Free The Beating of His Wings by Paul Hoffman Page A

large windows to Cale’s right, which flooded the room with light, and at the far side, sitting by the fire in a high backed chair that looked comfortable enough to live in, was a tall woman. Even sitting down Cale could see she was more than six foot tall, somewhat taller than Cale himself. Sister Wray was covered from head to foot in what looked like black cotton. Even her eyes were covered with a thin strip of material in which there were numerous small holes to allow her to see. Strange as all this was, there was something much stranger: in her right hand and resting on her lap was some sort of doll. Had one of the children in Memphis been holding it he would not have noticed – the Materazzi girls often had dolls that were spectacularly splendid to behold, with madly expensive costumes for every kind of occasion from a marriage to tea with the Duke. This doll was rather larger, with clothes of grey and white and a simply drawn face without any expression at all.
    ‘Come and sit down.’ Again the pleasant voice, warm and good-humoured. ‘Can I call you Thomas?’
    ‘No.’
    There was a slight nod, but who could know of what kind? The head of the doll, however, moved slowly to look in his direction.
    ‘Please sit.’ But the voice was still all warmth and friendlinessas it completely discounted his appalling rudeness. He sat down, the doll still watching and – though how, he thought, could it be so? – taking a pretty dim view of what she was looking at.
    ‘I’m Sister Wray. And this,’ she said, moving her covered head slightly to look at the puppet on her lap, ‘is Poll.’
    Cale stared balefully at Poll and Poll stared balefully back. ‘What shall we call you?’
    ‘Everybody calls me “sir”.’
    ‘That seems a little formal. Can we agree on Cale?’
    ‘Suit yourself.’
    ‘What a horrible little boy.’
    It was not especially difficult to surprise Cale, no more than most people, but it was no easy thing to make him show it. It was not the sentiment that widened his eyes – he had, after all, been called a lot worse – but the fact it was the puppet who said it. The mouth didn’t move because it wasn’t made to, but the voice most definitely came from the puppet and not Sister Wray.
    ‘Be quiet, Poll,’ she said, and turned slightly to face Cale. ‘You mustn’t pay any attention to her. I’m afraid I’ve indulged her and like many spoilt children she has rather too much to say for herself.’
    ‘What am I here for?’
    ‘You’ve been very ill. I read the report prepared by the assessor when you arrived.’
    ‘The moron that got me locked up with all the head-bangers?’
    ‘She does seem to have got the wrong end of the stick.’
    ‘Well, I’m sure she’s been punished. No? What a surprise.’
    ‘We all make mistakes.’
    ‘Where I come from, when you make a mistake something bad happens – usually involving a lot of screaming.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘What’s there for you to be sorry about? Were you responsible?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘So, what are you going to do to make me all right again?’
    ‘Talk.’
    ‘Is that it?’
    ‘No. We’ll talk and then I’ll be better able to decide what medicines to prescribe, if that seems called for.’
    ‘Can’t we drop the talk and just get to the medicine?’
    ‘I’m afraid not. Talk first, medicine after. How are you today?’
    He held up his hand with the missing finger. ‘It’s acting up.’
    ‘Often?’
    ‘Once a week, perhaps.’
    She looked at her notes. ‘And your head and shoulder?’
    ‘They do their best to fill in when my hand isn’t hurting.’
    ‘You should have had a surgeon look at you. There was a request but it seems to have gone missing. I’ll sort out something for the pain.’
    For half an hour she asked questions about his past, from time to time interrupted by Poll. When Cale, with some relish, told her he had been bought for sixpence Poll had called out, ‘Too much.’ But mostly the questions were