‘Oh, you’ll get on!’ Luce said, and turned to look derisively at Neil. ‘I do believe you’ve got yourself a bit of competition, Captain Oxford University! Good! He’s a late starter, but the winning post’s not in sight yet, is it?’

‘Push off!’ said Neil violently, hands closing into fists. ‘Go on, damn you, push off!’

Luce got himself past Michael and Sister Langtry with a boneless sideways twist and headed for the door, where he collided with Benedict and stepped back with a gasp, as if he had been burned. He recovered quickly, lifting his lip contemptuously, but standing to one side with a bow and a flourish.

‘How does it feel to be a killer of old men and little children, Ben?’ he asked, then disappeared inside.

Benedict stood so starkly alone, so devastated, that for the first time since entering ward X Michael experienced a stirring of deep feeling; the look in those quenched black eyes moved him profoundly. Maybe that’s because this is the first honest emotion I’ve seen, he thought. The poor bastard! He looks the way I feel, as if someone has switched off all the light inside.

As Benedict moved to his chair with a monk-like shuffle, hands folded one on top of the other across his midriff, Michael’s gaze followed, studying the dark face intently. It was so eaten away, so consumed by what went on behind it, so very pitiable. And though they were not alike, Michael found himself suddenly reminded of Colin, and he wanted so badly to help that he willed the withdrawing eyes to look back at him; when they did, he smiled.

‘Don’t let Luce get your goat, Ben,’ said Neil. ‘He’s nothing more than a very lightweight twerp.’

‘He’s evil,’ said Benedict, bringing the word out as if it chewed its way into utterance.

‘So are we all, depending how you look at us,’ said Neil tranquilly.

Sister Langtry got up; Neil was good with Matt and Nugget, but somehow with Ben he never managed to hit the right note. ‘Did you find out what’s happened to dinner, Ben?’ she asked.

For a moment the monk became a boy; Benedict’s eyes warmed and widened as they looked at Sister Langtry with unshadowed affection. ‘It’s coming, Sis, it’s coming!’ he said, and grinned, grateful for the consideration which had prompted her to send him on the errand.

Her eyes on Ben were soft; then she turned away. ‘I’ll help you get your stuff sorted out, Michael,’ she said, stepping inside. However, she wasn’t quite finished with the group on the verandah yet. ‘Gentlemen, since dinner’s late, I think you had better have it inside, shirts on and sleeves rolled down. Otherwise you won’t beat the mossies.’

Though he would rather have remained on the verandah to see what the group was like when she wasn’t present, Michael took her request as an order and followed her into the ward.

His webbing, his pack and his kit bag lay on the bed. Arms folded, standing to watch him. Sister Langtry noticed the methodical ease with which he proceeded to dispose of his possessions; he commenced with the small haversack attached to his webbing and unearthed toothbrush, a grimy but precious morsel of soap, tobacco, shaving tackle, all of which he stowed neatly in the drawer of his locker.

‘Did you have any idea what you were getting into?’ she asked.

‘Well, I’ve seen plenty of blokes go troppo, but it isn’t the same thing as this. This is a troppo ward?’

‘Yes,’ she said gently.

He undid the roll of his blanket and groundsheet from the top of his pack, then began to remove socks, underwear, a towel, clean shirts, trousers and shorts from the pack’s interior. As he worked he spoke again. ‘Funny, the desert never sent a tenth as many men around the bend as the jungle. Though it stands to reason, I suppose. The desert doesn’t hem you in; it’s a lot easier to live with.’

‘That’s why they call it troppo… tropical… jungle.’ She continued to watch him. ‘Fill your locker with what you’ll need. There’s a cupboard over there the rest can go in. I’ve got the key, so if you need anything, just yell… They’re not as bad as they must seem.’

‘They’re all right.’ A faint smile turned one corner of his nice mouth up. ‘I’ve been in a lot loonier places and predicaments.’

‘Don’t you resent this?’

He straightened, holding his spare pair of boots, and looked directly at her. ‘The war’s over, Sister. I’ll be going home soon anyway, and at this stage I’m so fed up I don’t much care where I wait it out.’ He gazed around the room. ‘It’s better housing than camp by a long shot, and the climate’s better than Borneo. I haven’t slept in a decent bed in ages.’ One hand went up, flicked the folds of mosquito netting. ‘All the comforts of home, and a mum too! No, I don’t resent it.’

The reference to a mum stung; how dared he! Still, time would disabuse him of that impression. She went on probing. ‘Why don’t you resent it? You should, because I’ll swear you’re not troppo!’

He shrugged, turned back to his kit bag, which seemed to contain as many books as items of spare clothing; he was, she had noted, a superb packer. ‘I suppose I’ve been acting under pretty senseless orders for a long time, Sister. Believe me, being sent here isn’t nearly as senseless as some of the orders I’ve had to follow.’

‘Are you declaring yourself insane?’

He laughed soundlessly. ‘No! There’s nothing wrong with my mind.’

She felt flummoxed; for the first time in a long nursing career she really didn’t know what to say next. Then, as he reached into his kit bag again, she found a logical thing to say. ‘Oh, good, you’ve got a decent pair of sandshoes! I can’t abide the sound of boots on this board floor.’ Her hand went out, turned over some of the books lying on the bed. Modern Americans mostly: Steinbeck, Faulkner, Hemingway. ‘No English writers?’ she asked.

‘I can’t get into them,’ he said, and gathered the books together to stack in his locker.

That faint rebuff again; she fought an annoyance she told herself was quite natural. ‘Why?’ she asked.

‘It’s a world I don’t know. Besides, I haven’t met any Poms to trade books with since the Middle East. We’ve got more in common with the Yanks.’

Since her own reading background was thoroughly English and she had never opened a book by a modern American, she let the subject drop, returned to the main theme. ‘You said you were so fed up it didn’t matter where you waited it out. Fed up with what?’

He tied the cords around his kit bag again, and picked up the emptied pack and webbing. ‘The whole thing,’ he said. ‘It’s an indecent life.’

She unfolded her arms. ‘You’re not frightened of going home?’ she asked, leading the way across to the cupboard.

‘Why should I be?’

Unlocking the cupboard, she stood back to allow him to place his clobber inside. ‘One of the things I’ve noticed increasingly over the last few months in most of my men—and in my nursing colleagues too, for that matter—is a fear of going home. As if it’s been so long all sense of familiarity and belonging has been lost,’ she said.

Finished, he straightened and turned to look at her. ‘In here, it probably has. This is a home of sorts, it’s got some permanence to it. Are you frightened of going home too?’

She blinked. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said slowly, and smiled. ‘You’re an awkward beggar, aren’t you?’

His answering smile was generous and bone deep. ‘It has been said of me before,’ he said.

‘Let me know if there’s anything you want. I go off duty in a few minutes, but I’ll be back about seven.’

‘Thanks, Sister, but I’ll be all right.’

Her eyes searched his face; she nodded. ‘Yes, I think you will be all right,’ she said.

2

The orderly had arrived with dinner and was making a racket in the dayroom; instead of going straight to her office. Sister Langtry entered the dayroom, nodding to the orderly.

‘What is it tonight?’ she asked, removing plates from a cupboard.