“I don’t believe he means to be disruptive,” Matron said. “His isolation, up until now, has been a voluntary one.”
Dr. Oliver nodded. “That’s true. But if his changing his mind is going to disrupt the others, I wonder if enforced isolation may be of benefit. I believe we’re equipped for it. What do you think, Dr. Thornton?”
Enforced isolation? What did that mean? Locking up Jack Yates? I tried to keep my alarm from showing on my face.
“Wait, now. Wait.” Dr. Thornton held up a hand. “Dr. Oliver, in the case of any other patient, you would be correct. But this is—” He glanced around the table at us, and suddenly I was certain he had no idea which of us had clearance. “This is Patient Sixteen. His are special circumstances.”
Dr. Oliver looked helpless.
“Patient Sixteen’s voluntary isolation has worked well for us,” Dr. Thornton said. “But enforced isolation may not work as well with his particular neurosis. He is, as we know, a special risk.” He paused, thinking. “I do wish Mr. Deighton were here to advise. As he is not, we may have to rethink. Matron, how sane would you say the other patients are?”
She blinked at him slowly. “They are all quite ill, Doctor.”
He nodded. “Yes, yes. That may work. Their letters are censored before they leave the building, are they not?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Quite so. Really, the risk comes if one of these patients was to recover. And even if he did, he would have to tell of what he saw in a believable way. I don’t think such a scenario is likely.” He nodded again, satisfied that he had solved the puzzle. “Patient Sixteen will be seen with the first group, and only orderlies with clearance can attend. I do think we can manage it.”
I glanced around the table again. Was he actually counting on the others being mad enough not to be believed? On none of the patients ever getting well? Had their entire policy been based on the hope that Jack Yates would never be well enough to leave his room, even for a minute?
Everyone had lowered their eyes to their lunch plates, even Matron. But Dr. Oliver saw the look on my face, and his expression sharpened.
“Matron,” he said, “you seem to have a new nurse on staff?”
Dr. Thornton looked up from his chop in surprise.
“Yes, Doctor.” Matron seemed as wary of this subject as the last. “This is Nurse Weekes.”
“How long have you been here, Nurse Weekes?” Dr. Thornton asked me.
It took me a moment to calculate. “This is my fifth day, sir.”
“Your fifth day!” He turned to Dr. Oliver, almost peevish now that another problem had come up. “Did you notice this change on the staffing roster?”
“It isn’t there, sir,” Dr. Oliver replied, mashing some peas onto his fork. “A Nurse Ravell is listed on the staffing roster.”
“Nurse Ravell left quite suddenly,” Matron said.
“But her replacement has been here for five days!” Dr. Thornton seemed distressed. “The staffing roster must be kept current, Matron. You know it is an important part of your duties.”
Matron said nothing, but Boney was going red. She was as easy to read as a book. The staffing roster must obviously have been one of the jobs Matron had assigned her.
“Now all the paperwork is suspect,” Dr. Thornton complained. “Matron, please tell me that at least the patient roster is up-to-date?”
Matron sat straight in her chair, her shoulders squared, her glasses dangling on her chest, her blunt face unhappy to be receiving a dressing-down in front of her staff. Tell them to stuff it, I urged her, but she said only, “It is, Doctor. I do beg pardon. It will not happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. Nurse Weekes, what are your qualifications?”
I swallowed my food, which was suddenly as dry as sand. “I worked at Belling Wood Hospital, sir.”
“Jolly good,” he said, taking another helping. “Perhaps you can share with us some of their latest methods.”
I wasn’t a practiced liar for nothing. “I could, sir, but none of those skills are needed here.”
“True, true,” said Dr. Oliver.
“Yes,” Dr. Thornton agreed. “These men aren’t actually sick. This must be very different for you. Still, I would like to know—”
“Nurse Weekes is eminently qualified,” Matron broke in. I silently thanked her at the same time I admired her moxie. “Mr. Deighton hired her himself, while I was away for a few days on personal business.”
Dr. Thornton’s fork actually clicked down on his plate. “Did he!”
“Bravo,” said Dr. Oliver.
“You must tell me”—Dr. Thornton leaned forward across the crowded table toward me, his menthol scent wafting in my direction—“what you think of Portis House.”
Was it a trick question? Was he assessing my mental state? I hated trick questions. I put on a very serious face. “I wasn’t hired to give opinions, sir. I was hired to work.”
“Ah, that is very admirable. But you must have some opinion, Nurse Weekes. The food, for instance.” He gestured to the table between us. “The diet here has been scientifically designed to maximize the physical health of a fully grown man. What do you think of it?”
I should have been afraid of him, of both of them; everyone else was, even the men. Part of me knew I should be afraid. But when, at sixteen years old, you’ve been held down on the dirty linoleum by a man twice your size, the blade of a kitchen knife put in your mouth as he tells you to be quiet or he’ll cut out your tongue, something inside you shifts. It wasn’t courage—far from it. Being afraid like that made you understand, as you moved through the world of men, just how very afraid you should be. But I found in that moment that my fear had an edge to it. It came, perhaps, from a thin slice of anger.
“I don’t know anything about it,” I told him. “If someone offers me a meal, sir, I just eat it. I’m no fool.”
Dr. Oliver laughed, but Dr. Thornton leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile on his face. Perhaps I had pleased him. Although I’d been cursing the work of polishing bedsteads an hour earlier, I wished I were doing it now.
“My goodness,” said Dr. Oliver, an interminable time later. “Dr. Thornton, I must remind you of the hour. It’s time for the afternoon sessions.”
“Yes, of course.” Thornton dabbed his napkin over his lip. “Matron, please have the men assembled as we discussed. We’ll go upstairs and begin.”
We all pushed back our chairs and stood. Boney moved to lead the doctors from the room; Matron rose to assemble the men; the rest of us prepared to clear the dishes and go about our afternoon work.
“Nurse Weekes,” said Dr. Thornton.
I put down my dishes and turned.
He smiled at me. “I would like you to accompany today’s sessions. I believe it will be instructive for an experienced nurse such as yourself. She does have clearance, of course, Matron?”
There was a beat of strained silence.
“Yes,” said Matron from the doorway, her sharp eyes staring at me like chips of stone. “Of course.”
“Very good,” said Dr. Thornton. And he and Dr. Oliver left the kitchen, Matron hurrying behind.
I glanced around at the others. Nina was amazed; Martha shooed me toward the door with one hand. But it was Boney who drew me. She stood aside from the door and stared down at her feet, her gaze furiously fixed, her bright yellow hair garish under its cap. Her lips had lost their prim, important line. Dark red spots flushed high on her cheekbones, as angry as a fever. Hurt crossed her face, but she fought it off. She was so damned easy to read.
Then she blinked hard, and her expression shuttered over again.
I dropped my napkin on the table. It was more important to her than to me; it was everything to her, and it was nothing to me. She had experience and I had none. I didn’t even like these men. And yet, when the doctors told me to go, I went. Because when someone offers me a meal, I eat it.
And I tell myself I am no fool.