Free The Treatment and the Cure by Peter Kocan Page B

now. Wilfred Owen is in your book, on the next page from Julian Grenfell, and on the nearby pages are other war poets like Isaac Rosenberg and Siegfried Sassoon.
    “Do you know Owen’s poem ‘Futility’?” you ask.
    “Um, I’m not sure,” she says. “How does it go?”
    You know exactly how it goes because it’s all you’ve been thinking of for days. You recite the first lines to Marian:
    “Move him into the sun.
    Gently its touch awoke him once,
    At home, dreaming of fields unsown.
    Always it woke him, even in France,
    Until this morning and this snow.
    If anything might rouse him now
    The kind old sun will know.”
    While you’re saying the words, the beauty of them strikes you all over again, so that you speak them very clearly and feelingly and you even start to make a little gesture with your hand, like an actor or something. Then you see that Marian is smiling a lovely smile at you, and Arthur is looking at you closely and smiling a little too. You suddenly feel embarrassed. It’s incredible. You’ve been spouting poetry right here in the office, in front of people.
    “That’s beautiful,” Marian says.
    “Oh, it’s not bad,” you say, wondering if she thinks you’re a fool.
    “Well, about the books,” she says, suddenly getting businesslike. “Each week you’ll go around to all the men here and take a list of what sort of books each man wants, then your Charge will send the list over to me and I’ll send a boxful of selected titles back over on the food truck, and you’ll distribute them to the men and gather them up again the following week to be exchanged for a new lot. All right?”
    “Fine.”
    “Of course, I can’t guarantee that each borrower will get exactly what he asks for, but I’ll make the selection as close to each one’s preference as I can. I’m afraid, in your own case, I don’t have much in the way of poetry.”
    “Never mind,” you say, “anything will do.” You don’t really want to read any other poetry books, it would be like betraying your own lovely green book with the gold coloured lettering.
    “It’s settled then,” Marian says. She gives you another big smile. You realise the talk is over, so you stand up to go and Marian puts out her hand and you shake with her. Her hand feels nice in yours, soft and firm. As you go out of the office you hear Marian say to Arthur: “He seems a nice boy.”
    You don’t hear Arthur’s reply.
    The other men all want to hear about Marian and what it was like being so close to her.
    “Did you get a feel of her?” Bill Greene wants to know.
    “Of course not. We were talking about literature.”
    “Literature be fucked!” says Ray Hoad.
    “We heard you was rootin’ her on the floor,” says Bill.
    “Chock-a-block up her,” says Ray.
    “With Arthur ticklin’ ya balls with a feather,” says Bill.
    You just grin and let them talk.
    “I’d like to get into her.”
    “I’d fuck her arse off!”
    “She’d love it!”
    “Course she would.”
    “Did yer see the miniskirt?”
    “Yeah, she’s a fuckin’ prickteaser!”
    “Flashin’ her fanny!”
    “She likes Len.”
    “Because he’s got a cock like a horse.”
    “They were talkin’ about literature.”
    “On the floor.”
    “She was talkin’ and Len was fuckin’.”
    Tuesday is the day for you to go around to all the men and make a list of books they want. Most of them aren’t very interested. You approach Hartley, the famous murderer.
    “How many books can I order?” he asks.
    “Four or five,” you say.
    “I want five books about murder,” he says.
    “What for? Homework?” says Ray Hoad, who’s nearby.
    So you write it down. “Hartley. Five books on murder.”
    “Er, don’t you think it might look a bit odd?” you ask him.
    “Why?” he asks.
    “Well, just saying ‘about murder’ like that. If the screws see the list, they might think you’re dwelling on the subject.”
    “I am,” he says quietly.
    “Oh,” you say and quickly