Convalescence

by Maynard Sims

  My fingers touched the metal and closed around it, all the while the awful droning getting louder and louder, making my heart thump in my chest and my lungs scream with exertion. With a final effort I forced the handle down, and the door started to swing inwards, but so slowly I was craning my neck forward, trying to catch sight of what lay beyond it.

  “James! How dare you!”

  At the sound of the voice I jerked awake, and the dream slipped away like water down a drain. All that remained was the sound of the voice running through my mind, and gradually it faded away until it was nothing more than the memory of an echo.

  I lay there trying to gather myself, to bring myself awake. I’d woken to another fine day with the sun pouring into the room like warm syrup, and from outside my window came the dawn chorus of birdsong. I had no idea what time it was but it seemed early.

  I felt under the sheets for my radio and switched it on, but there was nothing but static crackling from the tiny speaker. With my thumb I located the dial and started to turn it, searching for a station to listen to that might give me some idea of what time it was. All I got were faint snatches of music and a few random voices, but I could find nothing to settle on that had a strong enough signal to hear anything very clearly.

  I gave up, switched off the radio and tossed it back onto the sheets. Throwing on my dressing gown I walked out onto the landing in time to hear a car cough into life, its engine revving.

  I ran along the landing to the window and peered down at the garage. The doors were open, and a dark-green Mini was easing its nose out into the sunlight. Mrs. Rogers sat in the driver’s seat, leaning forward, her hands gripping the wheel as she steered it out.

  “Is that Mrs. Rogers with the car?”

  I spun round. Miss Holt was standing farther along the landing, outside the door of her room.

  I nodded.

  “Well,” Miss Holt said, “I’d better not keep her waiting. She’s driving me to the station.”

  It was then I noticed her suitcase.

  “You’re going then?” I said.

  “Yes. With luck I’ll catch the nine-thirty back to Waterloo and then the connecting train to Cambridge.”

  “Weren’t you going to say goodbye?”

  “I thought it best to let you sleep. You need the rest. I saw your uncle earlier and told him when you were to have your tablets. I’ve already told Daphne…Mrs. Rogers…so you’ll be well looked after.” She reached down and picked up her case. “Right, I’d better not keep Mrs. Rogers waiting. Goodbye, James.” She stuck out a bony hand.

  I took it and she shook mine. “See that you behave yourself, and do what they tell you. They only have your best interest at heart.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Only if I’m needed, and I think that’s most unlikely. You seem well on the road to recovery.” She tried on a smile, but it didn’t seem to fit her face, so she let it slide off again.

  She reached into the pocket of her jacket, produced a thin card and handed it to me. “That is the number of my direct line at the hospital, and is only to be used in the gravest of circumstances. I don’t want you ringing me up just to chat.”

  I thought that was a most unlikely scenario. “No, I won’t,” I said.

  “Right, goodbye then.” And then she spun on her heel and walked back down the landing to the stairs.

  A few moments later she was gone, out of my life, probably forever.

  I hadn’t liked the woman from the first time I met her, and I was pretty sure she didn’t have a lot of time for me. So why was I feeling upset that she was going? Was it because she was the only tangible link with my past life? Possibly.

  Unshed tears were stinging my eyes. I blinked them away and scolded myself. “Idiot, James!” I muttered. “Grow up.”

  I went back to my room and switched on the radio. This time it responded, and the raucous sound of the Kinks filled the bedroom. “All Day and All of the Night.” Miss Holt would not approve, so it was just as well she’d gone.

  I didn’t see Amy at breakfast. The covered dishes and bowls of cereal were laid out on the sideboard, as they had been yesterday and the day before, but the dining room was empty. When I tried the bacon and eggs they were stone-cold.

  I left them uneaten and poured myself a bowl of cornflakes instead, but the milk was slightly warm and tangy—obviously on the turn.

  I pushed them away and settled for a banana from the well-stocked fruit bowl.

  I left the dirty crockery on the table and went to find the library. I only had a few chapters of Bannermere left to read and I needed to find something else to pass the time.

  I found the library through one of the doors leading off from the hall. It was a large, book-lined room that smelt of dust, and the windows were covered with a transparent yellow film that filtered the sunlight and gave the whole room a kind of sickly glow.

  I started in the corner by the farthest wall and perused the books one row at a time. After half an hour, my earlier optimism about finding something to read was beginning to fade.

  The books were all fairly ancient and mostly nonfiction—textbooks on subjects like archeology and architecture, Roman and Greek history, and a complete four-volume set of Winston Churchill’s A History of the English-Speaking Peoples.

  Giving up on that section, I moved across the room and started again.

  “I don’t think you’ll find anything you like on the shelves.”

  I spun around at the sound of Amy’s voice.

  She was standing in the doorway, wearing her maid’s outfit and clutching a feather duster in her hand.

  “I’m looking for a good novel to read,” I said.

  “Look in the steamer trunk,” she said, pointing to a large chest that sat underneath one of the windows.

  The chest measured about four feet by two and stood about two feet high. It seemed to be covered in black leather and had brass strapping. There was a hinged lid secured, it seemed, by a heavy brass lock. “I don’t have a key,” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s not locked.”

  I went across and lifted the lid. It was quite heavy, but it opened easily. I rested it against the wall, knelt down in front of the trunk and felt my heart quicken in my chest as I looked inside.

  More books, but these were much more my cup of tea. Annuals with bright, colorful covers depicting some cartoon favorites of mine, gaudy dust-jacketed novels with some familiar titles—Jennings, Biggles, Billy Bunter. I started lifting books out and carefully setting them down on the floor beside the trunk, and unearthed a pile of old Eagle annuals—my favorite. The steamer trunk was a treasure chest and I wondered what on earth they were doing in this fusty library.

  “Whose are these?” I asked.

  Amy was still standing in the doorway, a slightly amused expression on her face.

  “Most of them, I think, were Hughie’s. They used to live in his room. He had shelf after shelf of them. When he left they were moved down here.”

  I opened one of the Eagle annuals. Inside was a small inscription written in pen. “To Hugh, Christmas 1959, from Uncle Tommy.”

  “It’s from Uncle Thomas,” I said incredulously.

  Amy was nodding. “Yes,” she said. “Your uncle doted on Hughie. His leaving seemed to bother him more than it affected Mrs. Rogers.”

  I was having to reevaluate how things were here at the manor. Suddenly I was seeing my uncle as something of a family man with Mrs. Rogers and her son as his family, and I was struck with regret that I had never known him before this.

  “Where is Uncle Thomas now?” I said.

  “In his rooms,” Amy said, “in the west wing.”

  I stood up. “Then I’m going to see him.”

  A look of uncertainty flashed in Amy’s eyes. “But you’re not allowed in that
part of the house,” she said.

  “Bugger that,” I said. “Whatever happened between him and my father was their business and nothing to do with me. I want to get to know him better.”

  “Why?” Amy said.

  I thought about that for a moment. Finally I said, “Because he’s the only family I have left, and we shouldn’t be strangers.”

  Amy looked doubtful. “Shouldn’t you speak to Mrs. Rogers first?”

  “Probably…but I’m not going to. Show me how to get to the west wing.”

  Amy raised her eyes skywards. “You’re going to cop it,” she said.

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Okay. It’s your funeral. Follow me.”

  She led me from the library and back into the hallway, stopping in front of one of the many doors that led off from it. “It’s through that door,” she said. “Down the passageway to the end, and through the next door, then you’re in the west wing.”

  “Thank you,” I said and tried the door. It was locked. “I can’t get in.”

  Amy took a small bunch of keys from her apron pocket, fitted one into the lock and twisted it. “Try it now.”

  I stepped forward, twisted the handle, and the door opened inwards, revealing a long passageway with the door at the end. I glanced back over my shoulder. “Thanks,” I said, but Amy had gone. I figured she’d probably gone to get on with her work. Oh well. She’d done me a favor. I’d thank her another time.

  I walked through the doorway and into the passage with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. As I walked along the passageway I was half expecting to hear either my uncle or Mrs. Rogers challenging me, asking me what I thought I was doing, but I made it to the door at the other end without incident.

  Feeling emboldened, I opened it and stepped into the forbidden west wing.

  I don’t know what I had been expecting, but the west wing was almost indistinguishable from the east wing. I found myself in another large hallway with more doors leading off from it, and another curved staircase leading to the upper floors. The sense of anticlimax was almost tangible.

  I checked a couple of the rooms but they were nothing remarkable. There was a small dining room with an equally small dining table set for one, a room that looked to be a kind of sitting room with a large wingback chair overlooked by a standard lamp with a wide cream shade, and another room with a large desk and more bookcases. There were more French doors in this room, with a view onto the garden and the summerhouse.

  There was a door to yet another room but it was locked, so I turned my attention to the stairs. Perhaps my uncle was up there.

  I took the stairs two at a time and found myself on another landing, again with more doors. These led to the bedrooms, but from what I could see, most of them weren’t being used. Three of them had iron-framed beds stripped to their springs, with no mattresses or bed linen. Another room was a bathroom with an old-fashioned rolled-top, cast-iron bath, but the shelf above the handbasin was bare, and when I checked the mirrored cabinet above the washbasin, it contained a shaving mug, a razor and a styptic pencil, but nothing else.

  I came to the last door on the landing. If the west wing was where my uncle lived, then this had to be his bedroom. I hesitated before rapping on the door with my knuckles.

  “Uncle Thomas?” I called and waited.

  There was no reply, and so I curled my hand around the door handle and started to turn it.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  I spun round and saw Mrs. Rogers striding down the landing towards me.

  “You were told that this part of the house was out of bounds.” Any softness was gone from her face. The skin was taut, her cheeks red, an angry frown was creasing her forehead, and the look in her eyes was furious.

  “But I wanted to see Uncle—”

  My words were cut off as she reached out and grabbed me by the arm, tugging me away from the door. “Out of bounds!” she was shouting, her face inches away from mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t think he would mind.”

  “No, you didn’t think…didn’t think you’d get caught.”

  Her fingers were digging into my arm, sending hot, shooting pains up into my shoulder.

  “You’re hurting me,” I said.

  “And don’t you think you deserve it, disobedient child?”

  It was the same tone she’d used in the garden when talking about Amy, and I realized I was going to be punished.

  She dragged me back along the landing and down the stairs. The woman was ferociously strong, and in my illness-weakened state I could do nothing to resist.

  She pulled me across the hallway to the passageway, yanked the door open and propelled me inside.

  “Now go back to your room and stay there until I decide what we’re going to do with you.”

  I walked down the passage. She slammed the door behind me and I heard the key twist in the lock, making sure the west wing was completely inaccessible.

  Shoulders slumped and close to tears, I dawdled back to the east wing, scuffing my toes on the carpet. I had a hollow, sick feeling in my stomach and a growing sense of dread about what kind of punishment Mrs. Rogers would dream up for me.

  When I entered the east wing hallway I heard it almost immediately—that awful low, droning sound. It was coming from upstairs. The sound galvanized me. This time I would find out what it was.

  I ran up the stairs and along the landing to the end. I tugged on the door to the corridor, almost toppling backwards as the door pulled open easily. I flicked on the lights and stared at the black door at the other end. A small frisson of fear crept down my spine, but, undeterred, I ran down the length of the corridor, grabbed the ornate handle on the black door and twisted it. The door yielded smoothly, and as it opened, so the sound increased in volume.

  The door opened onto a room, possibly thirty feet square. There were iron bedframes along each wall—ten in all—and their rusting springs were illuminated by amber light pouring in through a solitary window. The floorboards were bare but dust covered, and in the middle of the floor was an old-fashioned windup gramophone set in a dark wooden case supported by four plain wooden legs.

  There was a record on the slowly revolving turntable, and the chrome sound arm was across it, the steel needle tracking the groove of the old shellac 78. There was no sound horn visible, but there was a grille in the front of the cabinet, and it was from there the dreadful sound was coming. A handle protruded from the side of the machine.

  Tentatively I reached out and started to wind it.

  The turntable responded immediately, gradually speeding up, and the drone changed, rising in pitch until it became a tune, a bright orchestral march. I listened to it for a few seconds before lifting the sound arm from the record, and settling it back on its rest.

  I took the record from the turntable and read the blue Regal Zonophone label. “Blaze Away March by the Grand Massed Bands.” The title meant nothing to me so I replaced the record on the machine.

  It then occurred to me that the gramophone couldn’t have started playing by itself. Someone must have given the handle its initial turn to wind up the mechanism.

  I looked back across the room, at my footprints in the dust covering the boards, but apart from the impressions of my slippered feet, the dust in the rest of the room lay undisturbed. If someone had set the gramophone in motion, where were their footprints?

  I stared at the floor, but the dust all around me and around the bedframes was smooth and undisturbed.

  As I stood there scratching my head, trying to figure it out, I felt a hand settle on my arm. “Help me, James,” a voice whispered in my ear.

  Startled, I jerked around and the hand fell away from my arm. I turned a complete circle, my eyes wide, scanning the room. But there was nothin
g to see.

  And then the crying started again, a soft, sniveling sound.

  Something like terror swept over me. I turned and ran from the room, through the door and along the corridor, without looking back.

  I reached the landing and tore back to my room, slamming the door behind me, collapsed on the bed and pulled the covers up over my head. Whoever was in that room, I didn’t want to see them. If they wanted help, then they were asking the wrong person. All I wanted now was to get away from this place, to go home, to be with my mum and dad.

  “That’s never going to happen, Jimmy. Mum and Dad are dead.” It was my sister’s voice reverberating in my mind and hammering home an awful truth.

  For the first time since the illness struck, I felt completely and crushingly alone, and I began to cry. Fat tears rolled down my face, and I couldn’t summon the strength to stop them. I buried my face in the pillow and let the tears soak into it.

  A few minutes later the bedroom door opened. I scrambled up to the head of the bed and sat there wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt, but it was my uncle standing in the doorway, not Mrs. Rogers.

  “James, may I come in?”

  That threw me. Uncle Thomas’s voice was soft, almost pleasant, and he was smiling.

  “Er, yes,” I said. “Come in.”

  Uncle Thomas came into the room and crossed to the bed. “May I sit down?” he said.

  I nodded, and he did.

  “You’ve been crying,” he said.

  I nodded again and he sighed.

  “I’m sorry, James. I never intended you to get upset.”

  “But Mrs. Rogers…”

  “Daphne told me what happened,” he said, cutting off my explanation. “And, again, I can only apologize. She was only following my instructions, but I realize now that my instructions were a tad…unreasonable. It was wrong of me to confine you to just one part of the house.”

  “But—”

  “Totally unreasonable, considering what you’ve been through lately. But I’ve been rather preoccupied recently.” He reached out, put his hand on my knee and squeezed it lightly. “I can only imagine how you’ve been feeling. The news of your father knocked me for six, I can tell you. But you? You’ve been through much worse. Again, I can only apologize for my insensitivity.”