Page 14 of The Last Kiss

Different lenses, West had called it, the way they’d seen mankind stripped bare, down to its bloody bones. Private or general, illiterate or scholar, honest British tommy or young Indianjawan— they’d all lived and died the same in the end, equally possessed of brutality and compassion, of love and hate. Of pity. Of blood. Just men clinging to their humanity and finding joy in each other, in scarlet bursts of friendship as bright and unexpected as the poppies that bloomed among the dead.

He had no way to explain any of this to his father. He was looking at Sir Arthur across time, across a chasm of experience, looking back into his own lost past. He might have thought as his father did, once. Thank God his eyes had been opened, their lids torn away so he had no choice but to see the truth.

Sir Arthur huffed awkwardly; Ash had been staring too long. “Well, don’t let it happen again, Ashleigh. I won’t have the staff unsettled. We get along here very well, just as we always have. No need for anything to change.”

Ash opened his mouth to sayEverythinghaschanged, don’t you see?But no words came out. He wetted his lips, looked down at the foot that wasn’t his own. “Harry West is my friend, sir. I won’t deny that.”

“Don’t confuse a natural sense ofnoblesse obligewith friendship, Ashleigh. Granted, the man rendered you a service — ”

“He carried me on his back from the firing line to the Forward Dressing Station, wading thigh deep in mud the whole way.” His voice thickened with emotion. “Three miles, at least, and under heavy bombardment.” He remembered none of it, yet the images his mind had painted haunted his dreams. He’d slogged through those same trenches himself to reach the front line, knew what West must have endured with the deadweight of a man on his back. The thought caught at his breath like wire.

“Yes, well, very brave I’m sure.” His father’s jaw ticked, uncomfortable with Ash’s unmanly display of emotion. “But rank must be observed. You’re the son of a baronet. West is — at your request — a servant in our stables.”

He looked up. “He’s my friend.”

“No, he is not.” Sir Arthur’s eyes narrowed to dark slits. “We have standards to uphold, Ashleigh, for the good of the household. For the good of the country. Heavens, would you bring socialism here?”

Ash balanced precariously between laughter and rage. “I hardly think sharing a d-drink with Harry West will ferment revolu — ”

Bang! His father slapped his palm on the table. Ash jumped half out of his chair. Blood roared through his ears, drowning out whatever his father might be saying, his words slurring into the low drone of distant guns. He fought a ridiculous urge to duck, fixed his gaze on the polished wood of the floor —floorboards, not duckboards. Look, you idiot!— and breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, willing his heart to stop galloping, willing himself to breathe past the tightening of his chest.You’re alright. You’re safe. You’re home.Slowly, slowly panic loosened its grip and the room came back to him, or he came back to the room. His father’s drone resolved itself into words, words that began to take on shape and meaning.

“…to the dignity of the family. Do I have your word, Ashleigh?”

He blinked several times at his father, aware of cold sweat running down his spine and a churning in the pit of his stomach. “Y-y-yes, sir.” He didn’t care what he was saying, didn’t care that the stammer was worse; he needed to get outside, into the air.

Sir Arthur released a breath of relief. “Very well. We’ll say no more about it.”

Heart hammering, it was difficult to sit still. He felt airless. “If y-you’ll excuse m-m-me, sir.” He pushed heavily to his feet, the growling ache in his leg howling into a roar of pain. “I should return to M-Mother and the-the-the — ”

“Good Lord, boy, spit it out!”

“ — the Allens.”

“Yes, very good.” His father gave him a closed look. “And don’t be too long about that business, Ashleigh. Valuable catch like Miss Allen won’t wait forever.”

Christ, he couldn’t deal with that too. He just nodded and turned toward the door, grimacing at the snarl of pain when the prosthetic settled into place. Sweat beaded on his top lip and his shirt clung damply to his back, making him shiver. The world tunnelled as he stepped into the corridor beyond, collapsing around him, and he barely made it back to his room, barely managed to fling wide the window and suck in a heaving gasp of air, almost choking on the cloying fragrance of early summer roses.Home, he told himself.You’re home. But his leg hurt like the devil and when he stared across the garden his mind’s eye painted a hellscape, bodies writhing in mud, white like maggots beneath blue rotting skin.You’re home and Harry West is here. He fixed on that thought, clung to it.Harry West is here and you’re home. Slowly, slowly his heartbeat settled. His muscles uncoiled, his chest relaxed and his vision cleared. In the garden, the dead receded and he saw forget-me-nots and foxgloves, lilac and lavender — the English garden reasserting itself once more.

When his hands had stopped shaking enough that he could manage the buttons, he changed his shirt, pasted on a bland smile, and went in search of Olive Allen.

***

Harry had always loved horses. As a nipper, he’d started work at the Angel Inn under the stern eye of the old ostler, George Hawkins, who’d remembered the days when the Angel had been a real coaching inn and still bemoaned the advent of the accursed railway.

The stables at the Angel had been full of noise, bustle and horseshit and it had been Harry’s favourite place in the world. Although its eight stalls were always in use, business had started tailing off even before the war wrought its changes. Now, Harry could imagine a time when inns would need to stable motor cars instead of horses. He’d seen the future, after all, and it was lousy with machines.

So it was with a sense of enormous nostalgia that he stepped into the stables at Highcliffe House. Sunshine flooded through a circular window at the apex of the gabled roof, setting a million motes of light dancing. The air smelled of hay and leather and Harry’s nose itched pleasantly. Four stalls stood empty, but a pretty mare poked her head out at the end of the row and next to her a larger animal snorted a feisty welcome. Harry cast an eye across the tack and noticed a layer of dust settled over everything. Didn’t look like anyone had been riding for quite some time. The floor was solid beneath his feet, but in need of a good sweep, and cobwebs hung in wispy swags from the rafters above the hayloft. Like everything else at Highcliffe, the stables felt gently neglected.

“You’re West then, are you?”

The rumbling voice came from behind him and Harry turned to see a wiry old man standing in the doorway, squinting at him from a weathered face, small eyes glittering beneath his battered cap.

“Yes sir,” Harry said, setting his bag down on the floor. “Are you Mr. Boyd?”

“Just Boyd.” He held out his hand. “I’m glad to see you, lad. I take you as a good sign.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow as they shook, the old man’s grip very light. “A sign of what?”

Boyd gestured around them, swollen arthritic knots gnarling his finger joints. “Sir Arthur’s keen on motoring.”

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