Silent Song

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘Please, just one moment.’ The Blakes exchanged an obviously pre-arranged glance, then Mr Blake handed the consultant a large, lightly wrapped flat packet that had been propped against a wall. ‘Mr Farler did this as a surprise for the wife and myself, sir, but we’ve talked it over with him and he understands why we’d like you to have it.’

  Mrs Blake added unevenly, ‘We thought ‒ well ‒ other parents coming to see you as we ‒ that first time ‒ well ‒ if you look you’ll see what we mean, Doctor.’

  Dr Lincoln Browne unwrapped the packet and for several seconds looked down in silence. Then he held it for me to see.

  It was an oil painting of Richard and Frank sitting up in bed. Richard was having breakfast. The tray was on the bed-table over the bed. Richard was gesticulating with an egg spoon in one hand, a piece of toast in the other. His hair was on end, there was egg on his chin, a circle of milk round his mouth. He looked a healthy, untidy, happy child, and to anyone who knew him the likeness was photographic.

  The silence puzzled him. ‘It’s me and Frank having breakfast and it’s got things for hanging at the back. Will you hang it on a wall, Doctor?’

  ‘On the wall behind the desk in Coronary Care, Richard.’

  ‘But there aren’t any pictures on the walls in Coronary Care. Just those old monitors and X-ray screens and lists and things.’

  ‘Nevertheless, this picture will hang amongst the old monitors and lists and things as long as I work in this hospital and then it will come home with me.’ Dr Lincoln Browne thanked and shook hands with the Blakes then saw himself out.

  Mrs Blake sat on the bed and smiled vaguely. ‘I still can’t believe it’s all over, Staff.’

  Mr Blake asked, ‘Ever get used to this part?’

  ‘Never.’ We smiled at each other. ‘Mr Roseburn been up?’

  ‘Sister Smythe brought him in after tea.’ Mr Blake smoothed his thinning hair. He was a clerk in an insurance company and looked older than twenty-nine. ‘Just think, Staff ‒ if we’d had to pay for this. We’d have paid gladly ‒ but with what? You’ll know why Joan couldn’t earn, what I get, and the house belongs to the council. My old dad’s only got his retirement pension. Joan’s has passed on.’

  He flushed. ‘I never dared think this way before. I tell you straight ‒ from now on, anyone cracks our Health Service in front of me and he’ll not know what’s hit him.’

  They all came out to see me to the lift. Mr Blake opened the opaque door to the landing and I had another near-electric shock. Dr Lincoln Browne, George and Alistair were by the liftwell. Alistair in a dark suit, striped shirt and bow-tie looked momentarily as shaken as myself.

  ‘Ah, ha, Mr Cameron! Now you can meet the originals!’ Dr Lincoln Browne introduced generally, led the chorus of admiration. Alistair smiled at me over the picture.

  George leant on his crutches and studied the floor. He was in a grey roll-neck and the maroon cords and from his expression he hated every inch of that floor.

  Dr Lincoln Browne asked if, in his talented alter ego, he specialized in portraits. ‘If not, you should.’

  George said he had done a few.

  ‘If I may translate,’ said Alistair, ‘my cousin means a few thousand.’

  In the laugh that followed, the cousins exchanged one of those inter-family glances that say so much provided one knows the language. I didn’t know that particular one, but in that moment for the first time saw their strong family resemblance. Their colouring and builds differed, but even with George on crutches, they stood in the same way, had the same straight noses and both now were slightly uplifting their chins and looking at each other down their noses. That didn’t amuse me as much as it might have done, as it was rather funny, but nor did it hurt me. I didn’t know why not and was too thankful to care.

  Richard suddenly let go of my hand and plucked George’s sleeve. ‘Please, if you’ve made thousands and thousands could you make me one more oily picture to hang on my wall at home?’

  Both parents protested, ‘Richard, that’s not fair ‒’

  George said it was quite all right as he had plenty of spare time. ‘I’ll do you one, Richard. Who of? Frank?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Richard glanced at me. ‘Please will you make me a picture of Nurse Dorland? And ‒ and Frank says if you want him too he won’t mind not coming home with me tomorrow.’

  Only Alistair missed the enormity of that gesture.

  Going down in the staff lift after we had left the others on the landing, Dr Lincoln Browne said had George Farler not instantly said he could manage without Frank he’d have offered to do the job himself though he couldn’t draw a successful matchstick man. ‘Why do I know that young Cameron’s face, Mrs D.? Good-looking lad, but I’m sure I haven’t met him ‒ ah ha!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘He was on one of those erudite late chat shows on telly last night. Speaking from Brussels or Paris on the EEC ‒ yes ‒ he said he’d just flown from one of those two this afternoon. Journalist?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Doctor.’

  He was amused. ‘Not my favourite profession this last twenty-four hours, though one must remember they’ve their job to do. I merely wish they’d do it outside St Martha’s.’ We reached the ground. ‘This is right for you?’

  ‘Please. Not you?’

  ‘Not just yet. I want a word with Mr Roseburn in Heart-Lung, and then another look at the Cardiac Unit. Pray don’t apologize. I like lifts and still enjoy the luxury of sailing up and down. When I was a resident, lifts were strictly reserved for patients. This, of course, was in the old blocks and whilst they only have five floors, in my ten years in residence I climbed and reclimbed every flight in the medical blocks at least twenty times a day. Over the nights, I lost count.’

  ‘Doctor, weren’t you exhausted?’

  He had to think. ‘I can’t recall. I remember my feet hurt, but residents’ feet always do hurt even when they’re not flat. And even now we have lifts ‒ and I’d best take this one up again before whoever it is pressing the bell on the third floor bursts a vessel with impatience. Good night to you!’

  ‘Good night, Doctor,’ but he had vanished upwards.

  I wanted to think, so instead of the usual short-cut through Admissions Yard and the main gates, I went out of a side entrance and walked the length of the terrace on the river side. I wished I knew more about painting, how many sittings a portrait needed, if George could work from a photograph. Not that it would be much help if he could as I hadn’t had one taken since I married.

  Suddenly I realized exactly what I was thinking and that poor old George had been lumbered again. Much more of this and he’d run screaming every time he saw me ‒ only being George he wouldn’t scream. He’d make polite conversation and mental plans to join a Heart-Lung Unit in John O ’Groats if they had one there and if not he’d start one up. Edinburgh was only four hundred odd miles away and as we both knew, what could happen once could happen again ‒ and again.

  I had reached the main gates before I got round to thinking about Alistair. At that moment Jilly came out of our block and strode manfully for the bus stop on the other side. I backed into shadows. I wasn’t feeling strong enough for Jilly. God alone knew what she would make of this portrait bit. From Preliminary Training School onwards she had had an unrivalled talent for reading between lines and seeing beds in the blank spaces. I hugged my cloak more tightly and decided to face that problem, later. One of the rare advantages of having had to deal with great problems was that it taught one to keep the lesser in correct proportion and the sound common sense in never crossing bridges until one has to.

  A bus removed Jilly. I crossed over, unlocked our front door, went slowly up the silent block. The stair lights were on, being controlled by time switches after dark. When I turned up from Jilly’s landing, Alistair got off my doorstep and dusted his legs. ‘Sister Smythe let me in as we’d met earlier and as George’s cousin I have security clearance. She said you were off this evening and would have to be
back if only to change, but I was beginning to abandon hope.’ His smile was shy and nervous. ‘In a hurry?’

  ‘No. That’s why I’ve been taking a walk.’ I was pleased he had come, if not in the way I had expected. I took him into the sitting-room. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Weary till just now.’

  Close to, he looked more than weary. His face was thinner, strained, and something was missing from his manner. As it was also missing from mine, it was a little time before I placed what he lacked. ‘Having it tough in Brussels?’

  ‘Not too bad. The return flight after lunch was a wee bit bumpy. I tried to ring you from the airport, then the office, then my flat. Since answer came there none I came round to see if George had any suggestions for contacting you. I’ve to be away again in the morning, but tonight I’m free and would like you to dine with me. Unless the notice is too short? Or maybe you’re too tired? Or more likely, booked?’

  ‘No, and thanks. I’d like to dine with you.’ I gave him a sherry. ‘Sit down with that whilst I get changed. Help yourself to another.’

  For a few seconds he just looked at me. ‘Why didn’t I meet you years ago, Anne?’

  I didn’t answer as it was a rhetorical question and didn’t hurry over changing as I thought he needed the breathing space as much as the drink. On my return I told him this. ‘You’re both right and a very perceptive girl.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not really aside from physical symptoms, but those I’ve been trained to observe and like most nurses and medics, can’t shake off the habit. Anywhere we go, we diagnose people. Gruesome habit. Never share a railway carriage with me.’ I waited till he directed the driver and got into the taxi with me. I nodded at the back of the driver’s head. ‘Chronic gastric ulcer, I’ll bet.’

  He moved closer without touching me. ‘Why?’

  ‘His age, build, colour of his skin, lines on his face.’

  Momentarily, his face came alive. ‘I must follow this up. It’s all right. I’ll be tactful.’

  Paying for the taxi he talked of the weather, his flight.

  ‘Upset my stomach,’ he told the man. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘Do I not, sir! Gastric stomach I’ve had all me life. Eat a mite of fried food ‒ plays me up, shocking. I’ve been in and out of old Benedict’s more times ’n I’ve had Sunday dinners. All know me up the Martin Ward they do. Hammond the gastric, they call me there. Much obliged, sir ‒ and you watch out what you put in your belly.’

  Alistair took my arm. ‘Champagne, I think.’

  ‘Don’t you ever drink anything else?’

  His smile wasn’t reaching his deep set eyes. ‘You’d prefer something else?’

  I was honest as I thought he would prefer it. ‘I love champagne but have a puritanical notion that it should be kept for special occasions. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes. Precisely.’ Now his eyes smiled. ‘Sparkling alternative, red, ‒ or dry, white, and cold? Before we look at any food ‒ what’s your choice?’

  ‘Whatever the food, dry, white, and cold.’

  He said, ‘I knew we were on the same wavelength from the moment I saw you in my aunt’s drawing-room.’

  He had stopped looking strained. We sat for hours over dinner talking not as new friends, but as if we were part of each other’s lives. As it was so long since I had been dated by a comparative stranger, I was rather surprised to rediscover how pleasant it was to talk to an intelligent man with whom there was now no pretence of any real spark between us and in consequence no need for that type of verbal fencing that almost invariably accompanies the early stages of an emotional relationship. He talked a great deal about himself as well as his job. I was even able to talk about Dave.

  ‘Does it still hurt, Anne?’

  ‘Not much ‒ no ‒ not now.’ I paused to think back. ‘It’s awful, Alistair. I loved him very much, but now unless I look at an old photo, I can’t properly remember what he looked like. And even when I look at a snap, it’s as if Dave and all that part of my life belonged in another girl’s life and with every passing day it gets harder to believe that girl was me. Poor Dave ‒ to be forgotten. Makes me feel so guilty. He was always so alive ‒ know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes were very kind. ‘You mustn’t feel guilty and I’ll tell you why not. When I was a trainee on my first paper running round with my notebook covering fires, road accidents, deaths, always there was some old grannie on the spot, making the tea, handing out handkerchiefs. Over and over, I heard her say, “In time, lassie ‒ or laddie ‒ ye’ll forget. Aye, ye will and ye’ll have nae choice. If ye canna’ forget, the pain of this life would be away beyond bearing.” ’ He refilled my glass. ‘Would you now marry again?’

  I looked at my wine. ‘In theory, yes.’

  He said slowly, ‘There’ll be more than the one reason why that remains in theory. Am I right in guessing just a couple? You’re not in love with any man and are much enjoying your present life?’

  I looked up. ‘Alistair, you’re bright. Yes.’

  ‘I was sure of it.’ He raised his glass to me. ‘Maybe they’ll give me an agony column yet. Write to Auntie Cameron. Personal answers sent under plain cover. And why not? Seeing in my time I’ve been Woman’s-Eye View, Fiona of Fashions, not to mention our Cookery Expert.’

  ‘I thought you could only cook with a tin opener?’

  ‘That’s right. But I’ve a great talent for reading Mrs Beeton. Take forty eggs, four pounds of the best butter and beat for three hours ‒’

  I laughed. ‘On your present paper?’

  ‘Och, no. My first. By the end of my two years’ apprenticeship I’d done nearly every job but editor and chief sub. Mostly disastrously, though I saw myself as the needle-sharp newshound delivering the goods! Trust Cameron! And as we’d only a wee staff, anytime one of the others took sick, had a baby, a holiday, or too many drams, they’d to risk it! My greatest success was on weddings.’

  ‘A romantic at heart?’

  ‘No equal! “The bride, given away by her proud father, wore an empire-line dress.” Don’t ask me why, Anne, but at that time not a lassie in that part of Scotland would consider arriving at the kirk without an empire-line dress.’ He beckoned the waiter for coffee. ‘If I ever turn at the altar and see my bride advancing in an empire-line dress, I’ll be away out the nearest window.’

  ‘If I’m around, should I warn her?’

  ‘I could wish you would.’ An expression I didn’t understand as it was so sad flickered through his eyes. ‘My worst failures were art shows. Music, I understand. Pictures ‒ I’m hopeless at ‒ I know what I like ‒ boom, boom. I used to ring George for help. He’d ask about line and colour and nearly choke when I’d say ‒ you mean bonnie? I nearly put my foot in it this evening saying I thought that picture of the wee boy and his bear very bonnie. And the wee boy. After seeing him,’ he added soberly, ‘I realized just why nurses become nurses and doctors, doctors. You must feel pretty good to know you were in on his recovery.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘That’s what George said after you had all left. And how do you feel about having your picture painted?’

  I hesitated. ‘Bit nervous.’

  The coffee arrived. He waited till we were alone again.

  ‘If you’re nervous I suspect George’ll be even more so. He hasn’t done a portrait of a girl in years.’

  I looked at him quickly but he was pouring coffee and didn’t notice. ‘Not even Ruth Hawkins?’

  He shook his head. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this but as I seem to be unburdening my soul tonight and it may help you follow why old George is a wee bit on edge when he faces you across his sketching block and I know you’ll keep it to yourself, I think I will.’ The way he now took his time reminded me very much of George. ‘Away back, he took more than a shine to another girl and after she went out of his life did a couple of her from memory. I imagine to try and paint her out of his mind. I only discovered this by chan
ce one afternoon I’d the old house in Kent to myself and was pottering through his studio for something to do. There was one ‒’ he looked at but didn’t see my face ‒ ‘just the life-size head of a girl with long hair falling over her face that I thought the best thing he’d ever done. He always used to show the family his work. Not this one. And though I know so little of art, I understood why when I saw it. It gave away too much about himself. I’ve never told him I saw it, or been surprised that he’s not painted another girl since. But I think it’s time he did.’

  ‘Alistair, do you know if he did this painting after that air crash?’

  He looked into his cup. ‘Some months later.’

  ‘Is this fair?’

  ‘Anne,’ he said, ‘George knows as well as yourself the only sensible answer to falling off a horse. He wants to do this for the wee boy. He told me. I think he’s right.’

  In the taxi going back, I asked, ‘Are Ruth and George engaged?’

  ‘If they are, no-one’s told me. No-one ever tells me anything in my family. Maybe as I never write letters. Only postcards. Do you object to my postcards?’

  ‘No. They’re pretty.’

  He kissed me, affectionately. ‘And you are very pretty, very sweet, very undemanding. I’d forgotten a girl could be like you ‒ if I ever knew. May I take root on your doorstep next time I’m back? And order the dry white on ice?’

  ‘Do that.’

  Jilly rang directly I got in. ‘You been out with Alistair Cameron? He told me you’d met in Edinburgh. I do think you might’ve told me first, seeing his cousin’s one of my patients.’

  ‘Sorry. Forgot.’

  ‘I don’t see how! He had all my nurses in an absolute flutter.’

  ‘How nice for your nurses.’

  She sniffed down the phone. ‘What on earth have you two been doing all this time?’

  Several answers occurred to me. I gave the truth.

  ‘Just chatting over dinner? Pull the other one, dear, it’s got bells on it,’ she retorted with the triumphant air of one who had coined a mint-fresh phrase, then went on to complain that I had also forgotten to tell her I’d met a Dr Hawkins at some Scottish party. ‘I imagine my Mr Farler was there too?’