Chapter Twenty Five
Matthew was cold. He had never felt so cold in his whole life. His mind was numb as he remembered slowly. How a sudden breath had escaped from his mouth, the unexpected shock spreading out from his chest, the freezing waters surrounding his body, sucking him under. And then redemption, William taking him under his arms, reaching the shore, his back hitting the muddy earth and waking to a blue sky above as the force of it jerked his eyelids open. He had blinked, and for a moment he thought he was with Mary. It was a warm summer's day and they were lying out on the great lawn at Downton, side by side, making shapes out of the clouds that leisurely passed overhead. She was wearing a light blue patterned dress and he could see the feminine shape of her thighs through the thin material. She reached for his hand and their fingers met, barely touching, her gentle laughter filling the air around them. He had pulled her to him then, his hand resting lightly on her hip, the sun blinking like a warm caress through her dark chestnut hair. He remembered her smile, so genuine, and his heart swelled. Her lips tasted like peaches and mint as he ran his tongue over them smiling down at her and she laughed again, their happiness like a shelter. But the noise suddenly interrupted his daydream with the constant rat-a-tat of the rifles rapid rattle and the sound of the reeds rustling as the bullets whizzed by with a puck into the bank. Then he felt a weight pressing down on him and when his hand moved over his stomach he could feel the soft hair of his batman, his loyal servant, and the blood trickling over his forehead. He tried to move, to reach for him, to save him, but he knew that he couldn't be saved and then the pain seared across his chest again and he shut his eyes, he tried to shut it all out.
The next time he awoke he could feel the pitch and toss of the ambulance as it rumbled along the road. Above him a khaki stretcher swayed from side to side, a limp hand dangling down towards him, drip drip dripping blood onto his arm. He couldn't move. He couldn't cry out. He closed his eyes again and prayed before unconsciousness enclosed him. He wouldn't remember the next two days. He wouldn't remember how Finn had stayed with him that night, holding his hand as he had deliriously cried out in a morphine induced desperation. He wouldn't remember saying her name, over and over, forming on his lips again and again; hardly able to breathe it out before it was lost in the ether air. He wouldn't remember her soft caress, the sound of her voice calling to him in her own desperation, and his own mother's cries; oh my darling boy.
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When Mary and Isobel finally arrived at the hospital Findlay had already spent the previous twenty-four hours trying to save his friend's life. It had started down there on that river bank amongst the reeds and the dead bodies of his comrades. A bullet's tear through the right side of Matthew's chest had rent a jagged scar out the other side. He had felt his calling as a doctor the greatest at that moment, that moment when he saw his friend hanging onto the life he knew. He was so pale; the blood forming like a pool underneath him, his chest turned a scarlet red. Like some grotesque horror it reminded him of Matthew's scarlet mess uniform, and like a dream he reversed some four weeks earlier and saw him standing nervously at the altar. He remembered how he had smiled anxiously at him and with excitement too, as Mary had appeared at the other end of the church. He could see his face, the appearance of absolute awe as he had looked past him to his future wife. How he had whispered to her, you look beautiful. He saw Sybil's face too, and how happy she had been that day, how their happiness had made her forget her own pain for a while. He had to blink to pull himself back to reality, to this day's disfigurement as he looked down at Matthew, ghost-like lying in the mud. He breathed out a painful gasp. How did we get from there to here? It was almost too difficult for him to grasp. And then just as quickly, he was angry. So angry that after he had retired that night, after he had spent the six hours with his friend on the operating table, after he had administered more morphine to him and given instructions to the nurses, after he had sent that telegram back to Downton, after he had pulled up a chair next to his bedside, after that, he had paced then, outside in the hallway, up and down, his hands wringing anxiously in front of him, and he had with indescribable wrath slammed his fist into the wall. "He has to make it. He has to make it for us to make it." And he had leaned against the wall then, his tired arms taking his own weight, he sighed, as if his own happiness relied on his friend living and breathing and loving again, too. As if Matthew's living and Mary's happiness were inextricably linked to his own possible happiness with Sybil. As if they were all bound somehow, and should that link break, should he meet his end, it would spell the end of his tie to her.
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Relatively short chapter I know but wanted to get you something. I promise to get another more comprehensive one out tomorrow (NZT Sunday). And remember to review! I really appreciate it ..chur chur