On his third visit to what he’d told Rosemary was a “special submarine update” school at Oxford, Robert Brentwood was informed by the specialists at the radiation medicine lab that the initial diagnosis was confirmed — he had indeed received above-acceptable levels of radiation.
“Am I dying?” he asked the doctor simply.
“We’re all dying, old chap.”
“Come on, Doc.”
“Truth is, we never know for sure. In a case like yours, I’d say—” the doctor shrugged “—fifty-fifty. We can speculate, predict, all we want, but there are other factors: will to live, fitness, individual metabolism…”
“Even in a case of radioactive poisoning?”
“Oh yes, though it’s not generally recognized.” He gave a warm, cheeky smile. “Sounds a bit too mystical for most M.D.s, you see. Difficult stuff to measure.”
The day of the third visit, as he strolled back from the radiation lab through Oxford’s rain-polished streets, the golden spires of the ancient university caught the wintry sun with such brilliance that only nostalgia and hope seemed permissible at that moment. He was shocked to find Rosemary waiting at the station. One look told him she knew where he’d been — her lips aquiver, though she was trying to be brave. She was wearing a scarf, the same one she’d been wearing when they had first met — a light pastel green covered with the wildflowers of an English spring. They held one another before either spoke.
“How long?” she asked finally.
“They don’t know. No one does.”
She didn’t go on at him about why he hadn’t told her. She knew his motive, though she might not agree with it, came from all the old-fashioned virtues of a silent service.
“You’d have nothing to worry about anyway,” he told her. “You and the bairn.” As usual, his Scottish accent was atrocious to her ears, but she felt his love all around her like a warm embrace on a wintry day.
“Anyway,” he hurried on, “I’ll be here to see the boy—”
She was in tears, as they stood hand in hand on the platform.
“Oh—” she said bravely, “what makes you think it’s a boy?”
“Or a lassie,” he said, and he stopped, turning her to him. “Rose. Let’s not be sad. I see the glass half-full, not half-empty.” She sobbed uncontrollably, told him she loved him and that there’d never be another man for her, and he held her tightly and prayed there would be if he went before his time— whenever that might be.
On the train back, the peaceful winter countryside rocking gently outside, he went to the bar and ordered a double gin and tonic for her, the British Rail attendant astonished, proclaiming, “A double? You’d be bloody lucky, mate. Been a war on, you know.”
“Ah — yes,” said Robert. “Then — I’ll just have the single.” He left a hefty tip, not really thinking what he was doing.
“Oh, ta very much,” said the attendant, suddenly solicitous of the American’s well-being. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar, sir.”
Rosemary refused the single gin and tonic, said she didn’t want to do anything that might harm the baby. “Have it yourself,” she said.
He did, and looking out at the land flashing by, the smell of frozen earth thawing, he felt so glad to be alive to feel and see and touch the world about him. It was like a longing fulfilled, and he was sure that what he was feeling at this very moment was what it must be like for Rosemary to feel the warmth of a life, his life, theirs, growing inside her.
“It’s going to be a boy,” he said.
“A girl,” she contradicted, snuggling into him.
“You’ve cheated,” he said, looking down at her with mock accusation. “You had a sonogram—”
“Ultrasound,” she said.
“Yes.”
“No. I don’t know, but my pulse is faster and—”
“Ah—” said Robert. “Superstitions. Anyway, I don’t care. As long as she, or he, joins the navy.”
“Or becomes a teacher,” she countered. “No — really, whatever they decide.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Robert—”
“Now, now,” he said. “No tears. Silent running.”