‘I said it’s fine.’ He goes to the window and rattles the shutters as if testing the bolts. ‘Would you like the fire lit?’
‘No. It’s warm enough.’
A brittle silence follows. Then: ‘Were you all right on the train earlier?’ he asks, the words tumbling from his lips in what feels like an impulsive rush. He turns and I find myself suddenly fascinated by the dull brown bottle in my hand. ‘It’s just, I was worried. The others told me about you winning the MC. They don’t hand those things out like prizes on a coconut shy, so I know you don’t get the wind up easily, Stephen. But on the train when you were trying to get out of that compartment and you froze...’
‘What about it?’ I ask tetchily.
‘Nothing, I suppose. Except, if you ever wanted to talk about what happened...’
I feel my free hand wandering to the side of my face. To that disfigured portion of flesh blasted by enemy shrapnel. It takes some effort to force it into my tunic pocket instead. There I touch the crinkled print ofThe Fighting Temeraire, given to me by this sensitive, captivating boy. Beside it I find my woodbines.
‘Care for one?’ I ask, taking out the tin.
‘Never smoked in my life,’ he says.
‘Really? Why not?’
Without asking permission, he comes and sits beside me on the bed. ‘My mum. Most doctors’ll tell you that smoking is good for your lungs. They say it clears your airways. She never believed a word of that. “Those nasty wee sticks don’t only ruin a singer’s voice, they can kill her stone dead. Mark my words, we’ll find out one day what a curse they are.” That’s what she said.’
I put down the unlit cigarette. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, but your mother clearly knew her stuff when it came to singing. And it seems that she passed on her talent to you.’
He blushes. ‘She taught me how to hold a tune, I suppose.’
‘I’m not sure modesty suits you, Danny,’ I grin.
His blush deepens. ‘It’s nothing compared to your drawing, but I—’
‘But nothing. Danny, your voice is beautiful.’
For once, he appears at a loss for words. ‘I... Well... Thank you. I’m glad you like it. In fact, I was going to ask if you wanted to hear some more? The boys and I have found this pub in the village. It’s run by the old woman I met in the square and it has a piano that still works. Percy says he can play a little and we thought we might bring Ollie along too. We thought a distraction couldn’t hurt.’
‘He shouldn’t be on his feet,’ I say. ‘And you all ought to be getting some rest. It’ll be a hard day’s march tomorrow.’
‘We’re going to carry him between us,’ Danny says. ‘Although I reckon that big bugger Taffy could carry the kid all by himself. And we’ve agreed to be back in our tents by ten. So what do you think? We’d all love you to come.’ He pauses. His strong hand lies flat on the mattress, an inch from mine. I can’t seem to look anywhere else. ‘I’dlove you to—’
‘Sounds like a fun evening, but I’m afraid Lieutenant Wraxall will be much too busy.’
We both turn like guilty children discovered after lights out. There, standing in the doorway, smiling his oily smile, stands Captain Beddowes.
12
Swagger stick clamped under his arm, Beddowes drops a heavy bundle of papers onto the table, knocking over my beer in the process. The bottle spins across the surface, foam bubbling from its neck, before falling to the floor and shattering. My gaze snaps from the broken fragments of glass to the captain’s smug face.
‘That was bought out of Private McCormick’s own pocket,’ I seethe, and immediately regret the words.
‘What a thoughtful gift.’ Beddowes arches an eyebrow. ‘Andtwobottles as well. How very... cosy.’
‘I always buy two bottles, Captain,’ Danny says as he carefully picks up the shards and drops them in the empty fireplace. ‘I’m a bit of a clumsy git, you see, and so I like to have a spare bottle in case of any stupid breakages. You know how it is.’
Beddowes’ lips tighten into a bloodless line. ‘The colonel might find this boy humorous, Wraxall, but I’m afraid his wit is lost on me.’
‘Very likely,’ I mutter.
‘However, I shouldn’t like the poor fellow to be out of pocket,’ the captain continues, dragging his wallet out of his greatcoat. ‘What did that beer cost you, my lad? Come along, a centime or two is nothing to me.’
‘Put your pocketbook away, sir,’ Danny says evenly. ‘There’s nothing in there that I want.’
Beddowes laughs, a high, mocking sort of titter. ‘Come now, no need to be proud. You’ve got the look of the workhouse about you, right enough. Name the price.’
