Twenty-three

People were kind. Extraordinarily kind. He kept thinking that all the way home. Home, that word again. But England was home, even if London was not. British troops were afforded the choice of hospitals in their native counties, while the Australians had but one destination, London, and for that Liam had no real regrets. Despite advice and entreaties and promises made, for the moment he felt unable to face his mother, and more desirous of Georgina than ever. She was somewhere in London, and as soon as she knew where he was, would probably come to see him. With the decision made for him, he allowed anticipation to outweigh all else.

Of his old uniform, only his hat remained. He had managed to hang on to that, while everything else had gone to an incinerator. The new uniform was fine, if a little stiff, but he was glad of the hat, it had been with him since Gallipoli. To lose that would have been like losing a friend.

It was good to feel clean again, to meet smiling faces on the dock at Portsmouth, to accept small gifts and blessings, to feel kindly hands assisting him from place to place. Although he was classified as walking wounded, he was still very weak, and standing for more than a minute of two produced debilitating waves of nausea. But hospital trains, at least in England, seemed to run to better time, and they were soon on their way to London and Waterloo.

What looked like a fleet of private cars awaited them. While the stretcher cases were transferred to another train, those who could walk were directed to the cars. A middle-aged lady in black drove Liam and two companions to the Australian hospital at Wandsworth. She chatted amicably as the car bounced over tramlines, requiring little in the way of reply. Just as well, Liam thought, because one of the men was close to passing out, and he felt horribly sick with every jolt. Had she asked what the problem was, he would have hated to embarrass her by telling the truth.

She pointed out various places of interest along the way: Lambeth Palace and, across the river, the Houses of Parliament; Vauxhall Bridge, and, further on, Clapham Junction, nerve centre of London’s railways.

‘The Zeppelins keep trying to bomb it,’ she announced in her well-bred, penetrating voice. ‘Oh, yes, we’ve had some fireworks in Wandsworth, you haven’t had it all to yourselves over there, you know!’

The very sick man looked at Liam and managed a feeble smile; the other muttered something about it making them feel at home. Despite the fresh air whipping into his face, Liam knew that if they did not see the hospital soon, he would have to ask her to stop, his stomach was threatening to disgorge itself.

‘How far to the hospital?’ he managed to ask.

‘Not far – we’re almost there.’ She indicated the broad green common ahead of them, and beyond the trees the great sooty mass of Hospital No. 3, London General, which had been set aside for Australian soldiers.

Apart from the blackened stonework, Liam thought it looked out of place with its turrets and towers. Like a grand French chateau standing in its own grounds, with the dip of a railway cutting for its moat. Through waves of nausea, he had a moment of wondering what it might have been before. As they bounced through an imposing gateway, their lady driver informed them that it used to be a school, a girls’ school, the pupils now evacuated to the safety of the countryside.

In the warm, early afternoon sun, convalescents were walking the grounds in the company of nurses, friends and volunteers. Mildly curious glances were cast in their directions as they pulled up beside other cars at the main entrance. A bevy of young nurses, all bearing red crosses on their aprons, all looking like angels, were waiting to assist them inside.

‘This is more like it!’ someone was heard to declare, and a little ripple of laughter touched the gathered arrivals. They were ushered into a vast assembly hall, where names were taken and wards allocated; and then, at last, a ward with long rows of beds, a hot bath, clean towels and the soft blue drill of hospital uniform.

But to his consternation the nurse who handed him these things insisted on staying.

‘We don’t want you passing out in the bath, now do we?’ she declared briskly, and with that proceeded to unfasten his tunic.

‘I can manage,’ he protested feebly as her fingers reached his waist.

‘I’m sure you can, but I haven’t got all day.’

After that, he let her get on with it. At the base hospital in Boulogne, he had been given sponge baths, in bed, and the nurses there were stony-faced, far too busy to give more than perfunctory attention to basic needs. It seemed very strange to be standing naked in front of a pleasant young woman of his own age, one who helped him into the bath and stood over him while he soaped himself; stranger still to feel those firm hands scrubbing back and neck and the base of his spine. But it felt very good. Sinking back into the water, all embarrassment gone, Liam was aware of faint relief that he had not disgraced himself. Athough with towels wrapped around him and her hands rubbing him dry, he was thankful that she left the intimate parts of his anatomy to himself.

Assigned to a bed at last, it was bliss to crawl into it, to feel the cool, fresh linen surrounding him and the softness of pillows beneath his head. Within minutes he was dead to the world.

He was woken for tea, and again for supper, both meals consisting of toast and a hot drink, and then he slept again, ten solid hours until six the next morning. Another nurse came to check his pulse and temperature, bringing water and a towel so that he could wash, and later, a lightly-boiled breakfast egg, with tea and more toast.

A man from further down the ward brought over a selection of books, but beyond introducing himself and a few others, did not stay to talk. Liam was grateful for that. He glanced through the books, read a little, and dozed again. The doctor came, asking the usual questions, giving the usual answers that he was in good hands and recovery was just a matter of rest and time. The problem of his deafness, however, was something that would be attended to just as soon as Liam was fit to be out of bed for a few hours. It was probably nothing more than a severe build-up of wax, the body’s natural defence against noise. Reassured, for he had no pain in his ears, Liam thanked him and settled back against his pillows. The doctor, with the ward-sister in tow, moved on to the next patient.

The Sister in charge was a buxom, middle-aged Australian woman with a weatherbeaten face and a map of lines which suggested great good-humour, but enough steel, he guessed, to keep a firm hold on the motley collection of men beneath her rule. Liam tried to picture her in civilian life, and imagined her nursing at some small medical station in the outback, at a mine or logging camp, perhaps, or serving a vast area of small settlements. She was not a city woman, he was sure of that, and wondered how she coped with London.

The ward, once the doctor had gone, erupted into its usual buzz of chatter, bursts of laughter from men who had been ill and were recovering well; a medical ward, this, with none of the hush and incipient tragedy attached to surgical cases. There were perhaps thirty beds, not all of them occupied, and most of the men were up and dressed. Liam’s bed was nearest the door, and he recalled from his previous spell in hospital that as he improved he would move further down. The man next to him had come in two days previously, and a couple of others across the way had arrived by the same train as Liam. All bore the same hollow, dark-eyed look, a look he had come to associate with utter exhaustion. He supposed his own face must tell the same story, and no longer wondered at that overwhelming urge to sleep.

He managed to stay awake until lunchtime, looking out of the opposite window at a hazy sky above the line of slate roofs and chimney-stacks. Down the centre of the ward an array of lacy ferns stirred in a slight breeze from the open window at his back. So peaceful, it was like heaven. To be here, away from the war and the constant presence of death, was enough to prompt an overwhelming surge of gratitude. As tears welled, he had neither the will nor the strength to check them. He told himself that he had been terribly ill, but the worst was over and now he would get better. He had all he required, and could ask for nothing more. When he felt a little stronger, he thought before slipping off into sleep, he would write and let people know where he was.

Visitors arrived that afternoon, but Liam was only dimly aware of them. Rolling over onto his side, protected by his deafness, he drifted back into dreams.

Something stirred him. Not a sound but a touch, light and cool, against his wrist. Through half-open lids he saw the outline of a nurse beside his bed, stiff white wings of a headdress, a short shoulder-cape of grey edged with scarlet, starched cuffs above a hand which held his own. Another nurse come to check pulse and temperature, he thought, closing his eyes again, wishing they would leave him alone. He drifted for a moment, expecting the brisk word, the sharp prod of a thermometer against his lips; but a minute passed and none came. The fingers against his hand tightened perceptibly, then relaxed and lifted.

He opened his eyes more fully, but the nurse had not moved away, she was still sitting there, head bent, her fingers busy with a handkerchief. She was dabbing her eyes.

Frowning, he blinked several times, trying to muster sight and sensibilities, trying to find a logical reason why a fully-fledged sister of the military nursing reserve should be sitting beside his bed, crying. The answer came to him even as she glanced up, even as he recognized the pale oval of her face and met the deep, dark blue of her eyes. Like cornflowers, he thought, noting the wet, spiky lashes; and her hair, what little he could see of it, was still the colour of summer wheat. He saw her lips curve into a hesitant smile, and he felt his own mouth responding, broadening as he whispered her name.

‘Georgina?’

She nodded and he pressed her hand, not really believing it, sure the image was just a dream and that in a moment he would wake to emptiness and disappointment as had happened so often in the past. But he felt her responding pressure, heard a little sound, between a sob and a laugh, and experienced the wonder of seeing two fat tears escape her eyes and roll, unchecked, to her chin. Was she really crying for him?

She said something then which he did not catch, shook her head and dabbed again at her eyes, more forcefully this time. Although he could have watched her, contentedly, for the rest of the afternoon, he realized she was asking questions but apart from the odd word, he was at a loss.

‘Come closer,’ he begged, with a little tug at her hand. ‘I’m very deaf.’

Concern clouded her eyes, and she edged the chair forward, leaning her elbows on the high bed. She was close enough, almost, to kiss.

‘Can you hear me now?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he breathed, knowing that if he raised himself even a little, he could press his mouth to hers, and who would object?

She would. She most certainly would. But the idea delighted him, that she should be here, close enough for him to touch, to hold, to kiss. And so soon! With a little laugh in his throat he glanced away, pressed his lips together in a smile, and looked back into those beautiful, concerned, compassionate eyes.

‘How did you know?’

‘Casualty list.’ She glanced down, at the scars on his hands, the trimmed but badly-damaged nails. ‘I got to hear about it this morning.’

There was a vague question in his mind as to how she had come by the information, in her hospital at Lewisham, but he was too enthralled by her presence to express it. ‘What time is it now?’

‘A quarter to four. I managed to get an early break. Usually I take a couple of hours from four till six, but I changed it.’

‘And came straight here.’

She laughed, softly. ‘I wanted to be sure you were all right.’

‘I’m fine, just fine.’ Although his hands were a mass of scars that he tried to hide, she seemed to find some fascination there, smoothing the rough and dented knuckles with her fingers. He was supremely conscious of her touch, every tiny movement sending echoes into his heart. For a while he watched her fingers, long and fine, whiter than he recalled from her days at the Retreat, but still those of a working woman. The nails were short, neatly filed to cause no pain, the skin across her knuckles slightly rough from constant washing. He wanted to touch them to his lips, which suddenly, like his throat, seemed terribly dry.

Huskily, he said: ‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ and she smiled then, shyly, and said it was wonderful to see him, too; everyone had been so worried.

But Liam did not particularly want to know about everyone, just her.

‘How are you? I know you’ve been very busy, I had your letters – ’

A bright smile dismissed her own problems. ‘Oh, I’m very well – really. Looking forward to a break, soon, but otherwise all right. Things have calmed down a little, I’m glad to say.’

‘Not before time.’

‘Mmm. But I know they’ve been busy, here.’

‘Still are, I should think,’ he murmured, and felt the tension along his jaw. ‘But I’m out of it for a while, thank God. Just so pleased to be here, you’ve no idea.’

A smile touched the corner of her mouth. ‘Oh, I think I have,’ she said.

Dark, ash-grey lashes cast flickering shadows beneath her eyes as she looked away, and along her cheekbones, he noticed, was the faintest blush of colour. It seemed to deepen even as he watched, but he could not tear his eyes away: she was so beautiful, even the tiny frown lines between her brows seemed perfect to him.

That she could abandon great responsibility, just to see him; that she could care, even a little, were thoughts that swelled his heart with such love, such gratitude, it was overwhelming.

She seemed to sense it anyway. Her fingers tightened and she bowed her head, and when she looked up her smile was a little too brave, her eyes a little too bright.

She whispered his name; tears sprang to his eyes. Blinking them away, he swallowed hard to clear his throat.

‘I didn’t expect visitors,’ he said at last, biting back the words he longed to say. That he loved her, had always loved her, and how much her presence underlined it. He had not been wrong; he had not harboured false illusions; his youthful sense of her affection for him was true. Time had changed nothing.

Time had changed nothing. The words repeated themselves, but with a different meaning. Even as he raised his hand, touching blunt fingers to the softness of her cheek, he knew that what he felt went far beyond what could be acceptable to her. She was his sister. His older sister. In the past three years, who knows what other loves and loyalties had claimed her? He knew men, knew that beauty as remarkable as hers could not have failed to attract attention, and anyone who knew her well must surely love her. Whom did she love? Was there a man somewhere, a young officer, probably, whose life she had saved? Or a doctor with whom she worked?

She held his hand to her face, then, very gently, took it away. ‘Should I write to anyone?’ she asked. ‘Tisha, perhaps – or your mother? I’m not sure either of them know yet.’

The question brought him back to reality, setting different considerations running like hares. Like hares they scattered, leaving him empty-handed and panic-stricken.

Abruptly, he shook his head. ‘I don’t want anybody to know. Not just yet.’

She stroked his hand. ‘That’s all right, I understand. But I’m afraid that as next-of-kin, your mother will be informed soon, if she hasn’t been already.’

Heart racing, he closed his eyes, imagining his mother distraught, flying to his side instantly, now that she knew where he was. ‘I don’t want to see her. Not yet.’

He heard Georgina sigh. ‘Very well, don’t worry. Would you like me to write to her anyway, putting her off for the time being? I know travelling can be difficult these days – detours, endless delays, changes in the middle of the night – she might be quite pleased not to have to rush the visit.’

‘Would you do that?’ In the rush of relief he was almost weeping again. ‘Tell her I’ll write to her myself, very soon.’

‘I will. And I won’t say anything to Tisha until you feel more up to seeing her. How’s that?’

‘That could be a long time,’ he muttered in an attempt at a joke; but he was thankful. Having thought of no one but Georgina for days, he was beginning to realize that the ramifications of being in hospital in London were endless.

The sudden ringing of a bell in the corridor rattled his eardrums; wincing, he saw Georgina glance at her watch. At the far end of the ward, some visitors were standing up, pushing chairs back into place.

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘So soon?’

She smiled. ‘It’s the end of visiting time. I was late arriving. Anyway,’ she added, patting his hand like a nurse, ‘you’ve had quite enough talking for one day. Time to rest.’

‘That’s all I do,’ he protested.

‘And all you should be doing,’ she said firmly, but she was smiling, too. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon be on the mend – soon be up and around, chasing all the nurses!’

He laughed. ‘Is that part of the cure?’

‘It certainly seems to be,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘I can usually tell when a man’s feeling better, by the blushes on my girls’ faces!’

Laughing again, feeling good because of it, he enquired teasingly: ‘And what about you? Do they make you blush, too?’

‘Oh, no! They don’t try anything with me – I’m the one who cracks the whip!’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t stand any nonsense.’

Although she was laughing too, Liam believed her. It cheered him immensely.

‘I really must go, or Sister will have my head for outstaying my welcome. But I’ll come again soon, if I may? Is there anything you need? Anything you’d like me to bring?’

He shook his head. ‘Just yourself.’

Her lips parted, and he thought she was about to say something else. With sudden warmth she pressed his hand and bent, quickly, to kiss his cheek. Brief, light, the touch of her lips was hardly there; but once she had gone he pressed his fingers to the place and then, lingeringly, against his mouth.

Coming off duty later that night, still basking in the afterglow of that reunion with Liam, Georgina had to force herself into professional briskness before telephoning her father. It would not be wise, she thought, to reveal the depth of happiness and relief occasioned by that visit.

Robert Duncannon’s first concern, as it had been that morning, was for his son, and his sigh of gratitude, followed by a lengthy silence, was eloquent indeed. Giving him a factual report on Liam’s condition, Georgina could not hold back her sense of satisfaction.

‘He’s still very ill – I looked at his notes. But I must say he looks better than I expected. And remarkably cheerful.’

‘How long before he’s well again?’

The question jarred, driving her thoughts ahead to where they did not want to go. ‘Before they can send him back again, you mean?’ It was bitterly said, but she made no apology. ‘I don’t know. He’s back, he’s safe – can’t you be satisfied with that for the moment?’

‘I need to know.’

‘Well I can’t tell you.’ Without thinking, she was suddenly the professional nurse, lecturing a subordinate. ‘It depends on the severity of the infection and the constitution of the patient. The germ has a nasty tendency to linger, even when, to all intents and purposes, the patient seems quite well. It could be two or three months, or it could be more. Why do you want to know?’

‘Then there’ll be convalescence,’ her father said, ignoring the question, ‘followed by retraining. So I imagine,’ he mused over the crackling line, ‘we’re looking at five or six months. That should give us plenty of time.’

‘For what?’

‘Why to get this mess sorted out, of course. It’s been impossible so far, and this is the first chance anybody’s had to get that young idiot on one side and really talk to him. I’ll be honest, Georgie, now I know he’s all right, and not about to peg out on us, I’m glad he’s ill. It keeps him in one place, and for long enough, to try and get him to see some sense.

‘It’s bothered me, you know,’ he added gravely, ‘all these years it’s bothered me. Perhaps now we can take steps to resolve it.’

Georgina sighed again, hearing it echo over the intervening miles, and for a long moment said nothing. She understood what her father was saying. He was concerned, mainly, for Louisa; if he could effect a reconciliation between Liam and his mother, it would also expiate some of his own guilt. Not a bad aim, and one with which she concurred, but she had other loyalties too, and other sympathies; and as a nurse she was concerned for the well-being of a man who needed to recover mental as well as bodily strength. After all he had recently undergone, she could quite understand why Liam felt unable to cope with the emotional problems his family represented.

‘I think we’re going to need a lot of patience, Daddy. We’re going to have to give him time. Yes, I know he’s had three years,’ she said quickly, in response to Robert’s exasperated gasp on the line, ‘but I’m not talking about that. I’m saying he needs time to get over the last few months. He’s been through so much – if you’d been able to talk to the boys on my ward, you’d know how much – and he’s been very ill. He needs time to get over that.’

There was a long sigh. ‘All right, I understand. Louisa isn’t going to be able to get here straight away, so perhaps it’s just as well.’ On a note of weary resignation, he said: ‘I know you said you’d write to her, but I’m beginning to think I should go to York myself, before they get an official envelope and think the worst. That might finish poor Edward completely. And that wouldn’t help at all.’

‘Oh, Lord.’ In the excitement of the day, Georgina had barely considered that aspect. ‘But what if they’ve heard already?’

‘I doubt it. The wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly, my dear, and that list I received this morning from Horseferry Road had only just come in from Boulogne.’ After a short pause, Robert said heavily, ‘I’ll go to York first thing in the morning. Break the news gently, and persuade Louisa to stay where she is for the time being.’

Assuring her that he would also speak to Tisha, he told her that she must leave the family matters to him, and get some sleep; she worked far too hard as it was. On a grateful farewell, Georgina replaced the earpiece and stood for a moment, thinking about him. Although her concern was primarily for Liam, her father’s, genuinely, encompassed them all; even Edward, of whom he was not inordinately fond. But as he said, to lose Edward now would only complicate matters, negate even further what small chances there were of settling things.

Edward’s illness was rather more serious than Louisa cared for her children to know. They could do nothing, she said, and knowing would only make them worry, so she had asked Georgina to keep the information to herself. But Edward had suffered two minor heart attacks already, and any major shock was likely to be detrimental to his precarious health. Possibly even fatal, so it was important to play things down. Important, too, for Liam, who needed to regain his balance.

If her presence was a comfort to him, Georgina thought as she made her way back to her room, then she would do her best to visit regularly, even if it meant changing shifts and begging favours. That way she could keep a check on his progress, and as soon as he was in better health, press him to apply for temporary home leave. It seemed to her that it would be preferable to have Liam meet them again on old, familiar home ground, rather than have Louisa trailing here, to London. But that would be something to discuss later, with Liam. Much later, she told herself sharply; for the time being it was enough to have him safe.

And accessible, she thought with warmth and pleasure later, when she was in bed. Despite his illness, despite the exhaustion written into every line of his face, it had been so good to see him. That pleasure would draw her back, no matter how she tried to disguise it. Devotion to duty, to other people’s needs, the habit she had acquired of always putting others first, was not a bad thing, except where it divested her of the ability to please herself. In the course of the war, her own happiness had been neglected, if not altogether forgotten; it seemed strange now, to look forward to something so mutually enjoyable.

By Friday, however, warned to expect some serious cases on her ward, Georgina realized that Sunday afternoon visiting would be out of the question. Disappointed, she wrote to Liam what she hoped was a cheerful letter, saying that she had managed to exchange her day off for visiting day on Wednesday, which would make the journey to Wandsworth so much easier. And she would be due a short break of three days at the beginning of October. By then, he should be feeling well enough to enjoy a day out.

It was all very vague, but she felt it important that he should have things to look forward to; the mundane routine of hospital life could so easily become depressing. She did not tell Liam that her father had decided to pay a visit to York on his behalf, nor did she mention its successful outcome. Robert had telephoned her from the hotel to say that Louisa was tearfully relieved by his news, and that Edward, on his feet at last but still having to take life easy, had actually thanked him for coming to tell them.

It seemed that Edward, unlike her father, felt very strongly that the boy should take his time. ‘He’ll come to us when he’s ready,’ was a phrase that had apparently been repeated several times. Georgina loved him for his wisdom, was immensely relieved that Edward would keep some sort of rein on any wild impulses of Louisa’s. Robert’s, she would have to restrain herself.

Wednesday was a free day but she was awake as usual at six. She would have tried to sleep again, but a flutter of excitement set her mind rushing over the day ahead, thinking of Liam, what he might say, what she would say to him, and within minutes further sleep was impossible. Pulling on a dressing gown, Georgina went down to the kitchen to make tea and toast. Another sister was fumbling through the same routine, only half-awake and bitterly resenting the beginning of another day. She greeted Georgina grumpily and stomped off down the corridor. Watching her go, smiling a little, Georgina suddenly realized that she was like that herself most mornings; and most days off, unless she had shopping to do, she stayed in bed. She was surprised to find herself not at all tired and looking forward to the day ahead.

It was a pleasure to bathe and wash her long hair, to sit by the window in the sun, drying it; the only annoyance was having so little choice of clothes. Apart from her uniform, she kept only one outfit here for emergencies, a navy-blue skirt and jacket and matching hat, and a cream silk blouse. It was serviceable for most occasions, and yet she would have preferred something more frivolous, a pretty pastel dress, a hat trimmed with feathers, and silly, high-heeled shoes. It was that kind of day. And then she smiled at herself; even in her wardrobe at Queen’s Gate, she possessed nothing of that description. Most of her clothes were plain and practical, tailored to fit her personality; her shoes were good, with small, neat heels, hand-made by her father’s bootmaker.

‘While Tisha buys hers ready-made on Bond Street,’ she muttered aloud to the caretaker’s cat. ‘Perhaps I should do the same. What do you say, Puss?’

The cat purred and nodded, settling herself down on Georgina’s knee.

‘Or am I being foolish?’

She lunched early and alone in the communal dining room, then went along the High Street to buy something for Liam. Although the boys newly arrived from France loved nothing better than fruit, she suspected that Liam’s diet would not yet allow for pears and plums. After trying several shops, Georgina eventually found what she wanted: a little box of peppermints and another of chocolate neapolitans, both made by Terry’s of York. She hoped the memories evoked would be happy ones.

The journey by public transport to Wandsworth took longer than expected, and it was almost a quarter past the hour for visiting when she arrived outside the hospital gates. People were still streaming in, being met by convalescent patients before heading straight out again and up the road for town. Expecting Liam to be on the ward if not actually in bed, Georgina paid little attention to those passing faces, and had covered perhaps twenty yards when her name and the touch of a hand on her arm stayed that eager progress.

She turned and he was there beside her, so much taller than memory served, with his hat set at a rakish angle and laughter dancing in his eyes.

The hat was swept off in greeting. ‘I was by the gate, waiting, and you walked right past me...’

Standing so close, looking up into that open smile which seemed to embrace her with such warmth and delight, Georgina could have sworn her heart turned over. Unprepared for the impact of his presence, she suddenly felt quite weak. A little breathlessly, staring up at him, she laughed and shook her head. And had to look away.

Recovering her voice, she said, ‘What on earth are you doing out of bed?’

Shrugging, laughing, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocence, Liam said he was fine, that he had been up and about for the last three days, and allowed out that very morning.

‘You’ve never been out since this morning?’ She thought it far too soon, would have ushered him back to bed had he been her responsibility,

‘Well, not entirely,’ he admitted, taking her arm and walking with her along the gravel path. ‘I had to see the ear specialist first thing, to have my ears syringed.’ He pulled a face. ‘It wasn’t pleasant, but it seems to have done the trick. My hearing’s improved already – I can hear the birds singing, and trains chugging up the incline, and people’s voices. It’s amazing, everything was so muffled before – as though my ears were stuffed with wool.’

His pleasure was infectious. With a little squeeze of his arm, she said she was pleased for him, glad that there had been no permanent damage. With small, shy, darting glances, Georgina felt the need to reassure herself that he was indeed whole and undamaged. She saw so much of injuries, both small and horrific, that it seemed no less than a miracle to have this beautiful, unmarked man walking beside her.

As they came to a vacant seat and moved towards it, Liam’s eyes followed the passage of a legless man in a wheelchair, and suddenly, all his euphoria disappeared.

‘Deafness isn’t much to complain about, though, is it? Here I am intact – with a couple of months’ peace ahead of me.’ He looked at her intently. ‘What more could I ask?’

‘What more indeed,’ she murmured. There were men hobbling on crutches, others with bandaged heads and arms. Nevertheless, by the smiles and light voices, it seemed everyone that day was conscious of the joy of being alive.

She pressed his hand. ‘You’ve been so lucky.’

‘I know.’

He would have kept hold of her hand, but she withdrew it, too conscious of his closeness, his adult masculinity, to be entirely at ease. In bed the other day, like the boys on her ward, it had been easy to relegate him to the role of patient; seeing him fully dressed changed her perspective. In her memory he had remained a boy; she had not allowed for those missing years, nor the maturity induced by years of war.

Dark shadows beneath his eyes told their own tale. Her professional glance discerned pallor beneath that weather-beaten skin, a paring of the flesh which lent the lines of nose and cheek and jaw a severity they had not possessed before. That boyish softness was now entirely gone. He was very much his own man, she thought, and only he knew what experience had shaped his thinking.

For a while they sat in companionable silence, but he kept glancing at her, frowning a little and smiling, as though something about her intrigued him. She was on the point of asking what it was, when he said: ‘You don’t seem to have changed a bit. Seeing you out of uniform reminds me of how you looked the last time we met — do you know it’s more than three years ago?’ He smiled. ‘It seems like yesterday.’

Surprised, because her own thoughts had been concerned with change and the passage of time, Georgina shook her head. Half-tempted to make some flippant remark about how old she felt, she discarded it and said gently that a lot had happened in the interim.

That made him frown. ‘Yes, I know.’ A moment later, he said: ‘But I can’t quite believe it. It seems so unreal.’ His eyes, shadowed, moved away from her, ranging beyond the gardens to a place of his own imagining. ‘I don’t think I know what reality is any more.’

Alerted by that change in tone, she searched his face and saw the fear within. She knew it well but in him it frightened her. She bit her lips and clasped her fingers tight, fighting the urge to drag him back from whatever brink of horror claimed him.

But with a deep breath he brought himself back. ‘I can’t believe I’m here with you,’ he said softly, and with a gesture that encompassed the neatly-trimmed lawns, the tennis courts and shrubberies, he added: ‘It seems no more than a dream...’

She placed her hand in his, and felt warm dry fingers close over hers. ‘I’m real enough – does that help?’

He nodded. ‘It’s strange, though. From here the war seems so far away. I find myself wondering whether it really happened – if it’s still going on. And that’s the thing,’ he added, turning to her, ‘I can’t believe it’s going on without me...’

Georgina swallowed hard. ‘It does, I’m afraid.’

With a bitter smile he turned away. ‘I’m sorry. That sounds like vanity.’

‘No. It’s a very common feeling. It goes, after a while.’

He said nothing to that, but she saw his eyes were suddenly brimming. He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry. I was so happy to see you...’

Hurt for him, aware that his whole body was trembling, Georgina clasped his arm and tried to find the right words to comfort him. She thought perhaps it was time to be professional, and wished she had worn her uniform after all.

‘I’m a nurse, Liam,’ she reminded him, ‘as well as your — your friend.’ But there was a tight constriction in her throat and it was so hard to express cool detachment when all she wanted to do was hold him in her arms and let him weep. Clearing her throat, she said: ‘Give it time. You’re still not well – at least not as well as you think you are. And you’re still suffering from reaction...

‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of – it happens to everyone – you must have seen it yourself on the battlefield. The bravest suffer most when the danger is past.’ Unsure whether he was really listening, she tightened her grip and gave his arm a little shake. ‘But you will get over it. You will. It just takes time.’

Pausing, softening her voice, she added: ‘And don’t think you have to apologize – I’ve seen enough, believe me, to know something of what you’re going through. It’s a little like grief, coming in waves – fine one minute, in tears the next.’

The swings in mood could be alarming, Georgina knew that; what he needed was her reassurance. Stroking his hand, she said: ‘And don’t try too hard to bottle things up. Whatever you want to say, say it – I’m not likely to be shocked, Liam, I promise you that.’

‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly, not looking at her, ‘I appreciate it. But you see, I don’t want to hurt you.’

What should have been the nurse’s bright, confident answer – you won’t hurt me – was in this case neither appropriate nor true. She wanted to say, your pain is my pain, and for you I’d suffer willingly, but that, too, was out of place. In the end she said softly: ‘I think it’s more important that you tell me, than that you worry about how I feel.’

As he turned to look at her, she was rewarded by the faintest curve of his lips; he was regaining his equilibrium, for the moment, at least. With a little sigh she patted his arm and judged that it was time to change the subject. ‘Anyway, tell me about Australia. That’s something you didn’t mention in your letters to me. Was it all you expected it to be?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he murmured, and the warmth of his response set her wondering, as it had three years before, how many young women had longed to see him smile for them. But he seemed charmingly unaware of his own appeal as he talked, describing the young, growing city that was Melbourne, and the richness of the country beyond. His words painted a vivid picture of Victoria’s hills and forests, exotic birds and animals, and revealed a deep admiration for the people. Georgina wondered — could not help wondering – whether there was one special person amongst them.

‘And when the war’s over,’ she said slowly, ‘will you go back?’

His answer seemed a long time coming. Like a sudden shadow, pain passed over him. He shifted position, drawing slightly away from her. ‘I don’t know. I’d like to, yes.’ His tone had an edge to it, suddenly, and his eyes were distant. ‘When the war’s over... We keep saying that, you know. We all say it. Or we did. But nobody quite believes it any more. You look back, and war is all you can remember – the blokes talk about Gallipoli as though it was ancient history – and you try to look ahead, but all you can see is more of it. And no matter what you do, how hard you fight, how many men you lose, that’s all there is ahead of you.’

Georgina winced. ‘It will be over, one day. We have to believe in that.’ But she heard the desperation in her own voice, and wished she had never mentioned Australia.

‘I’m sure it will – one day. The question is, will we be there to see it?’

It was cynically said, and, searching his pockets for cigarettes, Liam did not notice the pain it caused. A moment later, finding them, he said: ‘If I come through it, yes, I’d like to go back. It’s a wonderful country – paradise. You’d love it,’ he added with a quick glance into her eyes as the match flared into life. He cupped broad fingers round the flame, drew deeply, and released a cloud of blue smoke.

A moment later, with a soft smile for her, he said: ‘And you, Georgina – what will you do when the war’s over? Will you go on nursing, or what?’

‘What else is there?’ The words came out bleakly, unexpectedly, and frightened her a little. She had never before been aware of a lack of conviction, but it seemed to be there, nevertheless. She wondered whether Liam had released it, with his talk of that clean, new land.

Catching the bleakness, he shot her a quizzical glance. When he spoke, his words had the air of being carefully chosen. ‘You’ve never thought of marriage, then?’

The question was so unexpected, the idea so unlikely, that she was torn between laughter and astonishment; but something in his tone brought colour to her cheeks. She had to look away.

‘Marriage?’ she repeated, laughing and shaking her head. ‘No, never.’

He was surprised. ‘Seriously?’

Glancing up, she saw disbelief in his eyes. ‘Seriously – it’s always been out of the question.’

He doesn’t know, she thought; or has never considered it. But why should he? His life and experience did not encompass madness. But suddenly it struck Georgina that the truth of her own background might shed light for Liam on so much more.

She stood up. ‘Shall we walk a little way? Do you feel up to it?’

As they strolled across the lawns, skirting tennis courts where a couple of desultory games were being played, Liam slipped off the jacket of his blue hospital uniform and loosened his tie. In the warm sun Georgina removed her gloves and hat, aware as she did so of a sense of freedom, and a lifting of the oppression brought on by thoughts of her mother. It was not a subject she ever discussed, but somehow, being with Liam made things easier. All at once she wanted to tell him about the past and a childhood that was so inextricably involved with his own.

They had talked about Charlotte Duncannon that last evening, when he had insisted on coming to meet her at the Retreat, so he knew that she had died in a similar place in Ireland. What he did not know was the history of that illness, its insidious progress down the years. Georgina felt instinctively that Liam’s antipathy to her father might be alleviated to some extent if he knew what Robert Duncannon had suffered because of it.

Putting together what she had gleaned over the years from various relatives, and adding her own professional knowledge, Georgina described her mother from adolescence to grave. As a girl Charlotte had seen her parents murdered in Ulster, been adopted by her uncle’s family in Dublin, and introduced into society at the age of eighteen. Georgina described a beautiful young woman whose aloof, mysterious personality had attracted her father from the start.

‘Much to his surprise,’ she went on with a smile, ‘Daddy’s suit was favoured. I gather the wedding happened so quickly, even he thought it was rushed!

‘But not until after they were married did he start to understand why.’ She paused for a moment, to explain that her father almost never spoke of his marriage, that most of her information had come from his elder sister, Letty.

‘My mother’s behaviour became downright odd, even bizarre at times. She heard voices and conversed with people who weren’t there. By the time she was expecting me, she’d become so unpredictable that Daddy was afraid to leave her alone. He was due to go to England with his regiment, but he was so afraid of what might happen, he took her to White Leigh instead, to be cared for by my aunt and uncle.

‘Unfortunately, after I was born, my mother became much worse. She became violent and unpredictable. I gather one of her most obsessive delusions was that my father was the spawn of the devil, and that it was her duty to kill him.’

Glancing sideways at Liam, she saw him start. ‘It can’t have been easy to be on the receiving end of all that hatred, especially when he cared so much.

‘And he did care, Liam, I’m not just saying that. He always did his best for her, and he was determined to keep her out of an asylum. He didn’t want her abused and ill-treated, so he insisted on her staying at White Leigh. But he was away most of the time, so that was hard on the family...’

She sighed, remembering those days more by repute than reality. Nevertheless, one incident did stand out and she forced herself to relate it to Liam.

‘It was Christmas Day. I was three years old. We came back from church to find the servants in uproar. I escaped from my aunt and raced upstairs to find Daddy. He was in his room – sprawled across the bed and covered in blood.

‘I thought he was dead. I screamed and screamed, and they tore me away, shutting me up, alone in the nursery. I had nightmares for years after that.’

As she shuddered, Liam slipped an arm around her shoulders and for a moment held her close to his side. Muttering something derogatory about the wisdom of adults, he said: ‘She’d attacked him, I suppose?’

‘Oh yes. He’d gone to see her while we were out, and she went for him with a pair of scissors. He wasn’t badly hurt, as it turned out, just bleeding profusely and in a state of shock – but as I say, I thought he was dead.’

She paused, glancing sideways, before going on to tell Liam that sometime after that incident her father had met Louisa, and when he returned to Ireland with his regiment, persuaded her to accompany him. ‘It was the beginning,’ Georgina said briefly, ‘of three very happy years. I always think of those years as my childhood.’

She waited for Liam to take her up on that, to ask questions about that time, about when he was born and the early years they had spent together as brother and sister; but he did not. Silent for a while, he went back to the subject of her mother. ‘What I don’t understand,’ he said slowly, ‘is why your mother agreed to marry him, if she hated him so much.’

Georgina sighed. ‘I shouldn’t imagine she did hate him, not to begin with. But I’m not saying she loved him, either. I’ve discovered since that people like that are very strange, often devoid of ordinary human affections, totally wrapped up in themselves. Things happen around them, and half the time they don’t seem to notice.

‘How my mother took to being married, I’ve no idea, but she couldn’t ignore childbirth, could she, poor woman?’ Half to herself, Georgina murmured, ‘She must have been terrified, wondering what was happening to her. Perhaps she blamed him for that...’

Her own birth, and the effects of it, ever since she had been old enough to understand, had never ceased to horrify Georgina. That she had gained life at such an expense, was a hugely sobering thought. She knew, but did not say, that after giving birth, Charlotte Duncannon had tried to kill herself. Had her mother died then, Georgina felt it would have been better, more just, easier to bear. But to know that she had lived on, suffering in her insanity, bringing constant anguish to so many other lives — including her own and Liam’s – was a hard cross to carry. Nor had it ended with Charlotte’s death. Within her, Georgina carried the seeds of her mother’s insanity. Or that was how it felt. Seeds which might never come to fruition in her own life, but which might be carried on into her children’s lives, and the lives of their children after that. Like fair hair, or blue eyes, or a birthmark on the hip.

If she ever married.

She never would, of course. That decision had been taken many years ago, before men as potential husbands had entered her awareness. And having taken the decision, she had cut herself off emotionally, halting any advance before it became necessary to explain herself. How odd that she should be faced with explaining it now, and to Liam.

‘So you see,’ she went on, matter-of-factly, ‘that I could never consider marriage. Once upon a time I thought I might end up like that myself.’ She gave a kind of laugh, as though the matter was one for joking, but it was the only way not to shudder. ‘However, it seems unlikely now. After all I’ve seen of this war, Liam, I’m sure that if I was likely to lose my reason, I’d have lost it already.

‘But I might pass it on, you see. If I married and had children,’ she repeated quietly, not laughing now, ‘I might pass it on...’

He stopped suddenly and turned towards her; and when she looked up at him, his face was taut and hard with suppressed emotion. All the diffidence was gone. She thought he was about to speak, to utter some fierce denial, but he raised his hand to cup her face, and bent to kiss her forehead. It was a warm, firm kiss, not at all lover-like, yet it expressed so absolutely his love and compassion, Georgina felt her own heart leap in response. She was at once humbled and exalted, feeling like a child in the presence of some tremendous wisdom, a warmth that encompassed her and held her safe. She could have clung to him and wept.

They had walked on a small distance when he said tersely: ‘I didn’t know. I remember you telling me about your mother, but I never realized — I mean, that side of things never occurred to me. I am sorry.’

She tried to make light of it, and found herself almost stammering. ‘Don’t be. I mean, well, it’s one of those things, isn’t it? Unfortunate, but one accepts it – that’s the way things are, after all...’

‘But is it? Do you know for certain that the illness is inherited?’

‘It hasn’t been proved, if that’s what you mean. But I feel it. I know it’s there.’ Confused in the face of his intensity, she felt herself reduced to emotion rather than fact. ‘I can’t explain,’ she finished lamely, ‘I just know it and it frightens me.’

He regained her hand, and she was aware of its hard dryness, the callouses on the palm, and a warmth flooding between them. It seemed to take away all the pain. Instead of arguing, he asked bluntly: ‘So you’ve never been in love? Never wanted to marry?’

‘No, never. It was always – well, something I avoided.’

‘I don’t think people choose to fall in love,’ he remarked, and something in his expression as he looked at her made Georgina feel very gauche, very vulnerable. Too conscious of his hands and his smile and that tingling, spreading warmth, she eased herself away, suggesting a halt.

On the far side of the trees, where it was sheltered and sunny, he sat down, spreading his jacket for her on the grass. Kneeling beside him, she remembered, belatedly, the little gifts she had brought, and as he opened the wrapping, tracing the trademark of palm trees with his finger, she saw him smile with wondering pleasure. He leaned back, stretching himself full-length on the grass, holding up the little packets before him.

‘So,’ he murmured, ‘they’re still making these, are they? My old favourites – how did you know?’

She was able to laugh, then. ‘I must have remembered.’

Not consciously, she was aware of that, but once said, it did come back, like so many other things. Seeing him there, lying on the grass, long legs looking longer still in the narrow blue trousers, shirt-sleeves pushed back over brown forearms, she was reminded again of that last evening before the storm broke, when he had talked, so innocently, about leaving. She had thought him beautiful then, a lovely boy with all the world at his feet...

And now he was a man.

It made her shiver, as did the thought of all that had gone between. He had changed, she could see that, but despite weariness and bitterness bred by the war, he was still, miraculously, the same person. A little wiser perhaps, and with less polished ideals, but a gentle man for all that, not brutalized, as some were, by the hard school of experience. Sensitivity was still there, and that he still cared for her, very deeply, was evident by all that had passed between them today.

But perhaps, she reflected, that was less good than it seemed. For a moment she experienced a faint twinge of unease; and then he smiled at her, and it was gone.