“You’re not making sense, woman. That’s impossible. What your young friend needs is a nurse. That you’re not. You have your hands full anyway.”
“There has to be a way. There must be.”
“What about her family?”
“She has only the one sister. She’s a nurse, but …”
“There you are then! Get her up here!”
“Her sister has a full-time job. Even if this were more serious than it already is, I doubt she could get away.”
“No joy there then.”
“It really is our responsibility, Jim.”
“A nurse, then,” he grunted. “You insist on home care. I insist on a live-in nurse. We can …”
She heard no more. She was again unconscious.
Gail Mitchell knew very little of the next two weeks. Barbara had been notified and, as expected, had been unable to get leave from work to help out. The Campbells arranged for the live-in nurse. An unwelcome invasion of their prized privacy, their culpability was undeniable. Though excuses abounded, the fact remained: someone should have watched out for their naïve guest. They were fortunate the incident was costing them no more than the doctor’s bills, the price of the medication, the wages of the nurse and the invasion of privacy. It could have cost their guest her life or, at least, permanent injury. It hadn’t.
In her darkened room, she slowly recovered. The initial days were filled with delirium and morphine-masked pain. Her face and hands packed in ice-soaked bandages, she spent listless hours sleeping. Bathed, fed, toileted, medicated and generally cared for by the nurse from dawn to dusk, her only contact with the family was in the evening when Amy assumed the role of nurse.
Too ill to think rationally, she seldom talked and cried often. As her body began to recover, she slipped into depression. Fearful of what she would see, she insisted they keep the blind down and the mirror at bay. In the low pre-dawn hours, her hands crept up to her swollen face to touch skin that remained hot and stiff and hard and inflexible. Again she cried, and felt the tears and prayed they were not inflicting further damage. And stopped crying and stared without hope at the streak of dawn beneath the drawn blind.
Nurse Jackson advised Amy Campbell, “She has to get it out of her system. She’s young. The body will heal, as will the mind. Both will heal in God’s good time.”
Doctor Walker was becoming impatient. At the end of the second week, on his regular visit, after checking the patient’s progress with the nurse, he swept into the sick room.
The blinds were drawn, the fan circulating hot air and his patient asleep.
Striding across the room, he opened the blind. “Wake up!”
Eyes firmly closed, she made no response.
“Nurse!”
“I told you …”
“Balderdash!” He felt for a pulse. “Right as rain! Not a thing wrong. Wake up, young lady!”
She made no response.
“Playing possum are we?”
“Doctor …” Nurse Jackson began.
“I know, nurse. I know.” The doctor softened. “You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself, lass.”
“I’m not …” she whispered.
“That’s the girl. Talk to me.” He pulled a chair close to the bed.
“Talk to me, lass.”
“Please … close the blind.”
“Nurse …?”
Nurse Jackson re-closed the Venetian shutters.
She opened her eyes.
“Now will you talk to me?”
“I want to go home.”
“An excellent reason to pull yourself together.”
“I want to go home.”
“Of course you do. You will. Won’t she, Nurse?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“For a start – get up. Regain your strength. Eat Amy’s nourishing meals. Take evening walks. Look at the sunset. There’s nothing wrong with you that good country food and exercise won’t fix.”
“I want to go home now.”
“You’d never survive the train.”
“I could fly …”
“So you could. And who’d nurse you on the trip? Who’d nurse you when you get home? Build your strength, lass. Take your time. Work on your strength.”
“I can’t!”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” Doctor Walker consulted his pocket watch. “I’ll see you Friday.”
She crawled back under the hot sheet.
From the doorway, he ordered, “Get some life into this damned room, nurse! Music! Anything! Don’t let the child wallow.”
“She refuses everything, Doctor. Even to look in the mirror.”
“What!” Again he crossed the room and snapped open the shutters. “Fetch the child a mirror, Nurse.”
“I’m not a child!”
“That’s more like it!” he exclaimed. “A bit of life. Fight back, lass.
Fight back!”
“It’s all right, Gail.” Nurse Jackson took the silver-backed hand mirror from the dressing-table. “Really. You’ll be pleased.”
She shoved the mirror away.
“Your choice,” the doctor grunted. “Stay here and shrivel. Or fight back.”
She wanted to. She couldn’t. She couldn’t face anybody.
“You have to try, Gail,” the nurse coaxed.
“I don’t have to do anything!”
“I give up!” Doctor Walker was disgusted. “The child’s a quitter.”
Furious, she grabbed the mirror, but did not raise it.
“Trust me.” Steadying the silver handle, Nurse Jackson gently eased the mirror upwards. “You’ll be pleased.”
It reflected skin that was creamy and smooth and new and without blemish. “Young skin recovers quickly, lass.” The doctor nodded. “Get outdoors and get a bit of colour into it.”
Soon Nurse Jackson was needed only once a week, and Doctor Walker’s home visits were unnecessary. He ordered that she attend the surgery in a month.
Amy brought meals and persuaded her to leave the bedroom for increasingly lengthy periods. She slept, ate, read magazines, listened to the radio, exercised in the privacy of the room, and planned her return to Melbourne.
Amy reported that both Ryan and Rick, each feeling deeply responsible, had occasionally visited during her delirium. Both had also visited during the period of her depression, when she’d feigned sleep, and stayed for a few seconds only.
The blinds were closed against the light from the brilliant stars, and she was preparing for sleep when she heard a whisper of movement from the open doorway. It was Rick. Standing quite still, his face in shadow, he was wearing the white open-necked shirt and khaki shorts he routinely changed into after work. In his arms was a cardboard carton.
“I’m sorry.” Silhouetted against the light from the passageway, he made no move to step from the doorway. “You were asleep.”
“It’s okay.” She switched on the bedside lamp.
“We visited before.”
“Your mother told me.”
“Ryan feels he’s to blame for what happened. He should have kept watch. That’s true. But then, so should I. We’re both at fault.”
If he and his brother were expecting forgiveness, she had none.
“I brought you a few extra books. In case you’re running out of reading material.”
“There’s books here.”
“Shall I leave them? Or not?”
She sat up. “You can come in if you want.”
“I don’t mean to intrude. Just leave the books.”
“You’re not intruding.” A hot flush of colour burned her face.
He stepped back into the passageway.
“You can come in, Rick.”
“Did I say we were sorry? We’re all sorry.”
“You told me.”
He coughed, hesitantly, as though unsure of what to do.
“You can put the books on the chair,” she invited. “I’ve read most of these. It’s so boring here.”
“You shouldn
’t have been out there! Mother has her hands full enough!”
She reached for the light switch, but did not turn it off.
“You don’t like hearing the truth, do you, Gail?”
“I helped Amy! You saw me helping her!”
“You helped while it suited you.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Sorry, I’ve done it again. That was cruel. I don’t know you …” He paused, head cocked to one side, as though listening to himself. “Sorry … have you counted the times I’m saying it to you?”
“Saying what?”
“If you don’t know …”
“Saying sorry doesn’t mean sorry.”
“Then you’ll have to take my word for it.”
“Why did you come here, Rick?”
“To bring the books.”
“Because your mother told you to?”
“That’s one reason.”
“What’s the other?”
“I want you to acknowledge the upheaval you’ve brought to my mother’s life.”
Concern for his mother. That, she understood.
“She tells me you’re very stubborn,” he moved into the room.
“So what?”
“We’ve apologised to you. We all have. Even I have,” he grimaced. “Don’t you think it’s your turn?”
She turned away.
“Try it, Gail. Try admitting it wasn’t all our fault. Tell Mother you’re sorry too. It wouldn’t even go astray if you managed to thank her. Try it, Gail.”
“You’re right! Okay?”
“And …?”
“And … and I’m sorry …”
“Of course you are.” He was sarcastic “You’ve had a bad time.”
“That’s cruel!”
“My mother’s exhausted. Picking’s bad enough. Running around after you is the last straw. We’re all worried about her.”
“I’m sorry. I should never have come here. I should go home.”
“You should. Meanwhile, this lot might counteract the boredom.”
He set half a dozen books and a pile of magazines on the bedside table. “I wasn’t sure what kind of reading you prefer.”
“Anything.”
Reaching for the books and magazines, he sat in the bedside chair. “I rather like mysteries. But I managed to dig up some romances. Mother said they’re probably a good idea.”
“Anything.” She was confused. In a few seconds, as after the confusing incident in the dining room, he’d changed from diffidence to its opposite.
From his pockets he located cigarettes, matches and a tiny portable ashtray, then returned them. “Sorry! I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay at all.” He riffled through the magazines.
As his strong labourer’s hands turned the thin pages, the light from the pink-shaded bed lamp softened the stern lines of his face.
He set the pile of magazines aside. “Something more exciting, I think. How about you?”
“Whatever you like, Rick.” The room seemed no longer hot and unbearable, but warm and reassuring and healing. Inexplicably, his presence was comforting.
“Ah! Dickens.” He opened a thick leather-bound book. “This is a special favourite. I won it in English Lit. Year nine would you believe? You like Dickens?” Not waiting for an answer, he began to read from ‘A Tale of Two Cities’.
Settling back against the pillows she listened, not to the familiar words, but to his voice; the faintly sibilant consonants, which might have been harsh, suited the work. He read calmly and surely, savouring the sounds of the words and the flow of the story. He was totally at ease, not at all embarrassed by the listener. He might well have been alone. And yet …
Occasionally, he reread a passage, either for emphasis or, again, sheer enjoyment. He might well have been alone. And yet he was sharing. He was sharing who he once had been, a teenager reading his school prize, the boy before the man, before the man the war had … had what?
The words blurred, the pink light dimmed. Security and the comforting voice hypnotically combined, and she slept.
At the almost inaudible sound of the closing book, she stirred.
“Sh!” Rick whispered. “Sleep …”
“I’m sorry.” She opened her eyes. “I didn’t mean to …”
“Sh …” He set the book down. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She sat up. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I’m sorry.”
“Now I’ve really done it,” he frowned. “You were so content.”
“What time is it?”
“I shouldn’t have gone on so long. Once I start to read, I don’t know when to stop.” He prepared to leave. “Would you like me to leave it with you?”
“I know the story. But I enjoyed hearing you read it.”
He laughed. “I sent you to sleep!”
She flushed.
“Just teasing, Gail.”
“I still shouldn’t have.”
“Would you like me to leave it with you?”
“You could read some more. I promise to stay awake.”
“I’ve been too long as it is.” He smiled, still relaxed, still friendly. “I have things I must do. Besides, you do need to sleep – no matter what you think. I’ll leave all the books.”
“I can sleep all day. I don’t want to sleep now.”
Not answering, he began to repack the box with the books and magazines.
“Don’t go!” She stayed his hand. “Please Rick! Stay with me!”
He stiffened.
Alarmed, she withdrew her touch. “Rick …!”
He did not respond, not in any way.
“Rick … are you …?” She stopped, she was talking to nobody. He was not there. He’d gone away. His body was in the chair. Mouth tight, eyes dead, breathing shallow, muscles rigid, limbs static, he’d gone away. She was alone. As before. As …
No! Not quite.
The lifeless eyes began to focus. Imagination. A trick of the pink lamplight. She switched it off. He did not react. She switched it on again.
“I’ll get your mother …” She left the bed.
He did not move.
Nearing the doorway, reacting to instinct, she turned. His eyes were on her. Without life still, but on her. Again she felt irrational fear. But not of him. “Rick.”
She went back, replaced her hand on his. “Can I help, Rick?”
He refocused, as suddenly as he’d left. “You must leave me alone.”
“I was only trying to …”
“Don’t.” Deliberately, he removed her hand.
“I’m sorry, I …”
“Sorry. You’re sorry!” His laugh was bitter.
Confused, the tears ran down her face.
“For God’s sake, Gail! Stop snivelling!”
“Go to hell!”
He resumed repacking the books.
“I’m sorry,” she begged. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, Gail. You should not have said that. Not that.”
“I know something’s wrong. Please … tell me what’s wrong.”
“That’s impossible. Out of the question.”
“So something is wrong.”
“Same answer,” he clipped. “I can tell you nothing.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you wanted to be friends. Friends help each other.”
“You’ve misunderstood, Gail. I can be no one’s friend.”
“You’ve come to my room. You’ve been very kind.”
Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“No one’s ever …” She was embarrassed.
“They should have.” Taking a handkerchief from a drawer in the bedside table, he dabbed at her tears. “You must stop crying. It’s no good.”
She must stop crying.
“Please don’t cry.” Pushing back the chair, he set a small pile of books at her side, and the carton of remaining boo
ks under it.
She scrubbed at the tears.
“I must go.” His sandals hushed on the thick carpet, he strode across the room and through the open doorway. The thud of the heavy bedroom door closing behind him preceded the ensuing silence.
Her hand fell to the covers. She’d messed it up, now he’d never come back. She reached for the books still on the bed. The Dickens, a Baroness Orczy novel, a Priestly, and a worn volume on whose faded blue cover was the title, ‘Stories of Well-Known Operas’.
She opened it. On the flyleaf, in small precise handwriting, was the inscription: ‘To my darling Rick. I just found it. Enjoy. Love, Phoebe.’
CHAPTER NINE
Jake was the only constant visitor. He brought fruit and chocolates. He was easy to talk to, laughed, joked, regretted the family’s neglect, and talked about his bachelor flat and his job with the flourishing Belleville Estate Agency. She saw neither Gus nor Ryan. Their absence was cause for relief. Both men, big and muscular and at home in the outdoors, would have been inarticulate in the sick room. Yet still Doctor Walker would not clear her to leave.
After Amy had cleared away her meal tray, the night had been no different from all the others. Jake had stayed for half an hour, talked about his job, confided town gossip and laughed away the boredom. He’d left too soon. The outside sounds of labourers leaving work for distant homes had long since ended. Amy was probably finishing up in the kitchen; although there was no tell-tale sound of what was actually happening.
She was reading when something, a sense of augmented intensity in the stillness, distracted her.
Rick was standing in the doorway.
“I didn’t hear you.” She set the book aside. “Have you been there long?”
“I’m intruding.” He hesitated. “You’re reading.”
“Come in. I get lonely. Reading fills the hours, but I still get lonely.”
“You’re looking better.” He moved to the bedside, very serious. The awkward interlude a few nights ago might never have happened. But then, she was learning not to be uneasy with his mood swings. They seemed to be his pattern.
“I’m reading the Scarlet Pimpernel.” Marking her place, she closed the book.
“That was one of Phoebe’s. You must meet. You’d like her.”
“I’d like to. Though I’ll be going home soon.”
“Of course. When you’re well.” Taking his place in the bedside chair, he turned to the shelf of books. “Which ones have you read?”
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