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terraces. I was trying to save time, you see. That way everything has less far to fall. The earth, it moves so quickly, though. I reckoned I was a goner there.”
    Briefly his eyes clouded over. He shut them tight. A few moments later he opened them again. When they had regained focus, he looked carefully round the room and then at me, as if for the first time.
    “You shouldn’t be doing this, Mrs. Pretty,” he said.
    “Doing what?”
    “This!”
    “Believe me, Mr. Brown, I have dealt with far worse cases than yours.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I was an auxiliary nurse during the war.”
    “You were? How’s that, then?”
    “I worked in a local hospital near my family home in Lancashire. Soldiers from France were sent back there. At least the ones who were fit to travel. Now, is there anyone youwant me to notify, to tell them you are all right? Forgive me, I don’t even know if you are married.”
    “I am married,” he said. “To May.”
    “Would you like me to pass on a message to her? I could easily send a telegram.”
    “No need.”
    “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want her hearing anything from anyone else and worrying unduly.”
    He shook his head. “She’s not the worrying type.”
    There was a blanket folded on one of the chairs that I occasionally used to cover my legs. I covered Mr. Brown with it. “Now I’d like you to remain here for as long as you want. If you wish to sleep, by all means do so. When you are ready to move, or if you would care for something to eat, just ring the bell. I’ll leave it by you, here.”
    After placing the bell on the table beside him, I walked across to the door. But before I had a chance to open it, he started to say something else. Thinking he was about to start apologizing again, I asked, or rather told, him to stop.
    “No, no.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Not that.”
    “What is it?”
    He paused, then said, “I hoped I might see something.”
    “See something?”
    “When I was buried.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “I thought I might see something … A sign or something. Like the Angel of Mons … You know, something like that.”
    “And did you?”
    Again he shook his head. “There was nothing. Only darkness.”
    When I went to say goodnight to Robert he was sitting up in bed. He had done some more drawings of the Matterhorn, I saw. Now they spilled over onto a second wall of his bedroom.
    “Is Mr. Brown going to die, Mama?” he asked.
    “No, Robbie.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Absolutely positive.”
    “Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed.
    “I thought you liked Mr. Brown.”
    “I do like him.”
    “Would you like me to read you a story?”
    He brightened immediately. “Yes, please.”
    I picked up a copy of
Tales of the Greek Heroes
from the pile of books beside his bed and opened it at the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. I read how Orpheus loved his wife, Eurydice, so much that after she died from a snakebite he went down into the underworld to try to bring her back into the realm of the living.
    “ ‘At the River Styx the dark old ferryman, Charon, was waiting with his boat. He was only allowed to ferry dead souls across that stream and they paid him one coin, called an “obol,” which was always placed ready in a dead person’s mouth. Normally, Charon would have refused to take thisliving passenger, but Orpheus played so sweetly for him on his harp that he relented. On the other side, Orpheus found himself in the gray, twilit land of the dead, where ghosts flitted about, moaning and gibbering.’ ”
    “Mama …” said Robert.
    “Yes, darling.”
    “Does Mr. Brown always wear the same clothes?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Do you think he ever changes his underthings?”
    “I’m quite sure he does.”
    “But you can’t be sure.”
    “Would you like me to read some more, Robbie, or are you going to go to sleep now?”
    “I don’t mind.”
    After I had closed the book, I lit the candle by his bed and