The Bandage

New Zealand Listener, Volume 29, Issue 743, 9 October 1953, Page 8

The Bandage

by

DESMOND

STONE

25 years, At work he was merely one of a number of clerks, a good steady hack; at home he was a dependable son who lived quietly and behaved dutifully; and in the street he was simply one of the passing parade. He was not wholly negative. On the contrary, he was kind, conscientious, honest and loyal. But if these were positive attributes, they were also unexciting ones. They did nothing to make him stand out. It was Tom’s misfortune to be an ordinary person, He was neither handsome nor unhandsome, cleyer nor dumb, rich nor poor. tall nor short. To al] except himself, he was any Tom, Dick or Harrv. For the most part he accepted his fate meekly and rebelled not. Yet he had his secret longings. They came most often after a night at the pictures. Exhilarated by the screen drama and carried far outside time and logic, he fairly floated down the street. He was no longer a humdrum man doing a humdrum job. He was the great Casanova himself, the idol of a hundred swooning women; he was the hero of chiselled profile who won fame everlasting by diving fully clothed to the rescue of a drownine chi'd; he was a poet of divine inspiration, a marvellously accomplished pianist, an artist with a canvas in the Royal Academy He was everything that was most desirable in life. But passionately theubh he longed for fame and acclaim, Tom had none of the gifts that go with them. ‘The Monday of the great change dawned exactly like any other Monday. Tom made his same undeyiating wav had been a nonentity for

from bed to. breakfast table, and then went out to chop the kindling as he always did. No one will ever know what sappened — whether the wood was wet, or whether Tom had given himself a too ambitious casting as a bushman doing a 12-inch standing chop, At any rate, the axe slipped and gashed his hand rather badly. His mother, as _ fussily solicitous as a politician at election time, bandaged it carefully and sent him to work with strict instructions to return at once if his hand began to trouble him. Trailing his dameged wing at his side, Tom boarded his bus and re-

signed himself to another day as another human being. He was wrong. "Hullo," said the driver, "what’ye you been doing to yourself?" Tom, who had never before been singled out by the driver for attention, was a little disconcerted. "Has your wife been knocking you around?" "Well yes, yes she has. Sank her teeth in this morning." It was the same’ when he sat down in the end compartment. His neighbour. a burly workman who had never before wasted breath on him, except to agree thet it was a lousy day, looked across with a show of interest. "Something hit you?" "You could put it that way." *I suppose the other bloke’s in hospital." "He ought to be."

Banter, Tom decided, was all very well, but it hardly did justice to what was really a jolly sore hand. Had he considered himself instead of the office, he would have stayed at home. More concern, he thought, ought to be manifested. "As a matter of fact," he told his tobacconist. in a burst of confidence, "I cut it chopping the wood this morning." "Well, now, that’s a strange thing. I had a similar experience myself just the other day," said the tobacconist as he launched into a Icng and gory recital. The whole truth, it seemed to Tom, did too little eredit to what was a most impressive-looking bandage. A little exaggeration, he felt, could do no harm. It was, nevertheless, a most gratifying morning. By carrying his arm stiffly and by exhibiting it in such a way as to

suggest great pain and great fortitude, he drew upon himself more attention than he had enjoyed in years. ople who customarily passed him in the street stopped to ask what he had done to himself. There were the few who said nothing, They obviously saw the bandage, for in its dazzling whiteness it could not be overlooked. But wracked though they were with curiosity, out of politeness they asked no questions. Tom respected their motives but perversely wished ‘they would have done with etiquette and let him exploit his injury. Much his biggest triumph of the day was reserved for his arrival at the office, He marched in as usual and muttered his daily imprecation against the janitor as he swept the wastepaper basket from his desk. And then his routine faltered. He made a left-handed throw with his hat and missed the peg by yards. The office was alert at once. Out of the corner of a watchful eye, Tom saw the head cashier look his way. Miss Smithells, he was convinced, was a desirable woman. Though she had some of the terrifying efficiency of a calculating machine, she also had a brilliant smile that never failed to bring him to his knees. If only it was more personal-less like a reflex action and more like a genuine greeting. — "Oh, Mr. Cathcart, you’ve hurt your hand." Tom was elated. He had been many times Mr, Cathcart, but never "oh, Mr. Cathcart." "Just a scratch, just a scratch," he said, then twitched a little in pain. "Are you sure? It doesn’t look too gz to me." "N6, no, it’s nothing, Nothing at all," ‘replied Tom in the manner of a man deprecating fuss and yet conveying the impression of a grievous hurt, It was all very cunningly done. "IT know you're just saying that. I can see that it hurts. Doesn’t it now?" "We-ell, ves, perhaps a little." "There, I knew it all the time," cried Miss Smithells in triumph. "Is it troubling you now?" "Just a trifle. It throbs when I hang my hand. But (bravely) it could be a lot worse." Accurately interpreting this to mean that it could be worse but very little worse, Miss Smithells became full of concern. "Oh, you poor man. I am sorry." Even at half a room’s distance, Tom could see the dawn of sympathy in eyes habitually lacklustre, Rising excitement upset his pose of studious unconcern and he so far forgot himself that he started across the room. "Would you care to see it? I'll show it to you if you like." "No, no. I couldn’t bear to look at it." said Miss Smithells with a barely repressed shudder. "It makes me sick, anything like that. But how did it happen?" "I crashed on my bike." "J didn’t know vou had a bike." "Oh, yes," said Tom darkly, hinting ‘that there were many things about him of which she did not know. "I have two in fact. One for wet weather and one for fine." ‘And how did you do it?" ‘A "I skidded in some gravel. You knew what these country roads are likegravel piled high by the grader." "I do indeed, Someone ought to be’ told about it." : "Well, that’s how it happened. One minute I was up; next minute I was down," "You must be more careful next time, Mr, Cathcart." ! The conversation closed rather too inconclusively for Tom’s liking. Yet on (continued on next page) vit f

(continued from previous page) the whole he was well pleased. He had moved into Miss Smithell’s vision and he had redeemed himself from ordinariness. His hand on the second day was stil! sufficiently painful to allow him to wear his bandage again with a clear conscience. And his reception at the office was fully as gratifying. "Well, Mr. Cathcart, how’s the hand this morning?" "Much better, thank you, Miss Smithells." And then for fear her interest should wane-‘"‘Throbbed a little in the night, though." "Did it keep you awake much?" "Oh, off and on," said Tom, as he sought by understatement to assume the role of a long-suffering man who has had a hell of a night. He yawned to give point to his trials. . "Never mind, you'll soon have it right." With this, Tom had to be content. It was not very much to hug to his heart. But if he had advanced very little, he had not slipped back. He was stil] hold. ing his bridgehead. On. the third morning, ‘Silda. he found himself in a pretty predicament. His hand, he discovered, had healed beautifully. The wound, so recently angry at the edges, had closed over and only a weal was left to mark it. Even Tom’s mother lost her concern.

"It’s almost as good as new again. You won’t need your bandage today." Tom was not so sure. True, the injury no longer justified it. But what of Miss Smithells? .The bandage had claimed her interest in the first place, and it was the bandage he relied upon to retain. it. One day’s deception could surely be forgiven. And so he swathed his hand again and went off to the office. Miss Smithells was busy at her desk, so busy indeed that she failed to acknowledge his arrival by so much as a gesture, Tom cleared his desk and. his throat noisily and groaned as he writhed in freshly-acquired pain. Miss Smithells made no response. A little desperately now, Tom unwrapped his bandage and proceeded to tie it more tightly.. He took one end of the rag between his teeth and did his awkward best to knot it. It was a cue to Miss Smithells to come to his aid, a last attempt to give her a proprietary interest in his wound. But the head cashier remained bent over her desk. Of the pantomime behind here she was completely unconscious. She had seen Tom come in at the door «but it was with the same abstracted gaze she gave to flies alighting on the wallpaper. Tom’s bandage had ceased to reclaim him from ordinariness; the one had become as unremarkable as the other. — :