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Unspeakable, that’s what they were. The ‘unspeakable love’ of a bygone era, because what they’d seen truly was unspeakable. They had found, upon returning to England, being evaluated for shell shock, being treated for it, that there was some ‘unspeakable bond’ between them and it didn’t have a name. It had a name to the woman in the corner shop who would smile as one does to a helpless child. It had a name to the older gentleman in the prefab next to theirs who would scowl when he saw them in the street. But to them it was about as placeable as their memories, which they preferred to keep as faded as they were. There were already too many nightmares between them.
They’d had less than a month of written correspondence with ‘Crumpet’ as they so lovingly continued to call her, and in that time not one of the three of them had been ‘in their right minds’ — it’s hard to tell if either of the two of them left still were. Even in that correspondence they’d only met once, chain-smoking in her flat, and plenty more than just ‘a minute’s silence’ for Robbie Turner.
Cecilia tended to stare into his last letter, and Nettle and Mace both dared not interrupt. They didn’t join her gaze, that letter was between her and Robbie, they both thought. What they had left was the name tag ripped from his uniform, which they also gave to her, and a scrap of camo cloth each.
They almost hadn’t left, when the sergeant came to rouse them and board them all on the miracle ship that arrived in early morning, and they’d spent that awful minute trying to wake a cold body before Nettle had pressed his fingers to Turner’s neck and fallen pale. They’d seen the horrors he had and had stronger stomachs, but this was the one horror they fell victim to. A vaporised Belgian mother and child, a leg in a tree, a dead friend. War hadn’t prepared them as much as they thought.
Cecilia had known within an instant, what with her probationers training, and yet they still couldn’t pronounce the word. Or perhaps they hadn’t tried very hard. ‘Septicaemia.’ The only word the three of them could think in that smoked up room, as if they were trying to gas themselves out. Perhaps they were.
And then there were two. Nettle and Mace, Mace and Nettle. In a shoddy prefab house they managed to snag upon Attlee’s election, but it was more than they’d had during the war, and that was the general feeling. Neither of them tended to acknowledge their life anymore — certainly not to analyse it in any way or another — which is exactly why they didn’t give it a name. It was just the unspeakable bond, so unspeakable they never even mentioned it being there. Nettle didn’t think too much of it, and Mace didn’t ever say much now; little more than a grumbling comment on the state of rationing, but then a sighed complaint when the conservative leaflets got posted through the door. Nettle was the one to speak consistently now, and even he only mentioned the war in letter form to the ever-curious Mrs Briony Tallis. He only ever remembered her by her maiden name, and that was down to her elder sister, not herself. He gave her information for the sake of mental exercise, but never pushed so far as to uncover the memories his mind had stored away.
Whilst Mace remained brooding and quiet, as imposing as he’d ever been, Nettle became the one to balance him. That’s what they could call it, if anything. They balanced each other out in a way anyone else would struggle to. They were unloveable. Damaged goods to anyone but themselves and, in a way they hadn’t anticipated, each other. It was simple things at first; the house together, well neither of them had any form of substantial funds after everything. It then made sense for only one of them to do the rationing runs, most often Nettle (Mace was used sparingly for intimidation after a nasty encounter at the butchers). Of course then, with little cooking experience between both of them, that became dual-handed most nights, going from a few potatoes bordering on raw with overcooked vegetables, to the best spread they could manage on meagre ingredients.
A cup of watered down coffee in the morning, the window thrown open to hear the sounds of life, because anyone would miss it after that long. They’d take it in turns to make it and bring it upstairs to their double bed — because why waste the money on two singles? They’d be sharing the bedroom either way. One bed, one bath, probably made from the next-door-neighbour of cardboard, that was the nature of the wonder-fix ‘prefabricated houses’ shipped over and slotted together like a kids play set. ‘Better than the 30’s’ was the general reception. Briony, Cecilia, even Robbie didn’t know what they’d got in the 30’s; but Nettle and Mace never held it against them. They’d all suffered the same in the war.
So it became a little ritual, ‘brotherly camaraderie’ never really questioned, even as they both knew deep down it couldn’t be called that. Especially on cold nights, the measly space heater cranked up full, when they found that sometimes multiple layers didn’t cut it as much as just lying a little closer together, just a little, just enough.
It didn’t have a name, it was unspeakable, and that’s what made it right, and theirs.