‘She’s a dear domesticated little thing,’ he said. This somehow lacked the ring of truth; at any rate, it was not the sort of phrase he had ever employed before. ‘She’s coming from the Isle of Wight.’
That sounded better. Conscious that his heart was beating vehemently and that his hands were tending to claw the sheet he said no more, and presently Sister Considine went away.
As he had expected, next morning Sister Lockwood had learned from Sister Considine that he was not going home to a solitary life—which, of course, would never have done. Observing how few visitors he had, and none of them ladies, Sister Lockwood had begun to feel quite worried about who would be there to look after him. Once again, he domiciled Hattie in the Isle of Wight—too far away for visiting him in the hospital, but she would come when she was needed. As he spoke, a further advantage about the Isle of Wight flashed into his mind and he added that she had a little cottage at Bonchurch. Mullard, of the Satyr Press, for whom he had been doing a set of woodcuts for Hudibras till pain wrenched the graver from his hand, lived at Bonchurch, and Mullard’s reply to his recent letter of explanation and assurances that the woodcuts would be got on with as soon as he was let out should come shortly. Mullard’s dainty calligraphy on an envelope could easily be mistaken for a woman’s hand.
‘And that’s something I must ask you about. My niece—she’s my step-niece, really …’
‘Quite an unusual relationship!’
‘Yes. But very convenient just now. My step-niece will have to pack up and settle things and find someone to look after her canaries before leaving the Island. I must be able to give her some idea of the date when I shall be leaving here.’
‘Oh, Mr. Stoat, I can’t possibly do that. That is for Dr. Jones to decide.’ Her manner implied that Guy had asked her to commit some grave impropriety—which, however, she would undertake as consentingly as a temple slave if Dr. Jones ordained it.
Mullard’s letter came two days later. The fact that Mullard didn’t see what could be done if the blocks weren’t in the printers’ hands before the New Year should have had more weight than those canaries. But instinct told Guy that it would be imprudent to imply any existence other than that of being a patient in the County Hospital. He left the envelope—luckily, the postmark was boldly stamped—on his bed table, and when next Dr. Jones came in to look at him he repeated the sentence about Hattie; omitting the canaries, which he judged might here be inopportune.
‘Hmm. Ah. Ha. Well. Well, if you continue to gain strength, and if no undesirable contra-indications arise, I dare say that in another couple of weeks I may be able to give you some idea when we shall be in a position to think about letting you go.’
‘Don’t do it too suddenly.’
‘There will be no suddenness.’
Guy would have preferred a little suddenness. Time, no doubt, would have allowed him to build Hattie up into a more interesting figure, to give her volume and movement and that something which distinguishes the considered work of art from the impromptu, however spirited. But he did not wish to make her too interesting, lest he compromised the original outline. In any case, their Hattie was nothing to him. All he wanted was to get home, sleep in his own bed, and eat his own cooking. When next he wrote to Mullard … Good God! It flashed on him that there was something a great deal more vital than that. He must write to Hattie! Whether or no he gave Hattie volume and movement, he must demonstrably be in communication with her, he must give her a surname and a local habitation and a postage stamp. Some ordinary, unalarming surname, like Jones, would probably be best—though not Jones, which might seem too much of a coincidence. When one comes to reflect on it, it is extraordinary how seldom one meets anybody called Jones. But the telephone directory bears out the existence of multitudinous Browns, and a letter addressed to Miss H. Brown, Bonchurch, Isle of Wight, might be expected to reach one among the many who, reading its trivial contents (‘Dear Friend. It seems a long time since I heard from you. How is your mother? What wretched weather we are having. I suppose we shall soon be thinking about Christmas. Do write when you have time. Yours‚ G.S.’), might equally be expected to drop it in a wastepaper basket; whereas a letter to Miss Harriet Mauleverer might just as likely ricochet back on him with a ‘Not Known. Opened by the Postal Authorities’ all over the envelope. He had just realized that this could be averted if he wrote without giving his address when the bed table was swung briskly past his chin and a tray put down on it, holding foodstuffs of the variety known to dietitians as bland and to the common people as mush. But eat he must. Every blandishment left unconsumed would delay the hour of his dismissal.
Dissatisfaction is a mildew, and creeps. His dissatisfaction with what he was eating crept on to what he had been thinking, and letters whether to Miss Brown or Miss Mauleverer seemed alike otiose. Otiose or dangerous: it is proverbially dangerous to prod up the unknown. Think of the Witch of Endor. He was thinking of the Witch of Endor when a light from Heaven was vouchsafed. Who was that woman Mullard had taken him to lunch with, and who gave them such uncommonly good coffee in a very Victorian conservatory? Something Mackenzie. Morag Mackenzie. And her house was called Tir nan Og. Nothing could be better! The letter M can easily be stylized to resemble the letter H. All he now needed was a pretext. As the lunch had been eaten some years ago, it was late in the day to thank her for the coffee, even though it lingered in the memory. But there was not all that Celtic Twilight for nothing. Morag Mackenzie supported Island and Highland industries; there had been a quantity of particoloured knitted garments lying on a sofa, and Mullard had commissioned a sweater. When the tray was removed, Guy wrote to Miss Mackenzie saying that he wanted a moorit cardigan, and that his measurements were about ordinary. He added that he had been ill, and expected to be home soon, feeling the cold. When next Sister Lockwood came round, the letter was in the envelope, the envelope was addressed and his stamp book was safely mislaid between the blankets.
‘If you could stamp it for me, Sister, so that it catches the afternoon post … It’s to my step-niece Hattie, who’s coming to look after me. I’m asking her to knit me a warm cardigan, to wear when I get back. I felt this was a sensible thing to do.’
The deed was approved, the letter borne off: Guy retrieved the stamp book and lay back on his pillows, reposing in the thought of a step taken and the unities preserved. He had not a drop of Scottish blood; but that was no reason why Hattie should not be Mackenzie—she was a step-niece. After all this plotting and scheming on Hattie’s behalf, she was becoming quite real to him. He thought of her as small yet plump, unconversational, light-footed and wearing grey, with green eyes. Early in the next week, the cardigan also became more of a reality to him. Miss Mackenzie sent him a measurement form.
Guy now ran up against the sterner aspects of the welfare state, for it appeared that the National Health Service made no provision for hospitalized persons requiring tape measures. At first replying that she would see, Sister Lockwood, when next invoked, said coldly, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Stoat. We have no tape measure.’ The transition to the first person plural told him to hope no more—it was clear that in this instance she would not even ask Dr. Jones about it. Sister Considine, who might have yielded so far as to think of a tape measure inherited from her aunt, was not on night duty that week. The nurse who replaced her was young, high-coloured and wore glasses. Her reaction to his request was to take his temperature, looking at him the while as if she knew all about that sort of thing. However, there was still the old woman in an overall who came every morning to sweep his floor and move his belongings out of reach. She was not cloistered in professionalism, so she might be more complying.
‘Well, that’s a funny article for a gentleman to ask for. I’ve been asked for a lot of funny articles, one time and another, but never for that. There was one poor lady, I remember, she was in for that op. when they sweep it all away, you understand, and naturally, I dare say, it made her imaginative. Well, what she imagined was a mouse that
kept on gnawing the leg of her bed—which is a thing no mouse would have done, even if there’d been a mouse, being every inch of it metal. And in the mornings she’d say, “Oh, Mrs. Bolton,” she’d say, “the way that mouse keeps on gnawing is chronic. Can’t you get me a mousetrap?”’
‘So you did. I’m sure you did,’ said Guy, hopefully seeking to inflame the warmth of Mrs. Bolton’s heart.
‘No, sir, I can’t say that. I’ve got my Annie to think of, I can’t risk the sack. Bringing things in is strictly against orders, and once you start giving way, you never know where it mayn’t land you. Not that with private beds there isn’t more latitude than in the wards. Which with all respect to you, as being a member of the Women’s Cooperative, I cannot say I hold with. Nor never have. Death’s a leveller. And so ought any self-respecting hospital to be, seeing as in most cases you might describe it as death’s door. They’re bringing them in from Birmingham now.’
The last hope of the tape measure seemed to be sliding from his grasp.
‘From Birmingham, Mrs. Bolton?’
‘The influenza epidemic. It’s come early this year. But I’m not surprised, I’ve never seen such hordes of wood lice. Well, I’m prepared for it. I’ve gone into my winter combies already.’
‘That’s very wise of you. More wool, fewer shrouds … It’s an old saying.’
‘And a true one.’
‘That is why I want a tape measure. You see, my step-niece, who lives in the Isle of Wight——’
‘Oh, was that why you wanted it? Well now, there might be one in Matron’s cupboard. But I can’t ask her. Matron’s Matron.’
‘Exactly. And with all these cases coming in from Birmingham——’
‘Yes. It’s a poor lookout.’ Mrs. Bolton paused and surveyed the poor lookout.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll ask Howard, the porter. I saw him measuring something only the other day.’
She came back with a carpenter’s rule. By combining this with his handkerchief, Guy managed to fill out the measurement form, while Mrs. Bolton stood by, urging him to look sharp about it. It was a scramble, and it left him breathless and dizzy. Home had never seemed farther off. I shall have a relapse, he thought. I shall never get away…. There is a stage in convalescence when the sensation of returning health is replaced by the sensation of being far from well. Guy was in it now, and felt it badly.
Instead of having a relapse, that afternoon he had a visitor, the rector’s wife, who explained that as she had had to come in to see the dentist she had come to see him, too. ‘The buses,’ she continued, ‘run so awkwardly, and the Rector needed the car.’ She then sat down with her knees together and her feet apart, and looked at him attentively. ‘I don’t think you’re looking very well.’
In a cautious, private way, Guy rather liked Mrs. Oke. ‘It’s because I have been pining,’ he said. ‘Tell me all the news. Tell me about the Harvest Festival.’
‘But didn’t you read about poor Canon Urchfont? It was all most unfortunate. There were far too many apples. There always are. And this year there were far too many wasps. And one of them stung Canon Urchfont and he died of it. We were all very sad. What do they call it when you die of something you wouldn’t have been so likely to die of if you did something else?’
‘Occupational risk.’
‘I wonder how you know all these things. You lead a totally selfish life, you never go beyond your own gate and yet you know about occupational risks. Well, I suppose dying of a wasp at a Harvest Festival might be considered an occupational risk for a Rural Dean. Have you heard that Violet Dancer has married?’
‘No! Who to?’
‘Ellery Price. It’s made a great difference to the post office, because now it’s full of his dogs. Some people don’t like it—people with dogs of their own, who take them in.’
‘How many dogs?’
‘Seven.’
‘What on earth do they feed them on?’
‘Dog biscuit.’
(And how is my darling house that I shall never see again?)
Mrs. Oke, rising to depart, said, ‘I suppose I shall be coming in any day now to fetch you. I told the almoner that you would much rather come out by taxi, but apparently you must have someone with you in case you faint. I expect they want your bed.’
Even with these intimations, Guy was taken aback when a couple of days later they told him he had better get up in the afternoon and walk about a little, as he would be going out on the morrow.
‘But don’t pack,’ said Sister Lockwood. ‘You will have plenty of time to do that in the morning, as Mrs. Oke can’t come for you till half past three. I suppose that niece of yours will be there to put you to bed when you arrive?’
His temper rising, Guy said, ‘How can she be, since she’s in the Isle of Wight?’
‘Oh, is she? I thought she lived at Stratford-on-Avon. Well, you must send her a telegram. Write it out now and the office will telephone it.’
They were determined enough to get rid of him. Even so, his freedom seemed to hang on Hattie. So what the devil was he to telegraph to Morag Mackenzie, with whom his only link was a woollen one? FIND MY ARMS ARE TWO INCHES LONGER, STOAT. Curbing such flights of fancy, he wrote: ‘LEAVING HOSPITAL TOMORROW.’ Morag Mackenzie might think this rather gushing. On the other hand, she might put it down to efficiency. Efficient people are always sending needless telegrams.
Sitting in the car with Mrs. Oke’s conversation playing over him like an unemphatic east wind he fingered his latch key, but didn’t get much comfort from it. The view through the keyhole had somehow lost its lighting, its magic, its compactness. It had fallen to pieces, riddled by obligations. The parsley would have run to seed. The tools would be rusty. He would have to get the chimney sweep.
‘I hope your house won’t be very damp. Mrs. Lugg has been in every day this week, lighting fires and airing it.’
If that was the case, by now it was probably a heap of ashes. Well, there were other houses. When one has grown old, there is something to be said for living in a bungalow on a bus route. At the crossroads, Mrs. Oke drove straight on. He made no comment. She, too, might well have lost interest in going home.
‘Mrs. Lugg told me she’d got in what food you’ll need—and a nice bit of steak off the butcher’s van. So we’ll go round by Buckleford, and find something edible at Paytoe’s. You can give the steak to the cat. Has the hospital left you with enough money for a partridge, or would you feel safer with a dozen oysters?’
Partridges need roasting, oysters have to be opened. ‘I think I’ll make do with a boiled egg.’
Nevertheless, she forced housekeeping upon him and having parked him outside the churchyard came back with a load of parcels, all of which he supposed he would have to deal with. He felt like a parcel himself—except that a parcel would not have blenched at Mrs. Oke’s fatalistic way of driving. Now she stopped on a sharp bend, opened the driver’s window and beckoned up a woman on a bicycle. A smell of wood smoke drifted into the car. His impatience blazed up out of its ashes and for the remainder of the journey he could barely contain his excitement. She turned up the lane; a group of village children scattered before her, a blackbird flew screeching out of the hedge. There, behind its yew-tree birds, was his magpie house. Remembering to thank her, he got out and opened his gate, noting that the hinges could do with some oil.
‘I’ll help you with your things,’ she said. If it had not been for that idiotic shopping, he could have managed perfectly well. But he submitted, thanking her again. She preceded him to the door, where she put down her load. ‘I’m not coming any farther.’ This time, he thanked her unfeignedly.
He let himself in, and was home.
Yet between him and his realization of return was a brittle transparent film, like cat ice—the remembrance of taking leave. It was as though he had broken in on Guy Stoat waiting for the ambulance, an old man writhing in the claws of pain and fear, who shuffled to and fro, expending his last minutes
in an obsessed determination to leave everything in order. And on the whole the old man hadn’t done too badly. It looked right and tight, though on closer examination such details as the pepper grinder on the window sill, stationed exactly midway between the pair of white Dresden swans, betrayed a distracted mind press-ganging a steady hand. He carried the pepper grinder into the kitchen. This, being less mortally neat, was better. His gardening shoes were on their mat (the other Guy Stoat had given them a sound brushing), the tea tray was laid, the kettle filled. While it boiled, he read the note that Mrs. Lugg had left on the tray: ‘Dear Mr. Stoat. Welcome home I’m sure, hope you find all satisfactory, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve seen to Lugg’s tea. Yours truly (Mrs.) Rosie M. Lugg.’ He drank his tea walking about the kitchen, and if he had been a superstitious man he would have poured a libation beside his gardening shoes. The clock with its light hopping gait, like a robin’s, ticked on. He waited. Then the back door opened and Mrs. Lugg came in, carrying a wicker hamper.
‘Well, Mr. Stoat, glad to see you home again. I’ve brought up Hattie.’ She raised the lid of the hamper. A grey cat jumped out, gave him a quick glance, turned her back on him and began to sharpen her claws on a table leg.
‘I hope she’s been good, and no trouble to you.’
‘Oh, no! It’s been a pleasure to have her. She’s a dear clean little thing—and doesn’t she go after the mice!’
Hattie was now on the window sill, spitting out geranium leaves and threatening to hurl the flower pots to the floor.
‘She wants to run out and have a look round,’ Mrs. Lugg remarked. ‘I dare say you do, too, after being away so long.’ In case this was not plain enough, she set the back door open before gathering up the tea things and putting them in the sink.
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