The Virgin and the Whale

by Carl Nixon

  Ian Webster rolls his wheelchair up and down the aisle between the beds, ‘working the room’, as they would say these days. A large black patch over his right eye hides the worst of the scarring. The lower halves of his trouser legs are neatly folded up and held in place by safety pins. His newspaper hat sits at a jaunty angle on his head. As the evening progresses, however, Ian becomes more and more morose. Maybe it is the gin. More likely, the cause of his dark mood is the haunting thought that, come morning, his mother will appear. She will fuss and coo over him. After they leave the hospital she will push him along the footpath, just as she used to do when he was a baby in a perambulator.

  Will his wheelchair fit through the door of the tram? Or will there be a humiliating moment when they both realise that he is jammed? He imagines his mother pushing and grunting like a furrowing sow, her face turning red. People will stare. No matter what happens on the way home, soon enough he will find himself back at the house where he grew up, dossing down in the same small bedroom where he slept as a boy. He grimaces and takes another drink.

  Back in the bitter winter of ’17, during a raid, Private Webster’s platoon overran an enemy trench. He had bayoneted a Hun through the chest, slipped the metal between his ribs. The young German had been so close, only the length of the rifle between them. Ian could see each hair on his unshaved chin and smell the wet wool of his scarf. The German’s eyes were grey and scared as all hell. He was so close that Ian could have leant forward and placed a goodbye kiss on his blue lips.

  Ian’s hand trembles as he takes another drink and he wonders how much of his mother’s care he can stand before he snaps. It was no wonder that his old man buggered off when Ian was just a kid. How long can he stomach being alone with her in the house? He fears what could happen. After all, Ian Webster knows exactly what he is capable of.

  Eventually, he picks a drunken fight with the man two beds down, more to take his mind off things than out of any real animosity.

  (For those who might be tempted to put a wager on such a fight, deciding on the odds would be difficult. In a brawl between a man with no legs and one eye, and another who is missing his favoured arm, his left, along with most of his shoulder and a good percentage of the capacity of his lungs, neither stands out as having an obvious advantage. What one pugilist gives away in height the other forfeits through lack of a left hook. Or jab or uppercut. Lungs damaged by gas or not, after their long convalescence both lack stamina.)

  Elizabeth watches while an orderly attempts to drag the two men apart. She has been thinking about Paul Blackwell all week. Now, the sight of the two invalids rolling together on the floor spurs her to make a decision. There is a telephone in the nurses’ office on the second floor. Elizabeth asks the operator for an outside line and then requests a connection to the Blackwells’ house. The maid, Merry, answers and eventually Mrs Blackwell is found.

  ‘I have decided to accept your offer, but only on a trial basis. If after a month I feel that your husband has made no progress, then I will return to my work here at the hospital.’

  Mrs Blackwell sounds deeply relieved. ‘Thank you, Mrs Whitman. I was beginning to despair that we would be able to keep Paul with us here much longer.’

  ‘Has his behaviour become worse?’

  A hesitation. Yes then, thinks Elizabeth.

  ‘It has certainly not improved.’

  ‘You understand that I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Of course. I am really not expecting miracles.’

  ‘Good. I’ll start on Monday at nine.’

  ‘How will you travel here?’

  ‘I’ll take the tram. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from the last stop.’

  ‘I will ask Martin to pick you up from the tram.’

  ‘No, thank you, I prefer to walk. Having spent a great deal of time caring for patients who are bedridden, I’ve come to believe that walking is one of the best things for a person’s health.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Definitely. I’ll see you first thing on Monday. Good evening, Mrs Blackwell.’

  When Elizabeth returns to the ward the fight is forgotten. Everyone is singing. The men roar out the lyrics at the top of their voices.

  ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,

  For he’s a jolly good fellow,

  For he’s a jolly good fe-ellow,

  And so say all of us!’

  Elizabeth is just in time to join in with the cheers.

  Ian Webster sits on his bed where the orderly has deposited him and grins as the tears from his remaining eye run freely down his cheek.

  fifteen

  It takes Elizabeth slightly longer than she had anticipated to walk from the tram stop to the stone gateposts at the entrance to Woodbridge. She doesn’t mind in the least. It is another sunny autumn day. Here on the edge of the city the distinction between rural and urban blurs among sprawling gardens, long driveways and open paddocks. It is all most pleasant.

  If anything, the grounds of Woodbridge are even more impressive when seen on foot; so many senses are excluded by the sealed interior of a motor car. Elizabeth smells cut grass, and the smoke from a bonfire burning somewhere out of sight. She hears the wind in the lime trees that run the length of the drive (her point exactly; from inside the car they were merely trees). A slow stream follows the driveway before curving away and disappearing into the greenery. Seen from the shadows, the lawns are patches of emerald where the morning sunshine lies upon the grass. Further along she spies a small brick chapel set back among the trees.

  Today, Mrs Blackwell is waiting to greet her at the door. She is smiling, eager to begin. ‘Good morning, Mrs Whitman.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘As I said, it’s only a trial.’

  ‘I understand. Still, I am pleased. I see that you wore your uniform.’

  ‘I thought it appropriate.’

  ‘Of course. I will take you up to Paul. I have a few new ideas as to how we might encourage him to remember who he is.’

  ‘Actually, Mrs Blackwell, I’d like to work with your husband alone for a while, if you don’t mind. At least to begin with.’

  Mrs Blackwell purses her lips. ‘I see. Of course.’ She hesitates. ‘I do not like to say this about my own husband, but I am not sure that you will be entirely safe if you are alone with him.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that and I agree. I’d like to have someone waiting outside the room, just in case — perhaps Mr Templeton?’

  Mrs Blackwell seems relieved. ‘Yes, I think that would be best.’ She pulls a bell rope that is hanging near the door. Merry appears, looking flustered, and is dispatched to fetch the chauffeur. ‘Tell him to meet us outside Mr Blackwell’s room.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Merry,’ she chastises.

  ‘Sorry. I mean, yes, Mrs Blackwell. Right away, ma’am.’

  The two women take the main staircase up to the second floor, Mrs Blackwell leading the way, and wait outside the last door at the end of the hallway. When Martin Templeton arrives he is still awkwardly buttoning the jacket of his uniform. His remaining finger and thumb pinch at the silver buttons. Elizabeth notices the involuntary expression of disgust on Mrs Blackwell’s face and sees her look away from the mutilated hand.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Blackwell. Do you want me to bring the car round to the front?’

  ‘No, thank you, Martin. Mrs Whitman is going to spend some time with my husband and we would both feel more comfortable if you could wait outside the door.’

  ‘Oh, right. Good as gold. I’ll grab a chair and park myself just here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘Happy to help.’ He flashes her a grin that makes Mrs Blackwell frown. Although not a harsh person by nature, she has certain expectations of her staff inherited from her husband. Before the war Paul would not have tolerated such informality.

  ‘I think there’s a chair in Paul’s mother’s old roo
m.’

  ‘Right,’ says Martin. ‘I’ll fetch it.’

  Martin hurries off down the hall and Mrs Blackwell turns back to Elizabeth. ‘Are you sure that you don’t want me to go in there with you? After all, I know Paul better than anyone.’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s important that I build a rapport with him.’

  ‘It’s just that I know so much about his history, you see.’

  Elizabeth is adamant. ‘Perhaps later. I do think it’s best that I’m left to talk to him alone.’

  Martin returns holding a bentwood chair. Elizabeth waits until Mrs Blackwell goes back to whatever she does downstairs, although she cannot really imagine how the very wealthy occupy themselves.

  ‘I’ll be right here if you need me,’ says Martin.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ She speaks with more certainty than she feels.

  The bedroom is even hotter than it was on Elizabeth’s first visit. She closes the door behind her but does not lock it. She is glad to see that her patient is no longer chained. Instead, five iron bars have been fitted across the window on the inside of the glass. Paul Blackwell is standing by the window staring out between those very bars. It is as if he had not moved an inch since she saw him from the car. That is not quite true: there is one difference. He is still wearing the pyjama pants but now a matching top is draped off his coat-hanger shoulders. Obviously the pyjamas were once owned by a much larger man.

  No, she corrects herself, it’s more likely that they were owned by the same man, once larger.

  Paul Blackwell studiously ignores her.

  Two can play at that game.

  There is a comfortable-looking armchair against the wall near the door. She moves cautiously over to it and sits. This is what she has resolved to do: sit and wait. She has already seen how a flurry of attention upsets her patient. Now she will determine how he responds to her silent presence.

  He remains standing, staring out the window. When it becomes obvious that she is not going away, he flicks her an irritated look as though she were a mosquito that had invaded the room and was sawing the air. She smiles but he has already turned his head back to the view.

  An hour later, he adds two sizable pieces of wood to the fire before returning to his gazing. Elizabeth watches as the dry wood catches and the flames jump and stretch. A fresh wave of heat rolls into the room. She is overdressed for the conditions and wonders how long she can stand it.

  Around mid-morning her patient grows hungry. He continues to ignore her as he crouches and slides out a tray from beneath the bed. On it are several tins. She identifies a half-finished tin of bully beef. He opens what may be a tin of beans, sawing at the lid with an opener until it peels away. He eats everything cold with a spoon, sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to her.

  Elizabeth is sorely tempted to tell him that he need not fear her trying to steal his lunch. A brief glimpse of the pale and fatty corned beef, in combination with the oppressive heat, has been enough to make her nauseous.

  When he finishes the contents of both tins, Paul Blackwell drinks deeply from a canteen. Elizabeth imagines the water must be tepid. He returns everything, including the empty tins, to the tray, slips it back under the bed and resumes his post at the window. It is all Elizabeth can do to restrain herself from clearing away the mess, refreshing the water, emptying the bedpan, pulling back the curtain to let in the light.

  At midday she stands quietly and leaves the room. Martin jumps to his feet, folding a newspaper as she closes the door behind her.

  ‘That seems like it’s going pretty well.’

  ‘I’m not sure. He hasn’t said a word.’

  ‘There’s been no fireworks anyway. Mrs Blackwell only lasts five minutes before he’s shouting and throwing things around.’

  ‘Do you know what makes him so mad?’

  ‘Nothing really. Mostly she just shows him old photos or tries to talk about things that he was fond of doing before the war.’

  ‘I see.’ She sighs. ‘Well, it’s early days yet. I’m feeling hungry. Mrs Blackwell said that she’d organise some lunch for me.’

  ‘I’ll take you down to see Mrs Booker — she’s the cook. Booker the Cooker we call her round here, though not to her face. She’ll rustle you up something nice. How long do you think you’ll be?’

  ‘I’ll take half an hour.’

  ‘Right-o. I’ll come back then as well.’ He stretches and rolls his shoulders. ‘This sitting around is pretty tough work.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it must be boring for you.’

  ‘Oh, not really. I’ve had my fair share of excitement. This beats getting shot at by the Kaiser’s lot.’

  He smiles. There is something about the way that Martin Templeton looks at her in that moment that tells Elizabeth that he finds her attractive, that he is considering the possibilities. His gaze has a certain weight. It is a look that has crept back into her life over the last few months, always from men who are aware of her circumstances. It was there the other day in the eyes of the red-headed apprentice at her cousin’s butcher’s shop, although he can be no more than seventeen. She’s seen it in the heavy gaze of the returned soldier living down the road. Her wedding ring seems to have become mere costume jewellery.

  The kitchen at Woodbridge is at the back of the house. It is an enormous room that smells of baking and soap and wood smoke. Mrs Booker is a slim woman of about sixty whose hair is grey, her cheeks and nose red with broken capillaries. She greets Elizabeth and then fusses around the kitchen, talking all the time.

  Elizabeth sits at the wooden table in the middle of the room and is soon served chicken and vegetable soup. She eats it with crusty bread fresh from the oven and butter that Mrs Booker has smeared on thick as mortar. It takes little encouragement from Elizabeth to gather from the cook information about Woodbridge, the Blackwell family and Paul himself.

  ‘At first the poor man used to eat everything I gave him: soup, meat, vegetables, even scones and cakes — he wolfed down the lot. It did my heart good to see it, what with him being so skinny. I don’t know what they fed him in that hospital where they had him in England but it looked like they’d given him nothing but bread and water.’

  ‘It’s possible he lost weight because of his wound.’

  Mrs Booker huffs sceptically. ‘But then one day he just stopped eating anything I fixed him. Now he only eats that terrible tinned rot. Even then the tin can’t have been opened, otherwise he won’t touch it.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, love.’

  Elizabeth takes another spoonful of the soup. It is excellent. Given a choice between tinned food and Mrs Booker’s cooking she knows which one she would opt for. ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve worked for the Blackwells for almost thirty years now. I started out as a maid, like little Merry. I remember Paul from when he was just a boy.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘To tell the truth he was a strange wee chap, very serious and polite. I used to say to my Ben, that’s my husband, that the boy was afraid of his own shadow. His mother used to dress him up so that he looked like he was in his Sunday best every day of the week. The worst of it was he never got sent to school when he was little. His father paid for tutors to come to the house. I think a boy needs to mix with children his own age, laugh a bit, have some rough and tumble, learn about life, you know.’

  ‘Didn’t he have any friends?’

  ‘Not to speak of. I think he was quite lonely here in this big old place.’

  ‘He had no one at all?’

  ‘His cousins would visit once in a while but he didn’t seem to know what to make of them. I don’t think he really knew how to talk to them or play their little games. What he liked best was collecting things. Paul was always off by himself finding birds’ nests and interesting stones and whatnot. He had dozens of different types of eggs
at one point, all in boxes in his room. I was the one who taught him how to make a wee hole in each end with a needle and blow them so they wouldn’t go off.’

  ‘How old was he when he got interested in fossils?’

  She pauses to think. ‘Older, after he went off to boarding school up north. He must’ve been about eleven or twelve by then. He only came home for the holidays.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have gone to school in Mansfield?’

  ‘I think mainly they sent him off because he,’ she looks around the kitchen and lowers her voice, ‘he didn’t get on with his father that well. I shouldn’t really say, because every boy loves his father, don’t they? But the truth is that Mr Blackwell was a very stern man. I think Paul was scared of him. God knows, I was more than a bit scared of him myself.’ She looks around the kitchen again and her ruddy face twitches slightly, making the broken capillaries squirm. ‘Not that his father was at home that much. Most of the time he lived at his club. But I’ll tell you one thing for free, that man knew which end of a pound note was which.’

  After half an hour Elizabeth thanks Mrs Booker. ‘That soup was delicious.’

  ‘I’m pleased you enjoyed it, dear. Will you be eating here from now on?’

  ‘Yes, if that’s all right? For the next month a least. I hope it’s not too much trouble for you.’

  ‘The more the merrier, love. Nothing I hate more than having too much time on my hands.’

  For the rest of the day Elizabeth sits in Paul Blackwell’s room and simply observes him. For a while he lies on his back on the floor next to his bed and shuts his eyes, although she dares not move from her chair to see if he is actually asleep or just resting. If he is sleeping she is not surprised. It must be extremely difficult for a man so frail to keep up his energy on a diet of tinned food, no matter how curtailed his range of activities. He spends most of the afternoon staring at the fire, occasionally scratching at his beard.