Silence for the Dead(14)

“I don’t know, I’m afraid. I think she quit suddenly. You really should eat.”

“No, thank you. You sound—you sound like a London girl.”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice.”

“Look, Mr. Childress—”

“Archie. Call me Archie.”

“Archie, then. You really—”

“How long have you worked here?”

Now I realized he was parrying me. “You should eat your supper.”

“No, I’m—I’m quite well, thank you.”

“But I just think you—”

“Do I look like I can eat my supper?”

His face flushed red. He was still but for his shaking hands, glaring at me.

I took a breath. I would not back up. I would not run. “You look like a man who can try.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried? Do you?” Anger made his stutter disappear. “I have tried. My hands have been shaking for sixteen months. It takes an hour to cut and eat a simple piece of meat. I have to be—I have to be fed like a child.”

Suddenly I was near tears, wanting to scream. “Very well.” I turned for the door. “It’s nothing to me. Good night.”

“What are you—?”

“I’m leaving,” I said, the words pouring out of me. “For God’s sake. I’m tired, my feet are throbbing, my own supper is waiting, I’m bloody starving, and I have hours of work to do before bed. I’ve no time to coddle you while you feel sorry for yourself.”

“Wait.”

I paused, blinking hard, my face turned away from him.

“I’ll t—” His stutter was back, and I winced. “I’ll try. You’re—you’re right. And I—I am hungry.”

I heard the bed creak, and turned to see he had moved to the table and was sitting down before the bowl of soup. He took the spoon in one shaking hand, dipped it in the broth. I stood frozen by the door, watching in helpless fascination. The spoon lifted slowly, so slowly, from the bowl of soup. He levered the spoon up, with painful deliberation, the tremors shaking the liquid from side to side, jettisoning broth over the edges. By the time the spoon reached his mouth, only a tiny amount of liquid was cradled in the bottom; much of this was lost down his chin as he tried to empty the single swallow down his throat. The entire maneuver was executed in perfect silence.

Sixteen months like this, I thought. All I could say was, “Archie.”

He dabbed the napkin to his chin with a shaking hand and looked me in the eye, speaking with perfect clarity. “You’re not much of a nurse, are you?”

I shook my head. “No. Actually, I’m the worst nurse you’ve ever seen.”

Suddenly we were both laughing. And that’s how I made friends with my first patient at Portis House.

? ? ?

“You should be eating your meals downstairs,” I said to Archie the next night as we managed his soup. I’d dumped out his tea and transferred the soup into the cup. It wasn’t perfect, but it had a better success rate than the spoon.

“Do you think this”—he gestured to the setup, he and I at the little table, trying to get food into him—“would go over well with the others?”

It wouldn’t, of course. “I only meant that the infirmary is horrible, and you’ve nothing to do. You should at least be getting exercise with the other men.”

“I’m mas-master of the house here.” He gestured around the former master bedroom. “The finest—finest suite. And I have something to do now,” he said, taking a shaky sip of soup. “I can gossip about the others with you.”

“Is it so bad?” I said.

He shrugged. “Matron—Matron gives me extra time to eat my—meals in the dining room. I do—I do the best I can. The others like to have a go at me, especially Creeton, but I can—I can handle it.” He looked at me. “You’re wondering why I’m in the infirmary, aren’t you?”

“It crossed my mind.”

He scratched his forehead slowly, his hand juddering. “A few days ago I had a par—I had a par—” He took a breath. “I had a particularly difficult episode.”

That seemed to be all. I frowned at him. “What happened?”

Now he looked distressed. “I had a particularly difficult episode.”

“I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes. “Is it Monday?”

“Yes.”

“The doctors will—will be here in two days, then. Wednesday is when they come. Matron said I’m to—to stay here until the doctors say I can leave. It’s safer here.”

What did “safer” mean? I looked at his gaunt arms, his sunken cheeks. “You said you could handle it.”

“You don’t—you don’t like it here, do you?” he said.

I crossed my arms. “You’re parrying me. Again.”

He smiled a little.

“Well,” I said, “perhaps it’s best if you do come down. It’s extra work to bring your meals, you know. You and the mysterious Patient Sixteen.”

A spark of interest crossed Archie’s eyes. “He hasn’t come down, then?”