Give me another chance, the girl begged again, pulling a dainty handkerchief from a tiny pocket and dabbing at her nose. The cloth was white, edged in pale blue, its corners dotted with tiny flowers.
Andrew Whitmore thought the scene was oddly moving. *Ah, how I can feel that I abhor womens tears,* he mused.
No hope this year, he said. Try again next year, love. In the meantime, would you like me to place you as a wardboy in the infirmary? The work is grim and hard, but youll get a glimpse of what lies behind those spotless doors. Imagine all those white coats, gleaming instruments, corridors washed in sterile light, patients looking up at you with pleading eyes while you nod like a demigod. He glanced over the courtyard of the college, full of students, and continued, How many freckles do you have, Miss Crane? The sun must have kissed you all over.
A sudden burst of laughter escaped him, as if the light freckles on the girls cheek and the memory of his wifes birthdaywhen they would go to the cottage to fish for perch and pikehad all melted together. He imagined buzzing bees in hives and himself chatting with them, teaching them wisdom.
Poppy lifted her head, squinting. The professor is laughing strange. It feels all wrong, she thought, crumpling her ticket with sweaty fingers, ashamed before the exam board.
Andrew cleared his throat. Im not laughing at you, Miss Crane, youre a beautiful young lady. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, clutching his battered briefcase. Shall we get some icecream? he asked, sighing at the heat. He slipped a few crumpled notes from his pocket under his tweed jacket. Take these and buy us both a cone. Ill wait on the bench. He gestured vaguely toward a far corner.
Poppy shrugged, her eyes narrowing. What flavour? she asked softly.
Anything, and quickly, he replied. Otherwise this place will stay a damp, empty spot, and youll never become a wardboy.
He settled on the bench, placing his briefcase beside him, and drew out a massive, gaudy bluegreen handkerchiefan ugly contrast to Poppys own. He dabbed his forehead, grimacing. Its disgusting to be sweaty, tired, and old, he muttered, feeling a sour pang at the thought of flirting with the freckled girl. I love my wife more than anything, never look at students. Its a pity life has passed me by, leaving only the chance to watch young, daring souls like Miss Crane blaze ahead.
Poppy, blushing, handed him a wrapped icecream stick. Here, a vanilla scoop for you, she said.
What about you? he snapped, eyes flicking to her empty hands. I said two scoops. Youre not listening! He opened his eyes wide, looking like a pike he intended to catch tomorrow in the pond behind his house. Youre told what to do and you ignore it!
The girls pinkblue hat flapped as she sprinted back to the icecream stall, bought another cone, and plopped down beside the professors briefcase.
Eat, Andrew ordered. Then goodbye. I have many tasks, including loading the carriage for my wifes cottage outing. He watched her lick the cone, noting its overly sweet, greasy taste that made one want only to drink.
Dont you know where you are? he snapped, stepping forward. Youre staying with your aunt, right? Shell have guests from the north today, and youll have to leave. The flat isnt a rubber house. He shook his head, remembering his own aunts warning: Dont be a fool, the flat isnt endless.
What home do you live in? he asked, finishing his icecream.
It doesnt matter. Just accept me, give me another exam. Ill tell you three or four things, but my head got tangled, and I he trailed off.
Stop that nonsense, he waved a finger. You cant have a jumbled head at work. Youll end up cutting a spleen instead of an appendix! He laughed, the sound echoing down the quiet college lawn.
Poppy, still clutching her tiny suitcase hidden among the shrubs, whispered, Its all over. Her frecklesspattered nose trembled as she stared at the bench, feeling the weight of expectations.
In Littleford, a modest semirural village split by a winding Broad into two rival halvesbrick terraces on one side, thatched cottages with cheerful gables on the otherno one believed a tiny girl who seemed as light as a grasshopper could ever become a doctor. Yet she dreamed of strolling the local infirmary in a white coat, directing the senior nurse, who was now nearly sixty.
The village hospital was a shabby threestorey block with peeling yellowgreen paint and cracked windows. Its chief, Dr. Nicholas Frost, was a portly man with a reddened, swollen nose, hollow eyes, and dry lips. He rarely left his office, refusing modern equipment, insisting on alcohol rubs for every ailment. The supply of spirit evaporated faster than anyone could replace it.
Andrew Whitmore had already vanished from view, while Poppy remained on the bench, her icecream stick clutched in a trembling hand. Now Im thirsty, she muttered, pulling the suitcase from the shrubbery, glancing around for the bus stop, wishing she could catch the evening train before night fell.
She feared walking alone after dark, haunted by imagined spirits her grandmother had once warned her about. The creak of a fence, the snap of a branch, a distant roosters crow, barking dogsall blended into a nightmarish symphony as she huddled beneath a quilt, listening to her grandfathers snoring, his muttered curses somehow soothing the grasshopperlike girl.
Her grandfather had died of pneumonia, his last days spent prescribing endless alcohol rubs. His frail body had withered in two days, his face smoothing as the blankets folded away. The wardmaid, Tamara Egerton, muttered, Hes gone
The dark lane to her home remained the same, flanked by overgrown hedges and abandoned brick houses that seemed to hide all sorts of unseen things. A small figure shuffled past, dragging the suitcase, sniffling.
A lanky boy named Victor appeared, snatching the suitcase from her. What are you doing here? she shouted. Give it back, Ill carry it myself! Victor snarled, Ive been punching for you, you know! Aunt called, said you were coming back, so I waited. He halted, and the trembling Poppy threw herself into his arms, clinging to his neck, wailing like a child.
Victor finally kissed her, a clumsy, wet kiss, as if two fledglings were pecking. She pulled back, eyes wide, then reached for his hand again. Its wrong, but Im glad youre back, he whispered.
Back at the infirmary, Andrew Whitmore, now gaunt and swathed in a wool coat, rummaged through a list of applicants. Kane, Clark, Carver Oh, the names! he muttered, fingertips skimming the paper. The receptionist, Naomi, lifted her glasses, wiped her eyes with a blueedged handkerchief, and asked, Looking for someone?
The handkerchief, he snapped. Bought it at the market. There were yellowflower ones, but I prefer this. Naomi blushed, tucking the cloth away. Nothing, he grumbled, scanning names: Crane, Poppy Where is she?
Naomi, now visibly pregnant, sighed, pulled an apple from her bag, and chewed. She didnt come. Ive wasted my nerves for her. I even begged the dean for a spot, but they said no places. She shook her head, eyes glossy.
Dr. Frost, still disheveled, shuffled into the corridor, stumbling over a broken door. Whats all the racket? he barked, eyes halfclosed from a night of drinking.
Andrew, lying in a cold, empty ward, stared at the barely dawntinged windows, his head heavy with chlorinated scent. He tried to reach for his wifes hand but could not move. A nurse in a blue coat entered, adjusting her scarf, and offered him a glass of water.
Crane? she asked, surprised. His frecklesspattered nose twitched, a smile forming. Im Andrew Whitmore. Dr. Frost says there was no heart attack, just something else. Drink. He sipped, nodding gratefully.
Where are you, Miss Crane? he whispered, frantic. Ive been searching the lists for two years. Poppy placed a finger to her lips, urging silence.
Ill come back next year, she promised, Im training as a wardboy now, just as you said. Ill learn everything, change things. He scoffed, Or youll end up like that doctor, shouting at the walls. She laughed, Ill fix this place.
The night grew darker, the village hospitals cracked plaster and mouldy walls whispering their decay. Tamara, the wardmaid, clutched a teacup, offering biscuits. Shall we? she asked, as if the simple act could banish the gloom.
Outside, the wind howled through the trees, and Andrew, with a strange pride, read the name Poppy Crane on the admissions board for the fifth time. Shes in, he murmured. Now Nikols turn to wait. He turned toward the trolley of icecream, smiling at the absurdity of it all.
And the dream lingered, a surreal swirl of frozen treats, freckled faces, and a village caught between ruin and hope, all whispered in the thin English night.
