CHAPTER 9
There is a peculiarity that should be obvious with the one-legged: sitting in a chair.

Balance is thrown, and it is too easy to tumble sideways towards the void. I made sure Pete had his crutches the next morning, as I drew the line at sitting him on the toilet, but I made sure I had a chair against the wall ready for his breakfast.

I felt rough from so much wine, but he seemed fine, and my mother….my mother was whizzing round the kitchen like a madwoman. Every conceivable breakfast item was set before us, including two types of bread, two styles of egg….I needed to have him stay more often.

That thought brought up others, and realisation that I didn’t just want him to stay again because of the effect on Mum, which was incredible, but because I was realising that I did have a friend, who was my friend, and mine to keep. It felt like getting my first bike, when the world had opened up and become much, much wider in potential. Pete was also a link directly to my past, and that was becoming important to me, especially after my mother’s recent agony. I realised that for good or bad, I had changed a lot in the past few weeks. Sharon’s nagging, Dave’s humour, Mum’s need.

Pete’s own need.

Something, that oddness that Mary spoke of, blocked my connections with others, and now it had been shoved into my face I could see that I was damaged goods in my own way. My dealings with people were like stroking a cat wearing gloves; with care, it could be done to the cat’s satisfaction, but not really to my own. That was my frustration: knowing I was ‘wrong’, but not how, or why. I suspected I wasn’t even aware of half of the effects it had on me.

The breakfast was a reflection of the fact that my mother had had time to go to the shops before our arrival with the fish and chips, and Pete had found something else.

“John, did you know your mother had left me a toothbrush in the bathroom?”

A heavy hint indeed. My mother’s fussing was beyond normal, though I clearly knew little of the N-word, and I spent the rest of the day wondering whether it was aimed at Pete for his sake, or for mine. Then, we were suddenly discussing logistics. I would have ridden in, as I did every day, while Pete would have taken the train and pushed his chair across town, doing the same in reverse. My mother’s car could carry his chair, but not my bike ,unless I fitted the cycle carrier. She wanted me in the car. She won.

Her prattling continued all the way to Southampton, and it was as if he was the Prodigal Son returned rather than a very old school friend. Before we got to the college, she seemed to have his entire year’s social events planned for him, including several visits to ours. I could not follow the links, she was changing too often. I had a small moment of worry, when I wondered whether the events she had revealed the other evening had damaged her sanity, but that was a really unworthy thought.

As far as I could see, and despite her fixation on Laura, it had been grief that tortured her, not anything like my own oddness.

Pete had already gone for his train when I came out to meet her at the end of the day. I was in a post-lecture daze as we headed along the Solent ,mum eschewing the M27 in favour of the old road. There was a large white van parked outside the house. We pulled into our drive and I realised that she had been ploughing ahead on her own head of steam: there was a brand-new wheelchair ramp built over the front steps.

My nightdress was back on the bed, along with a dress and other items, as well as a carrier bag and a small box. She had, though, collected my skirt for me, saving some worry.

“We are having a small pork roast tonight, dear, and I thought it would be nice to dress. Dinner will be at six thirty.”

After a shower, some hair removal and a little more preparation than normal, I joined her for dinner.

“I was obviously right, dear, that dress hangs much more nicely with breasts. How do they feel?”

“Did you have to get them quite so large?”

“A B-cup suits your figure, dear. Any smaller would have made you look too boyish, any larger too silly.”

The bag on my bed had contained a number of bras, in a variety of colours and styles, and the box a pair of wobbly silicone rubber lumps. No doubt as to their purpose.

Why was she doing this? I was starting to get very worried about the subtexts surfacing bit by bit. I had to admit, she was right, I did look a lot better with them on than I usually did, and it was one of my favourite dresses, a cream sheath just to the knee. .It didn’t really work with the fluffy slippers which were the last part of my mother’s gifts, but she had been very clear about not wearing heels indoors.

This was getting seriously strange.

I didn’t see Pete for a couple of days, and then it was time for my visit to Mary. The more I used her name, the easier it got. I talked her through the week’s events, though I decided my mother’s revelations were her business, not the doctor’s. She looked at her notes for quite a while, in silence, then looked up.

“John, I am going to say something you don’t often hear from a doctor, certainly not from a mental health practitioner. I have been wrong about you.”

She paused again. Something was not sitting right with her, even I could see that.

“I gave you an initial diagnosis of low-end Asperger’s Syndrome, or part of that spectrum of autism-related problems. I do not feel, now, that was right. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I feel the need to explain.

“The key elements of Asperger’s are a failure to properly engage with others, and a lack of impairment of language and cognitive skills. That latter you demonstrate clearly, and the former was a given.

“You are a lecturer, John, rather aptly. You talk at people, you don’t pick up on their signals. You impart information, you don’t communicate. You have obsessions, deep focus on narrow fronts. I thought at first your crossdressing was part of that, an aspect of ritual.

“There is a big problem with that diagnosis, John, and that is that you are doing something someone subject to Asperger’s doesn’t do. You are changing, quickly and in obvious ways.. That does not happen with Asperger’s.

“John, I do not normally do this, but I will justify myself by saying that I am not telling you what I think, but what I do not think. There is something I do suspect, though, and I will once more be a little unprofessional.

“There is something going on in your mind, John, and I do not like the suspicions I am having. If what I think….no. I will stop there. I would like to try something with you next time, if you are willing”

“What are you proposing, Mary?”

“See? You are using my name, easily and naturally. John, I would like to try something that has a bit of a bad reputation, but it may do some good here. Hypnosis is what I am on about”

That was a surprise, well, two surprises. Mary had never explained herself at such length before, and as for hypnosis….I made a decision not to tell my mother. If something was going to erupt, she was fragile enough and I did not want her to be hurt further until I could work out a way to control things.

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A few days later I rode back out to Hedge End, this time as a guest of Pete. Martin seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and said so.

“You seem to be making a real difference to Staff Hall, John. He should be ready to leave soon”

“Leave? Why?”

“Oh, it’s the way we work. Think of this as a half way house. We try and get the gents, and a few ladies, ready for the real world again. Some of them never are, of course, but the idea is to get them back to as normal a life as we can. They have to move out at some point, you see, there are always more who need the care”

“I hadn’t realised…”

“Few people without connections ever do, John. Out of sight…”

Out of mind. Rather apt considering my meeting with Mary.

Pete was on a real up.

“Did you see, it, John?”

“See what?”

“My van, it’s been delivered. I’ve got wheels!”

“Well, forget it. We are walking to the pub. You can drive when you aren’t drinking”

“Yes Laura dear”

“And that can stop before we go out!”

I pushed him down the street to the centre. He called out as we left.

“Hey, Mart! I got wheels!”

“I saw, Staff Sarn’t! You will no doubt be leaving us soon.”

Any chill in his words was wiped out by the genuine warmth of his smile, and I made yet another connection to humanity. This man did this because he cared about his charges.

It was a good night down the pub, Pete’s buoyant mood lighting the whole bar up. A couple of times he got a nasty look, as somebody recognised him as a squaddy, but two people insisted on buying him a drink. One sat with us for a while. A spare man, with an empty left sleeve, he looked to be in his fifties. He had asked very politely….

“Are you staying with the Legion? Do you mind if I join you for a bit?”

I braced myself, thinking it was going to be a black cloud on a so far upbeat evening, but I was astonished to find that Ted, the older guy, and Pete said nothing at all about their injuries. Instead, it was a truly riotous swapping of tales of debauchery, practical jokes, willing (and unwilling) NAAFI girls, Catterick pubs, how to avoid pubs the Paras had claimed for themselves, just two old soldiers talking about daily life.

It really seemed to be doing Pete the world of good. Finally, however, they had to grasp the nettle.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan, Helmand. Was it the Falklands for you?”

“Yup, Sapper Hill. Mine was a fifty cal MG, I’m assuming yours was a bomb?”

Pete started to shake a bit, and Ted shuffled his chair round, wrapping him in a one-armed hug. I heard the whisper..

“It gets easier, son. It really does. If it doesn’t, I’m often around here if you need to talk. “

They stayed like that for a couple of minutes; I felt completely useless. Ted eventually disengaged himself, and picked up his glass.

“To absent friends”

We drank.

On the way back, we grabbed a bag of chips to share, Pete holding them in his lap and feeding me over his shoulder as I pushed him. He seemed to have shaken off his attack of the horrors, and we were soon back at his little flat. He bustled round making a cup of tea, and I laid out my sleeping mat and bag. I talked to him about little nothings (I was learning) until we were ready to hit the sack, literally in my case. I stripped to my boxers, settled down and he killed the lights.

It was about three in the morning, and he was talking. I struggled to hear the words.

“Gdffme lfffty”

That little phrase repeated itself amid other mutterings I couldn’t distinguish, but he was getting louder, until I heard

“Geddoff me, Lefty”

I sat up near his bed, and saw him start to thrash. I squirmed out of the bag as he started to moan the word “blood” over and over again, until I could take it no more.

I put my hands on his shoulders and in the dim light saw his eyes snap open.

“Lefty?”

“No, it’s John. You were having a nightmare, Pete, it’s OK, you’re safe now”

He started to weep. Everyone seemed to be doing that to me these days, apart from Jane. I sat on the bed and held him till he calmed, just rocking him the way….

The way I remembered my mother rocking me.

He did calm, though, and I lowered him onto his pillow again. He turned onto his left, facing the wall, and I tucked the duvet round his shoulders and rose to return to my bag.

“Stay for a while, please, John. Just till I fall asleep.”

Ah well. I picked up my bag and stretched out on top of the duvet with it on top of me, lying against Pete’s back. I could still feel him trembling, but it gradually eased until I thought he was asleep. I am sure I heard it, though his voice was very quiet.

“Good night, Laura”