The Silent Land

13

Jake’s acquaintance with death had been very different from Zoe’s. When he first arrived at the hospital he found that his father had been given a private room at the end of the ward. His father, Peter, looked pretty weak, but he managed to lift his head from the pillow and blink at Jake.

‘Thank God you made it, Jake. These fucking clowns have no idea. I want an armed man posted on every door. You got that?’

‘It’s taken care of, Dad. It’s all in hand.’

Peter let his head sink back on the pillow. ‘Thank fuck you got here, that’s all.’

Jake had never heard his father swear before in his life. He’d heard him angry, critical, dismayed and occasionally made buoyant by a glass or two of cognac but he’d never heard him swear, cuss, or even blaspheme throughout his childhood or his mature life. Peter disapproved of swearing.

Which was difficult for Jake, because his days at university had given him a taste for a cocktail of the sacred and the profane. Hardcore swearing and blaspheming. He liked to say Jesus Fucking H. Christ without ever knowing what the ‘H’ stood for. He liked to say Holy Cunting Moses. One time a cupboard door at his father’s home was hanging loose and while Jake was fixing it the screwdriver slipped and gashed his hand and he’d screamed Cunt the Fucking Pharisee, which as an ex-Sunday School boy and one-time chorister he himself had found both strong and surprising.

His father, who had stood back watching, merely blinked and then walked out of the kitchen.

After a moment Jake had followed him, finding him in the living room, tight-lipped and running the Hoover over the carpet. Jake switched off the Hoover at the plug and showed Peter the wound on his hand.

‘What do you expect me to say? Oh Jehovah?’

‘Not even that.’

‘It’s just words!’

‘Having the cupboard door hanging off its hinges is rather less ugly than hearing that sort of language.’

‘Dad, you were in the war! You were in Special Ops! You saw men spill their guts! Surely you know what is important and what isn’t!’

Peter rarely leaked body language, any more than he did ‘bad’ language. He was a master of control. The only time he might inadvertently express surprise, irritation or pleasure would be a reflex in which he would reach up and pinch the right lens-frame of his glasses between thumb and index finger, as if to somehow increase the magnification of the lens. He did so now. ‘Does it ever occur to you that that might be the very reason why I don’t approve of coarse language in the house?’

Jake had thrown up his hands. In the house, out of the house. When going to visit Peter you always felt you should have taken off your shoes at the door: sooner or later you would be made to feel you had trailed something nasty in with you.

If Jake hung around long enough his father might take a bottle of cognac out of the sideboard and pour two rather meagre splashes into heavy, large brandy balloons. Jake always wanted to ask: why have such a big glass for such a small measure? Having a glass of cognac with his father was like being invited to have a drink with the Housemaster on the day it came to leave school. He would ask what your plans were and pretend to be interested and listen with an approximation of a smile until you were done.

Peter and Jake’s mother had divorced when he was twelve and his mother had gone to live in Scotland. The age gap between them—alluring and attractive to her when she’d met and married him—was a trial in later years. Ultimately she had been relieved to leave behind an aging husband. Jake had been sent to boarding school, something Zoe never let him forget, and which he couldn’t anyway.

That time after the screwdriver incident they sipped their ritual brandy and just as Jake was about to put down his glass and say his farewells, Peter had opened up about bad language.

‘I know it’s different for your generation, but I am offended by it. I don’t like it when you blaspheme, since that offends my faith; and I don’t like it when you cuss because that represents a decline in values.’

‘Yes, but what values, Dad?’

‘You don’t understand. Speaking, talking—language, that is—represents the most orderly, civilised and rational expression of human nature. All this foul-mouthed cussing is a gap where you can’t think of anything to say. It’s the opposite of being rational and ordered. The very opposite. It wants to unpick civilised behaviour, rationality and order.’

‘Yep. I just don’t happen to believe in rationality and order very much.’

‘Oh! You think we should give up? Let everything slide into the sewer?’

‘Not at all. What I mean is we are rational some of the time, but not all the time. We’ve no idea what’s under the rationality. Foul language as you call it is an expression of that.’

‘Ah! So we agree on one thing! It’s a call to the unconscious, to death and to ordure.’

‘Isn’t that what’s underneath everything?’

Peter sneered behind the lip of his brandy glass. ‘You don’t know the first thing about death, sonny. Not the first thing.’ Then he admonished himself. ‘I’m sorry, that was unmanly of me.’

‘Unmanly? Dad! Loosen up a bit, will you? Look, swearing: it’s just letting off a bit of steam. A safety valve.’

‘We won’t agree on that.’

Jake stood up. The time had come to leave. They always shook hands, firmly and with eye contact: his father had taught him that one should always make eye contact when shaking hands. Jake had watched Zoe and Archie hug affectionately on meeting and departing. He had wondered if resistance to the embrace was a male thing, but after a couple of years Archie was happy to offer him a hug, too. Meanwhile he and Peter had got through the years with firm handshakes and they weren’t about to start hugging now.

And yet now that he saw his father lying on the hospital bed he wanted to hug him. This father who suddenly,inexplicably and contrary to a lifetime of restraint had started swearing.

Peter lifted his head from the pillow. ‘You know they got Charlie, don’t you? Poor fucker.’

‘Charlie?’

‘We lost him. I’m sad about that. Good fellow in a scrap. Did you see that escarpment where we came in?’

‘Escarpment?’

‘Christ, I’ve been through this enough times. There’s an overhang above the cave high in the rock. If we’ve got a man spare we want one stationed there all the time. Right fucking there.’

‘Dad—’

‘I’m not fucking well discussing it. This isn’t the village fucking hall. Just see to it. I’m going to have to tell Charlie’s fucking wife when we get back. If we get back. All because of a bit of cunt, I ask you.’

Jake had brought grapes and lemon barley water. He placed them on the cabinet.

‘Grapes?’ Peter said. ‘Where in hell did you get those this time of year?’

‘The supermarket, Dad.’

Peter reached up to squeeze his lens-frame, but his glasses were folded and lying on the same cabinet. He was about to say something when the ward sister walked in and picked up his chart from the clip at the foot of the bed.

‘I want this place cleared of all these fucking whores.’

‘Now now, Mr Bennett,’ said the ward sister firmly. ‘We’ll have a bit less of that.’

‘Get the bitch out of here, Jake. Do you know, if the army made soldiers’ boots from cunt leather they would never wear out.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,’ Jake said. ‘Can I have a word?’

Jake stepped outside the private room with the ward sister and closed the door on Peter. ‘Look, I’ve never heard him say such things.’

The sister was a burly woman with large bovine eyes and a bleach-blond curl spilling over her brow. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’ve heard worse than that.’

‘Really? I haven’t!’

‘Well. You know.’

‘It’s like he’s time-tripping. He’s back in the war. It’s like he’s still fighting it. Is it the medication?’

‘Not really. The bone cancer has caused the bone to crumble and get into his bloodstream. The calcium runs to the brain. He’s not always like that. Most of the time he’s very sweet.’

‘That’s a relief. Look, I’ve got a bottle of brandy in my bag and a paper cup. I know you’re not supposed to, but… is it all right if he has some?’

‘I haven’t seen anything.’

‘Thanks.’

Nurses and soldiers, thought Jake. They see it all, and pretend they’ve seen nothing.

Peter had been a soldier on Special Operations in the war. An officer in the elite SAS force, he had commanded Operation Pepino behind enemy lines in the mountains of northern Italy during the winter of 1944–45. Thirty-two men were parachuted in in broad daylight. Their instructions were to make themselves highly visible and simulate the actions of a much larger company to divert enemy troops who were preventing an Allied advance. The operation was successful and the Germans unwittingly diverted thousands of troops.

It was a fierce winter and there was close-combat fighting with both Italian blackshirts and German troops. Peter brought back eighteen of the thirty-two men, or, as he always put it another way—lost fourteen good men. Somehow, he was back there now, in the snow-covered Italian mountains.

Jake returned to the room. His father seemed to be sleeping now. Jake took the brandy out of his bag along with two paper cups and placed them on the cabinet. Then he sat down in the plastic chair next to the bed, his hands on his knees, watching his father sleep.

After five minutes, Peter opened his eyes and said, ‘You should contact your Uncle Harold. I loaned him a couple of thousand, years ago. You should have it. I’ve no need for it, but you should have it.’

‘Harold’s been dead a long time, Dad. A long time.’

Peter lifted his head from the pillow. ‘Really?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘Good lord. No one tells me anything. I doubt if we shall get that back.’

‘Let it go, Dad.’

Peter wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ll have a grape.’

‘I’ve washed them,’ Jake said. ‘You’ve no need to worry about that.’ He handed his father the grapes.

Peter lay back, feeding the grapes to himself, chewing them very slowly while gazing up at the ceiling. Perhaps twenty minutes went by. Then at last Peter said, ‘Where’s Charlie? I’m worried to death about Charlie.’

‘Charlie’s gone, Dad.’

‘Gone? He was here a moment ago.’

‘Dad, listen. You’re in hospital.’

‘What?’

‘Warwick Hospital. You’re getting treatment for your cancer and you’re going to be well.’

‘What?’

‘Zoe is coming to see you with me tomorrow.’

‘Zoe? Zoe’s your wife.’

‘That’s right.’

Peter dragged himself upright. It was a struggle and his face contorted as he pulled himself up. Then he looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘I’ve got cancer.’

‘Yes, Dad. But you’re doing well.’

‘Liar.’

‘You’re doing good. I was just speaking with the ward sister. Look, I brought you a drop of cognac. The good stuff.’

‘Cognac. You are a star, son. A star.’

Jake stood up and poured two—this time generous—measures of cognac into the paper cups. He handed one of the cups to his father, who took a healthy gulp. Then the door swung open.

A middle-aged lady with close-cropped hair bounced into the room wielding a clipboard in one hand and rapidly clicking a ballpoint in the other. She wore a tight-fitting dark suit slashed by a wide crimson belt. There was an almost pantomime energy in the mobility of her face. ‘Hell-o, hell-o! How are we today?’

‘We’re fine,’ said Jake. ‘Thanks.’

‘That’s really great and fabulous,’ she said, ‘because I’m taking requests for WHR.’

‘Requests?’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Peter bellowed at her. ‘Who the fuck let you in here?’

The mobility drained from the lady’s face. She over-focused on Jake. ‘WHR. Warwick Hospital Radio. I’m making a request list and we’ll play the requests this evening.’

‘You insufferably silly cunt!’

Jake said, ‘My dad kind of likes Sinatra. Stuff like that.’

Peter shouted, ‘Do you know the song “Me and You in a Lead Canoe”? No? Me fucking neither. You should be buried in a Y-shaped coffin. Cunt!’

‘His name is Peter Bennett and he’d like “Love Is the Tender Trap”.’

The lady wrote it down carefully. ‘Love. Is. The. Tender Trap. I like that one. Well, that’s really great and fabulous! I’ll leave you boys to it!’

Peter had his glasses on now and he was squeezing the lens-frame and wrinkling his nose in disdain at the lady in the red belt.

‘Thanks,’ said Jake. ‘He’ll enjoy that.’

Peter said quietly after she’d gone, ‘Never mind that twatting whore, come over here. I want to tell you something. Come closer.’

Jake leaned in towards the bed. Peter beckoned him still closer. He wanted to whisper something. He pressed his thumb and his forefinger together. ‘We’re out of supplies. There isn’t going to be another drop. No. Our only chance is to get across the mountain.’

‘You know—’

‘Shut it and listen. We’ll dump the Bren guns and the ammo with the partisans. The Krauts will think we’re still here. Charlie’s got gangrene and he can’t even move. I love the bloke—none finer—but you know what I’m going to have to do.’

‘No, Dad.’

‘No other way, son, no other way.’

Jake watched his father grind his teeth. Peter lay back twisting his fingers together. He was clearly in a state of anguish.

Jake cleared his throat. ‘Dad. I’ll take care of that for you.’

‘What?’

‘Charlie. I’ll deal with it.’

‘No. Not having that. Absolutely fucking not. I’m the CO around here and I’m the one who has to do it.’

‘I’m going to take care of it for you.’

‘No you won’t and that’s an order. My responsibility. Not yours.’ Peter eyeballed him and perhaps for the first time ever, Jake realised what a ferocious and determined figure was his father.

‘You can’t move,’ Jake said at last. ‘You’re laid up here. I’m going to do it with or without your permission.’

‘Don’t even think about it, sonny. Don’t even think about it.’

‘I’m going out of that door right now and I’m going to do it.’

Peter raged. Ignoring his father’s protests and all the obscenities that went with them Jake got up, went out of the room and closed the door. From behind the door he heard his father roaring, Come back here, you little shit, and the rest. Jake vented a deep sigh and ran both hands through his hair. A pretty nurse at the desk looked up at him. He folded his arms and stood with his back to the closed door for about three minutes.

Then he went back inside. His father had calmed down. He looked at Jake expectantly.

‘It’s done,’ said Jake.

‘I didn’t hear a shot.’

‘I muffled it. Charlie’s dead. It’s all taken care of.’

Peter removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Bloody good man. One of the best of us.’ Then he looked around the room again; and at the bottle of brandy that stood on the cabinet; and at the grapes; and finally at Jake. ‘Jake, what the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m visiting you, Dad.’

‘But you shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be— God, I’m so confused. So confused.’

There was a tremble in his voice; a tremble Jake had never heard before. It was the first sign of emotional frailty he’d ever witnessed in his father and it lacerated his heart. He got up and made to hug him, but Peter seemed almost repelled by the advance. Instead he half-hugged him, and broke the hug by pretending he was straightening the pillow and rearranging the sheets.

‘Where’s Zoe?’ Peter said.

‘Oh! She’s coming tomorrow.’

‘I want to see my Zoe. Lovely girl. I want to see her.’

‘Sure thing, Dad. She’ll be along tomorrow.’

‘He asked for you today.’ Jake told Zoe that evening.

‘By name? He can’t be that bad if he asked for me by name.’

Jake had told her all about Peter’s delusions that he was back in the Italian mountains. ‘He’s time-tripping. He’s in and out.’

‘Why do you think he’s back there in particular?’ Jake shook his head. ‘Probably the most stressful time of his life. Plus there’s guilt. He had to kill one of his own men.’

‘He told you that?’

‘It came out. I’m not sure you should go tomorrow. He was okay with me but every time a female walked into the room he went fucking crazy. I mean, the air was blue.’

‘I can handle that.’

‘No, like angry-blue. Out-of-control blue.’

‘I have to come with you. Anyway, he asked for me, didn’t he? I have to.’

They went back together the following evening. The nurse at the desk told them that Peter had had an uncomfortable day. When they went in, Jake thought he sensed a miasma, a cloudiness in the room he hadn’t detected the previous evening. Peter at first appeared to be asleep but then he opened his eyes.

‘It’s looking bleak,’ Peter said.

Jake didn’t know whether he was referring to the cancer or to his chances in the mountains. ‘You’re a fighter, Dad,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been a fighter.’

Peter seemed to consider that.

Zoe approached him. ‘Hello, Dad.’ She always called him ‘Dad’, just like Archie, and Peter had always liked it.

‘Zoe,’ he said, accepting a kiss. ‘I so wanted to see you.’

‘Well, I’m here. How are you feeling?’

‘Lot of pain. Comes through the morphine, it does. And sometimes I don’t know where I am. And I want to cry. But we’re not having that, are we?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Zoe. She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair. ‘Well. We’re here for you now.’

‘Never mind that. I had something important to say to you but it’s gone clean out of my head. What use is that?’

They waited in silence as he tried to remember.

Then Jake sat down in the plastic chair and said, ‘Did you tune in to hospital radio last night?’

‘What?’

‘They had a request for you. Frank Sinatra. Played it for you specially.’

Peter looked at Zoe and laughed, though the laugh pained him. ‘He’s barking mad, isn’t he? What on earth is he talking about? I don’t know how you ever came to marry him.’

‘It’s a mystery, Dad,’ she said.

‘Oh, that was it: I remembered what I wanted to say. Hang on to him, for his sake. Death us do part and all that. Hang on to him. You’ve been the making of that boy. You really have.’

‘Oh?’

‘That was it. And to ask you for one thing. One little hug. From you. One little hug.’

‘I can do that, Peter.’

Zoe inched up the bed as far as she was able and put her arms around him and laid her face against the rough stubble of his cheek. Jake watched from the plastic chair. The hug lasted for ten or twelve seconds, during which Peter flicked a finger at Zoe’s hair.

‘That’s enough,’ he said.

‘Do I get a hug?’ Jake asked.

‘Unmanly.’

‘Okay.’

Peter didn’t have a lot of chat left in him. Zoe and Jake both exhausted themselves trying to initiate conversations, dredging up bits of news in which he might be interested. But the time-slip seemed to have released him from its claws, and for that Jake felt grateful. He didn’t want to have to go outside to put a bullet through Charlie a second time.

Peter fell asleep after a while, and they left. The hospital would inform them if there was any change in his condition. Zoe drove on the way home.

‘Did you smell it?’ Jake asked her as she drove.

‘Smell what?’

‘Maybe nothing.’

They got home and before Jake put the key in the door he heard the phone ringing. It was the hospital calling to say that Peter had slipped away in the last hour.