‘Me too.’ She perched on the end of his bed. ‘It’s lighter in here.’
‘The light doesn’t hurt my eyes any more. And I think I’m starting to make more out. It all happened entirely of its own accord. Just like you said it would.’
‘That’s wonderful!’
She looked around properly for the first time. The walls were painted grey-white and were plain, apart from his artworks. Apart from the chairs and the bed there was just a wardrobe and a chest of drawers – and an old-fashioned washstand with a marble top, on which stood a white enamel ewer and basin; two round, wooden, old-fashioned men’s hairbrushes; a straight-backed razor and a shaving brush.
She went to the window – and realised that it wasn’t a single pane of glass, but in fact a pair of French doors, slightly ajar. The air from outside smelled sweet and delicious. With surprise she saw that it was a bright summer’s day and the trees were in full leaf. The doors led out onto a small terrace, enclosed on three sides by stone walls. A rose bush with dark pink flowers was climbing across.
‘Let’s go outside,’ she said on an impulse.
‘Capital idea,’ he said, getting up. It was the first time she’d seen him standing up properly, and he was taller than she’d expected. He wore a red-and-green-striped dressing gown, tied with a cord. He held out his hand, and she slid her smaller one into it. She could feel his tremor, but his fingers were strong.
‘This way,’ she said. ‘Be careful, there’s a step.’
They went outside. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘How is it?’ she asked. ‘Not too painful for your eyes?’
‘No, it’s marvellous,’ he said. ‘I can smell lime trees. Are there lime trees nearby?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said, having not the faintest idea what a lime tree might look like. ‘Don’t you ever come and sit out here?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t like not being able to see what’s around me. I feel too exposed. But somehow, here with you just now, I feel perfectly safe.’
He turned towards her. And in the full light of day she saw, with a start, that his eyes were not brown, as she’d thought, but hazel-grey, with the faintest dark edge to the irises, as if someone had absent-mindedly drawn it there to enclose the little spot of colour. And even though he couldn’t see, she saw that his eyes still showed what was inside him: sadness, pain and restlessness.
‘Are there trees just over there?’ he asked, pointing. ‘I can make out something swaying.’
‘Yes! Well done.’
There were steps leading down to a path, beyond which was a stone fountain with no water in it. The path appeared to skirt around the back of the hospital building. Beyond it was a wood – the same wood, clearly, that in 2017 had been largely felled to make way for the recycling plant. Here it extended off into the distance for what seemed like miles.
‘Wait here.’ She ran down, checked the path was deserted and came back. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
He laughed. ‘Well, I suppose I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. You’ll have to be my eyes, though.’
‘I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.’
She led him down to the path and towards the trees. To their right were extensive, carefully maintained lawns crisscrossed by deep borders filled with pink, purple, yellow and white flowers. Men in the hospital uniform of blue and white suits and red ties were scattered across the lawns, some in wicker chairs or deckchairs, others in wheelchairs. Most had limbs missing. They were mostly all reading, playing cards or sleeping, their sticks and crutches propped up against them. Nurses and orderlies moved in between them. One man had a visitor – a woman in a light summer dress and hat, holding a baby in a white bonnet. Three men were attempting a game of croquet from their wheelchairs. And one was trying to eat something using a prosthetic arm with a spoon attached to the end.
But it was too dangerous to linger long. They headed into the woods. And Louisa noticed that even though he limped, Robert moved with an easy, unconscious grace, dipping his head to avoid the low-hanging branches when she told him to. After a little while, the ground grew soft beneath their feet, twigs snapping as they walked. The dappled sunlight felt warm on her face. There were butterflies everywhere – ones she was sure she’d never even seen before.
And she realised that despite everything, here in 1916, with Robert, she was happy – truly happy, for perhaps the first time. And Robert seemed more at ease too, released from the confines of his room. The air was filled with birdsong and the hum of bees.
‘What’s that bird?’ she asked. ‘Listen… There!’
He smiled. ‘It’s a skylark. Haven’t you ever heard a skylark?’
They were probably all but extinct in Sussex in 2017, she thought. She saw she would have to be careful what she said. ‘I’m sure I must have done,’ she said. ‘It sounds so happy. Although I suppose it’s singing because it’s looking for a mate or something prosaic like that.’
‘They sing for a mate, yes, and to warn off predators. But on a day like this I can well believe he’s singing for sheer happiness. And listen, there’s a curlew now too.’
‘You know a lot about nature.’
‘A little. I’ve always been fascinated by fauna and flora. It goes hand in hand with being an artist, I suppose. There are so many wild birds at the front. Far more than here: swifts, swallows, nightjars. And birds of prey, too. I’ve filled several sketchpads with them. They’re one’s constant companions. You’d think they’d keep their distance, wouldn’t you, confronted by all of us in their fields and woods, laying everything to waste. But they’re jolly curious about us. We had a barn owl for a few weeks. She would sit in her tree and keep the sentries company at night. But then her tree got bombed to bits, along with her nest and her chicks. She didn’t come back after that. The men were terribly upset. They even gave the chicks a funeral.’
‘That’s really sad. I knew a tame eagle owl in France. It belonged to the couple who looked after my grandmother’s house – my father’s mother, I mean, not my granny. It used to let you stroke its head. It would close its eyes like a cat, and you could almost hear it purring.’
‘Are you part French?’
‘My father’s French. When I was younger, I used to spend my school summer holidays in the Languedoc. It’s where he’s from.’
‘It’s a gorgeous part of France. The light there is fabulous. I remember it vividly. Do you go back?’
‘No. I hated it there. I could never wait for the summer holidays to end.’