‘How’s Pa?’ I asked.

Suddenly she was crying. Weeping into her hands. I lifted my arm to caress her head. But she moved. Brushing her nose on her sleeve, she’d never know I was trying to comfort. Thought it an innocent question. Except she walked the room demented.

‘Oh, Bernard. I wrote to you . . .’

Letters went astray. Part of many chaps’ grievances. We moved so much, you see. In India, it could take months for a letter to catch up with our RSU. Some never made it. Misunderstandings passing unknown in the post. Silly question (I know), hardly worth asking, but I did. ‘Has something happened to him?’

‘Bernard, you’ve been away such a long time . . .’

Who could doubt I owed Queenie an explanation? But describe snow to someone who’s lived only in the desert. Depict the colour blue for a blind man. Almost impossible to fashion the words. How to begin to tell? It had been over two years since my ship docked back at Southampton. A long time, I admit, to get from there to here. After demob, I’d made my way to Brighton. Found lodgings in a seaside boarding-house. Just a room. Landlady was called Mrs Joy Bliss. Miserable woman. But discreet. Or, at least, too ungracious to ask many questions. I just came and went as I pleased.

England had shrunk. It was smaller than the place I’d left. Streets, shops, houses bore down like crowds, stifling even the feeble light that got through. I had to stare out at the sea just to catch a breath. And behind every face I saw were trapped the rememberings of war. Guarded by a smile. Shrouded in a frown. But everyone had them. Private conflicts. Scarring where touched. No point dwelling on your own pitiful story. Chap next to you was worse off. The man over there far more tragic. Silence was the only balm that healed.

I never doubted I was doing the right thing. Even on days when the longing for familiar was as substantial as hunger. To lie with Queenie. To sit with Pa. To gaze on objects that communed in memories. I had no idea how long the awful disease would take to claim me. No thought of doctors or cures. Shame saw to that. My only worry was that I would lose my mind. Do something rash without sanity’s firm hand.

But in waiting to die I felt fit. Found employment, cleaning tables in a café. Kept my head down, had a job to do, just got on with it. Proprietor, rather dim fellow, needed a hand with his bookkeeping. He was tickled pink when his worthless waiter turned out to be useful. I helped him out. He told all his chums. Soon I had a few of them calling on my services. Became quite a little business. All very informal but regular. I stopped being a waiter. Double-entry bookkeeping earned me enough for board and lodging.

I found Maxi’s house, of course. Up near the station. A modest house. Painted pale blue, its bow-front window hung with thick yellowing nets. I walked his street often, my footsteps marking the pavement where Maxi’s should have been going about their business. Rushing to work. A pint or two in the pub. A game of football in the park. Or cricket. Maybe even church with his family on Sunday.

There was a graveyard nearby. I sat on the bench there. Saw his two sons coming out from the house. His wife tying a headscarf against the wind, calling for the boys to wait. Them, boisterous, running up the street. Clambering up walls to walk balancing along their length. As the younger one passed me he dropped his model car. I picked it up for him. Got a faint smile. Little chap staring at me. Spit of his father. A natural successor. He grabbed the car from my hand and ran. Maxi had never seen this younger son. I felt like a thief, stealing a sight that should have been his.

They soon got used to seeing me sitting in the graveyard. His wife would nod to me. Some days she’d raise up her brown eyes to say, ‘Lovely day.’ Attractive woman, her black hair always hidden by scarves. Short. Not much taller than the elder boy. I only spoke to her in polite greeting. Silly, I know, but I was anxious not to befriend, just to watch over. I never told them I knew Maxi. Scared she’d ask the unanswerable. Want to know what befell us all out east. With the war over, even the truth seemed sordid. Loving memory was the best resting place for George Maximillian.

It was Mrs Bliss who called the doctor. My temperature raged, sweating my sheets sodden as freshly used bath towels. I could feel every bone in my body. Even the smallest of them ached. Any movement – to roll in the bed, even to blink an eye – felt impossibly exhausting. I told her not to bother but she brushed me off with a ‘Nonsense.’ Couldn’t blame her. Must have been a pitiful sight.

The doctor, after examining me, said flu. I pulled him to one side. Out of the keen hearing of Mrs Bliss. Whispered, ‘Afraid it’s considerably more than just flu.’ Got the landlady to leave us before I told him, ‘It’s syphilis.’

‘Syphilis?’ he repeated. Quite unsettled.

‘Picked it up in India.’ He wanted to know why I thought it was syphilis. Told him of the indiscretion and the disgusting pustule. ‘How long did this boil last?’ he asked.

‘A week, maybe two.’

I detected a certain distaste as he said, ‘And?’

I didn’t quite understand.

‘And what other symptoms?’

‘And this, Doctor . . . this . . . flu.’

‘Right,’ he said. He began writing notes. Checked for something in his bag while asking, ‘How long have you been back from India?’

‘Two years,’ I said.

He stopped. Turned slowly to face me again. ‘Two years?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mean it’s been two years since you noticed this lesion on your private parts? Two years since the . . . indiscretion?’

Hesitated my next yes. Sensed that answer might be wrong.

He began folding his book away. Said tersely, ‘Flu – like I said, Mr Bligh.’

‘But . . . India . . .’

‘I can do you a WR test if you want – put your mind at rest. But you’ll be wasting everyone’s time. Two years! You should be mad or dead by now. No. Flu. That’s what you have, Mr Bligh. Wretched, horrible flu. But it needs to be taken care of. I’ll talk to your landlady on the way out.’

‘Are you sure?’ I called after him.

‘Flu, Mr Bligh. Trust me. Flu. You’ll be fit as a fiddle in a couple of days.’

And I was.

Wasn’t even a miracle. I never had that awful disease. The pustule had probably been picked up from some straying insect after all. Or something gone septic. Nothing to do with that little madness in India. There was no one to tell of my silly error, of course. ‘Feeling better now?’ was all Mrs Bliss could ask.

‘Much,’ was all I could reply. Should have been a relief, I know. A return from the dead. But I had to admit there was release in imminent mortality – it had me transient, a bystander. Now unexpectedly to have my life back. Laundered fresh by a war. Ready to start again. To be thrown back among them. Suddenly to realise this war-torn England before me was now my welcome home. Good God!

Maxi’s family moved away. The yellowing curtains were gone. The house empty. The neighbours were useless, looking at me suspiciously. Why was I interested in where they had gone? Who was I to them? I had to walk away. I didn’t make a decision to go back to London, just found myself on a train. If it was sleepwalking, I soon woke up at the corner of our street. Hard to believe this had been my home for most of my life. Nothing was familiar. Had it always looked so exhausted? So friable? Buildings decaying and run down. Rotting sashes. Cracked plaster. Obscene gaps where houses once stood. I came a few more times, each visit less startling than the last.

I hoped to be discovered (I admit). Pa running to greet. Queenie laughing with relieved joy. Got closer and closer. But still approached as a stranger.

It was the darkie woman I saw first. What a sight! On our street. Never seen that before. I was dumbfounded to see that the white woman she accompanied was Queenie. What was going on? I was standing over them before I knew it. Then back in our parlour before I’d considered.