month, right on the nail.”
“And good morning to you, Mrs. Holt. Do you know if Captain Lynch is in the Winter Garden, as usual?”
“Yes, I believe he is, but drop in to see Staff Nurse on the way, won’t you.”
“Oh yes, of course. I’ll see you on my way out, Mrs. Holt.”
“Right you are, Miss Dobbs, right you are.”
Maisie turned left and made her way down the corridor that led from the reception desk to the office where the Staff Nurse would be completing medication reports. Though she had only been visiting Simon regularly for six months, Maisie was known to the nurses.
Staff Nurse welcomed her with a broad smile, and Maisie smiled in turn as an almost identical dialogue to that with Mrs. Holt followed. The Staff Nurse commented that Maisie could probably find her own way to the ‘Winter Garden’ conservatory, by now.
“He’s in there, all wrapped up and looking out at the gardens,” said Staff Nurse, as she pulled a heavy chain from her apron pocket, selected a key and locked the medicine cabinet. “Never can be too careful.” Ensuring the cabinet was secure, she turned to Maisie, “I’ll have one of the nurses pop along in a while, to check on the captain.”
Maisie found Simon seated in a wheelchair by a window in the conservatory, shaded by tall tropical trees that would surely die if planted outside in England’s ever-changing climate. He was dressed in deep-blue-striped pajamas and a thick blue tartan dressing gown. Matching blue slippers covered his feet, and a blanket had been placed across his knees. Doubtless his mother still shopped for him, ensuring a certain dignity in the clothing carefully chosen for an invalid who would never again consciously distinguish shade, hue, light, or dark. Maisie wondered how Simon’s parents must feel, in their twilight years, knowing that their son would likely outlive them, and that the only farewell for them to remember was the one that took place in 1917, when he said good-bye after his last leave.
“Hello, Simon,” said Maisie. Pulling up a chair, she sat beside him and took his hands in hers. “It’s been an interesting month, Simon. Let me tell you about it.”
In speaking aloud to one who could not comprehend, Maisie was aware that she was using this time to reexamine details of the Waite case and that of the murdered women.
The door that led in from the corridor swung open, and a young nurse entered, nodded, and smiled. She quickly checked to ensure that her patient was showing no distress in the presence of his visitor, and then left silently.
And as the nurse departed, Maisie wondered what she was thinking as she observed a woman in her early thirties with the broken man who had once been her true love. Did she see futility—she who would later place food in the man’s mouth and watch as muscles moved in physical response to the stimulus, without any obvious recognition of taste or texture? Or did the young nurse, probably a girl at the close of the Great War, see Maisie as one unwilling to open her heart to another, while her beloved was still there in body, if not in mind?
Maisie looked out at the gardens. How to remain loyal, but still open her heart anew? It was as if she was required to be in two places at once, one part of her in the past, one in the future. She sighed deeply and allowed her gaze to wander. She watched as two nurses walked along a path, each pushing a veteran of war in a wheelchair. In the distance, an older woman supported a man who walked in an ungainly fashion, his head lolling to one side. As they came closer, Maisie saw that the man was gazing into space, his mouth open, his tongue rolling back and forth between his lips. They moved toward the patio in front of the glass-paned conservatory.
The woman was as plainly dressed as she had been at their first meeting, when she opened the door to greet Maisie and Billy at Joseph Waite’s home in Dulwich. In fact she had been so plainly dressed and pedestrian in manner that Maisie had not thought twice about her. Yet here she was again, with this man whose mind was clearly as lost in the wilderness of his past as Simon’s. Who was he? A son? A nephew?
As she steered her charge toward a door to the side of the conservatory, a nurse came to her aid, taking the young man’s weight on his other side while Mrs. Willis kept her arm around his waist, her hand clutching his.
Maisie remained for a while longer, then bade Simon a solitary farewell. She stopped at the reception desk on the way out.
“Lovely day to visit, eh, Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes, it has been nice, especially to see the tulips coming up.”
“See you in about a month, then?”
“Yes, of course, but I wonder, may I ask you a question about another visitor today?”
The receptionist frowned slightly, and pressed her lips together. “Another visitor? Well, let’s see who was in today.” She consulted the visitors’ book on the desk in front of her and tapped a red finger along the names. “Whom were you interested in?”
“I thought I saw an acquaintance of mine, a Mrs. Willis. Could she have been visiting a family member, perhaps?”
“Oh, Mrs. Willis. Very nice woman. Quiet, doesn’t say much, but very nice indeed. She’s here to see Will, her son. Will, short for Wilfred, Wilfred Willis.”
“Her son? Does she come once a month?”
“Oh my goodness, no! Once or twice a week. Never fails, always on a Sunday and, more likely than not, on a Wednesday or Thursday as well. She comes as often as she can.”
“And she’s been coming since the war, since he was admitted?”
The receptionist looked at Maisie and frowned again before speaking. “Well, yes, she has. But then, it’s not surprising. She’s his mother.”
“Of course, of course. I’d better be off.”
“We’ll see you in a month then, Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes. A month. See you then.” Maisie turned to leave, but the receptionist spoke again.
