July 17
B has complained that she is kept awake at night by M and G whispering together. I suspect she feels excluded, poor thing. When I spoke to M and G separately about it, G immediately apologized. M denied it and accused B of making trouble. She would start a mutiny from her bed if she could.
B tried to enlist the support of K, but K, at the far end of the room, says she is not aware of any noise from the other beds. Perhaps the mechanical wheeze of the iron lung masks the noise, or perhaps she was just being diplomatic.
August 20
I have had to have stern words with Sister Phil. It has come to light that she has been less than vigilant in administering the evening doses of painkillers and sleeping tablets. M and G have apparently hoarded them for three days and then taken a triple dose.
When challenged, M explained that it was an attempt to guarantee a deep and painless sleep. On the pill-free nights they distracted each other by whispering through the night. It is a wretched story and my heart goes out to them in their pain, but M is a devil to take a risk like this. I don’t believe G is the author of this reckless scheme—she is led along by M.
September 28
G was discharged today. You would hardly recognize her as the same girl who was brought in all those months ago in a wheelchair, so pale and pinched with pain. She left on foot, walking with two sticks, and made a point of thanking all the sisters individually. She is a sweet girl and a favorite with everyone. Her mother had tears in her eyes when she saw how improved she is.
September 30
M has been inconsolable without her friend. B tries to engage her in conversation, now that G is out of the way and she is not outnumbered. But M stubbornly feigns sleep or shouts across her to K. It is a curious thing—I have often observed that the arrival of someone new or the departure of someone established disturbs the equilibrium on a ward, even when that person is herself unassuming and compliant.
Charing Cross Hospital Agar St.
London W1
July 1957
Dear Miss Swinney,
I am writing to inform you that the results of our preliminary blood tests of Mother A and Daughter have established that they share the blood type A1 rhesus phenotype c?dec?de and the results of further, more detailed studies show a complete identity of blood groups—see the table enclosed.
We are therefore eager to proceed to the next stage of our investigation, and would be grateful if Mother A and Daughter could present themselves once more at the Charing Cross Hospital Annex at Agar Street on July 21 at 9:30 a.m. for further tests.
Yours sincerely,
Sidney Lloyd-Jones
Dear Jean,
I have made great progress with your dress and wonder if you would be able to come for a fitting this weekend whenever is convenient for you （and your mother）。 Perhaps you could ring Howard at the shop to confirm a time.
With good wishes,
Gretchen
12
“What on earth is that?” Jean’s mother stood in the kitchen doorway, holding the fragments of a sugar bowl, which she had just dropped on the tiled hearth.
Her mouth was slack with astonishment. As if she had seen a unicorn, Jean thought.
“It’s a rabbit,” she replied. “Surely you can see that?”
The animal sat on the linoleum between them, nibbling at a pile of outer cabbage leaves. Apart from a black smudge on its nose, now twitching, and one black ear, it was completely white and still small enough to fit in cupped hands.
“Yes, of course. But what is it doing here?”
“I bought it from a pet shop today, but I couldn’t manage the cage so the shopkeeper said he’d drop it round on his way home this evening. I hope he remembers,” Jean said.
At this disturbance the rabbit hopped in ungainly slow motion toward a thumb of carrot that had rolled just out of reach and Jean’s mother flinched back against the doorframe.
“It won’t eat you, Mother,” Jean laughed. “They’re herbivores.”
“But why on earth did you buy it? We’ve never had pets before.”
“It’s a present for Margaret. She told me she wanted a rabbit or a kitten. I think she’s lonely.”
Jean’s mother seemed to take no comfort from the fact that the rabbit’s occupancy of the kitchen was to be short-lived. If anything, this admission appeared to rattle her even more.
“You can’t give someone a live rabbit as a gift,” she spluttered.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t give her a dead one,” said Jean. “That would be too macabre.”
“Have you checked that her parents want her to have a rabbit? They may have strong objections.”