The Climate of Courage

It was the first time he had ever seen her weep: even when they had said good-bye two years ago she had kept a brave face. He had been glad of that then, because he knew he hadn’t the armour to withstand her breaking up. Now she looked younger than he had ever seen her look, helpless for the first time, and he had an almost overpowering desire to take her in his arms. Instead he got up and began to walk about the room.

“I think it would have been better if you’d told me while I was away,” he said.

“Why? You might have taken it much worse than you are now.”

“Christ, how do you think I’m taking it now? Do you think it isn’t hurting me as much as it would have over there?” His hand pulled at his hair: the mobile face was almost splitting with emotion. “I still love you, hon! Just because I’m back, doesn’t alter or lessen that. Look at you now. You’re half-naked. Do you think I can’t remember what we’ve done together? Do you think I can shut my eyes and say I’m going to forget all that? I can remember you, every inch of you, and so long as you’re around I’ll go on remembering you. And unless I stay up all night, I’ve got to get back into bed with you now. If you’d told me while I was away in the Middle East, at least I wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“If that’s all you’re going to miss of me, the sex part——”

“Ah, God Almighty! Can’t you see what I’m getting at? I remember everything else about you, too. You’d be surprised at the small, no-account things a man remembers when he’s away. And likes to remember. It sounds silly now, but time and again I used to think about the day you fell in the water fully dressed at National Park. I used to laugh about that and feel good about it. It was something I loved about you, although it’s hard to explain why. I’m in love with you, hon, and I want to stay in love with you. If I’ve talked about getting back into bed with you, it’s because we both know it’s the best way of showing love.” He sat down on the bed again and twisted his face with his hands. “I realise now, that since I’ve been back I might just as well have patted your hand for all it meant to you.”

“I’m sorry, Greg.” They sat in silence for a while, both of them unaware of the cold night air coming in the open windows. Somewhere down in the gorge a night-bird cried, and on the terrace below their windows a woman giggled nervously. There was the sound of light running footsteps, high heels click-clacking on the cement, a man said hoarsely, “Come here, you little dope, I’m not going to hurt you!” then there was the sound of heavier running footsteps going away along the terrace. Then there was silence again and after a while Sarah said, “Shall we go home to-morrow?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know, I like it here. It seems a pity—but you say you can’t go on sharing the same bed with me. I suppose you’re right. It doesn’t mean anything to me any more.”

He took off his dressing-gown and slowly got back into bed. Already he felt a strangeness beside her, a restraint upon himself as if he mustn’t touch her for fear she should scream. She was doing nothing to help him. Her nightgown was low cut at the neck and as she turned towards him her breasts, the breasts he knew so well and would remember, were almost completely exposed. He looked away from her and sought some relief in sarcasm.

“The double bed,” he said. “The torture rack for about-to-be-divorced couples.”

“We’d better go home to-morrow,” she said. “I’ll take some things and go and stay with Mum till your leave is up. When you go back to camp, I’ll come back to the flat.”

“There’s no need for that. We’ve got a date on Saturday night. We promised we’d go to Bluey Brown’s party.”

“Do we have to go to that? Is it so important? Haven’t you had enough of being fêted?”

“The party isn’t being put on for my benefit. And if it were, I wouldn’t be thinking about that part of it, believe it or not.” The excitement of the last few days had been completely forgotten: he suddenly wished he was a nobody. “I just don’t want people feeling sorry for a V.C. winner. I’ll be the one who’ll get the sympathy, you know that. I just don’t want people calling you a bitch.”

“I don’t deserve so much consideration,” she said slowly. “Is that what you want to call me, a bitch?”

He ignored the question because he had no answer for it: his mind was still in too much of a turmoil to begin thinking of calling her anything. “We’ll go home to-morrow and I’ll sleep in the spare bedroom. We’ll keep up appearances till I go back to camp. You won’t have to worry,” he said bitterly, “you can lock the bedroom door at night. When I’m back with the unit, we’ll see about getting a divorce.”

“You’re taking it better than I’d hoped,” she said very quietly.

He reached up and switched off the bed lamp. He turned away from her to stare at the dark wall before him, dark and blank as the future.

“You forget I’m a V.C. winner,” he said. “Brave beyond the call of duty.”

Next morning they went back to Sydney. The train wound its way down out of the mountains, threading its way through narrow culverts, skirting the edges of deep drops, passing small towns that had once been only holiday resorts and now were the dormitories of munition workers. The grey-walled gorges were as wild and deserted as they had ever been and the ranges still had the appearance of lonely sleeping beasts; but the Blue Mountains, once just a playground, were already caught up in the war. Munition works, stark and utilitarian and temporary-looking, money and materials thrown into tremendous sheds of death, were springing up all down the line. And from the train the roads seemed to be carrying little but military traffic.

The train itself was crowded, as much as it had ever been when returning from a holiday week-end. The authorities had cancelled all inter-state passenger traffic, unless one had a permit, and had asked people not to travel within the state unless their reasons were urgent. Everyone suddenly seemed to have urgent reasons for going somewhere: it was doubtful if so many people had ever moved so far so often. For the first time in years the New South Wales Government Railways looked as if they might show a profit.

By one of those unbelievable pieces of luck which seemed to be natural to him, Greg had managed to get two seats. From outside the carriage had looked packed as any cattle truck and almost as packed as any tram going home from a Saturday race meeting. They had just settled back in the seats when two young soldiers came plunging back into the compartment.

“Hey, those are our seats, dig! We just been out to get a cuppa tea. We’ve had them seats ever since we left Cowra.”

Greg made no move. “I’m sorry, dig. I’ve got a bad leg——” He tenderly felt the wound he didn’t have.

The youngster suddenly noticed the purple ribbon on Greg’s chest. “That’s all right, sarge. You’re Sergeant Morley, ain’t you? No, go on, you stay there. Me and me cobber’ll be all right. I’ll just get me kit bag. There. Well, best of luck, sarge. Look after yourself.”

When the two boys had gone Sarah whispered, “That was cheap.”

“I know,” said Greg, smiling at the woman opposite, who was looking at him with frank admiration. “I feel like being cheap to-day. Cheap and nasty and don’t-give-a-bugger-for-anyone.”

He knew that yesterday he wouldn’t have thought of taking the seats from the two kids, nor of putting on the cheap act about carrying a wound. But yesterday he had been another man, a friend to everyone: and to-day he was as badly wounded as any man who had ever stopped a bullet. But if he told that to Sarah, it would only look like another cheap bid for sympathy.

The woman opposite leaned across. “I heard the other young soldier ask if you were Sergeant Morley. You’re the Victoria Cross winner, aren’t you? That’s the ribbon there, isn’t it? I saw your photo in the papers earlier in the week.”

“Yes,” said Greg, all at once wishing he had taken off his ribbon this morning and carried it in his pocket. He glanced at Sarah, expecting her to look bored, but she smiled at the woman opposite. She moved her arm, linking it in his, and he knew then she was only keeping up appearances. For a moment he was angry, then with a sense of fairness that had once been foreign to him, he realised she was doing it for his sake. He pressed her hand, but there was no answering pressure.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.