Wild Geese Overhead (27 page)

What the doctor could not understand was that, in the personal sense, it really was no concern of his whether Will lived or died. How much less then could he understand that it was a matter of no concern to Will?

Which was all interesting enough to Will, even had he not been able—as he was—to appreciate the lingering thought at the back of the doctor's country-bred mind that any one who did not want to live, who would not put up a fight, was fundamentally a weakling.

The doctor questioned him and probed him. “Now it all rests with yourself. You're all right. Say to yourself, get it into your mind: I want to get better. I know how weak you feel. But don't give into that weak feeling.” He smiled with the kindest expression. “Pull yourself together!”

“Right,” said Will quietly, smiling back.

The doctor concentrated on Will's eyes, searched them as deeply as he could, but all he found was a pleasant baffling.

As they moved away, he said to Sister: “I can make nothing of him. Frankly, he is dying on our hands.” It annoyed him.

But Will had the pleasure of being left to himself.

For one thing he had now conquered entirely was the fear of death. Sometimes, lying there, with his mind working in its clear detached effortless way, he would have liked to be able to tell them how important this conquering of the fear of death was, important because it gave the mind a feeling not only of freedom but also of force and—he had to suppose—of dignity. For once you conquer the fear of death, you conquer the last fear of all, you surmount the last barricade. But the calm assurance of this he could never hope to convey. Certainly not to the doctor who wanted him to fight on his feet until death walloped life out of him, until it left him dead and defeated! Yet it was so obvious that that was the wrong way to fight death, entirely the wrong technique!

This had a humour of its own, too, for he felt completely calm.

Who would imagine, looking down on his white sickly face, with its weak voice, looking down on this patient who had not the energy to bite his thumb, who had so palpably given in and was “sinking”, that he was yet capable of this clarity of thought?

What did people think about when they were dying, when at last the mind was coming away from the sickly humours and obscurities of the body and was free to make its own clear patterns of thought? What was important
then
?

That was a teaser! Money? Status? War? Equality?… Will smiled.

He thought of Joe and would not have minded laying a few considerations before him, on the purely personal aspect of death!

But first of all, if only he could have laid a few things before them (those whom it might concern) regarding what he had found important in life! Not the horrors and tragedies and social savageries and razor-slashings and bomb smashings, not that welter of emotional sensation by which humanity was glutted, and horribly fascinated, and glutted again, not all that, which was the unresolved desperation of the human mind, but—and this would be extremely difficult to do because it was so simple, so incredibly simple—

Nurse Macleod stood beside him.

“Ah,” he murmured, “was I sky-gazing again?”

“You were.”

“It's beginning to look”, he suggested, “as if you were right about that!”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You made me ashamed of myself. I am disappointed with you.”

“I made you blush anyway.”

“What's that?” She stooped over him. His voice was weak. “Well,” she replied, “you at least won't have the satisfaction of making me blush again.”

How subtle her woman's instinct, “shocking” him into being interested!

“I could make you blush now.”

“You?”

He nodded.

She smiled satirically.

“What you bet?” he asked.

“Sixpence.”

His head moved negatively.

“Well?” she demanded.

“A small one. On forehead, if you're frightened of proper place.”

“Well?” she demanded.

He looked at her, an eerie gleam gathering in his eyes. “You should be ashamed”, he said slowly, “of way you carried on with
him
last night. You went a bit too far.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you deny it?”

“Certainly I do.” Her eyes were wide on him, with a touch of superstitious fear, as if he had “the sight”.

“Nurse!” His voice strengthened. His face became unearthly calm, his eyes large. “Do you understand what you have done?”

“What?”

“You have denied the true love you have for each other.”

“I didn't deny it,” she said swiftly. Then she saw the glimmer come back into his eyes, the small smile of mockery and triumph, and right over her face and neck went a deep lovely blush.

“You!” she said, bending her head and putting the straight clothes as straight as they were.

“The forehead—if you're frightened of my poor dry mouth.”

“I wouldn't touch you”, she said, “with the handle of a broom. Besides,” she added, “how could I do it here?”

“True,” he said. “I'll let you off—if you promise to do it when I'm dead.”

That dismissed the blush, but she faced up with spirit. “You dead? You're too wicked to die before ninety.” All the same she glanced at him uneasily and glanced away. “How did you know…?”

“About last night? I'll tell you. And this is simple truth. Three times to-day I saw you—gazing at sky. Yesterday I saw you gaze once, but excited, restless. To-day, you got lost in sky—and came back with a small shiver of delight, and then you looked about you quickly.”

“I hope you're not exciting him too much,” said Sister.

Nurse Macleod started guiltily. Will smiled: “No, Sister. She is my only tonic.”

“Do you feel equal to a visitor?” Sister asked.

“I'd rather not, if you don't mind.”

“It's a Mrs. Armstrong, who says she wants particularly to see you. Your landlady, I gather, from the country.”

Will's brows wrinkled. “All right,” he said. “But give me a few minutes.”

He closed his eyes at once and let his body get its “suspended” feeling. The little business with Nurse had drained him a bit. But he knew exactly how to get rid of the physical stress, and in fact within three minutes he was feeling completely “free” again.

Mrs. Armstrong must be having a long conversation with Sister, he thought, after ten minutes. They would be going into his history and wondering what could be done about him!

But when at last he saw her coming up the ward, her broad embosomed figure “of Flora and the country green”, her glowing face shy a little, and when she drew near and he saw the smile inhabiting the very texture of her skin and gleaming in her kind eyes, he experienced the sharp poignant stab of an emotion very like dismay.

He saw, too, the quick stab of dismay his appearance gave her, though she hid it in a moment.

“This is a fine way to frighten us!” she said, taking his hand.

He smiled, unable to speak. Lord, he had hardly realized how weak he was!

“And when are you coming out to the farm so that I can feed you up?” Her eyes were growing unnaturally bright. He turned his head away. Oh, God, he was going to weep! He felt the disgrace coming upon him, the sickening impulse to weep like a bairn. He shut his teeth as hard as he could and kept his eyes closed.

Mrs. Armstrong took the opportunity to wipe her own eyes. “I'm just an auld wife,” she said to the sister, smiling, trying to excuse herself. The two women spoke to each other, until the spasm had subsided in Will. He had not wept, but his eyes were wet, and while he took his handkerchief from under his pillow, Mrs. Armstrong continued to tell the sister about her farm.

“Kind of you to come,” said Will, with an uncertain smile.

“I've just been longing to come. What a shock you gave us!”

The sister said she would be back in a minute or two.

“Are they good to you here?” Mrs. Armstrong asked in a quick whisper.

Will smiled, feeling light-hearted. “Would you like to have me under your eye?”

“Faith, I would,” said Mrs. Armstrong. “Wouldn't you like to come?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why not get better as quick as you can—I mean, well enough so that you can be shifted?”

She looked so innocent—as if she hadn't just been told that he was going under!

“What a bother I'd be to you.”

“Bother? How can you say that?” Her eagerness was almost hurt. What a genuine woman this was! Her whole nature, to give, to give. Not to take, not to demand her dues, but to give. And a landlady at that!

“Thank you very much,” he murmured.

“It's not thanks I'm wanting.”

“I know.”

“Well—will you promise me you'll come—as soon as you can?”

“All right.”

“That's settled.” She nodded firmly, ignoring his unconvincing tone. “That's fine. Well, well, now. What a steer you put us into!”

“Did I?”

“When you didn't come on the Saturday night, I thought you would just have been up to one of your ploys! But when you didn't come by Sunday afternoon, I felt sure there was something wrong. Jenny just laughed at me. She said I didn't understand the present generation. As if I was an old wife!”

But Will was looking at her as though his earthly mind were finding slight difficulty in following all this. “I thought”, he said, at last, “that Jenny was away for the week-end?”

“Her? Not she! I gave her a good scolding when she trooped in on the Saturday, large as life. ‘Och!' says she, ‘when it came to the bit I couldn't leave my garden.' Did you ever hear the like?” Will had turned his gaze to the window. Mrs. Armstrong studied his expression now with shrewd penetrating eyes and rambled on: “By the Monday I was quite convinced something had gone wrong, so I asked her to find out from your office. She phoned, it seems, and you hadn't turned up. Then she got a bit anxious, and in some way or other found out you were in the infirmary. She came out late at night to give me the news. We were in a gey state about you, I can tell you!”

“Were you?” said Will smiling, but with scepticism deep in his eyes.

“We were that. She phoned the infirmary every day and either came out or wrote me.”

“Nice of her.”

“Ah, but you don't know how nice Jenny can be until you get behind her reserve. And that's mostly shyness! She's one of the finest lassies in the world. If Jenny was on your side, she'd die for you as natural as—as—eat her porridge. But I'm wearying you out?”

“No. I just get little tired. Don't mind that.” His eyes slowly closed and his breath came out in small open-mouthed gusts. She sat quietly beside him. Was she going too far too quickly? Her shrewd expression grew soft and she was manifestly threatened by emotion again. He looked so frail, she could have taken him in her arms and carried him away.

He opened his eyes. “Thank you for coming.”

“Is there anything I can get for you, anything you would like?”

“No, thanks.”

His smile twisted the heart in her. “Is there any one you would like to see?” she asked gently. “Jenny would like to come and see you, but she's frightened to—to trouble you.”

A touch of the old mocking humour came to his face. “I'd rather have yourself.”

“Me? An auld wife? Tut! Tut!”

“No one has been so kind to me.”

“Oh, now, now! Promise me”, she pleaded suddenly, her reserves down, “that you will get well.”

He looked at her steadily, but did not speak. For the first time she felt clearly that he was removed from her, from every one, and that he was going to die. Awe and compassion overwhelmed her. They spoke to each other with their eyes. The intimacy was dear and, in her case, terrible, but, in his case, calm.

“Well?” said Sister. “When is he going to be well enough to go out to see you?”

Will lifted his eyes and stared at her, too. “Soon, I hope,” he said with deadly calm.

“Now, that's the way to talk!” Sister nodded.

Mrs. Armstrong had some last words for him. He did not hear them properly, because he apprehended more clearly the message of her eyes, and her eyes did not ask anything; they gave without measure out of the store of her loving kindness.

After she had gone, he found that he had lost the flawless calm of his assurance. He became restless and much more conscious of his physical aches. He stared at the sky, but could not get its remote calmness. This vexed him and he began to feel the prickling sensation of fever. His thought, too, became erratic. He tried to clarify his thought by deliberately thinking of Jenny. Assuming Mrs. Armstrong had come specially to tell him Jenny hadn't gone away for the week-end, what then? He saw the implication—that his loss of Jenny had subconsciously inhibited any eager desire for life and accordingly a “defence mechanism” had been raised up.… But how humanly trivial, how absurd—as if men and women did not die without such romantic excuse! It was an indignity heaped upon a man's integrity and loneliness. The next thing they would be doing would be bringing Jenny to see him, as their last trump card! That would finally be unbearable.

Clearly, too, if Jenny had not gone away for her week-end there was some hitch in their programme. She would not back out of an arrangement like that at the last minute. She was not that kind of girl; and, anyway, he would despise her if she did.

Damn them, why couldn't they leave him alone!

When, later, Nurse Macleod came and took his temperature, he did not speak to her or observe the astonished look on her face. She stuck down the black dot on his chart and went hurriedly away.

House surgeon and Sister appeared on the scene. He didn't mind. Visitors were forbidden. Philip Manson was denied for the second time. Mac and Don went away silent.