How far was the sick bay, Digby sometimes wondered, a fantasy of disordered minds? It was there, of course, the brick wing and the barred windows and the high wall; there was even a segregated staff whom other patients had certainly met at the monthly social evening which he had not yet attended. (The doctor believed that these occasions on which strangers were present -- the local clergyman, a sprinkling of elderly ladies, a retired architect -- helped the shell-shocked brains to adapt themselves to society and the conventions of good behaviour.) But was anybody certain that the sick bay was occupied? Sometimes it occurred to Digby that the wing had no more reality than the conception of Hell presented by sympathetic theologians -- a place without inhabitants which existed simply as a warning.
Suddenly Major Stone appeared again, walking rapidly. He saw Digby and veered towards him down one of the paths. Little beads of sweat stood on his forehead. He said to Digby, "You haven't seen me, do you hear? You haven't seen me," and brushed by. He seemed to be making for the paddock and the pond. In another moment he was out of sight among the shrubberies, and Digby walked on. It seemed to him that the time had come for him to leave. He wasn't in place here: he was normal. A faint uneasiness touched him when he remembered that Major Stone, too, had considered himself cured.
As he came in front of the house Johns emerged. He looked ruffled and anxious. He said, "Have you seen Major Stone?" Digby hesitated for a second only. Then he said, "No."
Johns said, "The doctor wants him. He's had a relapse."
The cameraderie of a fellow-patient weakened. Digby said, "I did see him earlier. . ."
"The doctor's very anxious. He may do himself an injury -- or someone else." The rimless glasses seemed to be heliographing a warning -- do you wish to be responsible?
Digby said uneasily, "You might have a look round the pond."
"Thanks," Johns said, and called out, "Poole. Poole."
"I'm coming," a voice said.
A sense of apprehension moved like a heavy curtain in Digby's mind; it was as though someone had whispered faintly to him so that he couldn't be sure of the words, "Take care." A man stood at the gate from the sick bay wearing the same kind of white coat that Johns wore on duty, but not so clean. He was a dwarfish man with huge twisted shoulders and an arrogant face. "The pond," Johns said.
The man blinked and made no movement, staring at Digby with impertinent curiosity. He had obviously come from the sick bay; he didn't belong in the garden. His coat and fingers were stained with what looked like iodine.
"We've got to hurry," Johns said. "The doctor's anxious. . ."
"Haven't I met you," Poole said, "somewhere before?" He watched Digby with a kind of enjoyment. "Oh yes I'm sure I have."
"No," Digby said. "No."
"Well, we know each other now," Poole said. He grinned at Digby and said with relish, "I'm the keeper," swinging a long simian arm towards the sick bay.
Digby said loudly, "I don't know you from Adam. I don't want to know you," and had time to see Johns' look of amazement before he turned his back and listened to their footsteps hurrying towards the pond.
It was true: he didn't know the man, but the whole obscurity of his past had seemed to shake -- something at any moment might emerge from behind the curtain. He had been frightened and so he had been vehement, but he felt sure that a black mark would be made on his chart of progress and he was apprehensive. . . Why should he fear to remember anything? He whispered to himself, "After all, I'm not a criminal."
6
At the front door a servant met him. "Mr Digby," she told him, "there's a visitor for you," and his heart beat with hope.
"Where?"
"In the lounge."
She was there looking at a Tatler, and he had no idea what to say to her. She stood there as he seemed to remember her from very far back, small, tense, on guard, and yet she was part of a whole world of experience of which he was innocent.
"It's good of you," he began and stopped. He was afraid if he once began making the small talk of a stranger, they would be condemned for life to that shadowy relationship. The weather would lie heavily on their tongues, and they would meet occasionally and talk about the theatre. When they passed in the street he would raise his hat, and something which was only just alive would be safely and hopelessly dead.
He said slowly,"I have been longing for this ever since you came. The days have been very long with nothing to do in them but think and wonder. This is such a strange life. . ."
"Strange and horrible," she said.
"Not so horrible," he said, but then he remembered Poole. He said, "How did we talk before my memory went? We didn't stand stiffly, did we, like this -- you holding a paper and I -- we were good friends, weren't we?"
"Yes."
He said, "We've got to get back. This isn't right. Sit down here and we'll both shut our eyes. Pretend it's the old days before the bomb went off. What were you saying to me then?" She sat in miserable silence and he said with astonishment, "You shouldn't cry."
"You said shut your eyes."
"They are shut now."
The bright artificial lounge where he felt a stranger, the glossy magazines and the glass ashtrays were no longer visible: there was just darkness. He put out his hand and touched her. He said, "Is this strange?"
After a long time a dried-up voice said, "No."
He said, "Of course I loved you, didn't I?" When she didn't answer, he said, "I must have loved you. Because directly you came in the other day -- there was such a sense of relief, of peace, as if I'd been expecting someone different. How could I have helped loving you?"
"It doesn't seem likely," she said.
"Why not?"
"We'd only known each other a few days."
"Too short, of course, for you to care about me."
Again there was a long silence. Then she said, "Yes, I did."
"Why? I'm so much older. I'm not much to look at. What sort of a person was I?"
She replied at once as though this were easy: this was part of the lesson she had really learnt: she had turned this over in her mind again and again. "You had a great sense of pity. You didn't like people to suffer."
"Is that unusual?" he asked, genuinely seeking information; he knew nothing of how people lived and thought outside.