphi and Ian’s undercurrent of grief that was wrapped in a cheerful stoicism. He knew the cheerfulness was for him, and an effort for them to maintain.
This would be the first Easter he had ever had without Hanna. No searching for eggs with Izzy this year. Finn looked up. Ian was standing in the doorway nursing a glass of whisky and holding a small bowl of crisps. ‘All well, old thing?’
‘Yeah, thanks. Think I might just stay here and read my book for a bit.’
Ian came a little way into the room. ‘Good idea, bit noisy out there …’
He put the bowl of crisps on the small table by the bunk bed. ‘You know where we all are, if you change your mind …’
Finn nodded. ‘Tell Delphi the mermaids are great …’
Ian smiled. ‘I will. You have a peaceful read. See you later.’ Then he went slowly back outside leaving Finn feeling comforted. He heard Ben laugh and felt himself smiling. It was a good sound. It was good hearing Ben here, just outside.
Finn fell asleep over his book and woke with his bedside light still on. On the floor beside the bed there was a glass of milk with a saucer on top, and a sandwich. Finn grinned. Delphi, just in case he might starve in the night. His watch said 1 a.m. The house creaked but was otherwise silent.
Finn got out of bed and changed into his pyjamas. He ate the sandwich and drank the milk. Underneath the glass was a sheet of paper. Delphi had written, Fabulous surprise! Izzy is better, Hanna has got them on a flight and they’ll be here tomorrow. A lovely family Easter will be had by all. Isn’t that perfect, darling! xx
Finn lay in the dark listening to the sea. This time tomorrow Izzy and Hanna would be here at the beach house. He let hope and a cautious contentment creep towards him as waves broke, in small, soporific slaps. Thinking he heard something, he got up and walked out onto the veranda and into Ben’s room. Ben was asleep in the new bed Ian had had fitted to replace the old saggy one that dipped in the middle. He slept on his back; the hated wheelchair next to the bed.
Finn watched Ben for a moment, taken aback by the protective wave of love and pride that rose up inside him. Would Hanna sleep here with Ben, or with Mary and Fergus in the chalet next door? She was coming over for Easter, so it was possible that she was missing them and thinking of coming home. He looked out at the black sea that rippled and swelled in the dark, at the half-moon that scudded between thick black clouds lighting the night in shafts of pale, yellow light. Then he padded back to bed.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Finn went with Mary and Fergus to meet Hanna’s plane at Newquay Airport. Finn stayed inside arrivals, but Mary and Fergus stood outside in a cold wind and watched the small plane land. Fergus said bleakly, ‘To see Ben felled like this, without Hanna’s love and support … Whatever Ben said about doing this on his own, Hanna should have stayed in England near him. The army would have supported her, you know, given her temporary housing … Not sure I can ever forgive her …’
Mary, watching the passengers coming down the plane steps, saw Hanna emerge, clutching Izzy’s hand. ‘We’re not here to judge Han, Fergus, but to support them both. They’re our oldest friends and they are both going through hell. I’m sure Hanna has had time to see how fragile life is, that Ben and the children desperately need her to be here …’
Fergus stared at her and even as the words passed Mary’s lips, she realized she did not believe them.
As she watched Hanna and Izzy cross the tarmac in the dark, Mary imagined Fergus struck down like Ben, imagined herself walking away from him and gasped at the inconceivability of it.
Izzy launched herself at Finn and he caught her, held her to him as she clutched his neck in a fierce embrace.
As Mary hugged Hanna, she could feel the sharpness of ribs under her fingers. When Hanna moved to hug Finn, he remained stiff in her arms, as if unsure how to be with her, what to hope for, how to trust. Mary and Fergus stood watching, stunned by sadness.
Delphi and Ian greeted Hanna as warmly as they always did. Izzy started to hurtle towards Ben in his wheelchair. Fergus managed to grab her before she could throw herself at him. Ben’s stomach wound was still healing, and Ben had admitted to Fergus it was more painful than his leg at the moment.
Fergus lifted her up to Ben and she threw her arms tight round his neck. Ben made strangling noises and kissed her hair loudly making her laugh, then she wriggled to the ground and ran to Delphi.
Ben smiled hello at Hanna from across the room. Despite Izzy radiating excitement and noise, Hanna’s arrival felt awkward and Finn felt a rush of conflicting emotions. Happiness Hanna was here. A fierce protectiveness, and resentment that she could make his heart ache.
As they sat around the old, scrubbed table for supper, Delphi and Mary found themselves overcompensating for any uneasy silences. Even Izzy’s chatter ceased as she caught the tension emanating from her mother, and the uncertainty in the room.
Delphi saw that Finn was watching Hanna. Hanna sat, wary of them all, like a cat placing her paws carefully, unsure of firm ground. Delphi sighed. The poor girl was, despite all their efforts to be normal, the elephant in the room, the woman who had deserted her post, gone absent without leave.
Ben and Fergus were bantering funny stories of hospital life and vague, hopeful plans for the summer that hovered ahead of them. Hanna sat, still and contained at the edge of them all, trying not to show the resistance she always felt when surrounded by Ben’s family.
Ben found it hard to bear her discomfort. It was not that Delphi or Ian were being anything but warm; it was that Hanna no longer felt one of them. Watching her, Ben wondered if Hanna had ever really allowed herself to feel one of them. Delphi and Ian’s old-fashioned courtesy had always irritated Hanna. The very Englishness of their lives seemed to set Hanna’s teeth on edge.
Ben made an effort to bring her into the conversation. He asked her about Mummo and Uki, and Izzy chipped in excitedly with stories of the kitten and the pony she sometimes rode. Finn, not wanting to hear of Izzy’s new life, abruptly left the table on the pretext of getting another glass of water.
By the time Hanna got Izzy into pyjamas and she was sitting by Ben, expectantly waiting for a story, everyone was exhausted and ready for bed.
Ben looked at Hanna and laughed. ‘Dear Lord, shouldn’t this child be on her knees by now?’
Hanna smiled back. ‘She’ll go out like a light, any moment.’ And she did. Finn carried her into the bottom bunk, glad of an excuse to get into his bunk and shut the door. He climbed into his own bed and played games on his iPhone.
Promising they would make sure Ben was safe in bed, Mary and Fergus sent Delphi and Ian to bed and cleared away the supper things.
Ben felt exhausted. ‘I need to go to bed, too. Hanna, get some sleep, you look all in. Mary’s made you up a bed next door. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Hanna’s relief was palpable as Ben turned his wheelchair and moved down the veranda. ‘Do you need any help, Ben?’ she called after him, praying that he did not.
‘No. Thank you, I’m sure Fergus will put his head round the door before he leaves. Night, night, Hanna.’
Something in his voice seared Hanna. ‘Goodnight, Ben, I hope you sleep …’ Oh God, she thought, this is hard. Somehow, I have to get through Easter. Hanna knew she had done the right thing in coming, for Finn and Izzy, but it was quite the wrong thing for her and Ben.
As Ben wheeled himself along the veranda towards his room, he suspected Delphi would not go to sleep until she had seen for herself that he was safe in bed and had everything he needed. There was already a washbasin in Ben’s room but Delphi had found a small chemical loo which she had put in a corner and screened off so Ben could pee in the night without worrying about disturbing anyone. He much preferred his crutches to the wheelchair, but the wound in his side still caused him pain. He hated his dependence on the wheelchair, but his balance was still not good, either. Ben had been grateful that Fergus had helped him into the shower that morning. He was grateful to Fergus for many things.
Fergus felt inclined to take Ben a whisky but thought better of it. Ben was still wobbly on his crutches and he might need to get out of bed in the night. He took him a cup of tea instead. Ben raised his eyes at it. ‘Bugger that, Fergus, exchange it for a proper drink.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course, I’m sure. If I doubt my ability to lower myself into my wheelchair to go and pee, I’ll buzz you on the phone …’
Fergus went away and poured two whiskies and they raised their glasses to each other. Ben hoped Fergus would not get maudlin and ask him how he was doing. He had noticed a lot of frantic wine-drinking during supper. They sat in companionable silence for a while and then to his dismay Ben found himself asking. ‘How do you think Hanna looks?’
‘Tired, thin, and miserable.’ Fergus answered.
‘The awful thing is, I haven’t really thought about how it is for Hanna at all. I’ve just been selfishly focusing on myself, on getting back on my feet …’
‘Foot,’ Fergus said, grinning.
Ben looked at him and they both snorted. Ben took a deep drink and loved Fergus for not avoiding the subject of his leg. It was why he liked Selly Oak; he needed a particular brutal forces humour to stop him feeling sorry for himself.
‘Thanks, Fergus,’ he said, ‘for bringing me down to Cornwall, for spending Easter with us, when I know you’d really rather be with your two.’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Fergus lied. ‘They are experiencing the wilds of Derry with Mary’s parents, who have no Internet …’
Ben made a horrified face. ‘They will never forgive you.’
‘Ah,’ Fergus said. ‘My parents-in-law are ferocious poker players, so we are expecting that boredom will have turned our two into gambling addicts by the end of the holiday.’
Ben laughed. ‘I mean it, Fergus. It’s so good to have you and Mary here …’
‘If it was the other way around you would do the same for me.’
‘If it was the other way around, Mary wouldn’t have left your side for one single second,’ Ben said quietly, and Fergus kicked himself.
‘I’m sorry, Ben, I’m so bloody sorry. Maybe …’
‘Don’t, Fergus, it’s not going to happen. A legless veteran is hardly going to entice Hanna back, is it? I don’t want her pity. It’s the last thing I need.’
‘Is that why you sent the family away, Ben, so Hanna would not feel so bad?’
‘I sent my family away because I could only cope with my own trauma and pain … I did not want to see it reflected every day in those I love …’
Ben looked Fergus in the eye. ‘It would be a lie if I said that I did not hope, with a tiny, unrealistic part of me, that Hanna would insist … would want to stay in Birmingham with me, but my wife’s horror was palpable as soon as she walked into my hospital room …’ Ben gave a raw laugh. ‘As I knew in my heart it would be.’
Fergus felt grief. ‘Give her a time to adjust, Ben. She’s here. She came for Easter. Don’t second-guess her feelings. Hanna nearly lost you, the shock of it will have made her revaluate …’
‘Fergus, we both know, even if things had been right between us, this …’ Ben indicated the space in the bed where his left leg should have been, ‘would have killed it dead. My beautiful wife loves perfect things. Always has. I am a man with a stump that will become raw and bloody once I start to walk on it. She would never cope with the blood and guts, the pain and depression, the suicidal doubts of who the hell I am now, or why the fuck I’m still here …’
Hope was not something Ben could dare let in, so he stamped on it. ‘Hanna married an illusion,’ he said quietly. ‘She married into an institution that she has come to see as snatching away all her freedoms. And maybe it has. She liked the idea of love because she was carrying Finn. Fondness only carries you so far … that is the truth, my friend …’
Ben looked away, out of the window to hide his misery. Fergus wanted to bawl. It caught him, like a blow between the ribs. He couldn’t speak. He longed for Mary’s Irish gift of magic words that would be apposite and wise, but he did not have that gift. Eventually, he asked quietly, ‘Ben, have you talked to anyone about PTSD or depression?’
Ben was silent and then he said, ‘It’s all right, Fergus, I’m not about to do anything stupid. I have my children and Delphi and Ian to think of. I couldn’t do that to them, but it’s crystal clear that I’m better in Selly Oak then here at home. I can’t cope with all this emotion swirling around, not my wife’s or my son’s or my mother’s. I can only concentrate on the next moment, on getting fit, on walking again. On the next day and the one after that. I don’t want anything at the moment, pity or love … I don’t have the capacity to reassure anyone. I know it’s selfish, but I just need to be in a totally clinical environment … to get on with … finding … what’s left of me …’
Ben paused and leant back and closed his eyes. His voice was so soft that Fergus had to lean forward to hear. ‘At Selly Oak, there is a corporal from the Welsh Guards … Taffy. He lost both legs and one arm in Lashkar Gah two weeks before me. He has a poster up by his bed charting his planned climb up Ben Nevis with Prince Harry. He’ll do it too. He spent most of his childhood in children’s homes. He joined the army at sixteen because they turf you out of care and onto the street as soon as you are deemed an adult …’
Ben opened his eyes and looked at Fergus. ‘That’s only three years older than Finn … Taffy told me, that for him, the army was like coming home. It became his family. For the first time in his life, he had excitement, plenty of food, money, and good mates. People who cared whether he lived or died. He was part of team who looked out for each other, part of something that mattered. He was a natural leader, duck to water, trusted and loved by his men. Ferociously brave in battle. He risked his own life getting his soldiers to safety. He’s twenty-four, Fergus and I’ve heard him cry with pain, but I’ve never once heard a word of self-pity or “why me” …’
Ben drained his glass. ‘So, when I’m in pain or sorry for myself, I clamp down hard and I think of Taffy …’
‘Depression doesn’t work like that, Ben. Your feelings are just as valid as someone with worse injuries. Don’t clamp down on your anger, or pain, it isn’t healthy …’ He looked at Ben’s grey face. ‘You’re in pain now. Have you taken your painkillers?’
