He wasn't joking. He meant it. He was carrying on as if the whole thing were settled.
"I'll write to Mother and persuade her to let you go."
He was mad. But still—a visit to Carr Head. A chance to see Grace...
Concealing my glee, I said, "I wouldn't count on anything coming of it."
"You don't know till you try. But Lou, you'll have to stop moping about. Fellows like a girl who smiles. And can't you brighten your clothes up a bit now?"
I stared at him. "But, Tom, it's only been three months since Papa..." I couldn't believe it. And I was puzzled too at his inconsistency—he disapproved of my travelling without a chaperone, but he seemed to care nothing for observing the propriety of mourning. Mamma would be so shocked if I started to wear colours again.
Mamma. Abruptly the delightful vision of Carr Head vanished. "Tom, I can't go away. I can't leave Mamma."
"You left her today."
I flushed. "Yes, but it's only for one day."
"Well, Mary must see to Mother while you're at Carr Head. She'll manage." He took out his watch. My heart contracted painfully. Papa's watch. "Sorry, Lou, I've got to go."
I blinked with surprise.
"Don't look like that. I can't help it. You know the way to the station? And you've got your ticket?
"Yes." I found it in my bag and showed him.
"Third class! What on earth were you thinking of!"
"I—I didn't have enough money for anything else."
"Oh, Lou. You're impossible." He stood up, feeling in his pocket. "I say, you haven't any change, have you?"
***
We were saying goodbye in the street when a young man came up to us.
"Cosgrove, you rascal! How's your head? Recovered, has it? I hadn't the heart to wake you—you were spark out on the sofa."
"Hello, Taylor," said Tom stiffly. "May I introduce my sister?"
Taylor tipped his hat to me. "I beg your pardon, Miss Cosgrove. I didn't see you there. Come down to see the sights?"
I didn't know what to say but luckily Taylor rattled on, "Your brother's a wag, isn't he? A regular scamp. But I'll give him this, he's a good sport. He doesn't give up, even when he's losing, does he?" He hit Tom on the shoulder. "Will we see you tonight, old chap?"
Tom's reply was chilly. "I don't think so. I have some reading to catch up on."
Taylor raised his eyebrows, but glancing from Tom to me he said, "Right. Some reading. Of course. Well, I'll say cheerio then. Miss Cosgrove." He tipped his hat again and disappeared into the crowd.
I looked at Tom and made to speak but he said hastily, "I've got to dash, Lou." He bent and brushed his face against mine in an awkward embrace. "You'll be all right, won't you? And I'll write to Mother about Carr Head. Goodbye." He walked swiftly away and soon disappeared in the crowds.
I headed for the station, lost in my thoughts. I had failed to persuade Tom to change his mind. Why had I given up so easily? But then Tom was so unyielding...
His worn face came back to me. He's a good sport. Taylor had said. Even when he's losing...
I stopped, nearly causing an elderly gentleman to fall over me. I apologised, distractedly.
I suddenly understood why my brother was short of money—he'd been gambling.
A great tiredness came over me.
How could he? Wasting his time, throwing away an opportunity that I longed for ... I smiled bitterly. The London School of Medicine for Women was somewhere close by. Well, I could forget my hope of ever going there.
I set my face towards the station and trudged on.
Now all I had was Carr Head ... and Grace: a brief joy before her marriage took her away from me.
Drops of rain cling to the windowpane. They gather weight, shift, catch, then slide in a trail down the glass, like tears. I stare beyond the drops. Nothing moves in the desolate park.
Five days I've been here now—it seems like an eternity.
No summons from Mr. Sneed yet and no news of Mamma. But Eliza posted my letter yesterday, so one might come from Mamma today—or she could be on her way. At any moment, I might be sent for...
Someone giggles, an unexpected sound in this place. Sitting by the fire, their feet on the fender, Roberts and Eliza are gossiping.
Roberts, a short, red-faced attendant with a bulbous nose, appeared in the dormitory this morning and I wondered, with a surge of hope, if Weeks was ill. But it seems it's her day off. At least that's something to be thankful for—a day without her close scrutiny, her spiteful remarks.
The atmosphere's noticeably different. If Weeks were here, Eliza, cheerful as she usually is, would never sit in the carefree way she's doing now. Her collar's askew and her cap's pushed back, revealing hair the colour of ripe corn. For once we can please ourselves. Some patients are still doing fancy work or embroidery, but others are dozing. It could be a Sunday afternoon in any parlour.
Roberts glances round the room, checking the patients. Seeing me at the window, she shouts across, "Now then, Miss What's-Your-Name? It's no good mopin' about. Why don't yer read a nice book?"