Page 21 of The Last Kiss

Deciding to put the insolent beggar out of his mind, Harry fixed his attention on Dalton. He had what the gents would call a ‘good seat’. That was, he sat nice and straight with a good feel for the horse’s movement, although he was clearly putting more weight on the right than the left stirrup and it was throwing him somewhat askew. Harry tried to imagine how much downward pressure he’d be able to exert through the prosthetic, but without having seen how it fitted it was difficult to judge. “A little to your left, if you can,” he called out as they walked the horses down the drive toward the lane.

Dalton glanced over as Harry drew parallel, so they were riding abreast. “Can’t easily,” he sighed. “Rather p-painful.”

“Ah well, it’s good enough then.” Harry smiled at him. “How’s it feel otherwise, to be back in the saddle?”

A pause. “Strange, I suppose. Nostalgic.” He nodded at Harry. “You ride well. Sable’s n-never normally so pliant.”

“I love horses, me. And they know it.”

“I remember.” Dalton smiled, a soft expression that was mostly in his eyes. “You were half in love with those old cart horses in Poperinge.”

Harry laughed at the idea. “They were nice old girls. Let me talk to them about all sorts of things I couldn’t tell no one else.”

“Not even me?” Dalton seemed genuinely surprised. Maybe even hurt.

Harry turned away from that look, fixing his smile so it didn’t vanish.Especially not you. “Ah, you know how it was. Some things you had to keep inside your head.”

“Except when you were talking to horses.”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t understand.” Harry threw him a more genuine smile. “French, see? Didn’t speak a word of bloody English.”

Dalton laughed, a sound as bright and wonderful as the day.

When they turned out of the gate, Dalton led them to the right and up along an impossibly leafy lane. The banks sloped shallowly upward, trees leaning in to form a canopy of translucent green, shimmering as the breeze stirred the leaves. Bracken covered the forest floor, its earthy tang filling the air, and there was no noise but the horses’ hooves and the twitter of birdsong. Harry thought he saw Dalton’s point; this was a million miles away from the modern world. He could imagine how easy it would be to hide here, to turn your back on the brutalities they’d seen. He wondered whether Dalton was tempted to do just that — and whether he was afraid he’d give in to temptation.

“Funny thing, you talking to horses. Chap I saw at Chewton Lodge this morning said I should t-t-talk about my leg and w-what happened.” His lips turned up into a rueful smile. “Says it would help with the n-nightmares and the st-st-st-st…” He gave a frustrated wave of his hand and gave up.

Harry watched him, chewing on one lip. “Do you remember it, then? When you were hit?”When I kissed you. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

Dalton looked straight ahead. “Some of it. I remember flying up and b-back. I remember hoping I w-wouldn’t land in a shell hole. I d-d-didn’t w-w-want to drown.” The green wash of the leaves gave his skin a deathly pallor, or perhaps that was just Harry’s own memories surfacing. “I remember you p-pulling me up, out of the mud, and-and-and…”

And kissing you. Oh Christ.

“…and not much after that. I d-don’t remember it hurting until I got to the clearing station and then...” He looked down at his hands, which were white on the reins. “Well. I’m n-not sure Major Edwards is right about the t-talking.”

Harry wasn’t either — he wasn’t one for dwelling — but he had noticed one thing. “The stammer’s worse when you’re upset, isn’t it? Like when you’d had a set-to with your father, or when you’re thinking back on things. So, I dunno, maybe the captain is on to something?”

A smile twitched the corner of Dalton’s lips. “Maybe t-talking to the horses saved you from this?”

Harry fell silent, thinking. How much to say? “It, uh, it’s not like I don’t have bad memories.”

“Of course.” Dalton reached out to touch his arm. “I d-didn’t mean that. You h-h-have stronger nerves than me, that’s all.”

“Bollocks. I didn’t have my bloody leg blown off, did I?” He knew his smile was forced because, if truth be told, he wasn’t sure losing a leg could have been much worse than that horrific slog down the line to the dressing station with Dalton a deadweight on his back, terrified that he’d be a corpse before Harry got him help — and terrified he couldn’t survive losing him.

Dalton didn’t say anything more and for a while they rode on in silence, slowing as a few of the forest’s wild ponies ambled across the lane in search of juicier foraging on the other side. Harry watched them with a smile. “Must have been nice, growing up here.”

“Idyllic, yes. School was rather a shock, as you c-can imagine.”

“I’ll bet, if it was anything like my school.” He grinned at Dalton’s awkward smile. “It’s alright. At least I got to go home at night. I’d have bloody hated boarding school.”

“Yes well, I did hate it, with a passion. Still, I suppose it prepared me somewhat for the privations of war.” He gave a dry smile. “At least the food was better at the front.”

“Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton, eh?”

Dalton grunted. “Maybe, but bloody Ypres wasn’t.”

“Don’t suppose you’re allowed machine guns at Eton.” He adopted an approximation of Dalton’s accent, “Would rather spoil a jolly good game of rugger, old bean.”

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