The Quick and the Dead (14 page)

‘Well, the best thing to do, to my way of thinking,' said Aunt Bertha rather defiantly, ‘is to send for the doctor at once, instead of sitting here talking.'

‘That'll only make him worse.' My words came breathlessly. ‘Besides,' I added, recklessly lying, ‘the only doctor there is lives at Farringay, and I don't suppose he's at home now.'

‘Why shouldn't he be?' asked my uncle mildly. He drew out his watch. ‘It's only half-past four.'

‘And that's the doctor that came to Mother,' I urged desperately. ‘And we can't possibly have
him.'

‘Why not, dearie?' asked my aunt. ‘Isn't he a nice man?'

‘O Lord!' I cried rudely. ‘If you can't see why not, it's no good talking to you.'

‘Steady, lad, steady!' said my uncle. ‘That's not the way to speak to your aunt. Now is it?'

Mr Latitude intervened, and though he was by far the youngest of these three counsellors of mine, and though he had no air of claiming authority for himself, there was something in his presence, his candid inquiring eyes and glowing white hair, that weighed his lightest word with the suggestion of a profound and almost celestial wisdom. ‘Claud has had a very bad time, we must remember. But we all want to do our best—don't we, Claud? And do you know,' he said, turning
to my aunt, ‘I can't help feeling, Mrs Claybrook, that his idea is the right one. To be awake so long, and to be awake in hell—I doubt if any of our minds could bear a strain like that.'

My aunt shrugged her shoulders. ‘If it's sleep poor Bob needs, I should have thought the doctor was the best person to make sure of it for him,' she remarked stubbornly. ‘But I'm only a simple woman.'

‘Couldn't we get a doctor's prescription?' hinted my uncle, with a glance almost of apology in my direction.

‘Not without having the doctor to see him,' I countered.

‘And that might be unwise at this stage,' murmured Mr Latitude.

I could have worshipped the man: he, a stranger to the family, was the only one who could read my mind.

‘You know,' he said, after a pause, ‘for my part I'm old-fashioned enough to believe in prayer.'

His smile was curiously attractive, in spite of its hint of professionalism. In my new ardour of hope I was ready to believe even in miracles. If any man on earth could command the angelic powers, that man, I thought, was my hero Tom Latitude. And from that
moment, by tacit consent of the rest of us, Mr Latitude seemed to be in charge of our affairs. It was he who suggested that I should coax Calamy to go to his bedroom: indeed, that I should put him to bed and make him comfortable in anticipation of a long night of sleep; and soon after six o'clock had struck I set about that delicate task. All this time we had forgotten the heroic Mr Wiccombe, whom I found, solid as a rock and quite unperturbed, sitting in the dark shop with Calamy, precisely as we had left him two hours before. My aunt had provided him with tea on a tray, but he had declined to be relieved from his post, saying: ‘You good people run along and talk it over. Mr Calamy and me are getting along famous together.' An exaggeration this, for I doubt whether our devoted neighbour had succeeded in getting from Calamy, during all those hours, a single recognition of his existence.

Mr Wiccombe, however, was indulging in the luxury of a remark at the very moment of my entry. ‘Of
course
you've got her, Mr. Calamy. There's no two opinions about that … Hullo, here's young Claud.' In as natural a voice as my trembling heart would allow me, I told Calamy that it was bedtime, and wouldn't he like to come upstairs? He stared
at me vaguely, as if with an effort to remember; and his speech was inconsequent and scanty. But, to my inexpressible relief, he offered no resistance when, I taking one arm, and Mr. Wiccombe the other, we urged him to his feet and led him out of the room. Like a lamb he came with us up the stairs; but at the stairhead he paused, seeming disposed to go no further. ‘Come along, old man,' said Mr Wiccombe heartily. ‘You've still got her. She's waiting for you yonder, in the bedroom.' Whether Calamy heard and understood this tale I cannot tell; but he suffered himself to be persuaded, and within half a minute we had him in the bedroom, sitting like a dazed child on the bed, with me pulling off his trousers.

As soon as he was in bed Mr Wiccombe slipped from the room. Having lit the candle that stood in its stick on the chest of drawers, I pulled down the window-blind to shut out the daylight. Calamy sat up and glared past me at his dream. ‘They're all dead but us, Essie. Never seen so many corpses in my life. And they talk too: that's another thing.' My heart sank to something like despair, but at this moment Mr Latitude joined us, followed by Uncle Claybrook bearing a glass of hot milk, in which, as he told me later (‘But don't
tell the parson—he's a grand fellow!'), were dissolved fifteen grains of aspirin which he had himself just fetched from Farringay. (‘Not that I've anything against prayer, my boy. You mustn't think that. But I like to be on the safe side.')

‘Here's a drop of grog for you, Bobbie,' said my uncle, looming large and shadowy in the candlelight.

For an appreciable moment, magnified by my anxiety to an age of agony, Calamy would pay no heed at all to the glass that was held out to him. But Mr Latitude, with one arm supporting the patient's shoulders, with the other approached the glass to his lips. And presently—music to my ears—came the sound of swallowing. ‘Just another drop,' said Mr Latitude. ‘No more? Very well. Now lie down and go to sleep, there's a good soul.' The tension of Calamy's body relaxed: Mr Latitude gently lowered him to the pillow. ‘And now sleep,' said that musical voice, dropping to a soft note. ‘Go to sleep … sleep. You know me, don't you? I'm Tom Latitude. You used to come and hear me preach, you and Claud, so he tells me. Well, never mind. Don't worry—just close your eyes.' The eyes of Calamy, dark and piercing, stared relentlessly up at him. ‘Listen,' said Mr Latitude,
bending still nearer as if to confide a secret to him. ‘If you close your eyes you'll see her more clearly. Just as she was. Just as she is. Try now. Try.' The eyes closed. Mr Latitude, with delicate fingers, began stroking Calamy's forehead; and his voice sank to the merest murmur. ‘Go to sleep. Go to sleep. And in the morning … go to sleep, go to sleep … you'll be yourself again … and this we ask in the name of Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen.'

The murmuring died away. Calamy, one arm flung across the pillow, was sleeping like a child. And we three, hardly daring to breathe, stood looking down on him, and wondering what measure of our hopes morning would bring us.

To
Harry and Winifred Roberts

This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
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ISBN: 9781448207435
eISBN: 9781448207121
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