Читать книгу Blind Man's Year - Warwick Deeping - Страница 16

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Another day had passed, perhaps the most lyrical yet elusive day that could be written of in her book of April. Something sang in her, the spring, birds, youth, that blemished youth of hers that had been young bitterly and in secret. All sorts of things happened.

He had said to her: “Isn’t it strange our coming together like this? I seem to have heard your voice before. And what’s that I smell? Wallflowers?”

“Yes.”

She had gone out and picked him a posy.

“Yes, I can smell them in spite of all the old doctor’s wonderful dressings.”

She had led Prince in by the collar and introduced the dog to the strange new thing in the bed. “Hallo, old chap. What is he? An Alsatian?” and Prince, after staring at the bandaged apparition, had licked its hand.

“He doesn’t make friends easily.”

The young man’s hand fondled the dog.

“Prince won’t quarrel with me.”

Then, about twelve o’clock, Mr. Cash had arrived with a lorry and a breakdown gang from the aerodrome to salvage the wrecked plane. She had felt kind even to Mr. Cash, and had brought him to youth’s window and suffered him to be briefly and facetiously friendly.

“Hallo, Wal, my lad, we thought you were for a halo.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it, Mr. Cash.”

“Haloes, what! Not much! We’re collecting the bits of the old bus. Well, you look pretty comfortable.”

“Miss Gerard’s been—”

But Miss Gerard herself had been in charge of the interplay. She had been standing beside Mr. Cash, and she had dared to lay a hand on the leather-jacket’s shoulder. Mr. Cash had been persuaded to remember the day’s affairs and not to mangle the soft bud of an illusion.

“He’s not allowed to talk.”

Mr. Cash had nodded at her.

“Bye-bye, Wal. Glad there’s not going to be an inquest.”

Why did that particular word stick like a burr to her secret consciousness? Was it that she knew that she would be driven to holding an inquest on her own reincarnation? She had watched Mr. Cash and his minions go over the hill, and she returned to youth’s window.

“I hope you did not mind my letting him speak to you?”

He did not answer her immediately.

“I have seen Mr. Cash. I mean I know his face. It’s somehow more vivid to me here in the darkness.”

“Some things are.”

“I oughtn’t to say it, but it’s like a thing hanging up in a butcher’s shop.”

She understood him instantly.

“Forget it.”

“No need, Miss Gerard. I’m lying here and thinking that in a day or two I shall be seeing something that isn’t like that.”

“The window, and a green hill, and fir trees.”

“No, please forgive me, you.”

She remembered flinching from the window, and then making herself go back and answer him, lest he should think her silence snubbing and upon its dignity.

“You may find me quite an old woman!”

But problems seemed to arrive for her like the birds she fed in winter at her window. There were ministrations that were not for her hands, intimate things that had to be done for him by Heberden and the district nurse whom the doctor had co-opted into the affair. Also, she came by the impression that Heberden was worried about some aspect of the case, and was keeping details back from her. He had spoken vaguely of bruising about the eyes, even hinted that his prognosis was not yet complete. Also, he was suggesting that the lad could be moved in a day or two to the County Hospital at Westbourn. It was still very much a nursing case, and Miss Gerard’s household was being subjected to too much disorganization.

“It’s a nice lad. I want to do the best for him. And I’m afraid your work must be suffering.”

Her work? Beyond completing the correcting of the proofs of her autumn book she had not put pen to paper since the thing had happened. The world of her imagination seemed to have given place to the world of actuality. Had youth read any of her books? And did it matter? Most certainly it mattered, for he might have gained from her book an impression of her that was not what she might wish it to be. Men are apt to be shy of clever women. Of much more significance was the suggestion that he should be transferred to the Westbourn General Hospital. Did she desire it? Yes, and no. And in confronting her own hesitancies she suddenly accused herself of harbouring a preposterous illusion. What was he to her, and what could she be to him? In fact, she was on the edge of trying to create a sentimental situation, because compassion and the spring and wounded youth had tumbled out of the sky into her solitude.

She compelled herself to say to Heberden: “Of course, it is much better that he should be moved. My work? I have that always with me.”

She retained the impression that Heberden was worried.

“I’ll keep him here for another day or two, if I may. I’m not quite at the bottom of the case yet. One cannot always make a complete examination until certain things have settled down. I have arranged for Nurse Horrocks to come in and do all that is necessary.”

“Thank you so much. Is it the question of the injury to his face?”

“Yes. You see, there was so much bruising, so much swelling. One could not make a complete examination.”

“I understand.”

“I think I shall be able to say more definitely to-morrow.”

How absurd of her to shrink from the inevitable revelation, the withdrawing of that veil of darkness, yet for two or three days in her lonely life she had expressed herself as woman, not a creature juggling with words, but experiencing actual emotion. “You are young like I am.” Had he found her hands and voice and unseen presence sweet and mysterious? And how he would be disillusioned when he saw her poor face! How brutal and ironical life could be! Self-pity! Cowardice! That a few square inches of discoloured skin should shame her into behaving like a sensitive, self-adoring girl! Would it not be much better for him to go before the veil was lifted?

She would speak to Heberden about it, suggest that he should be moved at once.

But would not that be to confess her cowardice? Heberden might divine her silly vanity.

She procrastinated.