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Author: Mary Renault
afeared? Be not afeared, the isle is full of noises, sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes—sometimes—” To her own surprise—she had not known that she remembered it—she said gently, “And I awake, and cry to sleep again.” He smiled, seemed about to correct her, then shut his eyes and lay still. But, just as she was making up her mind to go, he opened them again. She knew at once, by the accommodation of the pupils, that now they were linked with the brain. He was looking, with trustful incurious acceptance, into her face.
She became cautious; if he was becoming rational, he must be left in quiet. Getting out her notebook, she framed quickly the routine questions. “How are you feeling now?”
“Fine.” She saw the pain move across his brows.
“What else do you feel?”
“A bit sick. It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me your name.”
“Julian.” He sounded dimly surprised.
“Yes? Julian what?”
“Oh, sorry. Julian—Richard—Fleming.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Not really.” He moved his head, flinched, and shut his eyes.
“It’s a hospital. But don’t worry, you’re doing quite well. Do you know why you’re here?”
He looked at her appealingly. She could see that he was in pain, and thought, Of course he wonders why I’m badgering him with stupid questions. One takes things so much for granted. He has speaking eyes, as they say.
“I shan’t have to bother you much more. In a moment I’ll leave you in peace.”
“No, please. Please don’t go.”
“Do you know why you’re in hospital?”
“I took a toss,” he said slowly, “I suppose.”
“Do you remember it?”
“No.”
“Now don’t worry. Take your time. Just try and tell me the last thing you remember.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes,” she said soothingly. “I live quite near. Do you remember starting out from home?”
“I said I’d be back for tea.” She checked his movement.
“Where did you go?”
“Down the bridle path—and—and out on the Lynchwick road.”
“And then?”
“There’s a gate lower down.”
“Did you open it?”
“I heard a car coming.”
“And then?”
He shut his eyes. “I don’t know. You came then.”
Hilary wrote: Period of amnesia uncertain. No witnesses. Replies suggest clear recollection to within few seconds of accident. Period of unconsciousness, no history, evidence vague, 40-60 mins.
She looked up from the notebook; he was enjoying the relief of silence, with closed eyes. It seemed cruel to disturb him again; but it might be important, later on, to have assessed any mental impairment now.
“I’ve nearly finished. Tell me where you live?”
He gave her, with gentle weariness, the correct address.
“How many brothers and sisters have you?”
He drew his brows together. He was, she saw, growing irritable. This did not surprise her; his evident attempt to conceal it did. She repeated the question.
“Not any. Just the two of us.”
“You and—?”
“My head aches rather.”
“I know. I’m going to give you something for it. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, of course.” For a moment he seemed about to smile.
This would not do. To test his alertness, she took the stethoscope out of the pocket of her white coat, and hung it by the earpieces round her neck.
“Tell me,” she repeated with patient clear insistence, “who you think I am.”
“Why, you—you’re—” It was plain that his own doubt both distressed and shocked him. Strain was the last thing she wanted. She said. “I’m a doctor.”
He turned his face away on the pillow.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you any more questions. You can go to sleep now.”
He had still the look of someone seeking for a known word which remains absurdly elusive. Presently, however, something more urgent took its place. He was getting to the stage when people begin to think of sending messages. Very likely, she thought, he’s just remembered
She became cautious; if he was becoming rational, he must be left in quiet. Getting out her notebook, she framed quickly the routine questions. “How are you feeling now?”
“Fine.” She saw the pain move across his brows.
“What else do you feel?”
“A bit sick. It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me your name.”
“Julian.” He sounded dimly surprised.
“Yes? Julian what?”
“Oh, sorry. Julian—Richard—Fleming.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Not really.” He moved his head, flinched, and shut his eyes.
“It’s a hospital. But don’t worry, you’re doing quite well. Do you know why you’re here?”
He looked at her appealingly. She could see that he was in pain, and thought, Of course he wonders why I’m badgering him with stupid questions. One takes things so much for granted. He has speaking eyes, as they say.
“I shan’t have to bother you much more. In a moment I’ll leave you in peace.”
“No, please. Please don’t go.”
“Do you know why you’re in hospital?”
“I took a toss,” he said slowly, “I suppose.”
“Do you remember it?”
“No.”
“Now don’t worry. Take your time. Just try and tell me the last thing you remember.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes,” she said soothingly. “I live quite near. Do you remember starting out from home?”
“I said I’d be back for tea.” She checked his movement.
“Where did you go?”
“Down the bridle path—and—and out on the Lynchwick road.”
“And then?”
“There’s a gate lower down.”
“Did you open it?”
“I heard a car coming.”
“And then?”
He shut his eyes. “I don’t know. You came then.”
Hilary wrote: Period of amnesia uncertain. No witnesses. Replies suggest clear recollection to within few seconds of accident. Period of unconsciousness, no history, evidence vague, 40-60 mins.
She looked up from the notebook; he was enjoying the relief of silence, with closed eyes. It seemed cruel to disturb him again; but it might be important, later on, to have assessed any mental impairment now.
“I’ve nearly finished. Tell me where you live?”
He gave her, with gentle weariness, the correct address.
“How many brothers and sisters have you?”
He drew his brows together. He was, she saw, growing irritable. This did not surprise her; his evident attempt to conceal it did. She repeated the question.
“Not any. Just the two of us.”
“You and—?”
“My head aches rather.”
“I know. I’m going to give you something for it. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, of course.” For a moment he seemed about to smile.
This would not do. To test his alertness, she took the stethoscope out of the pocket of her white coat, and hung it by the earpieces round her neck.
“Tell me,” she repeated with patient clear insistence, “who you think I am.”
“Why, you—you’re—” It was plain that his own doubt both distressed and shocked him. Strain was the last thing she wanted. She said. “I’m a doctor.”
He turned his face away on the pillow.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you any more questions. You can go to sleep now.”
He had still the look of someone seeking for a known word which remains absurdly elusive. Presently, however, something more urgent took its place. He was getting to the stage when people begin to think of sending messages. Very likely, she thought, he’s just remembered