The Lamorna Wink

house after Noah and Esme died. But at the same time, he couldn’t stand to leave the village. It’s the reason he bought this place. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do with it until he got the hospice idea-taking in only people who’ve been diagnosed as terminal. Strange thing for him to do, isn’t it?”

“Not if you want the illusion that you’re controlling death.” He’d said something like that to Karen Bletchley.

Tom moved the wheelchair closer to Melrose’s wing chair. He leaned forward, in the manner of someone with important things to impart who doesn’t want others to hear him. “It’s funny you’d put it that way, because not everyone leaves here in a coffin. Some of us actually get better. It hasn’t happened too often, but it has happened several times. Cancer of the esophagus, you can hardly ever win out over that. But a woman who had it went into remission and still keeps in touch. Then there’s Linus Vetch, who should have been dead a year ago. He’s still with us. There’ve been others-well, all of us are terminal; what a hell of a word-so when something like that happens it’s like a bloody miracle. Don’t think I’m talking about false hope. For me, it really would have to be a miracle.

“I don’t think the comfort of this place comes from not having to die alone. I think it’s because if you have to die, you want it to be in a place like this or someplace like a battlefield, where death’s a fact, not a fantasy. Outside of places like this and beyond wars and battlefields, death is more of a fantasy. People don’t really believe it; they deny it at every turn.”

“The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” said Melrose.

“What do you mean?”

“Tolstoy’s story. Ivan Ilyich is ill for a long time; he knows he’s dying. But the doctors, his wife, and his children keep denying it.”

Tom said, “That’s what happens, isn’t it? Here’s the most terrifying experience you will ever have and you want to share how you feel and make others understand. But people won’t let you. ‘Oh, stop talking like that; don’t be morbid.’ Or ‘You’ll see; you’ll be up and around in no time.’ ” He stopped. Then he said, “A lot of people have ended their days here in a way they could never have hoped for without Bletchley Hall. Every once in a while children or parents come to visit. Not often. Not mine.”

There was a silence while they grasped their sherry glasses. Melrose didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound banal.

Tom went on. “Except for my sister, Honey. She’s only sixteen and just three months ago got her driving license-as she says, ‘to kill.’ The first drive she took was to come here from Dartmouth. That’s a long way. I assumed Dad would give her a hard time about visiting, but he doesn’t. I think maybe he and Mum are secretly glad Honey’s got the guts to do it. And she keeps me from really hating them; she keeps reminding me that this is how they are. They don’t know any other way to be. Honey. She’s only sixteen and yet she knows that. It’s something we don’t realize about people. We do what we do because we don’t know any other way to be.

“She takes me for rides. Sometimes Mr. B goes with us. And a few times we’ve gone to Seabourne. You know what we do? We look for clues.” Tom smiled. “He says something will turn up, that if we don’t find it, somebody will.”

Looking at Melrose, Tom added, “Maybe you’re the somebody.”

34

An inductionist who never got around to tallying bits of string or footprints in zinnia beds, Sergeant Wiggins had never subscribed to T. S. Eliot’s dictum about the rose and the typewriter, that if you could think of them in the same breath you might have the makings of a poet. Wiggins, who clearly hadn’t the makings, could still think of the rose and the typewriter together. Contraries didn’t bother him at all, nor did obverses, inverses, and converses. In Eliot’s book, the rose and the typewriter were headed for a third encompassing emblem. But Wiggins’s mind did not give birth; the rose and the typewriter remained discrete elements. They did not produce an objective correlative until a Macalvie or a Jury or (he gave himself credit for at least this much) a Plant. Jury would look at the typewriter and the rose and go Aha! Macalvie and Jury were intuitionists.

But Macalvie (who was to meet them in Lamorna, toward which they were now hurtling on a narrow coastal road) also wanted to know everything-every rose petal, every bent blade of grass, the precise length of every bit of string; he was famous for this attention to detail. It wasn’t easy to work with Macalvie if you believed (as most men surely do) that some little things are eminently forgettable.

Wiggins didn’t believe in forgetting. To him, everything was memorable. His mind operated like the four-race accumulator; you left the bet on the table and, through the next three races, “accumulated” winnings.

Right now, he was informing Melrose (who was doing the driving) that Kaposi’s sarcoma wasn’t a kind of cancer as originally supposed. “It’s caused by a herpes virus, HHV8, it’s called. Though I doubt,” he added, sympathetically, “it makes any difference to poor Tom Letts.”

Melrose marveled: Here was Wiggins, who often talked as if a walk through a field of dandelions could do him in, yet who could shake Tom’s hand, sit beside him, breathe a common air-all without blinking an eye.

Wiggins went on, reporting in staggering detail the status of each guest at Bletchley Hall. He had met them all, talked to them all, listened to them all; this was Wiggins’s great talent, even if he did not know what he was listening for (which was Jury’s job, Macalvie’s job).

There was Mr. Clancy with inoperable pancreatic cancer; Mrs. Noonan, who had come to Bletchley after a bone marrow transplant had failed (“Imagine going through all of that! You know how painful a transplant is”); Miss Timons-Browne, who had been a piano teacher before rheumatoid arthritis had taken away her livelihood; Mr. Bleaney-

“That’s a poem by Philip Larkin,” put in Melrose, to show he was interested in the fates of these poor people. He recited:

“This was Mr. Bleaney’s room; he stayed

The whole time he was at the Bodies, till

They moved him.”

“Ah, that’s as may be, Mr. Plant, but I doubt your Mr. Bleaney suffered from pancreatic cancer.”

“He’s Philip Larkin’s Mr. Bleaney, and he suffered as much as anyone-well, go on.” He tried to concentrate on the waves (out there) crashing against the shoreline (in here), and it would have been a pleasant-enough drive had the road not been potholed and had he not had the incarnation of Hippocrates or Sir Richard Burton sitting beside him. Every detail of every illness and, thrown in for good measure, a complete picture of every thankless, graceless relation.

“Poor Mrs. Atkins, she’s the one suffered three strokes and no one can see how she’s holding on, and you’d think her daughter-in-law could do more by way of bringing the grandchildren-”

Et cetera, thought Melrose. Was Wiggins through? Had he run down the entire roster of twelve patients? Take away the three met in the sunroom-no, four, including Tom-that left eight; take away Bleaney, Timons-Browne, Clancy, Noonan, Atkins, Fry. Still two to go.

The Hoopers’ long battle with Alzheimer’s brought them into Lamorna and Melrose pulled up, spitting dirt and gravel, in front of the Wink.

“Bit tired-looking, in’it?” said Wiggins, slamming shut the car door. His tone hinted at the superciliousness one might expect from a Londoner-in this case Wiggins, who ordinarily hadn’t a shred of the city snob about him. But then he was ordinarily with Richard Jury, who was the least supercilious human being Melrose had ever known. Oh, that he were here!

Although the layout and the shape of the Wink were completely different from his pub in Long Piddleton, it reminded Melrose nonetheless of the Jack and Hammer. Perhaps it was the nucleus of regulars seated at a round table, three men and two women, the same as had been there three nights before, and he toyed with the notion that they were the actual models for several Dorian Gray-like portraits of the habitues (Melrose being habitue number one) of the Jack and Hammer. That old one with the pinched cigarette and the pocked face, surely that