A SHORT STORY Written for "The Listener" by STEWART WALTON

New Zealand Listener, Volume 14, Issue 361, 24 May 1946, Page 30

A SHORT STORY Written for "The Listener" by STEWART WALTON

e Colvin was wondering vaguely why the recollection of this did not disturb him. * * * HE gardeners were hoeing potatoes, There must be some heat out there now. Very soon, when the sun’s rays were striking the roof of the building, they would know all about it in the ward. Then patients would be no longer still. Clothes would be flung off and clammy feet thrust from beneath the sheets as each man moved restlessly in a futile quest for coolness. It was the intolerable length of these summer days . but the evenings were the worst . tea over at five o’clock and it dark till well after nine. It was then, when the official time for sleep had begun, that Colvin’s mind remained obstinately awake. There was no beauty for him in the oppressive twilight. He would lie and watch the green walls of the women’s wards grow dim and slowly fade. Sometimes from the darkened building a patient waved a lighted cig-

arette. Her lover lay just a few beds away-a cot case if ever there was one -for months his temperature never below 101 but he was still a brave if passive lover. The girl, sick too, sometimes visited him. She sat very close, with her hand in his, Then in the night they would commune with messages of fire. To Colvin, it was pathetic and a little absurd. * * * ‘THE temperature was rising and the ‘" Doctor on his rounds was slow to appear. Colvin lay quietly thinking of the past. He viewed it with wistfulness and much self-reproach. These idiotic musings on what might have been... ..as if one could alter the irrevocable past. It seemed to him now that he needn’t have been ill at all... . if only he had known and hadn’t been such a fool. And now it was too late. He must have known there was something wrong; but he wouldn’t admit it even to himself. He had always been so wonderfully fit. And how sweet life was then-too good to leave! But it was in that marvellous year that all the damage was done-football, tennis, dancing, and far too little sleep. For him, in reality it was almost suicide. How confoundedly deceptive the disease had been! Disquieting symptoms would appear and go. He was afraid for a time; then forgot about them. But back they would come and always a little worse than before. Then it seemed, they had come to stay .... This ridiculous feeling of fatigue. It grew worse and worse until he simply had to give in, Even then it was inconceivable . . : he who had been living an athlete’s life . . . and he looked so well nobody would believe it. He had been far too slow to believe it himself-just an obstinate refusal to look facts in the face. He could recall everything so clearly. Too many late nights and too much work. What ridiculous ambition no modera-tion-no sense of proportion. It was all so obvious now. He would develop his chest, strengthen his wind and harden his muscles. For a while his body responded. He felt fit-so fit that he derided his own fears ... . First thing in the morning deep-breathing and skipping. Then a leap into an icy bath; and those runs at night in football togsalternate jogging and furious sprinting! 3% * * 7ES, he was fit then-rather different ‘" from his condition now when a walk of a few yards would exhaust him. That last game of football; it was only a scratch game. He was fitter than any of the others. He felt as though he could have run all day. How he had laughed at fat old Jerry White with his spectacles tied on with tape, completely blown-too exhausted even to attempt to keep up .... and now old Fatty, who never took a scrap of exercise if he could avoid it, was married with two children while he . . . Still, it had been a wonderful day. The festivities after the game, the speeches, the stories and the drinking: what energy he must have had to dance all the evening and arrive home at dawn. It was hard to realise now. He had begun to study hard at nights -once again too ambitious. It was this lack of sleep that finished him. And he was having much fun in between times, too. One had to have some diversion. He ,

had thought this kind of thing could go on for ever. He thought of the morning when the trouble really started, after a night of hard study. He awoke feeling dreadful, just as though he hadn’t slept at all. It was hard to breathe and he wanted to cough .... then there was blood. Heavens, how it frightened him! He dressed hardly knowing what he was doing. He found himself walking in the gardens, coughing and terrified-pacing up and down between the flower beds. Even then he would not give in — would not face the bitterness of the truth. Next day he felt a little better. Though his appetite was gone he forced himself to eat. But this dreadful lassitude went on without a break. The days were growing warmer and the sun was bright. How simple it was to deceive the world! He lay on the beach in the sun. This "healthy tan" was terribly misleading. What a horror it concealed! So often was he told how well he was looking that he came near to believing it himself. But there was no doubt about it in the mornings now when he awoke in the dark damp with perspiration. Why, why didn’t he go to a doctor? What imbecility! He lay nakéd in the broiling sun and walked miles. His muscles were still hard and he fought fatigue for all he was worth. But the limit was reached at length. He couldn’t go on. a8 % ba E still remembered it very clearly, that cursory examination by a general practitioner. The man was non-com-mittal and promised a report. Colvin, a little reassured, returned to work. Then the verdict was giverk It was a dreadful shock even though he must have known it was coming .... "I’m sorry to have to report .... you must stop work for six months." . ... What an eternity that would be! Six months! Good Lord, and that was nearly three years ago! me And then he began the "cure." It was quite futile now to lament the fact that the family doctor was 20 years behind the times and that he should have been in bed. But there was no excuse for ignorance. Nature didn’t hand out second chances-and this accursed vanity. He had sworn he felt well ... . the foolish advice tendered from all quarters . nothing more nor less than benevolent nonsense. As usual he believed just what he wanted to believe. "You do look well! There’s nothing wrong with you!" "T shouldn’t stay in bed if I were you, it’s too weakening." But he wasn’t feeling any better. He knew it in his heart. Then the verdict of the specialist-brief and to the point ... "Chest condition acute." % a we YES, and he had been here ever since. He was to have been out in a year. The night he arrived; he talked to a fellow patient. He could see Jackman still, pale and thin, with the perpetual and cynical smile after repeated disappointment. A year, eh? Listen. When the quack gives his estimate of the time, all you have to do is a simple sum. Multiply the (Continued on next page)

| "HOPE": Short Story

(Continued from previous page) time by two, see? That will give you the bare minimum." It had gone on far too long now. . watching the fit men, the lucky ones,: the sensible ones who had gone to a doctor early-in bed for a few days, then up and about enjoying the work in the sunshine. God, how he’d envied them! This constant painful longing to be free! Once he had walked out the door of the ward. He could smell newly-mown grass and feel the ground warm beneath his feet. But he wanted to feel the sun and the wind. And the gold and blue of the distant hills! Their

colour was as elusive as the happiness he had thrown away. This feeling of hopelessness! No one could say he hadn’t fought against it. If existence here weren’t so confoundedly drab! True, there were books. He could read till his eyes ached; but one needed more than that. And the monotony of these

dreadful meals. One, had no appetite anyway. Three times a day to drag oneself from a doze, to sit up wearily and take the tray .... to face without enthusiasm the inevitable round of meat, potatoes and bread-the cooking soulless and uninspired-and to master one’s revulsion for great quantities of milk. One learned to gulp it resolutely almost without sensation, good or bad. One must be careful not to reach the bottom but to leave the sediment in the cup. "Hygienic dirt" old Highley used to call it. Es 2 * OBODY céuld say he hadn’t given it a go. He had done all he could; had eaten regularly and determinedly. He had rested. He had obeyed instructions as submissively as a slave. But it was no good. He couldn’t get ahead of it at all. On his feet a dozen times now but the result was always the same. Up would go his temperature. And the daily ordeal with the thermometer, what unnecessary agony it was, to feel the heat in one’s cheeks as the afternoon advanced, to lie still with a bumping heart. As if one could control a rising pulse! To wait, sucking the little tube whose verdict meant so much and to take a hurried look before the nurse came back. He was sick to death of it all-a few hours up; then back again to bed. The doctor’s instructions were always so detestably amiable when they were unpleasant. A rapid glance at the chart and then"Still a bit unsettled, eh? I think, Sister, this chap could have another day or two in bed just to make sure." A bit unsettled, eh? That was putting it mildly. Once again an eternity of drab routine with the intermittent doctor’s visits ... But the old boy was usually right. He knew his job. That couldn’t be denied. But what could a doctor do after all? Fat lot of curing they ever did! Put you to bed and hope to God you’d get better. If you did they’d take the credit and

if you didn’t ... well, it was just bad luck, that was all. The old chap was so confoundedly non-committal. He told you nothing. True, if you pressed him, he’d let you have it; but somehow one was loth to ask. But then cowards are always afraid of the truth. So one just stood there ‘abjectly, breathing and coughing as required while the examination went on . and then perhaps he’d concentrate on one spot, listening more intently. But he’d give nothing away and you'd make your own conjectures, which were always depressing. He’d. make notes on his chart and you’d cast a furtive glance, wondering vaguely and fearfully what those crosses meant... a ps e

‘THE water carrier arrived. Each day he brought drinking water in buckets from a spring in the ‘hills. It was delightful to drink -cool and crystal clear, Some day, Colvin told himself, he was going to find that spring. He had pictured himself scrambling down the hillside and cooling his

face in the water. If he could reach that stream, he felt, the tide would have turned. It symbolised all his fervid longing for the unattainable-to be strong enough to breast that hill as Henley did; to bear those heavy pails with such ridiculous ease. He would never be able to do it now. Henley approached the bed with a jug of water in his strong brown arms. He was good to look upon. His hair was bright with a lustre from .un and wind, It seemed to Colvin that he bore his manifest wellbeing with a certain arrogance, that he was aware of the contrast between himself and the bedpatients and that it gratified him. Colvin closed his eyes again. His dejection was heavier now. Did he really want to live? Not particularly. But nobody, however ill, admitted that. It just wasn’t the thing. But why such ridiculous pretence? He had lost the capacity for enjoying life . . . beauty . +. it depended so very much upon how one approached it ... the dewy iornings, calm, bright and clear when not only a thousand birds but the whole world was singing . .. the common sounds, always sharper and clearer in the undisturbed silence . . . the clanging of the milkcans, the plop, plop of horses’ feet, and light-hearted whistling, to him they were merely depressingthe prelude to the ordeal of another day. THER sounds in the ward ceased suddenly before the regular pound of the doctor’s feet. To Colvin the approach had always evokéd a suggestion of nervousness-a momentary flutter of hope or dread, he ‘didn’t quite know which. But to-day, no, he wasn’t interested. The doctor had stopped and was standing at his bed. The leaves of the chart were being slowly- turned. Colvin opened his eyes. The old chap for some reason or other was deliberating. Then he spoke briskly to the nurse. But Colvin knew he was only speaking to himself, really.

"Now here’s a man who’s going ahead at last. All he’ll have to do is to be careful. We'll soon have him on his feet . . . Feel all right?" Colvin, now thoroughly awake, heard a voice that sounded rather like his own. The voice was saying with a cheerfulness that was really quite convincing, "Not so bad, Doctor." "Good business. Make a start with an hour." * %* * S Colvin dressed he strove hard to conceal his delight-to assume that indifference which experience demanded. But a fellow-patient was patting him on the back and he responded with a grin that would not be denied. As his slippered feet shuffled down the ward his face was bright with renewed hope.