in a much lighter voice: ‘This landlord of yours said nothing consequential. He made a few oblique insinuations, that’s all. You know what people who live in villages like Dunwich are like, how parochial they can be, how small-minded – and how fond they are of idle gossip.’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘That’s very true.’ I felt as though I had exposed a flaw in my character, a fragile seam of gullibility.
Maitland waved away my apology with his hand. I felt relieved – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say absolved. I should have known better than to accept a dispensation granted with such casual disregard. I should have been less easily persuaded.
That evening I went to see Michael Chapman. He was a little agitated, but I managed to engage him in some casual talk about chess and this seemed to calm him down. For several minutes he spoke in a measured way about diversionary and eliminatory sacrifices. I told Nurse Page to look in on him and to call me if he became restless again. ‘Yes, doctor,’ she replied, while emptying a jar of pills into a silver kidney dish.
On leaving the men’s ward I descended the stairs to the sleep room. As soon as I opened the door, I was aware of the sound of someone crying. The nurse seated behind the desk immediately turned away from me so that she was facing in the opposite direction. I could tell by the fullness of her figure and the colour of her hair that it was Mary Williams. Even though she was making valiant efforts to stifle her sobs, the acoustic properties of the basement amplified each gasp and sniff. I didn’t want to intrude and cause the girl embarrassment but, equally, I didn’t want to appear callous or indifferent. After a momentary hesitation, I decided that it would be wrong to abandon her when she was exhibiting such obvious signs of distress. Moreover, I was disinclined to enact a shoddy pantomime, however well intentioned, of having just remembered something very important that would necessitate my prompt withdrawal.
I crossed the floor and halted in the halo of half-light emanating from the desk lamp. Mary did not acknowledge my approach. She remained very still, although her shoulders, which were broad for a woman of her height, shook intermittently.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. She did not respond. ‘Mary?’
I heard her swallow and she shifted on her chair. ‘They won’t leave me alone.’ Her voice had a shrill, hysterical quality.
An atavistic instinct made me peer uneasily into the darkness. ‘Who won’t?’
I touched her shoulder and she turned around. Her eyes were moist and unfocused. Indeed, she looked dazed and there was a lengthy interlude before she registered my presence: ‘Dr Richardson.’ Her intonation was dull; even so, a gentle ascending gradient introduced a suggestion of uncertainty.
‘Mary,’ I repeated. ‘Who won’t leave you alone?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Richardson. I thought . . .’ She stopped, quite suddenly, and her compressed expression betrayed the exercise of mental effort. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’ Her face went blank and she took another deep breath. ‘I had a nightmare.’
‘I see.’
On the desk was a time-worn volume bound in black leather. Mary saw my interest and quickly picked it up and placed it in one of the drawers. She then made a show of tidying some other objects: pens, a paperweight, a ruler. Her bungled attempt at concealment was so clumsy, so misconceived, that I found myself pitying the poor girl. The embossed gilt cross on the black leather cover, faded, but still conspicuously reflective, strongly suggested that Mary had been reading a book of prayers.
‘Are you all right now?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Mary replied. ‘I’m sorry.’
I could sense that she wanted to ask me something and it was easy to guess what that might be. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, anticipating the cause of her anxiety. ‘I won’t tell Sister Jenkins.’ Mary
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘That’s very true.’ I felt as though I had exposed a flaw in my character, a fragile seam of gullibility.
Maitland waved away my apology with his hand. I felt relieved – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say absolved. I should have known better than to accept a dispensation granted with such casual disregard. I should have been less easily persuaded.
That evening I went to see Michael Chapman. He was a little agitated, but I managed to engage him in some casual talk about chess and this seemed to calm him down. For several minutes he spoke in a measured way about diversionary and eliminatory sacrifices. I told Nurse Page to look in on him and to call me if he became restless again. ‘Yes, doctor,’ she replied, while emptying a jar of pills into a silver kidney dish.
On leaving the men’s ward I descended the stairs to the sleep room. As soon as I opened the door, I was aware of the sound of someone crying. The nurse seated behind the desk immediately turned away from me so that she was facing in the opposite direction. I could tell by the fullness of her figure and the colour of her hair that it was Mary Williams. Even though she was making valiant efforts to stifle her sobs, the acoustic properties of the basement amplified each gasp and sniff. I didn’t want to intrude and cause the girl embarrassment but, equally, I didn’t want to appear callous or indifferent. After a momentary hesitation, I decided that it would be wrong to abandon her when she was exhibiting such obvious signs of distress. Moreover, I was disinclined to enact a shoddy pantomime, however well intentioned, of having just remembered something very important that would necessitate my prompt withdrawal.
I crossed the floor and halted in the halo of half-light emanating from the desk lamp. Mary did not acknowledge my approach. She remained very still, although her shoulders, which were broad for a woman of her height, shook intermittently.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. She did not respond. ‘Mary?’
I heard her swallow and she shifted on her chair. ‘They won’t leave me alone.’ Her voice had a shrill, hysterical quality.
An atavistic instinct made me peer uneasily into the darkness. ‘Who won’t?’
I touched her shoulder and she turned around. Her eyes were moist and unfocused. Indeed, she looked dazed and there was a lengthy interlude before she registered my presence: ‘Dr Richardson.’ Her intonation was dull; even so, a gentle ascending gradient introduced a suggestion of uncertainty.
‘Mary,’ I repeated. ‘Who won’t leave you alone?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Richardson. I thought . . .’ She stopped, quite suddenly, and her compressed expression betrayed the exercise of mental effort. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’ Her face went blank and she took another deep breath. ‘I had a nightmare.’
‘I see.’
On the desk was a time-worn volume bound in black leather. Mary saw my interest and quickly picked it up and placed it in one of the drawers. She then made a show of tidying some other objects: pens, a paperweight, a ruler. Her bungled attempt at concealment was so clumsy, so misconceived, that I found myself pitying the poor girl. The embossed gilt cross on the black leather cover, faded, but still conspicuously reflective, strongly suggested that Mary had been reading a book of prayers.
‘Are you all right now?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Mary replied. ‘I’m sorry.’
I could sense that she wanted to ask me something and it was easy to guess what that might be. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, anticipating the cause of her anxiety. ‘I won’t tell Sister Jenkins.’ Mary
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