‘Yes, yes,’ the rector agreed, clinging to straws. ‘Let’s get him well and then we can see.’
He turned heavily and re-entered his study. She and Gilligan looked at one another a long moment.
‘I could weep for him, Joe.’
‘So could I — if it would do any good,’ he answered sombrely. ‘But for God’s sake, keep people out today.’
‘I intend to. But it’s hard to refuse them: they mean so well, so kind and neighbourly.’
‘Kind, hell. They are just like that Saunders brat: come to see his scar. Come in and mill around and ask him how he got it and if it hurt. As if he knowed or cared.’
‘Yes. But they shan’t come in and stare at his poor head any more. We won’t let them in, Joe. Tell them he is not well, tell them anything.’
She entered the study. The rector sat in his desk, a pen poised above an immaculate sheet, but he was not writing. His face was propped on one great fist and his gaze brooded darkly upon the opposite wall.
She stood beside him, then she touched him. He started like a goaded beast before he recognized her.
‘This had to come, you know,’ she told him quietly.
‘Yes, yes. I have expected it. We all have have we not?’
‘Yes, we all have,’ she agreed.
‘Poor Cecily. I was just thinking of her. It will be a blow to her, I am afraid. But she really cares for Donald, thank God. Her affection for him is quite pretty. You have noticed it, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘It’s too bad she is not strong enough to come every day. But she is quite delicate, as you know, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes. I’m sure she will come when she can.’
‘So am I. Thank God, there is one thing which has not failed him.’
His hands were clasped loosely upon the paper before him.
‘Oh, you are writing a sermon and I have interrupted you. I didn’t know,’ she apologized, withdrawing.
‘Not at all. Don’t go, I can do this later.’
‘No, you do it now. I will go and sit with Donald. Mr Gilligan is going to fix a chair for him on the lawn today, it is so nice out.’
‘Yes, yes. I will finish my sermon and join you.’
From the door she looked back. But he was not writing. His face was propped on one great fist and his gaze brooded darkly upon the opposite wall.
Mahon sat in a deck chair. He wore blue glasses and a soft, limp hat concealed his brow. He liked to be read to, though no one could tell whether or not the words meant anything to him. Perhaps it was the sound of the voice that he liked. This time it was Gibbons’s History of Rome, and Gilligan wallowed atrociously among polysyllabic words when Mrs Powers joined them.
He had brought a chair for her, and she sat, neither hearing nor not hearing, letting Gilligan’s droning voice sooth her as it did Mahon. The leaves above her head stirred faintly, agitated upon the ineffable sky, dappling her dress with shadow.
Clover was again thrusting above the recently mown grass and bees broke it: bees were humming golden arrows tipped or untipped with honey and from the church spire pigeons were remote and unemphatic as sleep.
A noise aroused her and Gilligan ceased reading. Mahon sat motionless, hopeless as Time, as across the grass came an old Negro woman, followed by a strapping young Negro in a private’s uniform. They came straight towards the sitting group and the woman’s voice rose upon the slumbrous afternoon.
‘Hush yo’ mouf, Loosh,’ she was saying, ‘it’ll be a po’ day in de mawnin’ when my baby don’t wanter see his ole Cal’line. Donald, Mist’ Donald honey, here Callie come ter you, honey; here yo’ mammy come ter you.’ She completed the last steps in a shuffling lope. Gilligan rose, intercepting her.
‘Hold up, Aunty. He’s asleep. Don’t bother him.’
‘Naw, suh! He don’t wanter sleep when his own folks comes ter see him.’ Her voice rose again and Donald moved in his chair. ‘Whut I tell you? he wake: look at ’im. Mist’ Donald, honey!’
Gilligan held her withered arm while she strained like a leashed hound.
‘Bless de Lawd, done sont you back ter yo’ mammy. Yes, Jesus! Ev’y day I prayed, and de Lawd heard me.’ She turned to Gilligan. ‘Lemme go, please, suh.’
‘Let her go, Joe,’ Mrs Powers seconded, and Gilligan released her. She knelt beside Donald’s chair, putting her hands on his face. Loosh stood diffidently in the background.
‘Donald, baby, look at me. Don’t you know who dis is? Dis yo’ Callie whut use ter put you ter bed, honey. Look here at me. Lawd, de white folks done ruint you, but nummine, yo’ mammy gwine look after her baby.
You, Loosh!’ still kneeling, she turned and called to her grandson.’ Come up here and speeak ter Mist’ Donald. Here whar he kin see you. Donald, honey, here dis triflin’ nigger talking ter you. Look at him, in dem soldier clothes.’
Loosh took two paces and came smartly to attention, saluting. ‘If de lootenant please, Co’pul Nelson glad to see — Co’pul Nelson glad to see de lootenant looking so well.’
‘Don’t you stand dar wavin’ yo’ arm at yo’ Mist’ Donald, nigger boy. Come up here and speak ter him like you been raised to.’
Loosh lost his military bearing and he became again that same boy who had known Mahon long ago, before the world went crazy. He came up diffidently and took Mahon’s hand in his kind, rough black one. ‘Mist’ Donald?’ he said.
‘Dat’s it,’ his grandmother commended. ‘Mist’ Donald, dat Loosh talkin’ ter you. Mist’ Donald?’
Mahon stirred in his chair and Gilligan forcibly lifted the old woman to her feet. ‘Now, Aunty. That’s enough for one time. You come back tomorrow.’
‘Lawd! ter hear de day when white man tell me Mist’ Donald don’t wanter see me!’
‘He’s sick, Aunty,’ Mrs Powers explained. ‘Of course, he wants to see you. When he is better you and Loosh must come every day.’
‘Yes, ma’am! Dey ain’t enough water in de sevum seas to keep me from my baby. I’m coming back, honey. I gwine to look after you.’
‘Get her away, Loosh,’ Mrs Powers whispered to the Negro. ‘He’s sick, you know.’
‘Yessum. He one sick man in dis world. Ef you wants me fer anything, any black man kin tell you whar I’m at, ma’am.’ He took his grandmother’s arm. ‘Come on here, mammy. Us got to be goin’.’
‘I’m a-comin’ back, Donald, honey. I ain’t gwine to leave you.’ They retreated and her voice died away. Mahon said:
‘Joe.’
‘Whatcher say, Loot?’
‘When am I going to get out?’
‘Out of what, Loot?’
But he was silent, and Gilligan and Mrs Powers stared at each other tensely. At last he spoke again:
‘I’ve got to go home, Joe.’ He raised his hand, fumbling, striking his glasses, and they fell from his face. Gilligan replaced them.
‘Whatcher wanta go home for, Loot?’
But he had lost his thought. Then:
‘Who was that talking, Joe?’
Gilligan told him and he sat slowly plaiting the corner of his jacket (the suit Gilligan had got for him) in his fingers. Then he said: ‘Carry on, Joe.’
Gilligan picked up the book again and soon his voice resumed its soporific drone. Mahon became still in his chair. After a while Gilligan ceased, Mahon did not move, and he rose and peered over the blue glasses.
‘You never can tell when he’s asleep and when he ain’t,’ he said fretfully.
CHAPTER FIVE
1
CAPTAIN GREEN, WHO raised the company, had got a captain’s commission from the governor of the state thereby. But Captain Green was dead. He might have been a good officer, he might have been anything: certainly he remembered his friends. Two subaltern’s commissions were given away politically in spite of him, so the best he could do was to make his friend, Madden, First Sergeant. Which he did.
And so here was Green in bars and shiny putties, here was Madden trying to acquire the habit of saying Sir to him, here was Tom and Dick and Harry with whom both Green and Madden had gambled and drunk whisky trying to learn to remember that there was a difference not only between them and Green and Madden, but that there was also a difference between Madden and Green.
‘Oh, well,’ they said in American camps, ‘he’s working hard: let him get used to it. It’s only on parade, hey, Sergeant?’
‘Sure,’ Sergeant Madden replied. ‘The Colonel is giving us hell about our appearance. Can’t we do better than this?’
But at Brest:
‘What in hell does he think he is? Pershing?’ they asked Sergeant Madden.
‘Come on, come on, snap into it. If I hear another word from a man he goes before the Captain.’ Sergeant Madden had also changed.
In wartime one lives in today. Yesterday is gone and tomorrow may never come. Wait till we get into action, they told each other, we’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch. ‘Not Madden?’ asked one horrified. They only looked at him. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ remarked one at last.
But Fate, using the War Department as an instrument, circumvented them. When Sergeant Madden reported to his present captain and his old friend he found Green alone.
‘Sit down, dammit,’ Green told him, ‘nobody’s coming in. I know what you’re going to say. I am moving, anyhow: should get my papers tonight. Wait,’ as Madden would have interrupted. ‘If I want to hold my commission I have got to work. These goddam training camps turn out officers trained.
But I wasn’t. And so I am going to school for a while. Christ. At my age. I wish to God somebody else had gotten up this
