of an operating theatre comprised chiefly a welter of blood and sawn-off limbs. She looked at Helen in a kind of daze. “But don’t you find it rather terrible?”
“A lot less terrible than commercial advertising. It’s honest, anyway. Besides, I’m a trained nurse, you know.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Don’t I look like one?”
“Not at all,” said Elsie, with heartfelt truth.
“That’s fine,” Helen closed the folder and put it away. “Well, I won’t keep you up any longer. I expect you’re dropping on your feet. If there’s anything you want, knock on the wall. Leo and I will be next door, you know. Good night, and sleep well.”
Elsie undressed mechanically, and, when she was ready, switched off the bedside lamp. Going over to the window, she put her head out into the moist, murmuring night. The leaves of a willow-tree made a flickering whisper; water slapped stealthily below her; people were singing, to the strum of a ukulele, somewhere in the distance; an owl hooted and a gull cried. Down in the midst of the boat were voices, soft and intermittent, which did not argue or contend, like the voices at home, but went on, evenly and mysteriously, and ceased, and began again. A long way off, it seemed in the midst of the river itself, a solitary light burned. She remembered the island, with its low wooden house; it was too dark now to see its outline, but the light must be there. It winked sometimes, and twinkled like a star, as a branch of the tree close by swung across it in the light wind.
She began to think, as she always thought last thing before she slept, of Peter. She would write to him soon; not yet, but when the jumble in her mind had straightened. She thought how pleased with her daring he would be, how astonished to find that she was so near. The thought of his approval made her feel solid and real, and almost confident in the midst of so much that was lonely and strange. She would see him again! There was that; and there was Leo, who, though one might sometimes be afraid of her, though she still seemed like a creature of another race, had still about her some of the unwritten certainties of childhood; she had never broken a promise, or told tales, or, if she knew where one was hiding, given one away. For tonight, that was enough. She slipped into bed; felt, with her extended toes, beyond the warmth of the bottles, a faint dampness in a fold of the sheet; and, almost in the moment of feeling it, fell asleep.
CHAPTER IX
S HE WOKE TO A GREEN light of sun in leaves, and a sensation, curiously unterrifying, that the ground was shaking under her. The movement went on, a gentle rocking and bumping, and died gradually away. She remembered where she was, jumped out of bed, and looked out of the window. The river glittered in a clean, cool, early light. Two great, low barges, linked together, were passing down-stream; it was their wash which had shaken the houseboat. They were almost abreast of the little island, on which no life seemed to be stirring. She dressed quickly. At home she was a lazy riser; only the vague tenacious hopefulness of youth, mixed with the need to avoid trouble, had launched her sluggishly on each returning, motiveless day. She had no idea what time it was, having forgotten to wind her watch last night. It might well be several hours till breakfast, but she did not care. It was good to have this shining, empty world of leaves and water to herself. She curled her toes against the rough matting on the floor; happiness seemed to burst up within her and float out of her, like bubbles, into the surrounding air. It was to Peter, she thought, that she owed all this.
The little wooden door of her room gave out on to a matting-covered balcony, part of the original roof on to which the upper rooms had been built; ladders led from it, up and down. She climbed to the flat top, and stood there in the wind; her hair and clothes blew the same way as the willow-leaves and the waves on the
“A lot less terrible than commercial advertising. It’s honest, anyway. Besides, I’m a trained nurse, you know.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Don’t I look like one?”
“Not at all,” said Elsie, with heartfelt truth.
“That’s fine,” Helen closed the folder and put it away. “Well, I won’t keep you up any longer. I expect you’re dropping on your feet. If there’s anything you want, knock on the wall. Leo and I will be next door, you know. Good night, and sleep well.”
Elsie undressed mechanically, and, when she was ready, switched off the bedside lamp. Going over to the window, she put her head out into the moist, murmuring night. The leaves of a willow-tree made a flickering whisper; water slapped stealthily below her; people were singing, to the strum of a ukulele, somewhere in the distance; an owl hooted and a gull cried. Down in the midst of the boat were voices, soft and intermittent, which did not argue or contend, like the voices at home, but went on, evenly and mysteriously, and ceased, and began again. A long way off, it seemed in the midst of the river itself, a solitary light burned. She remembered the island, with its low wooden house; it was too dark now to see its outline, but the light must be there. It winked sometimes, and twinkled like a star, as a branch of the tree close by swung across it in the light wind.
She began to think, as she always thought last thing before she slept, of Peter. She would write to him soon; not yet, but when the jumble in her mind had straightened. She thought how pleased with her daring he would be, how astonished to find that she was so near. The thought of his approval made her feel solid and real, and almost confident in the midst of so much that was lonely and strange. She would see him again! There was that; and there was Leo, who, though one might sometimes be afraid of her, though she still seemed like a creature of another race, had still about her some of the unwritten certainties of childhood; she had never broken a promise, or told tales, or, if she knew where one was hiding, given one away. For tonight, that was enough. She slipped into bed; felt, with her extended toes, beyond the warmth of the bottles, a faint dampness in a fold of the sheet; and, almost in the moment of feeling it, fell asleep.
CHAPTER IX
S HE WOKE TO A GREEN light of sun in leaves, and a sensation, curiously unterrifying, that the ground was shaking under her. The movement went on, a gentle rocking and bumping, and died gradually away. She remembered where she was, jumped out of bed, and looked out of the window. The river glittered in a clean, cool, early light. Two great, low barges, linked together, were passing down-stream; it was their wash which had shaken the houseboat. They were almost abreast of the little island, on which no life seemed to be stirring. She dressed quickly. At home she was a lazy riser; only the vague tenacious hopefulness of youth, mixed with the need to avoid trouble, had launched her sluggishly on each returning, motiveless day. She had no idea what time it was, having forgotten to wind her watch last night. It might well be several hours till breakfast, but she did not care. It was good to have this shining, empty world of leaves and water to herself. She curled her toes against the rough matting on the floor; happiness seemed to burst up within her and float out of her, like bubbles, into the surrounding air. It was to Peter, she thought, that she owed all this.
The little wooden door of her room gave out on to a matting-covered balcony, part of the original roof on to which the upper rooms had been built; ladders led from it, up and down. She climbed to the flat top, and stood there in the wind; her hair and clothes blew the same way as the willow-leaves and the waves on the
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