“So you’re Andrew Raynes,” said Ralph, and held out his hand.  “Ralph Lanyon.”  Whatever he might have been thinking behind the slight smile on his firm lips, no one could possibly have known—except Laurie, of course, who was all too well aware of the situation.  It was an awkward place for the three of them to meet: just in the hall outside the ward.  Five minutes later, Andrew would have headed back to get the return bus to the E.M.S. hospital, and they would have comfortably missed this encounter.

Andrew looked utterly taken aback.  “You’re Lanyon?” he asked, in obvious surprise, and then recovered himself enough to add, “Laurie’s told me a lot about you,” and shake hands.

“He has to catch a bus,” said Laurie hastily.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” said Andrew.  “But I simply had to find someone to swap duty with me so that I could tell Laurie of my transfer in person.”

“It would be good to talk more,” said Laurie, lying shamelessly in fear of a confrontation between the others, “but we don’t want you crimed on your last day.”

“Oh, as to that,” said Andrew, with a faint humour, “I suppose the Major might ring up Dave to complain; but I doubt if he could do much more to me … given the circumstances.”

“Still, there’s no point in courting trouble,” said Ralph.  Helpfully, he added, “Of course, the two of you want to talk.  I can surely run you back faster than the bus.  So you see, you can afford another half an hour or so.”  He looked at Laurie, hesitant in the hospital hallway.  “No one’s seen you yet,” said Ralph with sudden vigour.  With a glance over his shoulder at the door to the ward, he took brisk charge and had them back down the hall and through the door to the stairs touter de suiter.  After that, they had to keep to Laurie’s slow downward pace; but, in what seemed remarkably short time, were out on the street and heading towards the flat.

“So … you’re leaving the hospital?” said Ralph, making conversation while they walked.

“Yes, for London.”

This elicited a sharp sidewards glance.  London was, right now, something of a hot spot.  “What will you be doing there?”

“Ambulance service,” said Andrew tersely.

“Good for you,” said Ralph, a tad overheartily to Laurie’s ear; but, given his knowledge of Ralph’s opinion of conchie orderlies, he thought he detected a note of surprised approval.

Andrew did not respond.  It was, thought Laurie, an awkward situation all round, what with one thing and another.  What exactly was one supposed to say at a time like this?

“Where will you be staying?” asked Ralph.

“I’m not sure exactly,” Andrew responded.  “I’ve been given an address to report to.”  He added, “The unit’s mostly Friends, I believe.  There’s probably a hostel, or something like that.”

There was a pub where sometimes, on their walks, they would stop in for a pint and a chat with the regulars.  For one horrified moment as they turned into the street and he saw the sign swinging ahead, Laurie thought that Ralph intended them to go there to talk.  However, the suggestion did not come; they passed in silence; and he realized, belatedly, that Ralph was all too aware that the three of them might have more to say to each other than could safely be discussed in any public setting save the sort of queers’ club he abhored.  Shortly thereafter, they turned in at the now-familiar door to the house where Ralph had his digs.

“First floor,” said Ralph for Andrew’s benefit.  The stairs were as steep as ever; and Laurie toiled up behind.  He came into the rented room with its tapestry chairs and velvet drapes to see it with a new eye—Andrew’s eye—and wonder whether the awful surroundings would be taken to be Ralph’s personal taste.  Indeed, Andrew was looking around, clearly uncertain of his welcome.

“Sit down, sit down,” said Ralph, with a gesture to the chairs.  Then he bent to an over-ornate Victorian sideboard from which he produced a half-full bottle of whiskey.  “Would you like a drink?”

“No, I think not,” said Andrew, with a distracted politeness, “I can’t stay, you know.”

Ralph stood, bottle in hand, hospitality rejected, and then said, “Well, I know I could do with one, how about you, Laurie?” and fetched out two tumblers, pouring generously without waiting for a response.

Awkwardly, Laurie lowered himself into one of the chairs.  Andrew hesitated, for there were only two of the overstuffed monstrosities.  Then, as Ralph gestured again, he finally took the other chair.  Ralph leaned down to hand Laurie his drink, and then stood by the sideboard, sipping his own.

“So, you’re Laurie’s friend,” Andrew began.

“Yes, you know that,” said Ralph.  He’s going to make this as difficult as he can, thought Laurie.

“You see, I thought you were someone different.”

What? Laurie was bewildered.  He looked at Ralph, and realized instantly that he could make no more of this than he did himself.

“No. I’m me,” said Ralph, after a moment.  He added, drily, “Never been anyone else, far as I know.”

Andrew flushed.  “No, I mean—”  He stopped.  “I’m sorry, this doesn’t make any sense, I know.  I’m sorry ….”

“You said that.”

Even to Andrew, it was clear by now that Ralph was suppressing anger.  Laurie, who thought he knew more, believed he understood why:  Andrew must surely realize that such a curious accusation would rankle.

There was a long and painful pause.  Then Andrew muttered desperately under his breath, “Oh, I think I could do with that drink!”

Silently, Laurie handed over his own.  Andrew looked at it almost in bewilderment, then lifted it and took a sip.  He choked, gasped, swallowed; and then took another.  Looking down at the glass, he muttered, “I met a man.  He came to the hospital.  He said he was you.”

Laurie could not quite grasp what they were being told.

Ralph straightened.  His eye keen on Andrew, he reached behind him without looking to place his glass on top of the sideboard.  “What do you mean?” he said sharply.

Andrew looked up and met his eyes.  “I met a man.  He came to the hospital.  He was dressed in navy uniform, with a lieutenant’s insignia, and I assumed he was you.  He said he was:  he didn’t deny it.”

“The man you hit?” said Laurie softly, for Andrew had already mentioned this to him when they had first met in town.

Andrew nodded guiltily.

“You hit him?” said Ralph quietly.  “Well, obviously you didn’t hit me!”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Andrew, with a sudden snap to his voice.  “You aren’t him—obviously, as you say—you are some other man entirely.  And clearly since you are Ralph Lanyon, it follows that he is someone else.  I don’t know who; but I’m not stupid!”

Ralph shook his head.  “No, I didn’t think you were being stupid.  I was just—”  He broke off. “Sorry.”

“Perhaps you know who it was,” Andrew said.  “Rather a good-looking chap,” he added, the words embarrassing him.  “On the tall side, dark hair?”

Laurie’s eyes met Ralph’s.  “Rather more than good-looking?” he asked, suggestively.  “Because … I think there might be someone.”

“Well,” said Andrew, again flushing, “yes, I suppose one might put it that way.  Like a Hollywood movie star, I suppose.  Certainly, he had that sort of certainty about him—a bit of a swagger, almost.”

“Yes,” said Ralph calmly.  He reached out without looking, and picked up his glass with a feigned casualness.  “Yes, I think I might know somone who’d fit that description more or less.”

There was a puzzled pause.  “Why would he do that?” asked Andrew finally.  “It seems such a strange way to behave.”

“Oh, I doubt if it really had anything much to do with you,” said Ralph wrily.  “More about me, I should think.”

Andrew glanced at Laurie, flushed a deeper red, took a deep breath, and bit the bullet.  “He said things.  About the two of you, I suppose (though he made it sound as though it were Laurie and him, of course).  He said … well, he was trying to make me angry, you see ….”

“If you hit him, I suppose he succeeded,” said Ralph calmly.  “Go on.”

“He said things about the two of you,” said Andrew.  “I honestly don’t think I can repeat them.”

“Oh, they’re probably true,” said Ralph, and there was a wicked twinkle in his eye.

Laurie began to wonder just how red poor Andrew could turn.  He took some pity on him and broke in, “Up to a point, true, anyway.  We are close, Ralph and I.”

Andrew breathed deeply for a while.  Laurie thought, bad enough if it were just the two of us talking, but he has to discuss it with a stranger—and one of whom, deep down, he is jealous as hell, even if he hardly is aware of that himself yet.

“I’m going to London tomorrow,” Andrew said finally.  Then he bit his lip and added, “And you’re not, either of you.”

Not so much a knife in the heart, thought Laurie, as having it extracted from one’s chest with a corkscrew.

Ralph looked down at him with an almost avuncular expression, and then unbent enough to suggest kindly that Andrew should perhaps finish his drink.  The boy looked at it with a faint shudder, as if it were a cup of cold poison, and then downed it in a gulp.

For a moment, Laurie had the horrible feeling that it might all come straight back up again.  “Ralph!” he protested.  “He has to return to the hospital in—”  He glanced at his watch.  “No more than a few minutes; and, even taking into account the time it’ll take you to drive him, you don’t want him to turn up there blotto!”  He turned to Andrew.  “You all right?”

Andrew nodded, silently, lips pressed tight.

“I’ll get the car,” said Ralph.  He left his glass on the sideboard and went quickly out; and Laurie could hear the light clatter of his heels on the stairs, and then the sound of the front door.  There was a prolonged and difficult silence.  They had already said good-byes outside the ward before Ralph had turned up:  what more could be said that would not take far too long?

“Write,” he urged Andrew finally.  “I’ll get your address and write you.  We must keep in touch.”

“Must we?” asked Andrew painfully.

“Don’t you feel that?”

“I don’t know what I feel.”  Andrew sighed.  “I thought I did, last week … last month ….  It was all so simple:  we were friends.  Now …?”  He shook his head.  “I hit that man, Laurie.  I hit him, hard—hard as I could—and I wanted to.”  Very low, he added, “I wanted to kill him.”

There was an audible rattle of a motor in the street, which stopped just below.

“That will be Ralph,” said Andrew.  He got up.  Outside, the car door slammed.  “I’ve got to go,” he said.  “No, don’t get up,” he added quickly, as Laurie began struggling to his feet.  “Yes, I’ll write, if it means so much to you.”  Laurie sat back in some relief.  “It means that much to me, too,” Andrew admitted.  “Why I care—and how I care—is something I have to work out for myself.”

Laurie looked up, inwardly cursing the leg that made it impossible to leap up and look Andrew straight in the eye.  The door to the house opened, and there were footsteps.

“Are you still going up to Oxford?” asked Andrew.  “Should I write you at your college?”

“Of course,” said Laurie.  Then he hesitated.  “Take care,” he added.  “In London, with the Blitz and all that.”

Andrew smiled.  “In so far as one can at a time like this, yes I will.  And I shall write, I promise.”

“Mind the censor,” was all Laurie could think to say.

Andrew looked startled, and then nodded.   “And Ralph?” he asked, uncertainly.  “What of Ralph?”

“That’s a whole other thing,” Laurie declared.  “Nothing to do with you.”

Andrew almost smiled.  “Even I’m not that naïve,” he chided.  “What do you take me for?  Some sort of mid-Victorian virgin?”

Continued in “Long is the way and hard”

Fan Fiction based on Mary Renault”s Novels
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