An Expectation

9

July first dawned muggy and miserable at the Abbot house, but Lewis was elated that morning. He sat on his bed being examined by a doctor, with Marion standing by the bed. The old man stood up and smiled. "You're ready."

"Ready to be discharged?"

The doctor nodded at Lewis. "Yes, I think you've healed plenty. The sight in your left eye will never return, nor will your arm-" Lewis and Marion chuckled- "but your burns have healed and as long as you don't endanger yourself too much, will scar fairly minimally."

With a grin, Lewis reached out and shook the doctor's hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course. Where do you call home?" 

Lewis shifted himself by swinging his legs up onto the bed and pushing himself back to lean on his pillows. "Watford."

The doctor straightened up and grabbed his bag. "I've got a cousin who married a bloke from Watford. Never been, though." He turned his gaze to Marion. "I say he can leave tomorrow if he wishes, but if you need more time to continue getting him back into shape I understand. Don't keep him more than a week, though."

"How out of shape is he, sir?"

Lewis didn't like how the two acted like he wasn't even there. He stared at the wall, trying to picture his hometown- it had been more than a year since he'd been home, after all.

The doctor shook his head. "He's been here how long? Four months? That's not enough time to recuperate. How long were you in the field hospital?" he asked Lewis.

"Not long. Four weeks? Can't quite recall."

"Five months is not enough time to fully adjust to what Mr. Miller has suffered, and he is still fairly weak, but he'll do fine as long as he doesn't overexert himself."

"Thank you, doctor," replied Marion as the man walked towards the door. "I'll show you out."

Lewis watched them leave the room, and he sighed.

"I want to go home," he mumbled to himself - a habit he'd begun since Stewart left and there was no one to talk to. "Don't I?" The joy had dissipated into something else. A longing. Melancholy. 

Why?

He was going to miss this old house, with its huge gardens and blue sky. Open space that didn't carry the threat of minefields, villages that weren't blown to bits by the guns that still haunted him at night. He was going to miss having all the other young men that knew exactly what he was going through. He was going to miss writing funny little stories and giving them to Marion to giggle at.

And, of course, he was going to miss Marion, like some stupid old sap from a novel his sisters liked.

*****

Nora Bellamy hurried through the moonlit hall towards Mrs. Abbot's room, clutching a robe around her nightgown. Though it must have been long past midnight, a sliver of light peeped out from beneath the door. 

"Mrs. Abbot?" she whispered, knocking quietly on the door with two knuckles.

"Who is it?" came the startled reply. 

"Nurse Bellamy." She drew a deep breath. "I'm in charge of the care of your son."

Immediately the door was opened to show Mrs. Abbot, frantic, in her nightgown. "Is something wrong?" 

Nurse Bellamy hesitated. 

"Tell me, child!"

The nurse bit her lip. "I haven't got the foggiest clue as to why," she began slowly, unsure of how to word her statement, "but for some reason Private Abbot's illness has gotten worse."

Mrs. Abbot grabbed the nurse's arm. "Show me, right now."

Nurse Bellamy nodded. "Of course, ma'am."

*****

A lowly peasant girl opened the door to her cottage and looked at the grand castle in the distance. "Oh," she sighed, and thought to herself, "I want only once to go inside that castle, and see if it is as beautiful on the inside as it is outside."

So she decided she was going to go to the castle, and find some way to gain a glimpse through a window. The girl put on her nicest dress and filled her basket with wildflowers to sell in town, and she set off for the city. 

But as she went forward, the delicate wildflowers started to droop in the sun, and her feet grew sore. She pressed on, still seeing the castle, but every time she saw it, it got grander- its colours more bright, its towers taller, and its gardens larger. She threw out the worst of the flowers and searched for more to pick along the way, but found none.

Just before the long road met the city walls, the peasant girl came across a whole field of flowers. Seeing that almost all of her flowers from home had dried and turned brown, she ran towards the field and plucked handfuls of the blooms in every colour- pink, blue, white, red, and purple.

Before she could leave, a man's hand clapped on her shoulder. "Those are my flowers," came a voice. "It is against the law to pluck them."

No amount of cries could sway the man. The girl tried to explain that she did not know and that she had never been to the city before, but to no avail.

He took her to a big, dull, stone building just inside the city gates, where she stood before a harsh- looking man on a chair. 

"She was stealing the flowers from the royal garden," said her captor. "Stealing is a terrible offence."

"I agree, said the man. "Put her in the dungeon."

"No!" cried the girl. "I wished only to come to the city, and see the castle."

The two men laughed. "Ah, my dear," said the man on the throne, "you have reached it."

Marion put down the paper.

"What do you think?" asked James, eagerly.

"To be frank, it was a rather disheartening story," admitted Marion. "Why did it end there? And so sadly?"

James shrugged. "I'm sorry. It just felt more realistic than happy endings."

"Oh, no! You've nothing to be sorry of," she rushed, grabbing his hand. "I shouldn't upset you anyways. You're weak."

"No, I'm not," he replied, then becan to cough violently.

She held him upright until the coughing passed. "I'm going to let you be now," she said, laying him onto the pillows. "Get some sleep, love."

"Love?" he teased, eyes fluttering shut.

She blushed. "I call everyone that."

And without another word, she left, closing the door behind her.

Upon reaching her room, she noticed a note lying on her bed, addressed to Nurse Marion. She unfolded the little scrap.

I think I grew to love you while I was here. Write me, won't you, love?

-Lewis Abbot, 2 Duke Street, Watford.