Page 19 of The Last Kiss

“Yes, of c-c-course.” He turned his head, made himself look as Edwards carried on, explaining what he was doing as he went. It was a hard sensation, looking at this thing on the end of his leg that didn’t feel like part of him. He hated it, hated having to deal with it every day, hated the pain. And felt guilty for all of that because he could have had half his face shot off, he could have lost all his limbs. He could be dead. What right did he have to feel sorry for himself?

“How does that feel?” Edwards said once the prosthetic was back in place. “A little better?”

Ash rolled down his trouser leg and put weight on it. The pain was less sharp, he thought. “Yes, b-better.”

“Good. I do think we can get something lighter for you, though, if you’re interested? We’d need to take measurements, but it shouldn’t be too long. I think you’d find it a lot more comfortable.” He moved to sit behind his desk, that same bland smile on his face, and said, “Do you think about it much?”

Ash blinked. “It?”

“Losing your leg.”

“Well, it’s rather hard to f-forget it’s n-not there.”

“I meanwhenyou lost it — the way you lost it.”

“I d-d-don’t remember that.” Edwards didn’t reply, just let the silence expand. Ash knew his lie was obvious. “Wh-why does it matter?”

“Have you always stammered?”

“I d-don’t. Always.” He clamped his jaw shut, hating the ways he was betraying himself. “Only when I’m d-d-distressed.”

Edwards spread his hands on his desk. “The interesting thing about the human mind is the way it gets around things — if you try, say, to shut something in it’ll always find another way out. Do you have nightmares? Intrusive thoughts?”

Ash turned his gaze back to the window. “I thought I w-was here about my leg.”

“You are. But sometimes wounds go deeper than the flesh, Mr Dalton.”

He felt his lips part in something like a smile. “Shot nerves, you m-mean?”

“It’s got nothing to do with nerve. It’s an injury, like any other.” Ash considered him carefully, looking for a trap in his words, but Edwards only smiled. “A great deal of work’s been done on the subject of war neurosis, you know. Generally speaking, it seems that men who are able to talk about their war experience are less likely to be plagued by difficult memories.”

“T-talk to who? N-n-nobody wants t-to hear about it.”

“No, they don’t do they? I don’t think it much matters who you talk to as long as the person’s willing to listen. A friend. A doctor, if that’s easier. It usually is. I could refer you to someone, if you like.”

Which might have been alright if he hadn’t had secrets to hide – a memory that haunted him as much as the horror. The press of West’s lips against his own felt like a fever dream, an unnatural desire any doctor would feel obliged to treat. Or report. “I’ll c-c-consider it. Thank you.”

Edwards had one of the orderlies drive Ash home since Olive was busy working. He glimpsed her in her VAD uniform before he left, bright and in her element as she consulted with Edwards, and thought it was a tragedy that her parents would rather have her overseeing dinner parties. What right did the old have now, he thought bitterly, to determine how the young should live? What respect was due to those who’d sacrificed a generation to their complacent folly?

He was still angry when he got home and couldn’t bear to go into the house for lunch. Even the thought of it was suffocating. After dithering in the driveway, watching the hospital car drive away, he walked slowly to the stables. The new dressing was helping and the pain felt duller, which only gave him more space to consider what to say to West.

He’d reached no conclusion when he stepped through the stable doors and found West hard at work cleaning the tack. He looked rather glorious in his shirtsleeves, blond head bent over the saddle he was working with saddle soap, the muscles of his forearm bunching with the movement. The air smelled like lanolin and beeswax, horse and home. Ash took a deep breath to clear the hospital stink from his lungs.

West glanced up. “Oh,” he said, hand poised over the saddle. “Morning.”

“Hello,” Ash said stupidly. “Um, settling in alright?”

A dry smile caught at the corner of West’s mouth. “Aye. Boyd seems like a good bloke and the room’s comfortable enough. Smells a bit of horse, but I don’t mind.”

“If there’s anything you need b-by way of furniture or-or-or anything…” He trailed off helplessly. West looked at him but didn’t speak, swallowing as if the answer was stuck in his throat. As if it couldn’t be spoken. And Ash felt another surge of frustrated anger. “Oh sod this,” he snapped. “Sod all of it. And all of them.”

“Sir — ”

“D-Don’t call me that.”

Setting the saddle aside, West climbed to his feet. “Mr Ashleigh — ”

“Ash! For Christ’s sake, my friends call me Ash. And you’re-you’re-you’re the best friend I ever had.” He swiped at the stable door with his cane, blinking hard, and swallowed the roughness in his throat. “I hate this. How d-dare they tell us w-w-we can’t be friends?”

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