The Sons of Adam. Harry Bingham

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       43

      Alan grew stronger: strong enough for his second and final operation.

      In February 1917, he was sent to a specialist hospital in Southampton. He was readied for surgery and given an anaesthetic. A nurse said, ‘Count to ten for me, please. One, two, three …’

      He woke up dazzled by light.

      There was a screen around his bed, a couple of doctors, a stout ward sister, and a pretty nurse in the background. The doctors were arguing over treatment and criticising the way the sutures had been applied. When they noticed that Alan was awake, they began asking him questions to test out the extent of his recovery.

      What year was it?

      ‘Nineteen thirteen.’

      What month?

      ‘No idea.’ Alan laughed at the idiocy of the question, hoping that the doctors would be able to see the funny side. They couldn’t.

      What was his name?

      ‘Alan.’

      Alan who?

      ‘Creeley. Alan Creeley.’

      The doctors tutted to themselves, then vanished. The ward sister looked at Alan’s bedclothes with disapproval and tucked them in so tightly that she might have been packaging her patient for shipment overseas. Then she left too.

      The pretty nurse, auburn-haired, freckled, and with lovely dancing blue eyes, drew closer to the bed. She loosened the bedclothes.

      ‘It’s not so tidy,’ she said, ‘but at least you can breathe.’

      He smiled at her. ‘I don’t think the doctors liked me much.’

      ‘They don’t like anyone, not unless your injury is particularly interesting.’

      ‘I didn’t come up to snuff, then? I feel rather as though I’ve been run over by an omnibus.’

      ‘Well, the operation proved rather lengthy, I’m afraid. More than expected, but nothing that won’t heal. I’ve seen worse cases do well.’

      Alan realised that it must have been her who had changed his dressings and bathed him. He reddened with an old-fashioned embarrassment.

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been here two years now and I’ve seen everything.’

      ‘Still …’

      ‘Still, nothing.’ She slipped a thermometer into his mouth, forcing him to cut his protest short. ‘Mutton stew or Scotch broth for lunch?’ she said. ‘Nod if you want mutton, shake if you want the soup. The mutton’s an absolute fright, by the way.’

      He shook his head.

      ‘Good choice. I’ve telephoned your mother and father. They’ll be here this evening. I’ve told them you’ll be a bit muzzy, but you’d love to see them. I’ll find you some vases and sneak them away for you. Pamela’s bound to bring flowers, even if she has to strip the hothouse bare.’

      ‘Thank –’

      ‘Ah! Thermometer! Don’t talk!’

      ‘Oree. Unk-oo.’

      She took his pulse. Her fingers felt delicious on his wrist, making the rest of his battered body feel like a truck was rolling over it. The white of her uniform seemed dazzling. He watched it rise and fall as she breathed. It was the most beautiful thing … he drifted off.

      When his parents did arrive that evening, they were laden with armfuls of flowers, jars of honey, bottles of barley water, and from his father, when his mother was busy with the flowers) a flask of whisky and a handful of cigars.

      ‘Who was that nurse?’ he asked. ‘She spoke about you as though she knew you both.’

      ‘The nurse? Lottie, you mean? Reddish hair, blue eyes? But Alan, darling, I’ve told you ten times already. That’s Lottie Dunlop, one of the girls who’s been staying with us this year. A lovely girl. I’ve been longing for you to meet …’