Jo Walton - Among Others

Daniel came to see me, which was a surprise. He put his head around the door. “Who do you think I’ve brought?” he asked.

I hoped for Sam, but I guessed right that it was his sisters. I was surprised that it was only one of them. “Hello, Aunt Anthea,” I said, which made her jump. It was just a guess of course, but a guess based in experience. Usually if there’s just one of them, it’s Anthea, who is the oldest.

“I just couldn’t resist coming to see the old place,” she said.

“I’m surprised the others could resist,” I said, as Nice Niece as I could be.

“There wouldn’t have been room in the car, dear.”

Now Daniel’s car, like most cars, like every car in the world apart from maybe Auntie Teg’s little orange Fiat 500, holds four people. Even Auntie Teg’s car, which we call Gamboge Gussie the Galloping Girl—Gussie because the registration number starts GCY—can hold four, it’s just a bit of a squash, especially if any of them are tall. So that was when I realised that they’d come to take me back with them.

“To convalesce,” Daniel said.

It seemed to me that it would have been more use if Daniel had come on a weekday and talked to Dr. Abdul, but it seemed he’d spoken to him on the phone—I wonder who initiated that call? In any case, it seemed as if the school thought it would take me a little while to be back in class, and I’d be better off being nursed at home. Well, that might be the case, for people who have homes. I tried every argument I could think of to stay in school, including a few outright Nice Niece ones, like not wanting to miss the hockey match against St. Felicity’s, but none of them held water.

I found myself being helped down to the car. That sort of help is actually a hindrance. If you ever see someone with a walking stick, that stick, and their arm, are actually a leg. Grabbing it or lifting it or doing anything unasked to the stick and the arm are much the same as if you grabbed a normal person’s leg as they’re walking. I wish more people understood this. A number of girls saw me leaving, and of course Nurse knows, so I expect someone will tell Miss Carroll and she’ll think to tell Greg who will tell the others. “The others,” I say, and I do mean Janine and everyone as well as Wim. But I should admit that mostly I mean Wim. I think I have a bit of a crush on him. And I stupidly left his Zelazny books, which I was saving, in school, so I can’t even read them.

There’s half a gale blowing, and it feels as if it could shake the Old Hall down. It bangs against the windows and creeps through the cracks and whistles down the chimneys. Lying here I can feel the whole house singing with it, as if it were a sailing ship.

I have plenty of books, and Daniel comes up now and then to ask if I want more. I have pillows, and I’m not hooked to a rack. I can hobble to the bathroom. I have a decanter of water, a real decanter with a proper crystal stopper. They bring me meals, which are no worse than school meals. (If there’s magic in the food it’s the magic of the Old Hall going on as it always has without any disturbance, that’s all I can feel.) I have a radio, which plays the news, and the Archers, and Gardeners’ Question Time and, to my surprise and delight, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy ! It’s terrific as a radio play. I suppose I could retune the radio away from Radio 4, which Grampar still calls the Home Service, to Radio 1, which people used to call the Light Programme. The only advantage of this would be annoying the aunts, because Radio 4 might have other unexpected gems like HGttG, whereas all Radio 1 would have would be pop music. Most of the time I just read anyway.

How long am I going to be stuck here?

I hobbled downstairs for supper, which is what they call dinner when it isn’t formally served. It was macaroni cheese, overcooked and on the edge of inedible. They all sat there eating it and making inane remarks, nodding and smiling. I played Nice Niece. Actually I’m longing to talk to Daniel about the possibility of Glasgow at Easter, but I want to do it when there’s no chance of them hearing.

Afterwards, I asked if it would be okay to phone Auntie Teg. They couldn’t very well say no, with Daniel right there, so I called her. She was horrified to hear about the hospital and that she hadn’t known, and didn’t believe that it seemed to have made things worse. She always tries to look on the bright side and find every silver lining, which is very nice sometimes, and there’s nobody in the world better to celebrate with, but isn’t very useful at the moment. She said she’d explain to Grampar why I hadn’t been in touch and give him my love. I hope it doesn’t upset him—but it won’t, she’ll probably say it’s making me better and soon I’ll be running again. I wish it was. Even when my leg isn’t actively hurting there’s a kind of an ache all the time now. I’m sure it’s worse.

The phone is in the corridor, and on a sort of table with a padded bench attached. I was sitting on the padded bench while I talked to Auntie Teg. After I put the phone down, I wondered who else I could call, while I was here and everyone else was out of the way. The trouble is I don’t know numbers. There’d be no point trying to call Greg at the library on a Sunday night anyway. I don’t know anyone’s home number, not even Janine’s. There was a phone book next to the phone, a home-made one, with people’s numbers written in, not a big Yellow Pages type book. I flicked through it, not seeing anyone I knew, until I came to M, and there was Sam, his address and also his telephone number.

His landlady answered right away, and she remembered me. “The little granddaughter,” she said. I’m not little, and it feels weird thinking of Sam being my grandfather. I already have Grampar, the position isn’t vacant. I like Sam though.

After a moment he came to the phone. “Morwenna?” he said. “Is there something wrong?”

“Not exactly wrong, only I’m at the Old Hall convalescing and I thought of you and wanted to speak to you.”

“Convalescing from what?” he asked, so I told him the whole thing and how I thought it had made me worse. “Maybe, maybe,” he said. “But sometimes healing hurts, had you thought of that?”

“They won’t tell me anything,” I said. “Dr. Abdul wanted to talk to Daniel, he wouldn’t say anything to me. I could be dying and they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Daniel would tell you, I think,” Sam said, but he didn’t sound sure.

“If they’d let him,” I said.

Sam didn’t say anything for a moment. “Maybe I’ll come down and see you,” he said. “I have an idea. Let me talk to Daniel.”

I had to call Daniel then, and explain, and he sent me off to bed and talked to Sam for a while. Then he came up and told me Sam was coming to see me tomorrow, on the train, and he’d pick him up in Shrewsbury.

It seems odd to think of Sam going anywhere, and odder to think of him here, but he’s coming tomorrow! Daniel says he’s getting to be a very old man and seldom goes anywhere, so I should think it a privilege, which I do.

Sam brought me a tiny bunch of snowdrops from his landlady’s back garden. “They’re just starting,” he said. Despite the long journey by train and then car—Daniel met him in Shrewsbury—they were in very good shape and had that special scent. Mor used to love snowdrops. They were her favourite flower. We planted some on her grave, I wonder if they’re out yet? One of the aunts put mine into a tiny crystal vase that matches the decanter and I have them on my bedside table.