Free The Happy Prisoner by Monica Dickens Page A

Ma was being active behind the scenes was when the M.O. said one morning: ‘Pity that stump of yours is playing us up. You might have been able to go home soon otherwise.’
    â€˜
Home
?’ I said. I had not expected to be discharged for weeks yet. That was one of the things that was getting me down, not having any sort of a definite date to look forward to. Stringy Salter knew when his plaster was coming off and he used to notch the days off on it with a penknife.
    The M.O. looked uncomfortable. He was young and guileless and I suppose he had been having quite a rough time with my mother. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When a patient’s people are prepared to take a lot of responsibility—but I’m afraid in your case, it’s impossible at the moment.’
    When my mother asked me who was in charge of the hospital,I wanted to make a bet myself, but no one would take me. They had all got to know her pretty well by this time. She never would tell me exactly what had taken place between her and the colonel. I knew she got at him through an uncle of mine who was at the War Office, but I’d love to know what they said to each other. Anyway, the upshot of it was that I was suddenly attacked one day with blankets and hot-water bottles and a small swig of diluted brandy—the night nurse used to help herself and fill the bottle up with water—and borne away on a trolley to the accompaniment of cheers from the multitude.
    When I arrived here, in the smartest private ambulance ever seen, I found Sandy already installed and the best bedroom crowded with flowers and books and log fires and hysterically welcoming family. I had no sooner hinted at this room than Ma got a builder to stop doing bomb repairs in Birmingham and fix up this window bed for me. A remarkable woman, my mother.”
    .…
    â€œI expect you think I’m spoiled,” Oliver said.
    â€œNot at all,” said Elizabeth, tucking in the last blanket and bending to pick up her dressing tray.
    â€œMy sister Heather,” said Oliver, “says I lie here like a blasted saint. Do you think I’m saintly, Elizabeth? Am I a good patient?” He had been mildly tormented for some time now by curiosity to know what she thought of him.
    â€œOf course,” she said. “But you must be quiet now. You’ve talked too long; you’ll never get to sleep.”
    â€œAnyway, I know you think I shouldn’t have been brought home,” he pursued. “You said so.”
    â€œDid I? That was silly of me, seeing that it gave me a nice job,” she said brightly and escaped before she could commit herself further.
    Did she mean that it was an easy job or that she liked being with them? Or was it just one of the polite, meaningless remarks with which she always warded off attempts at intimacy? Trying to understand Elizabeth made you feel like an archaeologist trying to probe the centuries-old secrets of a fossil. Perhaps Heather was right, and there was nothing there to understand.
    He thought of ringing the cow-bell, to call her back and ask her what she meant. He looked at it, then picked it up, holding the clapper with his finger, and examined the Swiss cow with a leg at each corner painted on it against a background of the Rosegg valley. Having decided what he was going to say, he rang it, hating its imperious jangle in the quiet of his room. Shedid not come, so he rang it again, and Heather burst in wearing a rubber apron and looking as though she had no time to spare.
    â€œWhat is it, Ollie? You’ve woken Susan.”
    â€œI say, I’m terribly sorry. I wanted Elizabeth, actually, but I suppose she’s outside burning my dressings.”
    â€œWell, surely she can hear it from there. Why doesn’t she answer it? That’s what she’s paid for.”
    â€œDon’t be horrid, Heather.”
    â€œI feel horrid. We’ve all been jolly nice to her, and she won’t even be