The Convalescent Page 23

  Matron asked William about the garden. With spring approaching, what were his plans for it? She asked it rather pointedly, he thought, as if his plans for the garden were well known to be bound up with his plans for himself. He had no plans for it, he believed, none at all, but in order to pass the time before he could politely leave he spoke in a quiet voice, now and then raising it slightly against the wind, of the need for more borders and for vegetables. He realised after a moment or two, however, that matron wasn’t listening, more interested in the minister’s unhealthy silence than in anyone’s plans for the garden. He spoke on, nonetheless, even suggesting that garden tables and chairs wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  Just before lunch the next day, William left the Montgomery by a back entrance. Carrying his suitcase (still covered with labels from his recent trip), he walked, not down the main drive, but through the grounds – carefully in and out of trees, bushes – rejoining the drive at the front gate. At one o’clock a bus passed here, stopping for anyone from the Montgomery who wanted it.

  Making sure that he couldn’t be seen from the Montgomery, William took up his position by the gate, waiting uneasily, tensely (as tensely, he fancied, as his letters to them were waiting to be discovered by matron and Sophie).

  It was a grey day, very still, the landscape, flat at the best of times, appearing even flatter because of the greyness. It was not how he had imagined himself waiting. He had imagined that the day of his departure would be the first day of spring, with warm sunshine and birdsong. He had imagined that there would be abundant signs that he had taken the right decision. But all he could hear in the grey stillness were the questions he didn’t want to hear. The old questions. Who are you? Where are you from? Where are you going? What will you do? Who will receive you? The belief that had inspired his flight – that he had more to give than service to the privileged elderly – was still with him. But as he waited, the suspicion grew that it was vain of him to suppose that he would find a worthier occupation, a grander commitment. And why the idea that service to the elderly – privileged or not – was negligible?

  The bus was late, but it was often late on its journeys round this corner of Lanarkshire. He pictured its arrival, the automatic doors opening, the familiar driver with the high forehead and the red hair smiling down at him. But beyond that he could imagine nothing. The bus was always stopped and waiting, and he – as if it represented just one of several possibilities – was always looking up at it.

  It began to drizzle. Still William stood where he was, his back to the Montgomery, his ears straining for the sound of the bus. And still he looked in the direction the bus would take after he had boarded it. But then, as he put on his overcoat, he felt the action of doing so induce an experience which, a year before, he would probably have put down to his liver (disordered bodies imagining disordered worlds). Behind him, it felt that the Montgomery was breaking up. At first the tremor was gentle, running the length of the ground floor and then ceasing. Then it was more pronounced, causing a few bricks and slates to fall and dust to rise. And then it was violent and sustained, causing the building, with horrible slowness, to collapse inwards. There were clouds of black and purple dust and there were screams. Then – as if there had never been a place called the Montgomery – silence and calm daylight.

  The bus – it was all that could be heard in the stillness – came into sight at last. But by now William had picked up his suitcase and was walking up the drive. Soon he heard the bus pass and go on – heard it as if it had been only his intention to board it – as if he were returning after a long absence. It had been an essential absence, apparently, as essential as rest after exhaustion, bereavement after death. The balance might not last, he knew, but it had been struck for the moment. He was returning neither cowed nor in triumph, neither an underling nor an upstart.

  To get to the front door, he had to pass the dining-room window. Lunch was still in progress. None of the elderly saw him though as, awkwardly but purposefully swinging his suitcase, he walked by. Sophie did however. And looked at him, he feared, as if she had known for days that he was going to try – and fail – to leave the Montgomery by a back entrance. He recalled the first time he had seen her, the time when, in the middle of helping an old man along one of the Montgomery’s lovely autumn paths, she had looked up and seemed to ask him who he was. Her look was more knowing now, he had to admit, less curious, less patient even; but he liked to believe there was appreciation in it still. More appreciation than censure. Why not? Wasn’t there more to himself, William Templeton – proudly he permitted himself the thought – than there was to this crusading young woman of twenty-four or twenty-five?

  To acknowledge, though, that her doubts about his loyalty had been justified, he gave her a sober wave and nodded, passing on then into the entrance hall, where he came upon matron setting out fresh copies of For All Seasons.

  “Oh, William,” she said, barely looking up. “Could you clean the zimmers sometime? They’ve got sticky again.”

  “Right, matron,” he said, passing through without stopping.

  Later that afternoon, he suggested to Mrs Walker that they take a turn in the garden. The drizzle had stopped and the clouds were high. Mrs Walker remarked that spring was in the air.

  “And soon it’ll be summer,” she added, appearing to savour each syllable.

  “Yes,” William said, regretting that when summer did come it would be apparent that the garden had been neglected again.

  “Do you know what?” he said, pacing slowly with Mrs Walker down an avenue of rhododendron bushes.

  “What?”

  “If I made more of the garden, we could spend more time in it. I think we spend too much time inside. Too much damn time inside.”

  “I agree,” Mrs Walker said. “But don’t delay; none of us here has terribly much time left.”

  Copyright

  © Peter Gilmour 2013

  First published in September 2013

  by Vagabond Voices Publishing Ltd.,

  Glasgow,

  Scotland.

  ISBN 978-1-908251-20-6

  The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

  Cover design by Mark Mechan

  For further information on Vagabond Voices, see the website www.vagabondvoices.co.uk