“Iven?” said Jones, as she backed away.
“I—I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said. “I’m all right.”
“I can get you a salve for the—”
She fled.
· · ·
Laura went straight upstairs, and thankfully, Jones did not follow. She prayed that Pim was asleep already, so that Laura could submit her emotions to her pillow in silence and get up calmer tomorrow.
But Pim was not in bed. She was at their little table, a lanternburning before her, paging through her notebook. She didn’t turn around when Laura came in.
Laura sat down on her cot to take off her boots. Pim closed her notebook and turned. “I hardly dared ask before—did you get news of Freddie?”
“Yes,” said Laura.
Pim’s silence was expectant.
What could she tell Pim? Not that she’d spoken to a fugitive whom Kate White believed, against all logic, had escaped to go look for Laura’s missing brother. She hardly knew what to think herself. “His CO said he died on the Ridge.”
Pim’s eyes filled with sympathy.
Laura fumbled her damp stocking as she unrolled it. “Pim, how are you?”
“Me? Oh, but Laura…” She caught Laura’s eye and said reluctantly, “I’m all right. Quite well. Wasn’t dinner nice?”
“Did you go out looking for Faland?”
Pim gave a shamefaced nod. “It was silly of me. I couldn’t find him.”
“Did you and Young go looking for his hotel today?”
“Oh—no. I—I listened to you and saw sense. No point in hurtling all over looking for it. And of course Faland doesn’t seem to want to be found. I’m done looking.”
Laura stood up to take off her dress, relieved. “That’s probably for the best. You’re very thin. Mary’s working you too hard.”
“Not harder than you.” Pim’s mouth was set in that concealing smile that nice girls were taught in childhood. “I’m glad I’ve been writing so many letters. I hope it comforts people. I’d have liked a letter myself. In Halifax. From someone who was with Jimmy. And a sketch. What do you think of this one? I did it this morning. For Mila.” She reached again for her notebook, turned a few pages, pulled out a loose drawing of a grave, backed by a sunset. The headstone Pim had drawn in looked much nicer than the white wooden cross that Mila had actually got, and the imaginative tumble offlowers looked lovely. It would certainly comfort his mother, if they ever discovered who she was.
“This is beautiful,” said Laura. “But you ought to rest.”
Pim said, “I’m all right, honestly.” She hesitated. “Laura, I know you’re tired. But will you do something for me?”
“If I can.”
Pim didn’t reply in words, but reached up and began unpinning her hair. It was still plaited from dinner. Section by section, she took it down. It looked especially lovely, poignant somehow, falling loose in the wood-floored attic. Pim ran her fingers through it, scalp to hips. “I washed it yesterday. It was cold, so it took ages to dry. And I keep imagining I feel the feet—little louse feet—” Pim’s hand trembled as she dug into her bag and pulled out her shears. It was quiet enough in the room to hear the endless nighttime rustling of the wards below.
“Pim,” Laura said. “Why now? It’s not just about lice, is it?”
Pim looked away and said, “The general—he was so charming at dinner. Socivilized.But I—I didn’t want to be beautiful for him. Or for anyone. Do you know, I felt more sympathy for the men in the street, running and shouting and breaking things? Sometimes, I should like to scream myself.”
Laura took the scissors.
Clean gold fell like light over her dress and Pim’s. Laura almost asked her for a lock of it, like a foolish knight, or a fond Victorian aunt plaiting hair into mourning bands. But she bit her tongue and finished the job in silence. Then she did the only thing she could think of. She set the shears aside and wound her arms round Pim’s shoulders. Pim didn’t cry, but she buried her face awkwardly in the crook of Laura’s elbow. They sat there together, weary, the warmth of their skin bleeding together, an instinct older than Armageddon, until Laura turned off the lamp.
FALAND’S HOTEL, PARTS UNKNOWN, FLANDERS, BELGIUM
Winter–Spring of 1917–1918
