Startled, she saw that her watch said a quarter past nine. If she didn’t get into the ward soon they would all be thinking she wasn’t coming.

8

As Sister Langtry walked out of her office, down the short corridor and into the ward, she had no presentiment that the subtly poised balance of ward X was already beginning to wobble.

There was a quiet drone of conversation from behind the screens arranged opposite Michael’s bed; she slipped between two of them and emerged at the refectory table. Neil was sitting on one bench at the end nearest to her chair, with Matt beside him. Benedict and Nugget sat on the opposite bench, but had left the section next to her chair vacant. She assumed her usual position at the head of the table unobtrusively, and looked at the four men.

‘Where’s Michael?’ she asked, a tiny spurt of panic bubbling into her chest—fool, was her judgment already so distorted that she could have decided he lay in no mental peril? The war wasn’t over yet, nor was ward X defunct. Normally she would never have left a new admission unobserved for so long during his first few hours in X. Was Michael going to mean bad luck? To leave his papers lying around while she talked to him—now she couldn’t even guard the man himself.

She must have lost color; all four men were looking at her curiously, which meant her voice had betrayed her concern, too. Otherwise Matt could not have noticed.

‘Mike’s in the dayroom making tea,’ said Neil, producing his cigarette case and offering it to each of the other men. He would not, she knew, commit the indiscretion of offering her a cigarette outside the four walls of her office.

‘It seems our latest recruit likes to make himself useful,’ he went on, lighting all the cigarettes from his lighter. ‘Cleared away the dirty plates after dinner, and helped the orderly wash them. Now he’s making tea.’

Her mouth felt dry, but she didn’t dare add to the oddity of her reaction by trying to moisten it. ‘And where is Luce?’ she asked.

Matt laughed silently. ‘He’s on the prowl, just like a tomcat.’

‘I hope he stays out all night,’ said Benedict, lips twisting.

‘I hope he doesn’t, or he’s in trouble,’ said Sister Langtry, and dared to swallow.

Michael brought the tea in a big old pot that had seen better days, rusting where the enamel had chipped off, and badly dented. He put it down in front of Sister Langtry, then returned to the dayroom to fetch a piece of board which functioned as a tray. On it were six chipped enamel mugs, a single bent teaspoon, an old powdered milk tin containing sugar, and a battered tin jug containing condensed milk in solution. Also on the board was a beautiful Aynsley china cup and saucer, hand-painted and gold-washed, with a chased silver spoon beside it.

It amused her to note that Michael sat himself down opposite Neil at her end of the table, as if it never occurred to him that perhaps the place was being saved for Luce. Good! It would do Luce good to discover he wasn’t going to have an easy mark in the new patient. But then why should Michael be bluffed or intimidated by Luce? There was nothing the matter with Michael, he didn’t have the apprehensions and distorted perceptions the men of X were usually suffering on admission. No doubt to him Luce was more ridiculous than terrifying. In which case, she thought, if I am as it seems using Michael as my standard of normality, I too am a little queer, for Luce bothers me. He’s bothered me ever since I came out of that early daze to discover he’s some sort of moral imbecile, a psychopath. I’m frightened of him because he fooled me; I almost fell in love with him. I welcomed what seemed his normality. As I’m welcoming what seems to be Michael’s normality. Am I wrong, too, in my first judgment of Michael?

‘I imagine the mugs are ours and the cup and saucer belong to you, Sister,’ said Michael, looking at her.

She smiled. ‘They do indeed belong to me. They were my birthday present.’

‘When’s your birthday?’ he asked immediately.

‘November.’

‘Then you’ll be at home to celebrate the next one. How old will you be?’

Neil stiffened dangerously, so did Matt; Nugget merely looked awed, Benedict disinterested. Sister Langtry looked more caught off guard than offended, but Neil got in first, before she could answer.

‘It’s none of your business how old she is!’ he said.

Michael blinked. ‘Isn’t that for her to say, mate? She doesn’t look old enough to make it a state secret.’

‘She is the cat’s mother,’ said Matt. ‘This is Sister Langtry.’ His voice trembled with anger.

‘How old will you be in November, Sister Langtry?’ Michael asked, not in a spirit of defiance, but as if he thought everyone was far too touchy, and he intended to demonstrate his independence.

‘I’ll be thirty-one,’ she said easily.

‘And you’re not married? Not widowed?’

‘No. I’m an old maid.’

He laughed, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No, you don’t have the old-maidy look,’ he said.

The atmosphere was darkening; they were very angry at his presumption, and at her tolerance of it. ‘There’s a tin of bikkies in my office,’ she said without haste. ‘Any volunteers to get it?’

Michael rose immediately. ‘If you tell me where it is, Sister, I’d be glad to.’

‘Look on the shelf below the books. It’s a glucose tin, but it has a label on the lid marked Biscuits. How do you take your tea?’

‘Black, two sugars, thank you.’

While he was gone there was absolute silence at the table, Sister Langtry pouring the tea placidly, the men producing smoke from their cigarettes as if it were an organic offshoot of fury.

He came back bearing the tin, but instead of sitting down went around the table, offering the biscuits to each man. Four seemed to be the number each man picked out, so when he came to Matt he took four from the tin himself and placed them gently beneath one of the loose unseeking hands folded quietly on the table. Then he moved the mug of tea close enough to them for Matt to be able to locate it by the warmth it gave off. After which he sat down again next to Sister Langtry, smiling at her with an unshadowed liking and confidence she found very touching and not at all a reminder of Luce.

The other men were still silent, watchful and withdrawn, but for once she didn’t notice; she was too busy smiling back at Michael and thinking how nice he was, how refreshingly devoid of the usual rich assortment of self-inflicted horrors and insecurities. She couldn’t imagine he would ever use her to further his own emotional ends the way the others did.

Nugget emitted a loud groan and clutched at his belly, pushing his tea away pettishly. Oh, God, I’m crook again! Ohhhhhhhhh, Sis, it feels like me intussusception or me diverticulitis!’

‘All the more for us,’ said Neil unsympathetically, grabbing Nugget’s tea and emptying it into his own drained mug. Then he nipped Nugget’s four biscuits away and dealt them out deftly, as if he handled playing cards.

‘But, Sis, I do feel crook!’ Nugget mewed piteously.

‘If you didn’t lie on a bed all day reading medical dictionaries you’d feel a lot better,’ said Benedict with dour disapproval. ‘It’s unhealthy.’ He grimaced, gazed around the table as if something present at it offended him deeply. The air in here is unhealthy,’ he said, then got to his feet and stalked out onto the verandah.

Nugget began to groan again, doubling up.

‘Poor old Nugget!’ said Sister Langtry soothingly. ‘Look, why don’t you pop down to my office and wait there for me? I’ll be with you as soon as I can. If you like, you can take your pulse and count your respirations while you wait, all right?’

He got up with alacrity, clutching his belly as if its contents were about to fall out, and beaming triumphantly at the others. ‘See? Sis knows! She knows I’m not having you all on! It’s me ulcerative colitis playing up again, I reckon.’ And he sped away down the ward.