‘You lasted because you were able to,’ Emily told her, frowning. ‘I only . . . I was nothing special.’
‘I only know that I was scared to death the whole time, and it was you that got me through,’ Caxton said. ‘I’m not the only one. We all think so – all of us in Rabbit.’
Emily didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Well . . . thank you. I . . . That’s quite something to think about, Caxton.’
‘Ruth, please.’
‘Ruth,’ Emily confirmed. ‘You were a good second. I should tell you that. I knew I could rely on you.’ The train had shuddered to a halt by then, soldiers already lining up to step out. ‘Back to tailoring, is it?’
‘To whatever needs doing,’ Ruth Caxton said. ‘A lot of things got left unfinished when the draft came through. Someone still has to do them.’
And she left, with Emily concluding that this was a different woman, a wholly different woman, from the pale conscript she had first known.
Five stops along the line, she helped Tubal off onto some tiny station platform, some little village she never knew the name of. Brocky and Scavian were continuing on, but Tubal and Emily would be catching the Chalcaster train from here.
‘For my part, I’m bloody glad it’s over. I’ll be putting it all behind me. There’ll be work for a skilled dispenser,’ Brocky explained. ‘Damn and bugger the soldiering lark, I say.’
‘Good luck, Brocky,’ said Tubal.
‘And am I welcome at Grammy, or whatever the place is called? Only everyone else has had an invitation.’
‘Of course you are,’ Emily assured him.
‘Not that I’ll come. Far too busy, you’ll see.’ He shook both of their hands briefly, obviously feeling awkward, and withdrew back into the carriage, leaving Scavian alone in the doorway. They could hear the train stoking up, ready to move.
‘Be well, Giles,’ she told him. ‘Come visit soon. And don’t worry, I’ll – we’ll be there if you need us.’
Scavian smiled, but it was one of pain. ‘This isn’t over, Emily, I can feel it. There is worse, worse to come.’ He embraced her, hugged her tightly to him, and she put her arms about him, seeking his strength and warmth. Neither wanted to be the first to let go. It was only when the carriage floor shuddered under his feet that he allowed himself to loosen his grip, and even when the train moved off they touched hands until he was pulled away.
‘You could do worse,’ Tubal told her, smiling at first, but then he saw her face, and hopped forward to hold her close, crutches bundled awkwardly between them.
They sat there on the platform for what seemed the best part of an afternoon. Emily eventually found someone willing to sell them some hard bread and cheese, but at prices that did not bode well for the future. Then they sat gnawing reflectively, along with the two hundred or so other soldiers in the same position.
Eventually the next train hauled itself in and they embarked, tired and homesick, and caught between worlds.
*
That night, as Tubal managed an uneasy sleep, Emily went looking for other insomniacs. How like the journey to the front, she thought. The nervous energy that kept her from sleeping then had been fear of the war. What was it now? Fear of the peace? Of what she might find when she got home? She had received no word for a long time. Wars had been won and lost in the interim.
She found a band of soldiers playing cards and elbowed her way into their circle with a display of rank and assurance. She had wondered if, after Tubal, she held the highest rank on the train, but one of the men turned a major’s badge towards her along with his broken-toothed smile as he dealt her in.
She told them who she was, and the man’s eyebrows leapt up.
‘God, I’ve heard of you!’ he got out, his voice a little slurred through his ruined teeth. ‘You’re the one they couldn’t beat.’
She felt herself blushing for the first time in a long, long while. ‘It wasn’t like that. That’s just . . . the war overtook us, is all.’
‘That’s not what they say,’ the major replied. ‘Damn it, I heard this from the Denlanders themselves. They’ve no reason to build you up.’
I gave them a war that did not end in blood, she thought, but spared her companions the details, only shrugging and deflecting them with, ‘You’re from the Couchant?’