Everyone Brave Is Forgiven(104)

“Cigarette?” said Mary, offering.

“Rather.”

Mary tuned the wireless. The Kentucky Minstrels played “Love’s Old Sweet Song.” The sharp midday light softened into afternoon.

“Fix your hair?” said Mary after a while.

No answer. Hilda’s cigarette, forgotten, drooped a sadness of ash.

Mary fetched Hilda’s hairbrushes and got to work. Hilda was sleepy and loose, and she kept coming toward the brush so that Mary had to nudge her head upright again. With the wireless they sat in warm silence while Mary worked, and once Hilda’s pompadour was restored Mary used hair spray to put it out-of-bounds for physics.

“How is it looking?” said Hilda.

“Fine. I’ll fetch the mirror, shall I?”

“Oh yes, do.”

When Mary brought the mirror, and set it on its stand on the little Formica-topped table, they held hands and looked together. There were three cuts, all beginning on the left cheekbone. The deepest ran back, toward the ear. The longest curved down, almost to the point of the jaw. The cruelest ran toward the eye, missing the eye itself but resuming on the other side of the socket to cut through the eyebrow and end in a nasty bifurcation on the forehead. The cuts had been stitched, but not very well. Mary imagined the scene at the hospital: the worst night of the bombing, the floors streaked with blood.

“You’ve done a much better job than last time,” said Hilda.

“Oh, thanks.”

“The trick is really to get a good tight curl from the start, isn’t it? And then the rest looks after itself.”

“So long as one doesn’t spare the spray.”

“It isn’t on the ration, is it? The way I see it, hair spray is proof that the War Office wants us to be happy.”

“They want us to be upstanding. Hair spray is their talisman.”

“By the way,” said Hilda, “did I tell you that poor Huw was killed?”

“Oh dear,” said Mary, the morphine making it no more serious than a bun that had rolled off downhill.

“And Clive, at the same time.”

“ ‘What a shame,”’ said Mary, wondering if Hilda was dead too and then realizing that of course she couldn’t be, since here she was now. It was hard to keep up with who was and who wasn’t.

Hilda watched herself in the mirror. Softly at first and then rising to a piercing scream, the kettle finally boiled.

“Oh,” said Mary, who had forgotten.

Outside the kitchen window, the city tended to evening. Mary looked out and remembered there was a war. She made tea in the brown glazed pot, with leaves that had been used before. Oh, that’s right, thought Mary. I came out for tea.

Something had changed in the set of Hilda’s shoulders. The stiffness had come back to her neck. There was a brittle edge—in Hilda, and also in how Mary understood Hilda’s mood. Mary found it hard to explain to herself. The morphine had levels, visible from below but not from above.

Without taking her eyes from the mirror, Hilda said, “I expect I shall hate you, once this wears off.” Her own thought seemed to surprise her, and she followed it by saying, “Oh.”

Mary poured them each a cup, in which neither of them had the slightest interest, then set to work to redo Hilda’s bandages.

Hilda said, “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d been driving.’

“You know the ambulance was too much for me. I had to stop.”

“I only carried on because I thought you’d come back. You’ve taken it all from me now. Every man I ever liked, and now my looks.”

Mary fastened the bandage with a pin, though it spoiled the hairdo a bit. “I’ve tried to make it up to you for Alistair. You know I’ve stopped writing to him.”

“ ‘Well now you might as well. He won’t want me now. No one will.”

“You mustn’t say that.”

“But you must see it.”

“Please,” said Mary, not really knowing what she asked for.

Hilda said nothing. The wireless crackled and jived.

Mary finished off the bandage and pinned it. “It will heal, you know.”

“As if anything does.”

They snagged eyes in the mirror then, and Mary caught something bleaker than she could bear in Hilda’s face. The whole world was shattered, the pieces falling away from each other. The morphine was hardening as it cooled. Soon it would shatter too.

Outside, it was looking like dusk. “I should go,” said Mary. “The raids . . .”

Hilda emptied her handbag on the table. Lipstick and keys clattered out. Identity card, ration book, hat pins, a dozen syrettes of morphine.

“What are you doing?”

“If you care about me at all,” said Hilda, “take all these doses away.”

“Why?”

“Because you have to live with yourself.”

Mary tried to take Hilda’s hand, but Hilda wouldn’t let her. “Please . . .”

“Just go. Before this one wears off completely and I tell you what I think of you.”

Mary cast down her eyes. “I suppose you rather have.”

“Please go,” said Hilda. “I don’t think I can stand you anymore.”

Mary looked at the syrettes on the table, knowing she must leave them where they were but also that it was impossible. She picked up six of the doses, turned, and left the flat without speaking. The last she saw of Hilda was her slim back and the armored black curve of her hair.