A week later Kit dreamt a familiar haunting dream. He could hear the screams of a drowning man, a man he couldn’t reach, however hard he crawled across the mud to find him.
‘Hold on, lad, I’m coming for you!’ he was shouting but the gunfire obliterated his words. He woke screaming and cursing. Why could he not find the boy? His nightmares were like hangovers that lingered all day. No amount of whisky could blot them out.
He rose early for a morning stroll along the beach where his feet took him towards the steps of the rose-pink villa. He was searching for a glimpse of Flora.
He had caught a brief sight of her at a choir rehearsal but with no opportunity to talk. He could not get her out of his mind. She had such soulful dark eyes, as she listened intently to all his nonsense. He was the one who ought to be listening, comforting, an example of good faith. Somehow her presence calmed his restlessness. He tried to be a cheery chappie in the mess but he was tired of the act.When he was with Flora, he could be more himself.
Kit turned towards the grey water with its hard metallic sheen and found himself staring into the waves. He could see his friends kicking a ball, rested, laughing, free now from any pain or the stench of death. They didn’t notice him as he sniffed the salt air and waved, only the lap of the waves on his boots made any sound. ‘You are one of the lucky ones,’ they seemed to say and for that he must be grateful. Had he been of any use with his Bibles, medical bags and cigarettes? The countless dead were the lucky ones, he thought, over there on that far distant shore.
True, he had a comfortable billet, three good meals a day and plenty of company to while away the hours. The other men seemed intent on getting themselves fit to go home to wives and children. They were lucky, too.
He had no one in particular except his senior kirk minister, Andrew, with a daughter who they all thought would make him a good manse wife. He couldn’t even recall Muriel’s face.
‘You’re a padre with nothing to give, a burnt-out shell,’ he whispered to himself. The band of brothers he once knew was gone, left behind him years ago in that first flush of gallantry and derring-do. They were the unlucky ones, schoolboys thrown into the furnace of war.
Kit felt the water soaking into his boots and stepped back. A voice was calling him back. He turned to see Flora racing down the steps, hair flying.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Just testing the water to see if I dare take a dip,’ he lied.
‘It’s freezing, even in the Med. You gave me a fright. I opened my curtains to see you walking into the waves.’
‘You have a fine view from the villa, very picturesque.’ Kit tried to change the subject but Flora was having none of it.
‘Look at the state of you – soaking, and your boots are sodden,’ she chided.
‘Walk with me,’ he said.
‘You know the rules, I can’t.’
‘But you will, won’t you?’ he said, drinking in her wild hair and scarlet cheeks.
Flora smiled. ‘Just for a few minutes.’
‘Talking to you has made me think. If this war was fought for anything, it was for the freedom to live useful, fruitful lives without fear of being subjected to the domination of others. We know there must never be another war like this and yet it has accelerated so many scientific inventions, machines, ways of treating the sick. There’s a new era coming and I’ve realised that preaching has only a small place in a padre’s toolbox. For example, one night there were no rations and I went out to forage and found a pig. Don’t ask me how,’ Kit laughed. ‘There was a butcher in our ranks so he did the necessary and we roasted it over a fire, the best meal for weeks. The men listened to me after that. It’s what you do that counts, not what you say.’
‘“Deeds not Words!” our Suffrage motto.’
‘Ah yes, you, Rose Murray and Maudie screamed that in our faces often enough on the tennis court. We laughed at you and you at us… Flora, you’re such wonderful company. You chase the black thoughts away.’ Kit clutched her hand but she shook it away.
‘Not now, not here…’
‘Then where? We never got a chance to talk when I took you all on the scenic tour. That Olive never stopped butting in… Now that we’ve found each other after all these years, there’s so much to discuss, don’t you think?’
‘I’m sorry, Kit, it’s just not possible. People might see us together. There are rules. We never got to thank you for giving us such a wonderful afternoon. I’m sorry. You must think me ungrateful.
It will be Christmas soon. You will be busy taking services and I have Maudie and Olive to entertain, as well as visiting my sick nurses. There’ll be a party and you’ll all be invited. We can be friends, of course, but no more, not here.’ Flora hesitated. ‘I have a reputation to guard.’
‘Why are you being so sensible?’
Flora paused turning back towards the villa. ‘No more walking into the sea nonsense. Pull yourself together, shape up and forget any of these soppy conversations or I’ll ask to be transferred.’ Flora gave him one of her stern ‘Votes for Women’ looks.
Kit grinned. ‘You’re a cruel woman but you’d make a good wife, guarding the manse door…’
Flora stormed off, laughing. ‘No, I would not!’