The Man in the Blue Suit

Monica stepped onto the verandah, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The fireworks had just gone off to celebrate the New Year of 1922. For a moment, the explosions had returned her to her nursing days at the front lines and her heart was still pounding. She pulled her wrap around her, shivering in the frosty air. The older guests had departed. Inside the house, her sister Dalia was rolling back the carpet with the assistance of her friends and cranking up the gramophone. Soon the frenetic strains of ragtime filled the air, punctuated by shrieks of laughter. She jumped as a figure appeared beside her.

“Daddy! You startled me.”

Her father gently patted her arm. He still had his erect military bearing, but his face was drawn and tired.

“I thought you might be out here. I needed a refuge too,” he said, indicating the noisy celebrations inside the house.

“Do you remember how we girls were chaperoned to parties before the war?” Monica said, shaking her head. “Almost all those young men they were protecting us from are dead now. Pointless. I went from worrying if it was appropriate to dance twice with the same partner to assisting with surgeries in the middle of a bombardment at the Front.”

Her father shook his head.

“I can’t say I approve, but the old ways are gone. Look at the catastrophe they led us to. Perhaps it’s time for the younger generation to take over…those that are left.”

Monica wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Did you know that Rory’s still declared missing, not dead?”

Her father awkwardly put his arm around her shoulder and Monica leaned against him.

“My dear, I think you must assume the worst and move on. You are too young to live in limbo for ever. He wouldn’t have wanted you to…yes, Briggs?”

He turned towards the elderly butler who had shuffled up, breathless.

“Colonel, sir, things are getting a little out of hand inside. Perhaps you should intervene before anything gets damaged.”

He hobbled away unsteadily.

“Why don’t you let him retire, Daddy?” Monica said.

“I wish he would, but he begged to stay. His son was killed at the Somme and his wife died of the Spanish flu. He hates being at home alone. Let me see what these young fools are up to. Bright Young Things indeed.”

The house was thronged with young people, most of whom Monica had never seen before. Dalia must have invited her friends from London. A group of young women with bobbed hair and sparkling, knee length dresses and their partners were energetically kicking and twisting on the dance floor. One or two couples were snuggling in alcoves at the side of the room. In the dim, cigarette smoke haze, Monica, in her simple grey evening gown, felt dowdy and invisible. Her head beginning to throb, she headed for the conservatory, her father’s pride and joy. It had been her favorite hiding place since childhood, with its jungle-like thickets of plants and warm, humid air. She threaded her way through the dense foliage, noticing a figure already seated on one of the wicker couches. In his baggy blue suit, he looked as out of place at the party as she felt.

“Do you mind if I join you?” she said.

He hastily stood up and retreated into the shadows.

“Please,” he said, indicating the couch.

She smiled and he inclined his head in response, his face expressionless. Monica gratefully sat down and heaved a sigh of relief, massaging her forehead. There was a pause in the music and a burst of laughter and chatter as someone changed the record on the gramophone.

“I’m Monica,” she said, turning around to look at the man. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she couldn’t pinpoint what. He was standing stock still as if trying to blend into the background.

“Are you one of Dalia’s friends? Please sit down. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“My name is David Price. I was a friend of Rory's. We met here once before the war,” he said. His voice was low, and he enunciated carefully as if speaking a foreign language. “I’m afraid I gatecrashed the party.”

“I thought I knew you somehow,” said Monica, wincing as the music blared again. “I wish we could have a proper conversation without all this racket.”

She broke off as there was a moan and scuffle from behind the greenery.

“Stop…please, no,” said a slurred voice.

“You little tease. You know you want it as much as I do,” said a male voice.

A slap rang out and fabric ripped. David leaped into action instantly, hauling a struggling young man out from behind the plants by the collar.

“Who are you? Wait your turn,” said the youth, flailing and gagging as David calmly punched him in the midriff.

Peering through the foliage, Monica gasped.

“Dalia! Come on. Let’s get you up to your room. Thank goodness we were here.”

She hastily draped her wrap around her sister who was groggily trying to stand up and pull her torn dress together.

“He put something in my drink,” Dalia said, swaying. “He shays I’m drunk but I only had two little, teeny weenie drinkies…” 

Monica grabbed Dalia’s arm and steered her towards the door, just as the young man staggered to his feet and launched himself unsteadily at David. There was a short, intense struggle which ended as David punched him hard on the chin. The youth’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor in a heap. Dalia suddenly began to scream and back away, her eyes huge with horror.

“Don't worry,” said Monica. “He’ll come around in a moment.”

Dalia pointed with a trembling hand. Monica followed her gaze and gasped. David was frantically searching the floor. There was a gaping hole in his face where his left cheek and half of his nose should have been.

“My mask…my mask,” he muttered

“I see it,” Monica said. "For goodness sake, stop that noise, Dalia. He's one of the tin nose soldiers."

She hastily picked up the delicate tin mask and gave it to David.

 “Quick, put it on.”

He hastily threaded the earpieces on.

“Is it straight?”

She was adjusting the mask as the Colonel’s best parade ground voice suddenly rang out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the party is over. Collect your things and get out. Now!”

“Daddy!” Monica said. “Thank goodness you’re here. This is David, one of Rory’s friends. He saved Dalia from, from...”

The Colonel stared in disgust at the young man on the floor who was beginning to stir and moan.

“Briggs, have him dropped outside in the driveway.”

“Yessir,” said the butler.

“Now,” said the Colonel, looking at David. “What did you say your name was? Have I met you before?”

“David Price. We met before the war. I doubt you remember me. My appearance has changed somewhat, and not for the better,” said David dryly. “Sorry I frightened you, Dalia. I’m convalescing at the military hospital down the road. I’d better get back before they send out a search party. I go out for walks after dark. Less chance of meeting people that way. I had a moment of nostalgia for the old days when I recognized the house. When I heard the party, I thought no one would notice if I slipped in for a few moments.”

“Ah, that explains the hospital blues suit. Dalia owes you a debt of gratitude,” said the Colonel grimly. He looked at his daughter.

“You’re going to have an awful hangover in the morning. Off to bed now.”

“Please come back for a proper visit, David,” said Monica as she took her sister’s hand.

David blinked and nodded.

“I’d like that. This is the first time since I was wounded that I have not felt like a a freak. Thank you."

The Colonel cleared his throat.

“I second the invitation. I hope we see you again soon."