the glow of relief that had bathed the hospital corridors as he made his way down to the stranger’s bedside, Martin found himself watching Steve. He saw the bomb site again too, and himself peering down into the tiny space where the two of them had been lying together all the fearful hours.
It was smaller than a bed. It was like a grave, he thought, and he remembered a medieval tombstone that Annie and he had seen in a cathedral somewhere. They had been on holiday. Long ago, before the boys were born. The stone lord and his lady lay shoulder to shoulder on their stone slab, with a stone replica of their favourite lapdog asleep at their feet. Annie and Martin had deciphered the Latin lettering on the slab together. In death they were not separated.
Annie had sighed and said it was very romantic, but Martin had been struck by the intimacy of the narrow place beneath the slab for them to lie in.
They had both shivered a little and then laughed, and had gone on down the side aisle, hand in hand, to look at the stained glass windows.
The image of the same terrible intimacy came back to Martin now.
‘I’m so glad she’s getting better,’ Steve said.
The lame words didn’t begin to express the knot of his real feelings, and that was good. ‘I’ve been thinking about her a lot. Wondering. There’s no need to thank me, you know. We helped each other. Taking it in turns, one to be afraid and the other to pretend that there was no need. I know that I couldn’t have … couldn’t have held on as long, without Annie.’
It was very quiet on the ward, Steve noticed. Annie’s husband was looking at him. In ordinary times he would have a relaxed, humorous expression, and his eyes would be friendly. A nice man. Almost certainly a good man.
Quickly, Steve said, ‘What about your children? Benjy, and Tom? They must be … missing her.’
‘Yes,’ Martin said. ‘They are.’
Steve said quietly, ‘We talked, you know. For a long time, before the wall collapsed. We talked about all kinds of things. She told me about you, and the children, and your house. About how she didn’t want to die, and leave you all.’
Martin put his hand up to his eyes and then rubbed them, digging into them with his fingers. He was stupid with exhaustion and relief, wasn’t he? ‘I know she would say that. Annie wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t give up up there, either. In that room with all the machines.’
‘I’m glad.’ Lame words, again.
Martin stood up. ‘The boys are all right. It’s harder for Tom, because he knows she’s ill, and he can’t see her. They won’t let anyone go up there, except me.’
Steve felt the movement of jealousy again. He wanted Martin to go now, but he still hovered at the bedside.
‘What about you?’
Steve shrugged. ‘Broken leg and cuts and bruises. Nothing much.’
Martin was looking at the dimly-lit ward. ‘It isn’t much of a Christmas for you, either, is it? What about your family?’
‘I’m not married. It isn’t exactly my favourite time of year, in any case.’
Martin nodded. ‘Annie loves Christmas,’ he said. He did hold out his hand then. Steve took it and they shook hands.
Martin smiled. ‘I’d better go. The kids will be awake at five a.m.’
‘Go and get some sleep.’
‘Yes,’ Martin said. ‘I’ll be able to do that now.’
After he had gone Steve lay awake for a long time. He took the fact that Annie would recover and held it close to him like a talisman. He didn’t think beyond that.
The house was quiet when Martin reached it. His parents had already gone to bed, so he sat in the kitchen and drank another whisky. He thought about the other Christmases he had shared with Annie, and her pleasure in the rituals that must be observed every year. It was Annie who had sewn the big red felt stockings for the boys to hang up, and Martin knew that when he went upstairs he would find them draped expectantly over the ends of their beds.
If she had died …
The terror of it struck him all over again and he clenched his fist around the whisky glass.
But Annie wasn’t going to die. He was still afraid of her injuries, but he was sure that she was going to live.
He felt a moment of simple happiness. It was Christmas, and their children were asleep upstairs, and Annie was going to live.
He put his empty glass down and went to the boys’ rooms. He collected the red stockings, turning the covers back for an instant to look at the sleeping faces. Then he went into their own bedroom where Annie had stacked the presents neatly at the back of their big wardrobe. He took them out one by one and filled the stockings. He was touched and impressed by the care she had given to choosing even the smallest toys. It was so obvious which of the boys each of the things was intended for. He recognized how smoothly and lovingly Annie had orchestrated their simple, domestic affairs. Why had he never told her, or even really noticed it?
When he had finished he laid the bulging red shapes back on the beds. Then he carried their big presents downstairs and put them with the others under the tree.
The fairy lights made a glowing coloured pyramid in the dim room. Martin saw that on the hearth the boys had left a glass of whisky and a mince pie for Father Christmas, and a carrot, neatly peeled, for the reindeer.
That was always at Annie’s insistence. ‘Why shouldn’t the poor old reindeer get something?’ he heard her demanding.
It must have been Thomas who had reminded his grandmother to arrange the little offering tonight.
Martin was smiling as he poured the whisky back into the bottle. He ate the carrot and the mince pie, suddenly ravenous. He realized that he had eaten almost nothing since the bombing.
‘Come on, Father Christmas,’ Annie would have said now. ‘Let’s go to bed.’ He missed the warmth of her hand taking his, and the sweetness and familiarity of lying down beside her.
Martin turned off the tree lights and went upstairs. He would make this Christmas a happy one for the boys, however little he felt like it himself. For Annie’s sake.
The boys woke up very early in the morning, as Martin had known they would. First Benjy and then Thomas came creeping into his bed, the stockings bumping behind them.
‘Look!’ cried Benjy. ‘He’s been.’
‘Is it all right?’ Thomas whispered.
Martin lifted the covers and the two of them scrambled in beside him, a wriggling mass of sharp elbows.
‘Shh. Don’t wake your grandparents. Yes, Tom, it’s all right. Everything’s all right.’
‘Hey, Dad. Happy Christmas.’
He held them for the minute that they allowed him, and they listened breathlessly to the crackle and rustle
