by Sylvia Waugh
“Whoa!” she said with a smile. “Not so fast. This is a built-up area!”
She clutched the parcels to save them from falling. It was the day of the church bazaar and Stella was acting as factotum in the absence of several parishioners who, for one reason or another, were not able to help. So, in every sense, she had her hands full.
“Sorry about that, Mrs. Dalrymple,” said Mickey's mother as she caught up with him. “He's just excited about seeing Thomas on the news last night—and worried too, of course. We all are.”
Stella looked at them blankly. She had not seen last night's news.
“He's in the hospital in Casselton, Mrs. Dalrymple,” said Mickey, in a rush to tell the story first, “and he doesn't know who he is.”
Stella looked at Mrs. Trent for an explanation. When it was given, she was more worried than anyone else in the village would have been. Everyone knew, of course, how close she was to the Derwents. They had long been spoken of as “Mrs. Dalrymple's neighbors.”
“Are you sure it was Thomas?” she said. “His father was with him. They were on the way to London to board a plane to Canada. You must be mistaken.”
“It'll be on the lunchtime news,” said Jenny Trent. “They always repeat things. Why don't you go in and watch it? It'll be on any minute now.”
All three of them went into Stella's house, put down the parcels and the shopping, then went into the little sitting room to wait for the regional news. Sure enough, the item of the night before was repeated, though in an abbreviated form. The sound engineers must not have been able to cope with the distortion caused by Thomas's alien voice. But there he was, a boy with no name, in Casselton General Hospital.
“That's the keyring I gave him,” said Mickey. He was glad that the sounds Thomas had made were omitted. One of those sounds was too close to a whisper he had heard; one of those sounds was a word that he and he alone could recognize. He had no idea what it might mean, but it was a secret he would never tell.
Stella gasped. “I gave him the Scrabble,” she said. “That is Thomas. Dear God, what on earth's happened to him? And where is Patrick?”
With a feeling of horror, she saw the strip of sheepskin and wondered what could have happened to the two people for whom she cared so much. She knew that Patrick had been wearing a sheepskin coat. It was, at the very least, a chilling coincidence.
The first thing to do was to telephone the number given in the program. The other two sat and watched, Mrs. Trent feeling guilty that she had not done so herself.
Jenny Trent needn't have worried. There had already been dozens of phone calls from all sorts of people claiming to know the lost boy. The names given for him were wide-ranging; the localities were many and varied.
“Cranks,” Sergeant Morland said with a sigh. “Cranks, knaves, and sad people!”
But they all had to be checked.
“This is interesting, though,” said the sergeant as he looked down the list he had meticulously made, in strict alphabetical order, together with the time of the call, the number—where obtainable—of the caller, and the location of the boy's potential home.
Mrs. Dalrymple had just identified Thomas Derwent. And there on the sergeant's list was the name Thomas Derwent, given by someone called Sam Swanson, who said that his son had recognized a schoolmate on the news.
“Can you give us more details, Mrs. Dalrymple?” he said. Then he pressed on rapidly with a barrage of questions.
Stella answered all the sergeant's queries—about the boy, his father, their destination, and numerous other details that seemed irrelevant and sometimes totally meaningless. Sammy Bentley? Strange voices?
Eventually Stella cut across all this and said firmly, “I am coming to see Thomas myself. It can't be this afternoon because I have promised to help with the Christmas bazaar and there are already too few helpers to go round. But this evening—”
“It is a hospital, Mrs. Dalrymple,” said Sergeant Morland. “Evening visits on a children's ward are not permitted. You will have to wait till tomorrow.”
“I can't come in the morning,” said Stella, irritated by another delay she could not avoid. “It's the last day at work before the Christmas break but I shall certainly be there tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, I shall ring the hospital.”
“Yes?” said the sergeant, not quite sure what Stella meant to do.
“You have asked me a lot of questions, Sergeant Morland,” she said tartly, “but you have not told me how Thomas is. The amnesia diagnosis was fairly obvious, but is he physically injured in any way? Have they checked properly? Are they sure that there is no concussion?”
Mrs. Trent winced. She had been too timid even to ring the number. And here was Stella Dalrymple trying to put them all in their places!
“I think you'll find, Mrs. Dalrymple,” said Sergeant Morland, “that everything that should be done has been done. But do feel free to ring the children's ward and inquire. Tell them you have spoken to me.”
“And what about the boy's father?” said Stella. “Have you no idea where he might be?”
“Not yet,” said Sergeant Morland grittily. “But we are working on it.”
He was still not a hundred percent sure that the boy was Thomas Derwent. But at least Inspector Galway would be happy to have something to go on.
“Can I come with you to see Thomas, Mrs. Dalrymple?” said Mickey after the phoning was over. “He'll talk to me. I know he will.”
His mother frowned at him.
“Don't be so forward, Mickey. Mrs. Dalrymple won't want to take a child with her when she visits the hospital. And it's a long way to go.”
Stella looked from Mickey to his mother, considered quickly, then said, “If you've no objection, Mrs. Trent, I would like him to come with me. He and Thomas are such good friends. It might be a help.”
On Wednesday morning Dr. Ramsay came to see Thomas.
He sat down on the chair next to the bed, crossed his legs, and perched a clipboard on his knee. He was holding a pen in one hand and scanning a page of writing.
“Well now,” he said. “We are just about sure that you are not called Sammy Bentley. So much you have confirmed yourself.”
Thomas did not look at him and tried hard to appear not to be listening. His face was as near a mask as he could make it. Patrick had not come for him and the waiting was becoming harder and harder.
I have done all I can, he thought. I can do no more.
Except wait, he told himself sharply, just wait. Another day, another night, maybe. Like going twice round the moon. Late did not mean never.
Dr. Ramsay looked up from the page and said sharply, hoping to surprise the boy into some sort of normal reaction, “We are almost certain that you are called Thomas Derwent and that you come from Belthorp.”
That was a shock. It was the last thing Thomas had expected him to say. He longed to ask how he knew. His mind skimmed the possibilities and came up with the right answer. Stella must have seen the news and recognized him. To be on television had been yet another mistake. It had not brought his father any nearer; it had let people know who he was and where he came from. That could be dangerous.
“Well, Thomas, what have you to say to that? Nod if you like. I don't need you to speak,” said the doctor. But somehow Dr. Ramsay had not the same authority in his tone as Inspector Galway. The inspector's style combined strength with nonchalance in a way that reached Thomas; perhaps the manner somehow resembled that of his father. Whatever the reason, Thomas was not prepared to make similar concessions to the doctor. He continued stony-faced and silent.
“You are to have a visitor this afternoon,” said Dr. Ramsay, telling more than he should have told on this occasion, depriving himself of the chance of taking Thomas by surprise again. “Mrs. Dalrymple, your nextdoor neighbor, is coming all the way from Belthorp to see you.”
On the train to Casselton, neither Mickey nor Stella had very much to say. Each was wrapped in thought. Stella was longing f
or the journey to be over so that she could solve the mystery and begin to put things right. Mickey was wondering whether to mention something he knew and Mrs. Dalrymple didn't.
“He spoke,” said Mickey at length as the train was nearing Casselton.
“Who do you mean?” said Stella. “Thomas?”
“On the telly, the bit they missed out when you saw it,” said Mickey, puzzling what to say next. “He spoke in a shivery voice and the picture went funny.”
“What did he say?” said Stella anxiously.
“I don't know,” said Mickey. “It was like foreign and … and … shivery.”
It was the first inkling Stella had that this mission might not be perfectly straightforward.
When they reached the hospital, they were shown into an office where Dr. Ramsay was already waiting. He was surprised and annoyed to see the child.
“I thought you would be coming alone,” he said, looking sternly at Mrs. Dalrymple. “I have not prepared my patient to receive two visitors.”
Mrs. Dalrymple smiled, recognizing in the doctor a man who was caring but probably overcautious.
“Mickey is Thomas's best friend,” she said. “I thought it might help him to see more than one familiar face. If he is suffering from amnesia, as you say he is, then surely anything that might jog his memory should be helpful.”
Dr. Ramsay was worried. He knew how difficult his patient had been. There was, besides, the business of the voice that had in it a pitch that might be madness. And was the boy really Thomas Derwent after all?
“I think you should go in first, Mrs. Dalrymple. Make your own assessment. Mickey can stay here with me,” he said, trying to signal that Mickey might be upset to see Thomas in his present state, especially if he really was so close to him. The whole business seemed to be getting out of hand. The sooner the boy was seen by Mattie Marston, the better.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Dalrymple. “That seems fair enough.”
Dr. Ramsay went to the doorway and called to Kirsty Mackenzie, “Would you please take this visitor to see the child we've been calling Sammy?”
He followed Mrs. Dalrymple out into the corridor and closed the door behind him so that Mickey could not hear.
“You may see the boy alone,” he said softly, “but call the nurse immediately if he becomes distressed. In any event, keep your visit brief. Don't mention his father. And don't say anything about the crash or the strip of sheepskin. Ten minutes should be enough at first. Then come back here and see me.”
Mrs. Dalrymple made no protest. She had other ideas, but it was unnecessary to discuss them yet. She followed Kirsty down the corridor.
She saw Thomas as soon as she entered the ward, though his bed was in the furthest corner, just beneath the window. She waved and walked toward him. He was lying on top of his covers, propped up by pillows, hands flanking his sides. He was wearing the same jeans and sweatshirt that he had worn on the day he left Belthorp.
“Well, Thomas,” said Stella as she sat down in the bedside chair, “are you pleased to see me?”
The boy's face was blank and he looked fixedly ahead of him. Stella suddenly understood why Dr. Ramsay was so worried. She leaned forward and grasped the child's hand but it stayed limp in hers. She said no more for some seconds and just held on to his hand. It was like being with someone in a trance. She racked her brains for some way of snapping him out of it, some gentle, harmless way.
“The decorations are nice,” she said at length, looking up at the hoops hanging from the ceiling. “I've got my little Christmas tree out again. I wasn't going to bother now that you aren't there, but then I thought, why not? It is not only children who enjoy the brightness of Christmas.”
Thomas squirmed. He was puzzled by Stella's apparent lack of reaction to his silence. He began very deliberately to say the twelve-times table inside his head.
“I practically ran the church bazaar myself yesterday,” she said. “It's funny how people find excuses to shy away from work. Still, it was worth it. We had plenty of customers and our takings were well up on last year. I even managed to sell that old fur coat Mrs. Bigwood gave us.”
Thomas was tempted to smile at the thought of Rosie's mother's huge fur coat. The other children had unkindly called her Yogi Bear. He wanted to ask who bought it. In another world, another time, he would have. His eyes for a moment slid from a blank frontal stare to a quick glance in Stella's direction. Nine twelves are a hundred and eight.
“Come on, Thomas, look at me,” said Stella, seeing the glance immediately and knowing exactly what it meant. “Look me straight in the eye. Whatever is wrong can't be put right while you're lying here. I'll see to it. Have I ever let you down? If you speak to me now, I shall take on the whole hospital on your behalf and I will get you home to Belthorp. That is a promise.”
Twelve twelves are a hundred and forty-four.
Stella kept to the rules—no mention of Patrick, no mention of the crash, and certainly no mention of the sheepskin coat. But the promise she had made covered everything. Thomas was greatly tempted. Perhaps, perhaps, he thought, Stella could find Vateelin—but then he realized with a shock that he no longer thought of his father as Patrick. The Belthorp part of their existence had slipped away. It was a sadness, but it was inevitable. Vateelin is not Patrick; and I, I am not Thomas Derwent.
He let his hand stay limp. He fixed his gaze on a point in front of him and refused to move it again. Four elevens are forty-four. Four elevens are forty-four. Four elevens are forty-four….
Five elevens … five elevens are fifty-five. Six elevens are sixty-six. Seven elevens …
The refusal to look her way, the marble immobility of the boy's face, persisted. Stella found herself unnerved by it, worried that any further effort she might make could make things worse. Thomas might be shamming amnesia, but his illness could still be something real.
A nurse came behind her and gently put one hand on the visitor's shoulder.
“Dr. Ramsay would like to see you now,” she said quietly.
“You do see what I mean?” said Dr. Ramsay when Stella returned to the office. Mickey sat there puzzled and silent. “It would not be good for Mickey to see him today. We've been having quite a chat, Mickey and I. He'd like to come back again when Thomas feels well enough to see him.”
“What is wrong with him?” Stella demanded, cutting across the doctor's diplomatic kindliness.
“Take Mickey down to the dayroom, please,” said Dr. Ramsay to Kirsty. “I'm sure you can find something interesting for him to look at while Mrs. Dalrymple and I have a little talk.
“I'll try to explain,” said Dr. Ramsay after Mickey left. “Thomas is not physically ill. And though it might look alarming, the state he is in now will not persist. It is most probably nothing more than the aftereffects of shock, but people often underestimate how devastating shock can be.”
Stella studied carefully what to say next. Shock to her was something treated with a cup of warm, sweet tea in the comfort of one's own home.
“Let me take him back to Belthorp, then,” she said. “It could be what he needs.”
“Impossible,” said Dr. Ramsay. “Have you not understood me? He needs professional medical attention. I would be in dereliction of my duty to let him go.”
“I'm not saying I'll remove him from proper care,” said Stella quickly. “There's Dr. Page in the village, and I'd get Nurse Harvey to pop in. We're a very close, caring community.”
“Give it another day or two,” said Dr. Ramsay. “We honestly can't make any drastic decisions at this stage. Do remember, the police still have a strong interest in the case. There is no next of kin to consult, and however close you might be, you are not the boy's guardian.”
“I could be,” said Mrs. Dalrymple very deliberately. “I'm sure it could be arranged. I'll come again tomorrow. And in the meantime I shall be seeking advice on ways of getting Thomas back to Belthorp. I mean to have him released into my care in time for Christmas.”
Dr. Ramsay was startled. Just as Mrs. Dalrymple had recognized the caring, overcautious doctor, so he saw in Mrs. Dalrymple a woman of fixed purpose for whom rules were often bent and sometimes broken.
“That won't be possible,” he said. “We cannot hand patients over to just anybody.”
“I am not just anybody,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, “and I intend to prove it. My next appointment is with Inspector Galway. I have brought all the evidence I need to prove that the boy in there is who I say he is and that I am the proper person to care for him.”
* * *
“Was it really Thomas?” said Mickey as he and Mrs. Dalrymple walked down the corridor that led to the outer doors. He was angry at not being allowed to see his friend, an explosive anger hidden behind a scowl.
Stella looked down at him and said resolutely, “It most certainly was, and he won't be staying there for long. That I can tell you!”
“So why couldn't I see him?” said Mickey sharply. “He's my friend and I want to see him. I came here specially.”
“I thought it best not to argue too much,” said Stella. “There are more important things to argue about. We must make arrangements to get Thomas back to Belthorp.”
“Today?” said Mickey.
“Not today,” said Stella, “but tomorrow. Certainly tomorrow.”
“We'll have to,” said Mickey. “It'll be Christmas Eve tomorrow. We can't leave him there for Christmas! Can I come with you again? I'll help you to bring Thomas home. If he needs a wheelchair, I'll push it.”
Stella smiled. “He won't need to be wheeled out,” she said. “He's quite capable of walking to a taxi and getting onto a train.”
At those words, Mickey turned to go back along the corridor. “I'm going to get him,” he said. “I'm going to get him now.”
“No, Mickey, not yet,” said Stella. “That would only make trouble for all of us. We'll have to hurry. We're supposed to be seeing Inspector Galway in less than half an hour.”
But by this time, Mickey was halfway down the corridor, heading for the double doors that led into the children's ward.