Silence for the Dead(7)

“Your shoes,” said Martha. “Are those your only ones?”

I looked at my only pair of oxfords where I’d discarded them on the floor, their leather starting to separate from the soles. “Yes.”

“Oh, that won’t do. The floors are cold here, and you’ll be on your feet all day.”

“Didn’t you need thicker shoes in a London hospital?” This was Nina, regarding me closely from behind her glasses, with the suspicious look again.

“No,” I fumbled. “That is—there was no regulation. For shoes.”

“No matter.” Martha bent next to my narrow bed and rummaged on the floor. “The last girl left her boots; they’ll fit just fine, I think. She was the same size as you. There, do you see? How lucky!”

I took them from her. They were ankle boots of thick leather, well made and low heeled, like something a girl would wear on a farm. I pulled them on—they did fit surprisingly well—and stared at my feet in dismay. I had no desire for elegant clothes, and no money for them if I had, but I barely recognized myself. What had I gotten myself into? And what kind of girl, I wondered, left her boots behind when she left a job?

“We’ll just add the cap,” Martha was saying. “It has to be worn straight, see? If you put it on an angle, Matron will notice.” She took a closer look at my head. “Your hair is just perfect for it. Did you do these braids yourself?”

I ran my fingers along the pattern of hair where I’d wound long braids around the back of my head. “Yes.”

“It’s so pretty. Don’t you think, Nina?”

“I think we’re going to be late.”

Martha reached up to place my cap, and I saw her forearms were bare, her sleeves shorter than mine. It took me only a minute to puzzle it out—I noticed small fabric loops along her cuff as she adjusted my cap. So that’s how one works in this dress. Detachable sleeves. Clever.

I slid my fingers along my own sleeves, finding the buttons and undoing them one by one. I kept my expression calm, almost bored, as if I had known all along.

“I hope I won’t need these,” I said, dropping the sleeves on the bed when she finished.

Nina stared at me uneasily, then headed for the door. “You’ll need them for inspections, so keep them ready.”

“I won’t lose them,” I said.

“See that you don’t. Come now, or we’ll be late for supper.”





CHAPTER THREE


Twenty minutes later, after hastily eating a bite of bread and cheese and taking a gulp of lukewarm tea, I was standing again in the doorway of the grand dining room. I was finally getting my first look at the patients, the madmen of Portis House.

They filed past me into the room, quiet and orderly. They were of all kinds—tall and short, skinny and fat, light and dark. Each man wore a uniform of oatmeal-colored heavy linen: a simple pair of trousers and a long-sleeved buttoned shirt with the words PORTIS HOUSE HOSPITAL stenciled across the front and the back. I realized I had been picturing them all in military uniforms and puttees, as if the war were still on; to see them dressed in hospital dress was disconcerting and somehow diminishing.

They didn’t look at me. They spoke to one another in murmurs, if they spoke at all, as they took their seats. They seemed almost docile, and my first, incongruous thought was: They don’t seem mad.

Nina sidled up beside me. “No belts or suspenders,” she said. “If you see either, you’re to confiscate it. Straight razors, too.”

She watched for my reaction from behind her lenses. I kept my face straight, but I noticed she was right: Not a single man in the room wore a belt or suspenders on his trousers. The trousers seemed to have just a drawstring. String being, perhaps, deemed too difficult for a man to hang himself with.

I cleared my throat, spoke as softly as I could. “How do—how do they shave?”

“Safety razors only. Most of them are used to it from the war. There are one or two complainers, but we’re not to take chances. No matter what a man says to you, there are no exceptions to the rule.”

I nodded, trying not to picture what would make a man want to leave this place so badly that he could not be trusted with a straight razor—trying not to think that the rule must have grown out of experience.

Nurse Fellows—I’d already started thinking of her as Boney—joined us, Martha at her shoulder. “We’re ready,” she said. “The kitchen is loading the food now. Nurse Shouldice, take a tray to Mr. West—his legs are particularly bad today, and he is in bed. Mr. Childress will also need his broth in the infirmary.”

“I’ll do them both,” said Nina. “Mr. Childress usually eats something when I coax him a bit.”

“Very well. Nurse Beachcombe, you’re to take a tray to Patient Sixteen. I haven’t heard from him, but I assume he’ll want something.”

Martha brightened. “Yes, Nurse Fellows.”

“Who is Patient Sixteen?” I asked.

Nina and Martha exchanged a look, but Boney ignored the question. “You’re to supervise the dining room,” she told me. “I’ll help you serve, but then I must see Matron and supervise in the kitchen. They seem in a decent mood tonight. Can you handle it?”

I glanced out at the men sitting at two tables under the extravagant vines plastered into the opulent ceiling. I hoped my bravado was convincing. “Of course.”