of yellow winceyette held in the old lady’s bones, but her face had become animated, lips twitching, eyes opened wide.
“She’s going to speak,” Colin said excitedly. He dropped Sylvia’s hand and leaned over his mother. Mrs. Sidney’s expression was congested with effort, her jaws moving as if years of chit-chat were banking up in her throat. “Again?” Colin said. “Again, Mum, try again.”
“What did she say?” Sylvia demanded.
“I don’t know.” Colin steadied himself with a hand on the bed. “Something about a house. Bleak House? Buck House? Can’t be, can it?”
“There’s no sense in that, Colin.”
“You want sense as well? Come on, Mum, speak up, try again.”
Here was Nurse, bustling back, the old ward orderly padding behind her. “Can you credit it?” Nurse said. “And I didn’t believe Dr. Furness when he said she was coming to. Mind you, praise where praise is due, Mrs. Wilmot here has spent hours with your mum, just talking to her, like, just tidying out her locker and making her feel she’s wanted. It’s the personal touch, that’s what it is.”
Mrs. Sidney turned her head. “She’s doing great,” the nurse said. “Here’s your son, Mrs. Sidney,” she bawled. “Here’s your son and daughter-in-law. Here’s Mrs. Wilmot. You know Mrs. Wilmot, don’t you?”
In the depth of cloudy irises, something moved; a chance, a stray, a fugitive thought. Her mouth trembled. Gaze kindled. Slow, dilute tears rolled out of her eye. “Colin?” Quivering lips moved around his name.
“Oh, Mum, speak again,” Colin said. His voice cracked with emotion.
“She recognises you,” the nurse said.
“And me,” said the old lady called Wilmot. “She recognises me, don’t you, lovey?”
Mrs. Sidney’s head twisted towards the new voice. She stared. Something darkened behind her eyes, quite suddenly, as if a blind had been pulled down. “She’s gone again,” the nurse said, disappointed. “Stay where you are, though. You never know.”
They stood, frozen, waiting for her to move again. Presently she did so; not speaking, but raising her right hand in a rigid, almost regal, wave.
Over on B Block (Male) Mr. Philip Field sat in a side ward, planning his funeral. He was hesitating, for the tenth time, between “The Lord’s My Shepherd” and “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.” Was not the latter more often sung at weddings? He couldn’t recall the tune. He’d had a stroke—or so they said—and there was much he couldn’t recall. If only his daughter were here, she might be able to help him out. They could have a singsong. It would be like old times. His wife, who had deserted him years ago, had played the piano.
Isabel might come more, now that she’d moved back to town. But he doubted it. She was sick herself, she said; instead she’d send that wimpish husband of hers. Isabel was a champion at prevarication, at excuses; at giving you what you didn’t want, long after you’d forgotten you’d asked. What good was Ryan? He was a banker, but he didn’t want to talk about banking practice. He said it was all different now. He just sat there fidgeting, cracking his silly jokes. The only money he was interested in was the money his wife’s father was going to leave him.
They disapproved of him, that was it. He was a man who in his time had gone in for a bit of honest fun. With the wife gone, it was a case of having to; he’d had urges. What do you go for nowadays, he asked Ryan, sniggering. Key parties? He wanted the details. Ryan looked po-faced; as if he were turning someone down for a loan.
But he watched his son-in-law watching the young nurses. Ryan was a hypocrite, he decided.
Some days he thought he’d be leaving this godforsaken place; some days he knew he wouldn’t. Bits of his body—a hand, a leg—seemed to have developed a will of their own. Scraps of memory, detached from their moorings in the far past, floated up to occupy the forefront of his brain. This seemed a bad sign. He was determined to leave his affairs in order; that included the disposition of his remains. After all, he knew Isabel. She couldn’t seem to function these days without a drink inside her; and after she’d had a drink, she would forget what she was doing and lose the undertaker’s number.
Accordingly, he had sent to a selection of funeral directors for their prospectus and terms. He had half-hoped a representative would call. In the United States, they would have called. They knew the meaning of service. Not that he had truck with foreign methods, in general; but he remembered how, in Paris once as a young man, he’d been impressed by the high seriousness of the undertaking business, by the Pompes Funebres on every street, their windows draped with black velvet and stuck over with specimen Mass cards and plans of family vaults. Ah, Paris… He lay back against his pillow. It was clear that Isabel would not be coming in tonight. He closed his eyes; all in a moment, his fancies passed from the lugubrious to the lubricious. Furtively, he touched himself under the sheet. Nothing doing. But give it time. He’d have something to show the little student nurse, a lovely surprise for her when she came to tuck in his sheets.
Everything was going along nicely when the door opened. He flicked open one eye to appraise his visitor. It was an old woman, an orderly, a downcast and shrunken personage; hardly meat for his fantasies. He gave her no encouragement, merely closed his eyes again, and went on with what he was doing. But she continued to come in, intruding her woebegone form around the door; she stood over the bed, looking down with her lacklustre eyes, and forced him to take notice of her.
“You’re interrupting me,” he told her. “I want to be left alone. If you’re looking for my tray, the male nurse took it.”
She didn’t seem to have heard him. She walked to the foot of the bed and picked up his charts.
“Hands off,” he shouted. “That’s confidential. Doctors only.”
“I thought it was you, Mr. Field.”
As he looked at her, a change seemed to come over her. Her bony shoulders straightened. She grew by an inch or two, and her melancholic manner fell away. The years fell away too; it was 1974, she was a girl alone, on a go in the park, and a lonely old gentleman was hanging around by the swings. Muriel grinned at him.
“Hello, old cock,” she said.
