“You don’t think that he’d-”
“No, no, no,” the doctor interrupted her hastily. “I should say definitely not the type to do away with himself. Yes, I know he says he wants to sometimes, but that’s just hysteria. No, the danger with this type of drug is that you may wake up in a half-bemused condition, forget you’ve had your dose and take another. So be careful.”
“Of course I will.”
She said good-bye and went back to Henry.
Henry was in one of his most unpleasant moods.
“Well, what does he say-everything proceeding satisfactorily! Patient just a little irritable, perhaps. No need to worry about that!”
“Oh, Henry.” Shirley sank down in a chair. “Couldn’t you sometimes-be a little kind?”
“Kind-to you?”
“Yes. I’m so tired, so dreadfully tired. If you could just be-sometimes-kind.”
“You’ve got nothing to complain about. You’re not a twisted mass of useless bones. You’re all right.”
“So you think,” said Shirley, “that I’m all right?”
“Did the doctor persuade you to go away?”
“He said I ought to have a change and a rest.”
“And you’re going, I suppose! A nice week at Bournemouth!”
“No, I’m not going.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“I don’t care whether you go or not. What use are you to me?”
“I don’t seem to be any use,” said Shirley dully.
Henry turned his head restlessly.
“Where’s my sleeping stuff? You never gave it to me last night.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You didn’t. I woke up and I asked for it. That nurse pretended I’d had it.”
“You had had it. You forget.”
“Are you going to the vicarage thing to-night?”
“Not if you don’t want me to,” said Shirley.
“Oh, better go! Otherwise everyone says what a selfish brute I am. I told nurse she could go, too.”
“I’ll stay.”
“You needn’t. Laura will look after me. Funny-I’ve never liked Laura much, but there’s something about her that’s very soothing when you’re ill. There’s a sort of-strength.”
“Yes. Laura’s always been like that. She gives you something. She’s better than me. I only seem to make you angry.”
“You’re very annoying sometimes.”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
When she came in before going out to the vicarage whist drive, she thought at first that Henry was asleep. She bent over him. Tears pricked her eyelids. Then as she turned to go, he plucked at her sleeve.
“Shirley.”
“Yes, darling?”
“Shirley-don’t hate me.”
“Hate you? How could I hate you?”
He muttered: “You’re so pale, so thin…. I’ve worn you out. I couldn’t help it…. I can’t help it. I’ve always hated anything like illness or pain. In the war, I used to think I wouldn’t mind being killed, but I could never understand how fellows could bear to be burnt or disfigured or-or maimed.”
“I see. I understand….”
“I’m a selfish devil, I know. But I’ll get better-better in mind, I mean-even if I never get better in body. We might be able to make a go of it-of everything-if you’ll be patient. Just don’t leave me.”
“I’ll never leave you, never.”
“I do love you, Shirley…. I do…. I always have. There’s never really been anyone but you-there never will be. All these months-you’ve been so good, so patient. I know I’ve been a devil. Say you forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I love you.”
“Even if one is a cripple-one might enjoy life.”
“We will enjoy life.”
“Can’t see how!”
With a tremor in her voice, Shirley said:
“Well, there’s always eating.”
“And drinking,” said Henry.
A faint ghost of his old smile showed.
“One might go in for higher mathematics.”
“Crossword puzzles for me.”
He said:
“I shall be a devil to-morrow, I expect.”
“I expect you will. I shan’t mind now.”
“Where are my pills?”
“I’ll give them to you.”
He swallowed them obediently.
“Poor old Muriel,” he said suddenly.
“What made you think of her?”
“Remembering taking you over there the first time. You had on a yellow stripy dress. I ought to have gone and seen old Muriel more often, but she had got to be such a bore. I hate bores. Now I’m a bore.”
“No, you’re not.”
From the hall below, Laura called: “Shirley!”