by Carl Nixon
The girl gives a start and then releases a broad smile, showing wildly uneven teeth. ‘Nice to meet you …’ She pauses, and finally opts not to tag on any name at all.
‘Have you worked here long?’
‘No, only a couple of months.’ She adds in a hushed voice, ‘I have a wee room upstairs at the back.’
‘Don’t you get lonely?’
‘A little. I catch the tram home to see my mother and sisters on Sundays.’ She frowns. ‘Oh, Mrs Blackwell is waiting for you in the library. She told me to take you through right away.’
‘Thank you, Merry. That would be very kind of you.’
‘It’s this way.’
The girl leads Elizabeth along a long hall where electric lights glow even in the daytime. Landscape paintings line the walls and the carefully dusted leaves of an agapanthus brush against Elizabeth’s woollen skirt as she passes. The maid gives a quiet knock on a door.
A woman’s voice answers. ‘Yes. Come in.’
The room where Elizabeth finds herself is panelled in the same dark wood as the other parts of the house that she has seen. Morning sunlight washes in through a bay window. There is a large desk and a plush leather chair. The curtains are thick and forest-green, the room cluttered with shelves of books and display cases on which are rocks of various shapes and sizes.
Mrs Blackwell stands in front of the window. Elizabeth’s first impression is of a woman about her own age, but with the stretched look of an animal whose ancestors evolved to forage high. (Elizabeth cannot put her finger on an exact species; giraffe is too obvious a choice, and too extreme.) Mrs Blackwell wears a dark dress. She gives the impression that she is just on her way to an important event.
‘Mrs Whitman. I am very pleased to meet you.’ She advances, hand outstretched. ‘I am Margaret Blackwell. It is kind of you to come.’
Behind them the young maid makes a murmuring exit.
‘Thank you, Merry,’ says Elizabeth just before the door closes. She is rewarded by a flash of the girl’s tortured teeth.
‘Please, won’t you sit down?’
Mrs Blackwell’s voice is devoid of any of this country’s usual rounding or elongations of the vowels. It could not be described as the least colonial.
For the record; Mrs Blackwell was in fact born and raised in Mansfield. Apart from one year-long excursion to England and the Continent, in 1909, while on her honeymoon, she has not left this country. Hers is an accent that has been cultivated through the best private schools and elocution lessons, as a lily might be carefully tended among a bed of thistles. Her father was a respected ship owner and at nineteen she was married to Paul Blackwell. Everyone considered it an excellent union.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ says Elizabeth.
Her initial impression of a treetop forager is not completely dispelled by observing Mrs Blackwell more closely. The woman’s face is long and obviously inclined to the sombre, with large eyes that are slightly hooded.
‘Are you interested in science, Mrs Whitman?’
Elizabeth is taken aback by this question. ‘I’m a nurse, so of course I’m interested in medical science, at least.’
Mrs Blackwell nods as though this answer has provided her with more information than Elizabeth intended to part with. She gestures at the shelves lining the walls. Elizabeth realises that what she first thought were rocks and stones are in fact fossils.
‘You may be aware that our family has one of the two largest private fossil collections in the empire.’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘Of course this is only a very small part of the collection. A good portion of it is on loan to the Mansfield Museum.’
‘I see.’
‘My husband’s grandfather was Randolph Blackwell. Are you familiar with the name? No? He began the collection some years ago, and he also built this house. He was a merchant and one of the first to send frozen meat Home. In his retirement, he devoted himself entirely to expanding his collection.’
‘I see,’ Elizabeth repeats.
Mrs Blackwell crosses to a small case containing a semi-circular fossil. ‘This is the egg of a type of marine dinosaur. I am told that it is millions of years old. Can you imagine?’
Elizabeth is pleased that she is not reduced to saying ‘I see’ for a third time when Merry slips back into the room carrying a tray.
‘Ah yes, good. Thank you, Merry,’ says Mrs Blackwell. ‘Tea, Mrs Whitman?’
Elizabeth nods. ‘Thank you.’
The two women sit and wait while Merry pours. Elizabeth thinks the poor girl looks nervous. The stream of tea coming from the spout of the china pot wavers from side to side across the mouth of Elizabeth’s cup like a waterfall in an earthquake. There is a sudden muffled shout, seemingly from one of the rooms above them, and the stream of tea veers dangerously off course. Some of it splashes into Elizabeth’s saucer.
‘Merry,’ chides Mrs Blackwell gently.
‘Oh, I’m very sorry.’ The girl looks as though she might cry.
Elizabeth smiles. ‘Don’t worry, no harm done.’
If it were not for its male timbre, Elizabeth would have guessed that the shout came from an angry child. Her hostess, however, has ignored the interruption.
‘That will be all, thank you, Merry.’ Mrs Blackwell waits until the girl has again left the room. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs Whitman. It is terrible. The war …’ A solemn shake of her head removes the need for further words.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Do you take milk or lemon in your tea?’
‘Milk, please.’
‘Sugar?’
‘No.’ Both women take a sip.
‘I don’t mean to be impolite,’ says Elizabeth, ‘but I imagine you haven’t invited me here today simply to have tea.’
‘No, of course you are right. You are a busy woman, as am I. Let me begin by saying that I know several people on the hospital board through my charitable work. I am assured by each and every one of them that you are the best nurse when it comes to caring for returned servicemen with profound injuries.’
‘That’s very generous.’
Mrs Blackwell takes another sip of her tea. The cup, which she holds so delicately, is bone china with pale blue flowers. ‘I understand that you nursed overseas?’
‘At the beginning of the war I was already in England visiting relatives, my father’s sister. I immediately went to work at the Royal Herbert in London and later at Longhurst.’
‘That is all commendable. You are to be congratulated.’
Elizabeth can hear in the undercurrents of Mrs Blackwell’s voice the doubts that women who remained at home often have about those who went to war. There is the implication that boundaries of gender and propriety have been overstepped.
‘I understand that you met your husband while overseas.’
‘Yes. Jonathan was a patient. He was wounded at Mons. We fell in love and were married.’
‘I thought that married women were not permitted to serve as nurses.’
‘We were married secretly.’
Mrs Blackwell’s eyes light up and for a moment she seems almost girlish. ‘Really? A secret marriage sounds awfully exciting.’
‘I suppose it was. At the time we were just doing what we felt we had to do to get through. War makes everything very intense. You live for today because you’re not sure if there will be a tomorrow.’
Mrs Blackwell is leaning forward. ‘And then after you were married your husband returned to the fighting?’
‘Yes, he was eventually posted back to France and I went back to Longhurst. But when it was discovered that I was pregnant, I was forced to resign and came home to Mansfield.’
‘The nation owes you a great debt, both of you.’
Elizabeth puts down her cup. ‘Mrs Blackwell, I take it that you have someone who you think might benefit from my care.’ She pointedly looks towards the ceiling.
A nod a
nd a small sigh. ‘Yes, my own husband, Paul Blackwell.’
On a table beside her chair is a small photograph in an intricate silver frame. Mrs Blackwell picks it up and hands it to Elizabeth. ‘This is Paul.’
The picture shows a handsome man of about thirty. Paul Blackwell is standing next to a heavily laden bicycle, full panniers front and back. He is dressed formally in a suit and tie and looks very serious, almost scornful. Elizabeth is aware of an air of privilege in the scene: there, in the cut of the man’s trousers, and again in the style of his leather shoes, in the newness of the bicycle, the jut of his chin. Everything about the man shouts money and breeding.
‘Do you have any children?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘No. We have not been blessed, as yet.’
The way her eyes flick down to her lap tells Elizabeth that Mrs Blackwell doubts she will ever have children. As if on cue there is another angry shout and something heavy hits the floor of the room above. The noise is accompanied by a torrent of foul language. It pours down through the ceiling of the library, so rich in its invective that Elizabeth can seldom recall hearing its like before, even after years of working with wounded and feverish soldiers.
There is a long pause in their conversation. At last the gush of obscenities eases, and finally trickles into silence.
Mrs Blackwell has turned pale. ‘I require someone to care for my husband. Apart from looking after his physical needs, it must be someone who can help with his rehabilitation.’
‘I see. And for how long will you require this person?’
‘For as long as it takes for my husband to return to his former self.’
‘I’m already employed at the hospital.’
‘If you were to accept the position then the hospital board is willing to grant you indefinite leave on the understanding that you could return to your present position at any time you wish. I have already spoken with Dr Hallum about the matter.’
‘You’ve been very thorough.’
‘In my husband’s present state it falls to me to do what I can.’
‘I’m flattered that you were referred to me, but the truth is that I’m happy at the hospital. I find my work there very rewarding. I’m not at all sure that I would find the same satisfaction in private nursing.’
Mrs Blackwell puts down her cup and saucer without the slightest sound. ‘Mrs Whitman, I want the very best care for my husband. I am sure that you would want the same if our situations were reversed. From what I am told you are the best nurse in Mansfield. Dr Hallum tells me that you are possibly the best in the entire province.’
‘That is kind of him.’
‘I am willing to pay you twice what you now receive at the hospital.’
‘I see.’
‘Paul always said that if you want the best then you must pay for the best. If I can speak frankly, it cannot be easy raising a child on a nurse’s salary.’
‘We manage. Money isn’t everything.’
‘I agree. But too little can certainly cause problems. You must qualify for a war widow’s benefit?’
‘Jonathan is only missing. I’m not a widow.’
‘Of course not. Forgive me.’ Another sip of her tea. ‘Won’t you at least meet my husband, Mrs Whitman?’
Elizabeth nods. It would be churlish to leave at this point. ‘Yes, now that I’m here. But I should warn you, I will almost certainly decline your offer, generous though it is.’
‘Perhaps meeting Paul will change your mind.’
‘Perhaps.’
Mrs Blackwell rises gracefully. ‘I will take you to him. This way, please.’ Elizabeth is still holding the photograph of Paul Blackwell. She takes another look at the handsome man standing so formally by the bicycle, then puts the frame carefully down on the table and follows Mrs Blackwell from the room.
eight
The house is even larger than Elizabeth imagined. She follows Mrs Blackwell to a stairway near the back, not as grand as the one at the entrance but still impressive and they ascend to the second floor and then walk down another hallway. Mrs Blackwell stops outside the last door on the right and produces a key from her pocket. She turns it in the lock with a heavy click. Elizabeth notices how the woman hesitates, her hand on the doorknob. She breathes in deeply as though steeling herself.
Elizabeth finds herself in a large bedroom. The curtains are pulled, creating a state of permanent dusk. It is insufferably hot. Although it is not a cold day, there is a large fire roaring in the grate. A basket full of split logs sits next to the fireplace. The flames crackle and leap up the chimney and the firelight flickers and prances, sending shadows over the walls. Curious, Elizabeth moves further into the room. Although the house undoubtedly has indoor toilets, there is clearly a bedpan in use here.
‘He insists upon keeping his room at this temperature,’ says Mrs Blackwell, almost whispering.
‘He’ is a figure who crouches by the fire with his back to them. Resting on his heels, knees tucked up almost beneath his chin, he has not so much as glanced in their direction. There is something bird-like in the way that he is perched by the hearth. He is wearing only striped pyjama pants tied at the waist with what looks like a piece of twine. Elizabeth moves closer. She is shocked to see how desperately underweight the man is. The firelight reveals ribs staggered up his back like the rungs of a ladder, skin tightening with every breath he takes. Although he still has not looked at them, Elizabeth is sure that he is acutely aware of their presence.
Mrs Blackwell advances a few tentative steps. ‘Paul. Paul dear, it’s me. Paul?’ Her voice has lost all its authority. She sounds like an anxious girl trying to coax a kitten out of a tree.
The figure by the fire turns a baleful gaze on his wife and Elizabeth takes an involuntary step back. Any resemblance between the man in the photograph and this one is purely coincidental. This face is close to skeletal, his eyes dark caves. He has a heavy black beard that envelops his face and throat; tangled, knotted, all but obliterating the place where his mouth should be. The hair on his head is also long, longer than she has ever seen on a man. It hangs in clumped strands, framing his ravaged face.
‘Paul, I’ve brought someone to see you. This is Mrs Whitman.’
Elizabeth forces herself forward. ‘Hello, Mr Blackwell. My name is Elizabeth. I am a nurse. Do you mind if I talk to you for a moment?’
He does not reply. Instead he turns back towards the fire and continues to stare at the flames.
Elizabeth looks around for inspiration but apart from the bed and a single armchair the room is almost bare. On the wall next to the fireplace, however, stands a tall bookcase. ‘I see that you have a lot of books.’ She tilts her head and leans forward in the gloom. The titles are mostly to do with geology and palaeontology.
‘Do you read a lot?’
‘No,’ says Mrs Blackwell, standing behind her, ‘Paul doesn’t touch them anymore. I try and encourage him.’
Elizabeth frowns. She keeps her attention on the man crouching by the fire. ‘It’s hard to see you in this light. Do you mind if I pull the curtains, just a little, so that we can meet each other properly?’
Receiving no sign either for or against the idea, she walks around the foot of the bed towards the window. She moves slowly as she might around a potentially dangerous dog but he only shuffles on his haunches. Elizabeth pulls the curtain aside and a corridor of sunlight spills across the polished wooden floor, cuts across the foot of the unmade bed.
‘There, that’s much better.’
Paul Blackwell turns his head away from the light. His skin is white and stretches even thinner over his bones than she had first imagined. Apart from his ribs she can now see the knobs of his vertebrae, the shoulder blades and the long curve of his clavicle. There are, however, no obvious scars or disfigurement. Elizabeth moves so that she can see him in profile. His face, as far as she can make out beneath his beard, retains the normal features; eyes, nose, lips, jaw, they are all accounted for. What, then, is his injury?<
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The only ornament in the room sits on the mantelpiece above the fire. It is a piece of polished stone, flat on the bottom but curved across the top. She walks over, still moving slowly, and picks it up. From the curved ridges on its surface she guesses that it is some form of fossilised shell. It is heavy in her hands and has taken for itself some of the warmth of the room. ‘This is beautiful. What is it?’
She is talking to Paul but again it is his wife who answers. ‘It is an ammonite, one of Paul’s prize possessions from before the war. You remember that, don’t you, Paul?’
At the sound of her voice the man closes his eyes and begins rocking on the balls of his feet. His wife does not appear to notice.
‘You must remember the trip up the coast to Shingle Bay, Paul? You found that up in the cliff wall. You remember. I was there, and your father. It was a lovely summer’s day, just before Christmas. You drove the motor up yourself and we had a picnic. You climbed up the cliff, even though I said it was too high, and took hours to dig the fossil out. My heart was in my mouth the whole time. You were so excited when you finally got it.’
Her husband’s rocking has grown faster and he has begun to make a noise deep in his throat, a rumbling growl. Elizabeth holds up her hand. ‘Mrs Blackwell, please.’
‘If you make more of an effort I’m sure you can remember. Just look at it, Paul.’
‘I think you’re upsetting him.’
‘If you would just take the time to look at it closely I am sure it would all come back to you. Why won’t you even look at it?’
The man’s head has begun to shake, moving backwards and forwards so violently that his chin comes close to touching first one shoulder and then the other. To Elizabeth he looks as though he were being slapped by an invisible hand. He raises both hands to his ears. ‘Go away!’
Before Elizabeth can react, he has leapt to his feet like a skeletal jack-in-the-box. He lunges across the gap between himself and his wife. His arms are outstretched, hands grasping as though he intended to wring her long neck.
There is a clanking sound and Paul Blackwell is drawn up with a jolt.
