It was late afternoon by the time Marge had a chance to visit Phil in the small hospital deep in the tunnels under the castle. Guiltily, she knew she’d been putting it off. First she’d needed to clean up and change her clothes. Then she’d gone to get some food with Jeanie in the NAAFI. That had been a mistake: the place had been buzzing with people asking questions, and the mutton chop on her plate was undercooked and oozing blood, reminding her of Philip’s leg. She’d had to run outside to be sick. She’d then spent an hour trying to gather her courage.
Finally, she felt as ready as she’d ever be, and made her way through the whitewashed tunnels. It was damp and cold, the smell of mildew ever-present, but she barely noticed it anymore. None of them did, despite the fact most people had developed persistent coughs as a result of spending so many hours in the damp conditions. Although hers might also be because she smoked too much, she thought ruefully, wishing she could light up now. She fingered the cigarette case in her pocket, taking some comfort just from its presence.
Reaching the door of the hospital, she pushed it open and went in. A nurse was sitting at a desk in the small reception area and looked up with a smile.
‘Marge Atkinson. I wanted to check on Padre Sterling.’
The nurse’s smile faded. ‘Oh, so you’re Marge. The poor man’s been asking for you.’
Marge looked away from the accusation in the other woman’s eyes. ‘I-I . . . didn’t think he’d be awake yet,’ she said.
‘He’s not at the moment,’ the nurse said shortly. ‘But he has been.’ She stood up and walked towards the door, holding it open for Marge. ‘Come with me.’
Marge followed her out of the office to a room a few feet further down the tunnel. Inside was a ward with six beds; all were full today, and by one of them a white-coated doctor was giving orders to another nurse, who was jotting notes on to a clipboard.
‘Dr Matheson, this is Marge Atkinson.’
The doctor was an elderly man, with large side whiskers and a pair of rimless spectacles on his nose. ‘So you’re the famous Marge, are you? My, my, the way he was going on about you, I could have sworn he was talking about an angel, but here you are, just flesh and blood like the rest of us.’
Marge smiled uncertainly. His comment felt like an accusation, but she was too jittery to work out whether he was serious or not. She spotted Philip at the far end of the room. ‘How is he?’ she asked, her eyes never leaving his face. He was unconscious and the blankets were raised dome-like over his legs.
The doctor indicated a room leading off the ward. Following him, she went in and sat nervously on a wooden chair in front of a desk, while the doctor perched on the edge.
Marge smoothed her skirt over her thighs as the silence stretched between them. Finally, she said, ‘Please, Dr Matheson, just tell me. Will he be all right?’
‘I hope so, dear. But it’s really up to him. All I can tell you for certain is that his footballing days are over.’
Marge looked away. ‘Y-yes, I-I know. I applied the tourniquet.’
‘Well done. You may well have saved his life. Sadly, we’ve had to amputate his leg just below the knee.’
Marge’s head dropped. ‘But he’ll live?’ she asked in a strangled voice.
‘He should do. These days, what with all these newfangled drugs to fight infection, the chances are high. Much better than they were back in the old days when I was doing this operation with depressing regularity on the battlefields of France.’
She looked up at him, noting the weariness on his face. No wonder he seemed so nonchalant, considering what he’d already lived through.
‘But as long as he has a pretty girl to help him, one who doesn’t desert him because he’s no longer the man he was, then I’m hopeful he’ll recover, both physically and mentally.’ He gave her a hard look.
Marge scowled at him, annoyed at his tone. ‘Why would you think I’d desert him?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘I’m merely making an observation. Many’s the man who’s been abandoned by their true loves once a part of them’s gone missing.’
‘I am not like that!’ she said angrily.
The doctor smiled slightly, then patted her shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’re not, my dear. Or at least you don’t intend to be. But be warned, padre or not, he’s just a man. And his lack of leg is not the only thing that will change. You may go and say hello, if you wish, but he won’t hear you because I’ve given him something to help him sleep. Nice to meet you, Marge.’ He held out his hand and she shook it uncertainly.
‘I won’t abandon him, you know,’ she said.
He inclined his head. ‘I’m very glad to hear it. Oh, and by the way, I had a Lieutenant Castle in here earlier to see him. He said to expect you.’ He looked at her searchingly and Marge felt heat creep up her cheeks as she looked away.
The doctor sighed heavily. ‘Good day to you then, my dear.’
Once he’d gone, Marge slumped back down on the chair, trying to take in what the doctor had told her. Poor Phil. She put her head in her hands, wondering what the future might hold for him. Whatever it was, she couldn’t abandon him; it just wouldn’t be fair. But no matter what she told herself, it didn’t erase the memory of leaning in to Rodney this morning, allowing him to comfort her, his lips on her hair, his breath hot on her face.
Standing up abruptly, she left the ward and, head lowered so no one could see the tears on her cheeks, hurried through the interminable tunnels to the entrance. Outside, she lit a cigarette, then walked up the steep hill towards the castle walls where she stood staring out over the sea, trying very hard to keep her mind blank. But it was no use, thoughts of what had happened wouldn’t leave her. The dreadful sights and sounds, Phil’s leg gushing blood . . . And the question he had whispered to her just minutes before the plane arrived. Marry me, Marge?
She leant her elbows on the rough wall. If the plane had never arrived, if they’d gone to the Oak for a drink as they’d planned, her answer would have been easy. An uncomplicated ‘No.’ But now . . .
Restlessly, she walked to the church where she’d first met him only three months before. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she was relieved to see that it was empty – just as it had been on the day Philip had saved her life. And now she’d saved him back. But would he be grateful? She walked down the aisle, her sensible lace-up shoes virtually soundless on the stone slabs, and sat in the front pew, staring at the altar table. They’d sat under there and fallen asleep while the bombs fell outside. He’d been so reassuring. A comforting shoulder on which to lay her head. And since that day, he’d been a welcome distraction. His open appreciation of her had been a balm after the ups and downs of her relationship with Rodney. Although she’d not had a relationship with him, she reminded herself. They’d shared a kiss, and he’d always sought her out if he had a problem. But what had he really added to her life?
The answer was nothing. As long as she ignored the fact that she always felt more energised when she was with him. Their bickering kept her on her toes, and she sensed it did him as well. She remembered again their hug, how they’d given each other strength. But that couldn’t happen again – she owed it to Phil to give him her strength now.
A tear escaped her eye and she brushed it away. She liked Phil – more than liked him – but as far as she was concerned their relationship had only ever been a pleasant interlude. She’d assumed that one day they’d both be posted away and things would come to a natural end. But how could that happen now?
Pulling her legs to her chest, Marge rested her forehead on her knees and contemplated the future. It was her own fault; she’d played with his heart, used him to salve her ego. And now it was time to repay her debt.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the church door cranked open and the vicar, resplendent in his white cassock, walked towards her, followed closely by an assortment of people who had clearly arrived for the evening service. Marge stood, intending to leave, but then changed her mind. She would stay and try to find the peace in worship that Philip so clearly did.
She sat back down and folded her hands in her lap.
‘Dearly beloved, it is with sadness that we come together to remember the lives of our brothers, so violently taken from us today and every day. The number of souls we have loved and lost grows more each day, but I urge you to stay steadfast in your faith in Jesus Christ our Lord. St Peter tells us, “Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that this same suffering is being experienced by our brothers and sisters throughout the world.’
Marge ground her teeth, immediately regretting her decision. How she hated the way the church used all these deaths as a way to shore up their support. Was this not meant to be a memorial? She put her hands over her ears, willing it to be over. But the service dragged on. Over an hour later, the organ started to play ‘Abide with Me’ and despite herself, Marge hummed along, knowing how much comfort this service would have given Phil; how strong his beliefs were. She had no idea why he had fallen for her, considering she was an atheist.
When the hymn finished, the vicar spoke again. ‘Before you leave, please remember that “Life is eternal and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.” Go in peace.’
After everyone had gone, Marge went around the back of the church and lit a cigarette, sucking on it desperately, hoping to loosen the tightness in her throat, but it just made her cough. She leant her head back against the rough stones and looked up at the formation of planes flying over the castle, back towards their base, and wished with all her heart that she could clamber into one of them and let it take her far away from here. But most especially far away from the future that, if she followed her conscience, would mean she’d spend the rest of her life biting her tongue as her husband spoke about things she could never understand and would never believe.