The Return of the Indian

by Lynne Reid Banks

  Patrick stood up.

  “But there are modern ones. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen them very recently.” His face changed. He almost yelled: “Wait!” and rushed from the room. A few minutes later, he was back.

  “Look!”

  In his hand was a large, flat cardboard box of brand-new plastic figures. They weren’t soldiers, or Indians. They were ordinary people from now. One look told Omri what sort. Professional people. There was a judge in a long wig, and several lawyers. There were businessmen with briefcases, one in a bowler hat. There were scientists in laboratory coats. There was a nurse. And—Omri let out a shout—there were doctors. Two of them, to be exact. One was an ordinary doctor with a stethoscope around his neck. And the other was a surgeon, in a green gown and mask.

  Almost gibbering with excitement and relief—he felt as if he were looking into Aladdin’s cave—Omri peered closer. The man was bent over an operating table. Yes! What Omri had been hoping for was there! Instruments—trays of them—all part of the same group! Little Bear was as good as saved!

  “That’s it!” he cried. “Come on, let’s go!”

  But, incredibly, Patrick was hesitating.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Omri impatiently.

  “They’re not mine.”

  “Oh, so what?—Whose are they?”

  “My cousin’s. She got them yesterday, for her birthday.”

  “We’ll give them back!”

  “Tamsin goes mad if you touch her things. She’s sure to notice it’s gone.”

  “But Little Bear may be dying.”

  Patrick gave a shrug. “Okay. Better wrap them up.”

  They found an old Safeways bag and dropped the whole box in. They were just going downstairs when a door opened and a girl Omri remembered only too well came out into the hall. Patrick stopped dead like a burglar caught in the act.

  “Oh, God, it’s her,” he muttered. “See you later …” But he didn’t turn tail. They just kept on going toward the front door.

  Tamsin barred their way. She was a big girl for her age, with a pronounced jaw and scowling brows.

  “Where’re you off to, Paddywack?” she asked tauntingly. She ignored Omri, although she recognized him. They’d never been precisely pally.

  “I’m going out for a bit.”

  “Does your mum know?”

  “I was just going to tell her.”

  “I bet.”

  “I was. Excuse me.”

  As he brushed past her, some possessive instinct must have warned her. She grabbed the bag. Patrick hadn’t expected this, and let go of it. In a flash she had opened it and peered in. The face she raised was suddenly flushed with fury.

  “You’re stealing my present!” she said, slowly and menacingly.

  “No we’re not! We were only borrowing it for the night.”

  “For the night! Are you crazy? I wouldn’t let you borrow it for five seconds.”

  Something was boiling up in Omri’s head. There went everything they needed to save Little Bear. That wretched girl was clutching it to her as if they were trying to part her from a bag of gold.

  “We were going to ask you!” he babbled untruthfully. “Please lend them to us!”

  “No.” Her face and voice were of stone. He knew she would never give way. An impulse born of desperation seized him. He reached out and tried to snatch the bag back from her.

  She held on, and screeched. The bag tore, the box fell out and its lid came off. There on the floor lay the whole array of figures, held firmly to their backing by elastic string. Omri didn’t hesitate. He simply fell on top of them, his fingers under him, clutching and wrenching. Tamsin fell on top of him, clutching and wrenching him. He felt his ear being wrung half off, his head being pounded, and his ankle kicked, sharp as a dog bite, by Tamsin’s pointed shoe. As they writhed, first one bicycle and then a second crashed down on top of them.

  A moment later a door slammed and an exasperated adult voice roared:

  “Have you kids gone mad? Stop it this instant! Tamsin—!”

  She and the tangle of bikes were hiked bodily off him, putting a stop to the immediate torture, though aches lingered.

  “They’re nicking my present! They’re nicking my models!” shrieked the dangling Tamsin, threshing all her limbs in the air like a monstrous spider.

  “Patrick?”

  But Patrick was already at the front door and Omri was scrambling to his feet.

  “We don’t want her models,” he muttered. “It was only a joke!” And before more could be said, they were outside.

  Patrick’s mother appeared in the doorway, crying after them: “Where do you boys think you’re going?”

  Patrick yelled back, “I’m sleeping over at Omri’s!”

  “Come back!” called his mother. “You haven’t got your toothbru-u-ush!” But they were already around the corner.

  Chapter 7

  Matron

  Under the first streetlamp, Omri pulled up. His heart was hammering.

  “Well?” asked Patrick eagerly. “Did you get it? Let’s look!”

  Omri had something in his hand. But he knew it wasn’t the one he’d wanted. It wasn’t the surgeon—he would have been able to feel the square shape of the operating table. It was a single figure. He held his hand closed around it, afraid to look. What if it was only a lawyer or that idiotic bowler-hatted businessman?

  Slowly, in an agony of suspense, Omri uncurled his fingers. Both boys slumped with despair. Omri gave a deep groan.

  Then Patrick rallied.

  “It could be worse. Nurses have to know something.”

  “They can’t operate. They’re not trained.”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  They walked on, Omri sunk in gloom. Patrick kept trying to cheer him up.

  “Listen. If he can hang on till tomorrow, we can go out and buy anything we like. At the model shop they’ll have the same set. Meanwhile at least the nurse will be able to tell us how bad he is.”

  “If she doesn’t drop dead when we bring her out of the cupboard,” said Omri. He was cursing himself for not managing to grab the surgeon. He would also, incidentally, have liked to jump up and down on Tamsin’s stomach until she burst like a balloon. He was bruised all over.

  Patrick of course had never seen the district where Omri now lived. As they came out of the station, he paused, glanced down Hovel Road and said, “Blimey. This is a bit rough.”

  Omri said nothing. They began to hurry towards his house.

  “What are the kids like around here?”

  “Well. You have to stand up for yourself.”

  They were passing the amusement arcade—on the other side of the street, of course. It was just closing. The proprietor, a surly-looking Sikh, was urging everyone out. There was a good deal of swearing, jeering and shoving. A scuffle started. A rather small skinhead jostled an older boy, who reacted by hurling him unceremoniously into the road, where he was narrowly missed by a passing car.

  “Crumbs!” exclaimed Patrick. “Did you see that?”

  “Yes, and it’ll be us next if they spot us,” said Omri. “Come on!”

  Omri’s mother opened the door to his knock. She was furious.

  “Where on earth have you been? Don’t you ever go out again at night without telling me—I’ve been frantic! Oh. Hallo, Patrick, fancy seeing you. Are you planning to spend the night?”

  Patrick looked daunted, but Omri had no time to pacify his mother. After a brief “Sorry, Mum!” he dragged Patrick after him up the stairs, deaf to her enquiries about where he’d been and where Patrick would sleep.

  As soon as they had the door of his bedroom shut behind them, Omri switched on the main light. He’d left his bedside lamp on so Bright Stars wouldn’t be in the dark. Patrick cautiously approached the chest, his eyes wide, as if his unbelief had come back to him, and the sight of the living miniature people Struck him afresh as incredible. Bright Stars had jumped to her feet as they came in. Sh
e recognized Patrick at once and raised her hand to greet him.

  “Hallo, Bright Stars,” he said softly. “How’s Little Bear?”

  She stepped aside and pointed. Little Bear’s eyes were open. They were big with pain. He fastened them on Patrick, and then saw Omri. He didn’t speak, but a look of joy came over his face. He closed his eyes.

  “Omri help now?” asked Bright Stars beseechingly.

  “We’re going to try.” He wanted to tell her not to be too hopeful, but he couldn’t. He brought the figure of the nurse out of his pocket. He and Patrick examined it again.

  “She’s wearing one of those weird high hats,” said Patrick. “When I was in hospital having my tonsils out, nurses with those sort of hats were important. All the others scurried about when they came into the ward.”

  “Maybe she’s a matron?” said Omri, who though he hadn’t ever been in a hospital, did not watch TV for nothing.

  “Yeah, something like that. Come on, let’s do it.”

  No matter what the circumstances, this was always a thrilling moment. Into the cupboard went the little female figure in its blue uniform dress and white apron and elaborate cap. Would she be old or young? Awful or nice? Above all, how would she react when she saw them?

  In the past the little people they had brought to life had been superstitious enough, or drunk enough, to accept the fantastic situation. Even Tommy had been easy to convince that he was dreaming. But a modern person might have much more trouble accepting the facts.

  A quick turn back and forth of the key, and instantly a severe voice could be heard calling from inside the cupboard:

  “Nurse! NURSE! Phone through immediately and tell Maintenance there’s been a power cut in Ward 12! No need for alarm, ladies just a little electrical failure; we’ll have the emergency generator working in no time!”

  Omri opened the cupboard door.

  “Ah!” cried the voice. “That’s more like it! Now, what was I—”

  And it stopped.

  Omri swung the door right back. The matron stood there on the shelf where they had put her, her hands coming slowly away from her hips. She looked at the two enormous faces for a few seconds. Then she covered her eyes, rubbed them, shook her head briskly, and looked again. Then she said, “What’s this, then, boys, some kind of trick? Put the mirrors away and get back to your beds.” Then, when nothing happened, her face suddenly went as white as her cap. She did a kind of spin on one heel and fell straight backwards off the shelf.

  Omri just managed to catch her. He’d been half expecting something of the sort. She lay in the palm of his hand in a dead faint. Omri marveled at the feeling of her tiny warm limp body, in its crisp starched clothes, alive … He transported her gently to the chest and showed her to Bright Stars.

  “White woman dead?” she asked, aghast.

  “No, no. She’s just had a fright. Make her sit up and put her head between her knees.” He showed her how. Bright Stars wasted no time. After a minute or two, the matron showed signs of reviving. The first thing she did was reach up to check that her cap, which was like a white organdy castle with flying buttresses and banners, was still in place. Miraculously, it was.

  She scrambled to her feet and stared around her. She was middle-aged, Omri guessed from her face and voice. She wore glasses and no makeup and looked formidable. He was glad that he was not a patient in her charge. At the same time, she did look as if she knew her job—if only she was not too terrified to do it.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” he began, “But you’ve come through a magic cupboard which has made you very small. Please don’t be frightened. You can think it’s a dream if you like, or some kind of trick, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. After you’ve helped us, you can go back to your … your normal life. Would you mind telling us your name?”

  The woman opened and shut her mouth several times like a goldfish. Then she managed to say, very faintly, “You may call me Matron.” Then she swayed and put her hand to her forehead. “I must be going mad!” she muttered. And she looked as if she might fall over again.

  “Please! You’re not mad. Don’t faint!”

  Matron stiffened at once and lifted her chin.

  “Faint? Me? Don’t be absurd, I’ve never fainted in my entire life!” She straightened her splendid cap and stared at them haughtily. “Matrons don’t faint! The very idea.”

  Patrick opened his mouth, but Omri nudged him into silence.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said.

  “Not that I wouldn’t be grateful for a strong cup of tea,” she remarked severely. “Especially if there’s any work to be done.”

  “There is!” Omri exclaimed eagerly. “I’ll get you some tea later, but could you please look at a patient for us?”

  Bright Stars was already almost pulling Matron over to where Little Bear was lying on the ground.

  “Dear me,” murmured the Matron. She adjusted her cap and her glasses and knelt down beside Little Bear’s prone form. After a brief but efficient examination, she rose, looked over her glasses at Bright Stars, evidently decided she was innocent of any crime, and turned her accusing gaze on the boys.

  “This man,” she announced, “has been shot in the back.”

  “Yes, we know,” said Omri.

  “He needs an immediate operation to remove the bullets.”

  “We know,” said Omri. “Only, they’re not bullets, they’re musket balls. You see—”

  “He must be taken at once to the nearest hospital. I recommend my own—St. Thomas’s.”

  “Matron,” said Patrick.

  “Yes, young man?”

  “We can’t. You see, St. Thomas’s is our size, and he is your size. They wouldn’t be able to help him. Everything would be too big for him. Don’t you see?”

  Matron closed her eyes for a moment, swayed visibly (Omri stretched out a hand to catch her) and then righted herself with an effort.

  “This is exceedingly peculiar,” she said, “to say the very least. I don’t profess to understand what has happened to me. But still … press on! What do you suggest?”

  “Could he hold out until tomorrow?”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Most unwise.”

  Omri’s heart sank. “Couldn’t—couldn’t you do it?”

  The Matron started violently. “I—? Perform the task of a surgeon? Such a thing would be unthinkable. The etiquette of the medical profession absolutely forbids it.”

  “But if it didn’t?” “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—could you do it, if you were allowed to?”

  “‘Allowed to’! It is not a matter of permission.”

  “Well, then?—You see,” Omri said, and now the same imploring note crept into his voice as had been in Bright Stars’ eyes, “there’s no one else.”

  Matron turned and stared down at Little Bear for a long moment.

  “But I have no equipment,” she said at last.

  Patrick threw back his head with a groan. “That’s true … Of course! No one can operate without instruments! Why didn’t we think of that?”

  “I did think of it,” said Omri. “We’ve got instruments. Sort of.”

  Patrick turned to gape at him. “Where?”

  For answer, Omri reached again for the plastic figure which had once been Tommy. Silently he put him back into the cupboard and turned the key. When he opened the door, there once again was the neat pile of clothes, the boots—and the bag with the red cross on it.

  Chapter 8

  The Operation

  “You’re brilliant,” breathed Patrick as Omri delicately picked up the tiny object. With his free hand he overturned one of the boxes in which the plastic figures had been stored, spread Kleenex on it, and set the bag in the middle.

  Matron bustled over with a swish of starched apron. She started a little at the sight of the battered old bag, but not half as much as she did when she opened it. She fairly reel
ed back.

  “Are you seriously suggesting that I pull bullets out of a man’s back with this antiquated collection of museum pieces!” she almost shrieked.

  “Are they so very different from what you use today?” asked Omri desperately.

  Matron gingerly plucked a tiny hypodermic syringe from the bag and held it up like a dead rat between finger and thumb.

  “Look at it! Just look! I ask you!”

  “Matron,” Omri said earnestly. “You don’t seem to understand. That’s all there is. It’s the best we can manage. If you can’t do it, he’ll die. Our friend. Please! All we ask is that you try.”

  Matron gave Omri an enigmatic look. Then she took hold of Tommy’s bag and briskly emptied it on the padded table. All sorts of microscopic things came out. The boys could just make out the rolls of bandages, dressings, dark bottles, and instruments packed in flat cases. She examined these very minutely and then straightened up and said, “Of course this is some kind of nightmare. But even in nightmares, it is my policy to do my best.”

  Omri and Patrick clutched each other.

  “You mean, you’ll do it?”

  “If you can provide me with an operating table, a bright light, some disinfectant, and a strong cup of tea.”

  Omri could, and did, provide all those things. By this time it was one o’clock in the morning and the whole household was fast asleep, but he tiptoed downstairs and fetched disinfectant, cotton, some clean handkerchiefs, and an electric kettleful of boiling water. He also detached the cap from a tube of toothpaste and washed it out. That was for a mug. Then he made some strong tea with a tea bag and added milk and sugar. He hoped she took sugar. He carried all this on a tray up the stairs very quietly.

  When he returned to his room, Patrick had fixed up the box as an operating table. Omri’s bedside lamp, which had a flexible neck and a 100-watt bulb—his mother had a thing about reading in a bad light—had been moved onto the chest. The light shone straight down onto the table, making no shadows. There was Kleenex spread everywhere. It looked very hygienic. Little Bear had already been laid on the table, and Matron, armed with a tiny pair of scissors, was soon cutting up a handkerchief to make a surgical gown for herself and an operating sheet for Little Bear.