Work Text:
As the landlady spoke, her jowls quivered like a pink blancmange settling on a plate. Laurie, mesmerised and feeling suddenly stupendously tired, only with effort refocused his attention on what she was saying.
“Oh, the Commander, my goodness, of course when he asked me for an extra pie as he had a friend visiting, and you an invalid too, well of course I couldn’t say no, and only the best meat in my pies, mind, and him knowing just what a dab hand I am at pastry, he needs someone to take care of him, too thin by half, and bumping into things, that black eye of his, well I never, I gave him some of my arnica cream, good for bruises that is, and there’s scones, just enough sugar left over as he was such a dear, handed me all his coupons, well he said…”
She had been inching forward as she spoke and now one foot, the knobbly toe in its thick woollen stocking protruding from the end of her slipper, had made it over the threshold, into Ralph’s sitting room. Laurie, bridling at this description of himself as an invalid, realised that decisive action on his part was needed or he would never be rid of her, and he stepped determinedly past, through the open doorway, murmuring inarticulate thanks. His arm brushed against her large, repressively reinforced bosom, releasing such a strong feminine scent of lily of the valley and sweat that he nearly recoiled. Struggling to disguise his discomfort, he turned rapidly to face her and began thanking her brightly for letting him in, for she had, after all, been very kind. He began to ease the door to and, at length, she was on one side of it and he on the other. His smile slipping from his face, he leant his forehead against the smooth glossy varnish, listening. For a moment or two he heard her voice running on and then the clack of her hard-soled slippers on the wooden floor of the landing and, finally, the stairs.
He stayed where he was, eyes closed, breathing in the room’s clean, welcoming smell of wax polish and books. There was an underlying fuggy aroma of gravy and potatoes, reminiscent of the communal dining hall at school. Ralph must have gone downstairs to fetch the pie from Mrs Hicks before going to the Station, leaving it cooling in the kitchen ready for Laurie’s arrival. The jarring note of gun oil from his last visit was completely absent. He might even have imagined it, but for the vivid picture of the oil-soaked rag in the wastepaper basket looping endlessly over and over in his mind.
Ralph had hung the cardigan he usually wore at home on a peg behind the door. Seeking to turn his thoughts in another direction, Laurie rested his cheek against the scratchy blue wool and inhaled Ralph’s reassuringly warm woody scent of tobacco and citrus. So this was it. He had been discharged from hospital and, with it, the army. A sensible person would be grateful, he supposed, that he was finally free to return to Oxford and settle back into his studies, having done what war service was required of him, and survived, more or less intact. But this event, a future eagerly anticipated and imagined, had become so entangled with Ralph and his own recent unfathomable behaviour that he no longer knew what he was expected to think or feel.
The morning after their quarrel, they had taken refuge in facetious humour, a brittle surface to the strain they were feeling. As Ralph was driving him back to the hospital, Laurie had shyly asked if he could stay for a few days after his discharge, until he had settled with the university about resuming his degree. And so, finally, here he was, feeling strangely untethered and remote, all certainties suspended. He became irritatingly aware that he stank: of other men’s cigarettes, of the standard-issue coal tar soap he had shaved with that morning, of the musty, old clothes smell – the hospital laundry’s particular signature scent – pervading his battledress tunic. What he really needed, he thought, before food, or sleep, or even Ralph, was a long, hot, blissfully uninterrupted soak in the bathtub.
Picking up his duffle bag, he turned into the poky kitchenette and stopped short. There, on the garish grey and red oilcloth draping the table was an old glass milk bottle holding a small posy of flowers. Where on earth had Ralph found them? Laurie stood and looked at the display for a long time, watching the delicate pink and white petals, clustered together in miniature starfish formation, bobbing gently up and down in the chill draught seeping through the nearby ventilation slat. Each flower looked impossibly fragile, caught on the end of its slender green stem. At the same time they were altogether feisty and joyful, as if brimming with the knowledge of how wonderful and unexpected they were.
Laurie thought, “How did he know I would like flowers?” He felt a space open in his chest, as if his heart had been pumped full of air. Then he saw a square of paper, carefully folded in half, one corner tucked under the impromptu vase, and with his name written across it in Ralph’s tight, focused hand.
“Spud!”, he read, “Make yourself comfortable. I should be back by 18:00. Your trunk and other things are in the bedroom.”
Laurie paused briefly, seeing the last line rewritten on the page, the impersonal article replaced by ‘our’. He gave himself a vigorous mental shake and read on.
“If you’re hungry, do eat, don't wait for me. There’s food, but I should suppose you don’t need me to tell you that.”
And indeed, the pie in its blue enamel dish was sitting on the unlit gas ring, covered by a tea towel. There was a chipped willow-patterned plate with scones, looking small and mean compared to such treats before the war, but welcome nonetheless, next to the flowers. And, in Laurie’s honour, Ralph had retrieved the old brown teapot from its usual hiding place at the back of the cupboard under the sink. It was sitting on the table next to a caddy promisingly labelled ‘Tea’.
The note was signed, simply, ‘R’. There was a short postscript:
“When I was released from that madhouse, the first thing I wanted was a bath. I’ve cleared it with Mrs Hicks, so use as much hot water as you want and my soap, etc – if you like, of course. God bless.”
Laurie snorted. How was it that Ralph always instinctively knew what one wanted and then went out of his way to arrange it? He supposed he would, even a few short days ago, have resented this deeply, but now he felt an overwhelming gratitude that Ralph still wanted to do things for him and that he, Laurie, could be here to receive this attention. He saw, still dimly but clearer than before, how much Ralph needed him and cursed himself for a blind fool. There seemed nothing else to do but go forward, in whatever way they could. The thin strap of the duffle bag had begun to dig into his shoulder. He hitched it up and went to run his bath.
*
The water was as hot as promised. Laurie sank slowly into it, welcoming the initial scald and then the soothing sensation, his skin reddening. He lay back, head against the rim, watching the smoke from his cigarette curl upwards to mingle with the steam condensing on the mirror. His body seemed to float up with it, free of all sensation except the gentle lap of the water. Even his leg, propped up awkwardly on the side of the bath, had ceased to hurt.
Wrapped in the steam was the lemony scent of Ralph’s soap. How does he find these things? thought Laurie again, even as his mind drifted to thoughts of the Aegean, sweet-smelling lemon groves, cosseting warmth and endless wine-dark sea. Ralph at the helm of a small boat, wearing nothing but shorts, his lean torso so suntanned that it was difficult to make out the deep blue ink of the small whale etched on the sharp plane of his shoulder blade. When he turned to smile at Laurie, sprawled idly on the deck, his eyes were the same brilliant aquamarine as the sea. The Laurie of his daydream said something in response that made Ralph laugh gaily, throwing back his head. His pleasure at the sound, at provoking such happiness, looped in his stomach.
Lying in the bath, the real Laurie had the sudden conviction that this moment – one, five, ten years in the future and in a place his living feet had never visited – already existed and was out there waiting patiently for them. It was a startling thought and yet reassuring in its sun-dappled inevitability. It was simply a case of making it through the present, with all its awful uncertainties, and they would arrive in that happy place, if not carefree at least together and even, Laurie’s inner voice whispered, still in love.
Wrapped in these visions, Laurie’s stomach lurched uncomfortably at the shuttered, preoccupied look on Ralph’s face when he rapped on the door and came in. At some point during the day, he had pulled his tie askew and black smuts spotted the lapels of his normally pristine jacket. His eyes seemed almost grey but seeing Laurie, they lightened. Laurie, relieved, said “Hello, I’m having a bath” and splashed up a little soapy water in Ralph’s direction.
“Spud, my dear, how long have you been in there? You look like one of those sculptures Greek fishermen are always hauling up, you know the ones, all covered in barnacles." He paused. "But still beautiful”.
He had come to perch on the edge of the bath and reaching out to take a strand of Laurie’s wet hair between his fingers, murmured absently “Just like beaten bronze”. Their eyes met. “Thanks for the flowers,” Laurie said, his voice suddenly unsteady. The bathwater, which a moment before had felt unpleasantly cool now seemed unbearably hot. The certainty of the dream still with him, he stretched out his arms, saying softly “Welcome home Ralph”.