Rose carries a basket of linen into the wards, smiling at the soldiers as she does so. She has gotten used to their winks, their whistles.
How can she deny them the little jokes they have left?
At the end of the ward, with his back turned to her, is a man, in a wheelchair. He faces the window, where sunlight streams softly in, illuminating him. She moves closer, until she is standing beside him, looking down onto a view where young boys kick a tin can around.
“How are you, Luke?” She asks softly. The man, who looks twenty years older than he is, stares back at her. His pallor is milky, his eyes in shadow. His right leg is a stumped thigh, his left just cuffed at the ankle. His left arm is in a sling. The only piece of him she recognises from his pre-war days is his blond, floppy hair, combed lovingly with a hand that can only belong to Mary.
“How do you think?” He laughs derisively, half-smiling.
“Don’t look at those boys.” Rose sighs, and starts changing his bed linen.
“How could I not? They are who I was going to be. Chelsea was to sign me, you know. They sent me a letter two weeks before I was drafted.” He sighs, squeezing his eyes together painfully.
Rose can say nothing to that, and they continue on in comfortable silence, Rose busy and Luke still staring wistfully out of the window. It is peace in wartime, and although Luke is heavily deformed and sitting right in front of him, having aged twenty years in four months, she finally feels at rest. The shock is over, and all that is there is raw pain.
“They sent me another letter.” He says suddenly, gruff. Before he can struggle, Rose deftly swipes a letter at his bedside table. He thanks her silently.
“What’s in it?”
“They want to train me to be a coach. Doctor said I’d be able to use crutches soon…but.” He says doubtfully, turning the letter over and over in his hand.
“You’d be a great coach. Jack and James always had you helping them.” Rose shrugs, deep in thought. Luke winces in memory of those careless pre-war days. Because that’s what he thinks of his life now. Pre-war, and post-hell.
“I don’t know…”
“Luke, you’d be happier out there with strong arms than sitting in shadow at home all day. Many of the men who leave here never get jobs, with injuries like that. They would do anything for a job like that. It’s your choice, but I would take it.” Rose bites her lip before she can say ‘like a shot’.
Luke’s lips stretch into a smile. Rose is making lectures again.
“I think I will.” He murmurs, and Rose smiles.
“Luke! I’ve got you something!” Mary calls down the ward, grinning at him.
“What is it?”
“Your favourite fish and chips.” She wafts the box underneath him. Rose observes their teasing exchange. The genuine love that passes between them. The way Mary stares at him, as if she is still astounded as to why it was her he chose. He does the same.
Love really does conquer all.
YOU ARE READING
«letters to the somme»
General Fictiona patchwork of letters and telegrams and shorts telling the story of a girl and a boy who are caught in the crossfire of the first world war. all through the heartache and the pain and the blood comes a gleam of hope, of peace. commemorating the ce...