Half an hour later Jem heard what sounded like a car approaching and stopping outside the house. Bertram came back into the room with an older man following behind him. This man was elegantly dressed in a brown jacket over a cream-coloured waistcoat with dark vertical stripes. He had a neat beard and round glasses. His voice was soothing and warm.
‘And what do we have here?’ he asked.
‘A stranger,’ Enoch replied, and Jem could feel herself bristling at his use of the word. It seemed dismissive and cold.
‘Thank you, Enoch,’ said the man, heading towards the bed. ‘Your wildly hospitable attitude to guests is most impressive.’
The man held out his hand in greeting and Jem shook it.
‘Dr Marcus Ellenby at your service.’ He smiled. ‘And you are?’
‘Jem. Jem Griffin.’
‘From?’
‘London.’
‘Well, hello, Jem Griffin from London. I’m very pleased to meet you.’
Jem liked him immediately. He was different to the others. He seemed . . .
She struggled to find the word and was surprised by how obvious it was when it finally came to her.
Ordinary, that was it. He seemed ordinary compared to the people who lived in this house.
He peered at Tom.
‘And who might this young fellow be?’
‘This is Tom, my brother,’ said Jem, swallowing hard in an effort to stay composed. The feelings she’d been bottling up while she’d kept her eyes fixed on Tom were now bubbling to the surface.
Dr Ellenby nodded and patted her on the shoulder. He lifted his battered leather doctor’s bag onto the side of the bed and set to work. He unbuttoned Tom’s shirt and rolled him gently on his side to listen with his stethoscope. Jem’s eyes watered as she noticed him pause ever so slightly when he saw the livid scars on Tom’s back. To the doctor’s credit, he passed over them without comment, and Jem felt absurdly grateful.
He checked Tom’s heartbeat, temperature and blood pressure. Jem noticed the knotted nature of the doctor’s long fingers, the large knuckles that looked like bulging points of tree roots, and yet there was a practised delicacy to his movements.
He smiled at Jem again while he listened.
‘A good strong heart,’ he said. He put his things away. ‘It seems young Tom here has a touch of fever. He needs a little rest and some medicine.’ He took a bottle from his bag and laid it on the bedside table. ‘This is to be taken four times a day for the next week. And he must not be moved for at least five days. He needs to regain his strength. Which means he needs to be fed.’ Dr Ellenby gently pinched a little skin on Tom’s arm. ‘Well fed,’ he said, turning to look pointedly at Enoch.
‘A full week?’ said Enoch.
Dr Ellenby nodded, pursed his lips and fixed Enoch with a look over the rims of his glasses.
Enoch sighed.
Dr Ellenby slapped the side of his bag. ‘Very good. We’ll see you learn the rudiments of a good bedside manner yet, Enoch.’ His face crinkled as he smiled.
Enoch shook his head ruefully.
‘It’s good to see you, Marcus,’ he said.
Dr Ellenby nodded. ‘And you, Enoch. It’s been a while.’ Jem noticed an odd strained moment of silence between the two men. Bertram had been quiet all this time and now he blurted: ‘It’s been quite a few years, hasn’t it? We haven’t seen you since . . .’
Bertram trailed off as Enoch blinked coldly at him. Jem noticed Dr Ellenby stiffen slightly, his hand tightening on the handle of his bag.
‘Well, then. I’ll be off.’ He nodded at Jem. ‘Take good care of him now. Keep him fed and rested, and don’t take any nonsense from Enoch here. Am I right, Mirabelle?’
Mirabelle grinned at him. ‘Yes, Dr Ellenby.’
The doctor seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he came towards Jem and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. ‘He’ll be safe here,’ he said quietly.
Jem felt her heart sink as she watched Dr Ellenby leave, though Mirabelle was by her side in seconds, as if sensing her panic.
‘You can stay with your brother tonight. Uncle Bertram will fetch some bedclothes for you and will set you up on the couch. Won’t you, Uncle?’
Bertram nodded, while Enoch rolled his eyes as he almost glided from the room. Bertram followed him.
‘Don’t pay any heed to Uncle Enoch. He’s just not used to visitors,’ said Mirabelle. ‘I’ll get you some food from the pantry. What would you like?’
Jem didn’t know what to say, but her belly started to rumble. Mirabelle left the room with a promise to be back soon.
She returned a while later carrying a large tray of food. Bertram came with her, carrying a blanket and two pillows, which he deposited on the couch. Mirabelle laid the tray on a table, pulled up a chair and motioned for Jem to sit.
Jem sat in front of the tray, which was piled with a bewildering mixture of food. There was sliced beef, apples and oranges, grapes, cheese and crackers, two loaves of bread, several boiled eggs, tea and milk, a bowl of strange brown fruit that Jem had never seen before, a fruit cake, a chocolate cake and a thing that she recognized as a pineapple, but only because she’d once seen one in a book. She wondered what her mum would have made of all this food. She remembered her bemoaning her meagre ration of tea, and wondering if they’d all ever see a banana again.
Uncle Bertram hovered nearby, wringing his hands together with delight, nodding enthusiastically at the food:
‘The eggs were only boiled this morning. The beef I am assured is of the finest quality. These are called kiwi fruit. I am told they are of an excellent vintage.’ He waved a hand airily. ‘Whatever the term is.’
Jem had never seen kiwi fruit before. She’d only heard of them from their old neighbour Mrs Tate whose son had been stationed in New Zealand during the war. Mrs Tate would read the description from
