Part 13 (1/2)

”Because for children,” the girl said patiently, ”you get Points.”

Charge Nurse Toynbee was just going off as Poor Mrs. Wilmot reported for duty. ”Cheerybye,” she said, snuffling. ”Have a lovely weekend, won't you?”

”What about you, Mrs. Wilmot? On the razzle?”

”Shouldn't be surprised,” she said, wheezing and sniffing, laughing her soundless laugh. ”Course with me knees I don't go dancing, but I enjoy meself all the same.” She went off down the corridor for her metal bucket and her mop.

Standing in the recess by the patients' bathrooms, near B Ward (Male), she watched Mr. Field's visitors leaving. His daughter looked paler than ever, shocked and wary. Her clothes were disordered; she was wearing a strange red anorak, smeared with oil, that could have belonged to her husband. She strode down the corridor; her husband scurried after her, his expression abject. He too was pale; his eyes seemed unfocused, as if he had been drinking. But it was only just after seven. Mrs. Ryan swept open the firedoors and pa.s.sed through. Her face was set; she was a woman who had been disabused of one monstrosity, only to be presented with another. In the corridor beyond she started to run. Her shoes squealed on the corridor floor. Her husband swore, and broke into a trot. At the other side of the firedoors he stopped. He turned, and looked back through the smeary plastic panel. He hesitated, then began to walk back uncertainly to where the cleaner was standing, a bucket and a bottle of Pine-O-s.h.i.+ne in her hand. ”Who are you?” he said.

”Me?” the despondent greyish face looked up at him. ”I'm Mrs. Wilmot. I do cleaning.”

”Do you know my wife?”

”Your wife? Oh no, Your Wors.h.i.+p.”

”What?” said Mr. Ryan.

”I said, oh no, Your Wors.h.i.+p.”

”She thought you were watching us. She said there was something familiar about you.”

”Familiar?” The old woman looked scared and aggrieved. ”I wouldn't be familiar.”

”She thought she'd seen you before.”

”Yes, course, sir, because I clean here.”

”Yes, of course you do. She's got herself worked up, as usual. My apologies.”

Mrs. Wilmot blinked; a single rheumy tear began a slow path down her left cheek towards her chin. ”Oh, look now, I didn't mean to upset you. I wasn't accusing you of anything.”

”You was.” Mrs. Wilmot's voice quavered. ”Theft, cheating, familiarity. Spying on you. I'll tell the charge nurse. There's tribunals. I'm ent.i.tled.”

”Look, no one's accused you of theft, don't be silly.” Looking uneasy, Mr. Ryan dug into his pocket and shuffled some small change into the cleaner's palm. ”Why don't you...get yourself a cup of tea, or something?”

”Stout's what I have,” said Mrs. Wilmot. ”Sweet sherry.”

”Yes, I see. Please don't upset yourself. Look...here you are.”

Mrs. Wilmot bit off a tearful wail. ”Brandy Alexandras.” Mr. Ryan fled along the corridor after his wife.

”That dirty old Field's son-in-law accused poor Mrs. Wilmot of spying on his wife,” said the Night Sister. ”He accused her of stealing from his wife's handbag. And being drunk on the ward.”

”Honestly,” said the student. ”She's only just got over her s.e.xual Hara.s.sment at Work. Poor Mrs. Wilmot, imagine. She ought to sue him.”

”b.l.o.o.d.y relatives,” said Sister, ”coming in here once a month and throwing their weight about. Salt of the earth, Poor Mrs. Wilmot. That blasted Field is a menace to womankind, if he pegged out tonight, I wouldn't touch him, I tell you: I'd leave him for the day s.h.i.+ft.”

”You do that anyway,” the student said, earning a dirty look. ”Mrs. Wilmot,” she called out, ”are you going to help us with the Horlicks?”

Mr. Field, his breathing stertorous, was propped up on a bank of pillows. ”Another upset,” he said. ”Stupid girl, my daughter, always whinging on about something or other, never listens.” He coughed hoa.r.s.ely. ”She's had another row with that wimp she married, sounds as if he's been getting a bit on the side. I was telling her what I wanted on my headstone, but she wasn't taking it in.”

”Here's your Horlicks. Looking forward to dying, are you?”

”If I don't make arrangements, n.o.body will. I was thinking about a verse for the paper.” He leaned over to open the drawer of his bedside locker. The Reporter shook a little in his hand. ”Here's one I like: We shed a tear although we know Our dad is now at rest; G.o.d wanted him for an angel and He only takes the best.”

”You don't really think you're going to die,” Muriel said. She stood at the end of the bed, her colourless eyes fixed on his face. ”You think you're going to hang around for months, putting your hand up nurses' skirts. You'd do it to your own daughter if she'd let you.”

”It's not right,” the old man said. ”I should have grandchildren to put in a verse for me. My daughter hates me. She wished me in h.e.l.l. That's not right, is it?”

”I could come and see your grave,” Muriel said. ”Me and my little mite.” She approached the old man, peering down at him myopically. ”I've got an idea about that. Just the bones of a scheme.”

”Or this one,” said Mr. Field, ignoring her.

”He went with ne'er a backward glance, And ne'er a complaining sigh: He knows he will see his dear ones again In the heavenly bye-and-bye.”

”I'm a changeling,” Muriel said. ”Did you know that, when you did it with me in the park? I'm not a human thing.”

”Whatever's that?” said Mr. Field, coughing. ”What's a changeling when it's at home?”

”It's a subst.i.tute. It's what gets left when the human's taken away. It's a dull-brained thing, always squawking and feeding. It's ungrateful. It's a disappointment to its mother.”

”How you talk,” Mr. Field said, showing his gums. ”How about a kiss and cuddle?”

”Don't you laugh. A changeling's nothing to laugh at if you found one in your house. My mother didn't have the wit to drown me. If you throw them in some water you sometimes get your own baby back, but she didn't do that and so she had to put up with me. A changeling's a filthy thing. It's got no imagination.”

”Well,” Mr. Field said, ”it must be an uncommon condition.”

”It's not uncommon. You see them on the street. You have to know what to look for, that's all.”

”Not much you can do about it, then?”

”A changeling's a cruel thing. It likes its own company. It likes its own kind. I thought if I had my little changeling back, we'd suit very well.”

”Oh yes?”

”So I thought,” said Muriel, sitting down on the bed, breathing hard, ”if I could get a loan of a baby, just an ordinary one, I could try the trick in reverse. Throw in the changeling and get a human; throw in the human, and get a changeling.”

”You're touched,” Mr. Field said. ”I've never heard of this before. It's horrible.”

”A changeling can't talk.”

”But you can talk. You're talking now.”

”I learned it from other people. Everything I know, I learned from other people. I want to give my child a better life. Well, it's natural.”

”Your child's dead,” Mr. Field said in alarm. ”That's what you told me.”