Page 52 of The Last Kiss

Contrary to his expectations, Ash did sleep again after his nightmare. Cradled in Harry’s arms his body relaxed, his thoughts drifted… And the next thing he knew he was blinking out from beneath the covers at a bright morning and Harry, fully dressed, was perching on the side of the bed next to him.

“Morning,” Harry said with a sunny smile.

“Christ, what time is it?”

“Half eight.”

“What?” He struggled to sit up. “My appointment’s at ten.”

Harry ruffled his hair. “Plenty of time.” He nodded toward the bedside table where he’d set a plate of toast and a steaming cup of tea. “And you needed the extra sleep.”

He was a kind, thoughtful man. “Thank you,” was all Ash said, shoving the pillow behind him and reaching for the tea. Harry looked very fine that morning, the sunlight suiting his tanned face and bright eyes. “Will you come to the hospital with me, or do you have other plans?”

“No other plans.” He rested a hand on Ash’s knee and squeezed gently. It was his bad leg, but Harry didn’t seem to notice so Ash decided not to care.

He smiled. “Good, I could use the company. I imagine there’ll be something of a wait. You know how these things are.”

“Not really, I’ve never been to a hospital.” He knocked on the table for luck. “Expensive business.”

That was true enough, and Ash wasn’t oblivious to his own luck in being able to afford the best possible care. God knew, there were plenty of men who couldn’t.

After he’d eaten his breakfast, Ash dressed while Harry set about packing up their things and they were ready to leave in good time. He paused as they left the bedroom, gaze lingering on the bed they’d shared. A slice of paradise, he’d found in this room, and he sighed with the knowledge that they’d never return.

“Come on,” Harry said quietly, taking his free hand. “Time to go.”

He was right not to dawdle. But that didn’t mean Ash planned to just accept their situation as hopeless. Harry might not think his dreams were realistic, but Ash refused to give up. Or to give in. To hell with his father and the old world he clung to. What the devil did any of them think they could do to stop him from living the life he chose? He’d fought three bloody years for a better world and he was damn well going to have it for himself.

They took the tube to East Putney and then a bus to the Queen Mary Hospital in Roehampton. It was an impressive building, a grand eighteenth century stately pile that had been turned over at the start of the war for use as an auxiliary convalescence hospital, and now had become a specialised hospital for amputees.

“Blimey,” Harry said under his breath, watching the numbers of men coming and going with prosthetic limbs. “Who knew there were so many?”

It was startling, certainly. Not that they hadn’t seen their fair share of wounded men, but this great building seemed to hold hundreds of men missing arms and legs in various combinations. Ash, not for the first time, felt grateful his own injury had been relatively minor.

And what kind of a world was it, he reflected, where losing your leg from the knee down could be considered minor?

They were directed to a waiting room and took a seat until Ash’s name was eventually called. And only fifteen minutes after his appointment time, too. Impressively efficient. Harry stayed put while Ash followed the young nurse into a room which looked as much like a workshop or gymnasium as anything else. It might even have been amusing to see the rows of legs stacked up against the wall had the reason for them being there not been so dreadful.

Still, the doctor who stood to greet him had a friendly face and smiled as they shook hands. He was older than Ash, but not as old as Sir Arthur, his short mousy hair tending to salt-and-pepper and his light blue eyes intelligent. “Dalton,” he said, “a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr Bentley.” He sat back down at his desk, shuffled some papers. “We were sent your measurements by Major Edwards at Chewton Lodge. So let’s hope we’ve made a good fist of it, eh?”

This time, when Ash rolled up his trouser leg to remove his prosthetic, he found he didn’t feel the overwhelming sense of disgust and humiliation that usually dogged him on such occasions. Distaste lingered, yes, but it felt more muted. Distant, somehow. He could stand to look, for a start, when the doctor lifted his leg onto his lap to examine it.

“Yes,” Bentley said briskly. “Some chafing, I can see, from the strapping. No surprise there.” He released Ash’s leg and bent to retrieve his old prosthetic. “This?” He hefted it in his hands. “Very heavy, yes?”

“Yes, rather.”

On Bentley’s desk sat what Ash assumed must be his new limb. It gleamed startlingly silver, although the foot was a more natural colour. “Aluminium copper alloy,” Bentley said when he saw Ash looking, and picked up the new leg. “Much lighter than the wood, you see? And just as strong.” He handed it over and Ash was surprised — it must have been less than half the weight of his old wooden leg. “Shall we try it, then?” the doctor said.

It took some getting used to the new weight, but Olive had been right: the fit was much more comfortable. And he felt the benefit of its lighter weight immediately in his hip and knee when the doctor had him walk backward and forward across the room. No longer having to lift such a weight made his gait feel more natural, too.

“Excellent,” Bentley said, crouching down to check the fit around his knee. “Yes, very good.” He looked up. “I should think you could dispense with the cane from time-to-time, especially indoors, once you’re used to it. Give you an extra hand to use, eh?”

Ash found himself smiling as he sat to roll his trouser leg down and reached for his cane. “Thank you,” he said sincerely and offered his hand.

Dr Bentley shook it with a quick smile. “You’re an easy case, Dalton. Any problems with the fit, come back to us, yes?”

Ash promised he would and, thus dismissed, returned to the waiting room where he found Harry standing to greet him, head cocked as he watched him approach. “Well?”

“Better,” Ash said. “Closer fit, and much lighter.” He bent his knee and swung his new leg to demonstrate. “Not sure I’ll be dancing a jig any time soon, but it feels much more comfortable.”

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