Page 11 of The Last Kiss

Harry had an urgent, unexpected impulse to reach out and take his hand. He’d done it so often in the firing line, when a whizz-bang fell too close and the captain started out of his skin. Just a reassuring touch, a comfort.Steady on, I’m here. We’re alright.He looked like that now, Harry thought, possessed by that same nervy tension, as if he was expecting Fritz to pop out from around the corner of the stables. Only he was home now, where he should feel safe.

Dalton caught his eye and Harry looked away, conscious of being caught staring. “Did you…?” Dalton sounded hesitant. “D-did you receive my last letters? I sent them to Dieppe but I suppose once you’d d-demobbed they went astray.”

Swiping off his cap, Harry ran a guilty hand through his hair. He was sweating in the sun. “Sorry. I should have given you my address in London.”

“Yes, you b-bloody well should.”

He smiled at Dalton’s tone, looked over to find him smiling back. “I didn’t know what to say, if I’m honest. It’s different now we’re on Civvy Street.”

Dalton frowned. “‘It’ being what?”

“I dunno. Everything, I suppose.” He jerked his head at the house. “Your dad’s lord of the manor, and mine — ” The pain struck out of the blue and he clamped his mouth shut, keeping it in. Mine was a grain lift operator for the PLA, he’d been going to say. Minewas…. He swallowed.

“West?” Dalton stopped, leaning on his cane as he turned. “What is it?”

Harry shook his head, a clot of emotion clogging his throat. Christ, what was this? It had been months since he’d had the news and he wasn’t the sort to mope. But the way Dalton was watching him touched a raw patch, something unhealed. Harry wanted to turn away from it, hide it from Dalton, but a deeper part of him stretched out blindly seeking comfort. “I, uh. I lost him. And mum. The influenza did for them last summer, while I was still in bloody Flanders. They were buried before I even knew they were gone.”

“Oh West.” Dalton put a hand on his shoulder, stepped closer and drew him into a one-armed embrace. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His arm was strong around Harry’s back, the wool of his suit warm when Harry dropped his forehead onto his shoulder. Dalton smelled faintly woodsy, like rosemary or cedar, clean and comforting. They stood like that for several moments while Harry dragged in long steadying breaths and got himself back under control. “You’ve got your own troubles,” he said eventually. “You don’t need mine an’ all.”

Dalton huffed his disagreement and drew back. “A trouble shared, and all that, West.” He squinted toward a gate in the garden wall. “There’s a bench through there. Shall we sit and eat? You must be hungry.”

He was. He hadn’t had breakfast and it was well past noon. But mostly he was grateful for the change of subject and took the chance to wipe his eyes while Dalton walked over to open the gate. Beyond it, everything looked wilder. A stream ran into a large pond, overgrown on all sides by rushes and lily pads, the edge of the forest encroaching on its far shore where a large willow dipped its branches into the water. Dalton led the way to a wooden bench at the water’s edge, set to one side at the end of the path, and manoeuvred himself down with obvious relief. His leg must be painful. Of course it bloody well was, and might be for the rest of his life. A permanent memento of his service to a hard country.

“How much did you lose?” Harry said, looking down at the stiffly articulated ankle and trying not to think about the warm slip of his hands in the captain’s blood, the way it had pulsed between his fingers as he’d tried to tighten the tourniquet.

Dalton glanced up. “They saved the knee, thank God, but not far below it I’m afraid.” He tapped his shin with his cane and it gave a wooden thud. “This thing’s not bad, though. Better than the first one I had. Damned torture that was.” His expression changed, softening. “West, I’ve never been able to thank you — ”

“Bollocks you haven’t. I’ve got at least three letters’ worth of nothing but your thanks.”

Dalton gave his shy smile. “Well, not in person.”

“You’d have done the same for me.”

“Yes.”

“Enough said, then.” Harry rubbed his hands together, disposing of the subject. “Now, how about some grub?”

Perching on the bench, he watched as Dalton ferreted in the knapsack the cook had given him and fished out two paper-wrapped sandwiches. He sniffed one and smiled. “Ham and pickle sound alright?”

“And how!” It was better than alright, in fact, with lashings of butter on soft white bread, a tangy tomato pickle and tender smoked ham. Harry ate with more relish than he’d felt in a long time. Must be the country air. They ate in silence, enjoying the food and each other’s company, watching a couple of birds diving down into the water for their own lunch. Black feathers, with red beaks and foreheads. Harry didn’t recognise them, but then again he was mostly familiar with starlings and pigeons. He was about to ask, but Dalton got there first.

“Moorhens,” he said, breaking off a piece of bread and throwing it into the water, smiling as the birds sped toward the treat. “Hungry girls. Look at them go!”

“They know a good thing when they see it.” Harry glanced at the knapsack. “Did your cook put anything to drink in there?”

“Yes, I think there’s tea.” Dalton hauled out a black thermos and two Bakelite cups, which he handed to Harry, and poured them each a cup. “No sugar, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, I’m used to that.”

Harry handed Dalton his tea and smiled when Dalton knocked their cups together. “To absent friends.” Between them, nothing more needed saying.

Harry took a moment to breathe in the fragrant steam, beginning to relax. Nothing like a good cuppa to set a bloke right. Next to him, Dalton sighed softly and stretched out his bad leg, flexing the knee. Then he closed his eyes, tipped his face to the sun, and Harry thought how strange it was to be sitting there on the bank of this tranquil pond with the captain at his side in this time of peace. How strange that the sky above was blue, the air clear, the sun warm. How strange that these ordinary things seemed extraordinary, that his world was still calibrated to a crueller cadence.

“Penny for them?” Dalton said, without opening his eyes.

Harry was glad of that because it gave him time to study the man’s face. Dalton had taken off his hat and the sun gleamed on his dark hair, a thick lock of which fell, as always, over his left eye. Harry would have liked to push it out of his face so he could see him better. It was a beautiful face, no denying that, with dark lashes and a straight nose, elegant lips. Lips he’d kissed once, though he was sure the captain wouldn’t remember. Sensitive features, they’d be called, but Harry knew all too well the steel that ran down the captain’s spine. He wasn’t soft, for all his tender feelings. But there were lines around his mouth that looked new, a frown between his brows and shadows under his eyes. Harry wanted to ease them, if he could.

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