floral back, while Urchin sat on an empty,
tidy bed occasionally touching an angry red mark on her cheek.
"What happened?" Paul demanded.
Sister Wells thrust a lock of stray hair back under her cap. "Madge says
she caught . . . uh . . . Urchin trying to steal her hair-brush, whereupon
she hit her with it. I've been trying to verify this, but it's not exactly
easy."
-- Among the other things lunatics make: their own version of truth.
Paul frowned. "What are they doing here anyway?"
Nurse Kirk spoke up. "Madge wouldn't go out this morning -- said she
was suspicious of Urchin. So we left her in her nightwear to be seen to
later. And there isn't much point in trying to get Urchin out of the ward,
is there -- not understanding what people say to her?"
"She's been keeping up this learning-English act," the sister amplified.
"I'm afraid it's been annoying the other patients rather, being followed
around and pestered for the names of perfectly ordinary objects."
-- Act?
But Paul let that pass without comment.
"Madge took an interest in her over breakfast and my guess is that not
finding anyone else left to talk to, Urchin started trying to get the
names of Madge's belongings. But not even the nurses touch Madge's stuff
without asking, or they're likely to lose a handful of hair. A smack
with the brush I'd call getting off lightly!"
"Dirty thief!" Madge said loudly. "Ought to be locked up in her cell
all day and all night and we could look through the peephole and laugh
at her."
Urchin got down off the bed. Dejectedly she walked back to her cell and
shut the door behind her.
"She understood that all right, apparently," Sister Wells said in surprise.
-- Did she? No, I think it was just a case of giving up against hopeless
odds.
Before Paul could speak again, however, there was a call from the far door.
"Sister! Sister -- Hello, what's going on?"
-- Matron in all her gory, as Mirza puts it.
Having heard the story, Matron Thoroday rounded on Paul. "Sedation,
don't you think, Doctor? Can't have this sort of thing wasting the
valuable time of my nurses."
"No," Paul said.
Matron blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said no. I don't propose to prescribe any medication for Urchin until
I'm satisfied she's suffering from a disorder which requires it."
The matron was marginally too well-mannered to snort, but she implied it.
"Sister, how do you feel about it?"
"Stick needles in her," Madge said. "Lots of needles. Lots and lots of needles!"
"Be quiet," Matron ordered briskly, and Madge looked frightened. "Sister,
you were saying. . .?"
"Well, she isn't really being much trouble," Sister Wells murmured.
"A moment ago you were saying she was pestering the nurses and patients.
Make your mind up, Wells!"
-- There's something I detest about blotting out patients who make a
nuisance of themselves.
The realisation came to Paul accompanied by a faint aura of surprise.
Perhaps it was Mirza's remark of yesterday about the churchly associations
of the cracked bell in the clock-tower, bringing back an admonition
which once he had thought of frequently but not for many years: suffer
fools gladly .
-- Though there are fools and fools . . . No, nuisance is one thing,
and we tolerate it in those who are nominally sane. Violence, hurting:
that's of a different order, and when our skills are exhausted there's
no alternative. We call the pharmacy and . . . But why should we resent
being bothered by those who are trying to communicate with us, and to
communicate terrible things, at that? Even if we leave them no other
means of expression except their own filth!
He said sharply, "Please don't argue, Matron. In my judgment Urchin
needs neither sedation nor any other immediate attention."
"I feel you
tidy bed occasionally touching an angry red mark on her cheek.
"What happened?" Paul demanded.
Sister Wells thrust a lock of stray hair back under her cap. "Madge says
she caught . . . uh . . . Urchin trying to steal her hair-brush, whereupon
she hit her with it. I've been trying to verify this, but it's not exactly
easy."
-- Among the other things lunatics make: their own version of truth.
Paul frowned. "What are they doing here anyway?"
Nurse Kirk spoke up. "Madge wouldn't go out this morning -- said she
was suspicious of Urchin. So we left her in her nightwear to be seen to
later. And there isn't much point in trying to get Urchin out of the ward,
is there -- not understanding what people say to her?"
"She's been keeping up this learning-English act," the sister amplified.
"I'm afraid it's been annoying the other patients rather, being followed
around and pestered for the names of perfectly ordinary objects."
-- Act?
But Paul let that pass without comment.
"Madge took an interest in her over breakfast and my guess is that not
finding anyone else left to talk to, Urchin started trying to get the
names of Madge's belongings. But not even the nurses touch Madge's stuff
without asking, or they're likely to lose a handful of hair. A smack
with the brush I'd call getting off lightly!"
"Dirty thief!" Madge said loudly. "Ought to be locked up in her cell
all day and all night and we could look through the peephole and laugh
at her."
Urchin got down off the bed. Dejectedly she walked back to her cell and
shut the door behind her.
"She understood that all right, apparently," Sister Wells said in surprise.
-- Did she? No, I think it was just a case of giving up against hopeless
odds.
Before Paul could speak again, however, there was a call from the far door.
"Sister! Sister -- Hello, what's going on?"
-- Matron in all her gory, as Mirza puts it.
Having heard the story, Matron Thoroday rounded on Paul. "Sedation,
don't you think, Doctor? Can't have this sort of thing wasting the
valuable time of my nurses."
"No," Paul said.
Matron blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said no. I don't propose to prescribe any medication for Urchin until
I'm satisfied she's suffering from a disorder which requires it."
The matron was marginally too well-mannered to snort, but she implied it.
"Sister, how do you feel about it?"
"Stick needles in her," Madge said. "Lots of needles. Lots and lots of needles!"
"Be quiet," Matron ordered briskly, and Madge looked frightened. "Sister,
you were saying. . .?"
"Well, she isn't really being much trouble," Sister Wells murmured.
"A moment ago you were saying she was pestering the nurses and patients.
Make your mind up, Wells!"
-- There's something I detest about blotting out patients who make a
nuisance of themselves.
The realisation came to Paul accompanied by a faint aura of surprise.
Perhaps it was Mirza's remark of yesterday about the churchly associations
of the cracked bell in the clock-tower, bringing back an admonition
which once he had thought of frequently but not for many years: suffer
fools gladly .
-- Though there are fools and fools . . . No, nuisance is one thing,
and we tolerate it in those who are nominally sane. Violence, hurting:
that's of a different order, and when our skills are exhausted there's
no alternative. We call the pharmacy and . . . But why should we resent
being bothered by those who are trying to communicate with us, and to
communicate terrible things, at that? Even if we leave them no other
means of expression except their own filth!
He said sharply, "Please don't argue, Matron. In my judgment Urchin
needs neither sedation nor any other immediate attention."
"I feel you
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