Stella Bain Read Online Free PDF

gone to the trouble of making a pudding.”
    Does the doctor imagine she cannot see through his transparent ploy?
    The doctor eats in silence, perhaps mindful of the clock. Stella cannot bring herself to touch the fish, the sauce of which has congealed on her plate. After a time, Streeter enters the room to clear the dishes and to bring out a warm bread pudding with custard, a course Stella thinks she can eat.
    Dr. Bridge speaks in the voice of a man who has composed his thoughts. “I wish you to stay a few more nights with my wife and me. As you can see, we have plenty of room, and neither I nor Lily would feel comfortable if you left now. In fact, I should feel that I was putting you in harm’s way or worse—that if I let you go, you might injure others should your symptoms overcome you at a critical moment.”
    Stella puts a hand up.
    “This isn’t to say that you aren’t free to go,” Dr. Bridge continues. “Of course you are. This is merely my recommendation. If you could but think of this as a temporary rest stop, I believe progress can be made. We can certainly get you back on your feet. We can speak further another time.”
    He has no idea who I am, she thinks.
    I have no idea who I am.
    Stella stands. “You think, Dr. Bridge, that my most acute problem at the moment is the physical occurrences you have witnessed. But it’s not. My greatest difficulty is that I can’t remember anything in my life prior to waking in a hospital tent in Marne in March of this year.” She moves toward the door. “I appreciate your concern, but I have places I must go. Please thank your wife again. She has been extremely kind.”
    Streeter appears next to Stella with her cloak and satchel.
    “Good-bye, Dr. Bridge,” she says.

G usts of wind blow Stella’s skirt about. The clean uniform as well as the decent food she has had to eat lift her spirits. What she needs is a map of London, and she wonders if such things are readily available. In France, a map was a rarity, unless it was a fake. She walks along the street until she sees a boy selling newspapers. She asks if he knows where she can get a map.
    “A map of what?”
    “Of London. Do you have one for sale?”
    “No, miss. Where do you want to go?”
    “To the Admiralty.”
    The boy raises an eyebrow, whether out of respect or fear she is not sure.
    “I can draw you how to get there,” he suggests.
    She watches as he grips the pencil he stores behind his ear with an earnestness that charms her. After a time, he hands her a rudimentary but satisfactory-looking map drawn on a piece of newsprint. She can just make out the letters. She takes some coins out of her pocket, but does not know their precise worth. She hands the boy one of the smaller ones.
    “Oh, no, miss, you don’t want to give me that. Here’s a truth. The larger the coin, the less it’s worth. Well, usually. This one here’s enough for me.”
    Stella drops the coin into his palm. She wants to give him another, perhaps for the way he held the pencil in his fingers. He is just a boy, no older than twelve. She hopes the war will be over before he can lie about his age to enlist.
     
    Stella follows the street names and makes turns where indicated.
    Along the way, she comes upon a stationery shop and enters. She asks for two sheets of writing paper, an envelope, and several pencils. She further inquires if the gentleman behind the counter will sharpen them for her. She is certain that he will do this; her uniform carries weight wherever she goes.
    On the map, the boy drew an X at her destination, and from what she can tell, after she has walked another fifteen minutes, she has reached it. She gazes up at a large building.
    The Admiralty means nothing to Stella. What did she expect? A tower with pinnacles? Surely not this squat piece of masonry. Magnificent—imposing, even—but not the stuff of myth.
    Near the entrance, one-legged men stand, leaning on straight sticks. Others have pinned-up sleeves.