"No, ma'am. Not me." A slight shake of the head, his gaze falling to the pavement. "You're mistaken. I beg your pardon."
It was him.
I waited, half-expecting him to suddenly look back at me from under his lashes and smile in the way that had touched me so strongly years ago. But he only shook his head slightly again and began to move around me.
"James, please."
He stepped off the pavement onto the street, making for the diagonal corner.
"Where are you going? Don't go pretending you've never seen me before!"
He hesitated slightly, as if weighing up his options, but then walked on with more determination.
"James! Why won't you speak to me? Tell me!"
I knew perfectly well why not. Or, at least I could guess. The same reason why so many former Tommies left their homes, families, never to return.
Embarrassment. Shame at the limbs they'd left behind in the Flanders' mud or the injuries they'd brought home with them that would never heal.
Especially the injuries invisible to the eye.
I looked to where James' right leg should have been, the weight now supported by a crutch. He'd had both his legs when I knew him. Long, slender legs that had stretched on for decades down into the hilly range of sheets crumpled at the end of my bed. I thanked God he hadn't lost both of them.
"Where are you sleeping now? Eating?" I said, following on his heels.
No answer. We were on Monmouth Street, on the edge of the slum that was Seven Dials. The coal-smoke laden air was thicker here than on Charing Cross Road, and there were more horse-drawn carts trotting past than automobiles.
I grasped around for something to say.
Perhaps if it had concerned one of the other recouping men who had been at Cloud Hill I could have accepted his decision, letting him hobble away and disappear into the maze of London's endless streets. But not James. Not one that I'd been so close to. He could walk away, but I wasn't going to stand there like a helpless child and watch him go.
"Were you issued a ration card? Do you still have it?"
No answer. Just his back as he tried to put more distance between us.
A few questioning glances were thrown our way, but there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about a fashionable woman in hat, heels and fur wrap badgering a ragged Tommy as he staggered down the road. Even here, people would have been far more likely to come to my aid than his.
"Is there a church hand-out you attend?"
Nothing. I hadn't expected him to greet me with open arms, but his silence was now severely starting to grate my nerves.
"I didn't take you for such a coward, James. Honestly, I didn't. That you could face mustard gas and machine guns, and yet turn tail and run from a woman you once said you loved. I didn't expect that from you."
Perhaps I said that a little too loudly, but it succeeded in halting him for a moment and that was all that mattered.
I quickly darted round him, and turned to look him in the face.
"Please, ma'am. Just let me leave."
He swallowed hard and looked away. I shattered into a thousand pieces, each one of them painfully tumbling to the ground right there and then.
I hadn't guessed he could still effect me so much.
"I can't," I said.
"I'm of no use now. Thank you for your kindness, but. . ."
All the world was walking past us, going about their business, and here we were locked in a battle of wills. We were alone in our own small bubble of time, the clatter of the horses' hooves and the rumbling of the vehicles, the shouts and calls of people on the street faded into a murmur like the distant sound of crickets in the dusk.
Before I had a moment to think about it, my mouth opened and I said, "Come with me back to Cloud Hill."
"What? How, ma'am?"
"Stop calling me ma'am. Or have you forgotten my name? Simply say if you've forgotten."
He shook his head. Then after a few moments, he whispered, "Olivia, please. Just walk away and pretend you never saw me."
"But I did see you. Come with me. Come back home with me to Cloud Hill and get yourself seen to."
"I'm not a whole man anymore, Olivia. Just look at me! Why would you waste even ––"
"That's not important. What is important is you getting a hot meal, some peace and quiet, and if you don't mind me saying so, a good scrub. You're simply filthy, James! I feel as if I might be contracting lice at this very moment."
A glimmer of a smile caused his thin, hollowed-out face to soften for a moment. But then he shook his head again.
"It's been too long."
"Nonsense."
"I can't take up room in your home. The war's over, I can't ––"
"And I said nonsense. Cloud Hill is always open to you. To any man who needs it, in fact. I've kept the facilities open."
He looked at me for longer this time. I couldn't believe I had the same man I'd known five years ago standing in front of me again. He only barely still looked like the James I knew.
In my memory, I held the image of a smiling, tender young lad, willing and full of life. Now I found myself looking into the eyes of a man aged beyond his years who had seen more than I could imagine. A man who had been demobbed and sent home, but who obviously had not yet been able to climb his way out of the nightmare of the trenches.
James looked over my head into the distance and set his jaw firmly. "I'm in no need of charity. I can perfectly well -- "
"You can what? Doss in the streets and be woken by a bobby's truncheon? Don't treat me like fool, James. I can tell when a man needs help and when he doesn't. "
He bit his lower lip and looked about, clearly attempting to work out the best way to escape this situation. Escape me.
I decided to beat him to it.
"Let me see, now. You aren't a child. You don't need a mother. You can fend for yourself. You'll survive somehow! You won't starve to death, there are plenty of people to steal from. You won't contract pneumonia or tuberculosis and cough your last completely alone in an alley before you're twenty-six. You'll be just fine! You'll find a job and have your hand in the till in no time! Find a comfortable place to live. Perhaps even a lady friend, won't that be nice! You'll trundle your way out of the mess you're in all by yourself, thank you." I waved my hand in a nonchalant manner, mimicking someone who couldn't be bothered. "Now, take your rich, condescending arse packing, Olivia. I've got no time for you. I've got pockets to pick."
Good heavens. He looked as if I'd slapped him. Perhaps I had. Drive one more nail in, Olivia. Come on, you can do it. It's for his own good.
"Get packing, even though I know you're my last real chance. And because out of all of these people..." I gestured vaguely at the world rushing past us, "...you're not a complete stranger to me. You're one who will truly care what happens to me."
He lowered his eyes again to the paving stones, as if there was some answer waiting down there to be read off.
"I've had to steal. I didn't have a choice."
"I know."
He looked up at me, those storm-cloud eyes raging again. "Do you? Do you really? Have you any idea what it's been like for me since...since..."
"I won't pretend I know what you've been through, James, but I can guess. You aren't much different from hundreds of other men. Some of which are at Cloud Hill now. Come with me. Please. If only for a few days. Get your strength back. "
"The past is the past. Forget you ever knew me," he said, drawing a deep breath. "Forget we ever knew each other like we did. It's too --"
"No. No, no and no again. A few days, James. A week at most." I crossed my fingers when I said that, knowing it to be a lie. He'd need much longer than a week. "You are in a horrible state. Forget your damn pride for a few days and allow someone to help you."
After a bit more hammering, I managed to wring a form of reticent agreement out of him. His return to Cloud Hill would only be temporary. He would work for his stay. And I was not to give him any special treatment.
Oh, dear. How did he imagine that was possible?