Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Violet

Freesias

They smile at each other over her head, even as they ask her questions. Then each in turn looks at her, checking on her, making her more comfortable. Sometimes she wishes the comfort didn't come at such a painful price.

Only once do they both look at her at the same time, Merry Eyes now serious. ‘Can she keep a secret?' she asks.

The doctor looks away first, staring out into the garden where until last week her bed had been. Now she is on the veranda, half in the garden and half out, as if no one is sure whether she is coming or going.

Merry Eyes keeps looking at her. Would she let her hide a letter for her friend, the doctor, in the drawer by her bed? He would collect it when he came to visit and then leave his reply in the same place. It would be a kind of game. . .

Her words trail off.

She looks at Merry Eyes and thinks of the grey nurse with hair like twisted wool, whose fingers search the drawers and cupboards at night.

‘You could play pillow post,' she replies, not wanting the grey nurse to be scrabbling away at their secrets, spoiling their game.

Merry Eyes looks puzzled, eyebrows frowning.

Has she spoken in English rather than Spanish? Sometimes she mixes the words, loses track of who she is with. At home, or with her father among the sheep, she speaks English. Her teacher has tried to untangle the language and the land for her. Ireland was her parents' home, yet they speak their neighbours' language: English. Now they live in a new country and there is a different language. In the yard with the other children, words are thrown around like a ball, back and forward, up, up high and then swooping down. Spanish, her teacher says. The only way to join in the game is to learn to play with the words.

In the end, she explains pillow post both in Spanish and in English, just to make sure, and Merry Eyes smiles and nods.

Then the doctor turns back from studying the garden, and both are looking at her again.

‘You like it here among the flowers?' he asks. She notices his eyes stray to the nurse.

‘Of course she does. She is as lovely as any flower,' Merry Eyes replies– only her eyes aren't merry anymore: they are suddenly full of tears.

When the pain is bad, she wishes she could trace the edge of the envelope under her pillow with her finger, but that is too far for her heavy hand to travel, like the cart and train ride that brought her to the hospital.

Sometimes she wakes and finds the envelope gone, and all that is left is the smell of cotton mixing with the faint scent of freesias.