“Don’t, Pim,” Laura said. “Let him go.” She didn’t know if she was talking about Faland or Jimmy.
Pim had finished pinning her hair. She didn’t look round whenshe said, “You’re going out on Mary’s motorcycle. You’re going to look for news of your brother. I’m just looking for—for news in my own way. I’m just like you, Laura. Hoping.”
It’s not the same. I’m not expecting a miracle,Laura wanted to say. But she didn’t. She was a little afraid that she was. And she’d never set herself up as a hypocrite.
· · ·
Pim refused to argue again, but Laura could see her mind made up under the softness, stubborn as a stone. So Laura worked and watched and worried and practiced on the motorcycle, until the day came when Mary pronounced her fit to take the machine out into the world.
It was just Laura’s luck that the same day, Pim was leaving the château for her dinner with Young.
Laura hated the thought of letting Pim go out alone, with her hope and her scheming, her courage and relentless innocence, and she hated that she might not be there to see to her when she returned. So, short of other ideas, Laura went looking for Jones.
He wasn’t on duty. He also wasn’t in the wards, or in the sterilization room. Finally Laura slipped out the château’s front door and to her surprise found him sitting outside on the cracked marble step. She rarely saw Jones sitting at all. He was a dynamo in surgery, in the main ward. But now he sat, elbows on knees, his face turned up. The weather had warmed steadily, from dripping March to greening April, and the slanting sun heated the stone on the west-facing façade of the château. The grass-grown drive swept elegantly out toward the teeming road; the old orchard, unpruned, showed green on its boughs, backlit by the sun. The western sky was a startling deep rose.
Jones had his sleeves rolled and a cigarette between two fingers, a little raw from endless scrubbing. His forearms were thin, the wristbones sharp. He looked surprised to see her there. “Iven. To what do I owe the privilege? Aren’t you going out tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be scrounging petrol for Mary’s infernal machine, or—” Hiseye fell on her face and he stopped. “What?” he said, sharper. “Is it one of the patients?” He was on his feet, the languor gone, the cigarette burning unheeded.
“No,” said Laura, already wondering why she’d gone to him at all. “Not a patient.”
He frowned. “All right.” He fished in his pocket and held out a cigarette case. Rather a nice one. Silver, monogrammed. Laura took a cigarette, accepted his light.
Jones sat back down. After a moment, she sat beside him. “Well?” said Jones, taking a drag on the cigarette. He turned his head, considering her. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
Laura didn’t know why exactly she’d sought him out. Perhaps because Mary was too ruthless to confide in. Perhaps it was the memory of his face, intent over Trovato’s transfusion, his quick sideways smile.Or an even deeper memory, of waking up to the smell of disinfectant, his irascible voice crisp even through the fog of her fever.
She exhaled smoke. “I’m worried about Pim.”
“If you’re being prudish because she’s going out tomorrow with that boy—”
“I’m not,” said Laura, sharp, and Jones fell silent.
After a moment, he said, “This father confessor business is damned hard work. All right, why are you worried for your friend?” The strong sun reddened his brown hair.
Laura pressed two fingers between her eyes, not sure how to answer. The smell of spring earth mingled with the disinfectant smell of the hospital.
“Iven,” Jones said, “just today, one of the patients was swearing Mrs. Shaw had the face of someone who’d seen the fiddler. Is that it?”
Laura’s hand jerked. Ash dropped from the end of her cigarette. “What does that mean?”
Jones looked taken aback. “How the devil should I know? Puny, I suppose. Like she’s about to shuffle off this mortal coil. Soldiersare a lot of superstitious bastards. I should like to meet this fiddler person; he’s got them all on the jump.”
Laura took another drag on her cigarette, to steady herself. “I thought you were a man of science, Doctor. Don’t tell me you believe there’s a man out there with a magic violin.” Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
“Don’tscienceme, Iven. Magic’s just science we don’t understand. What if a man a thousand years ago saw one of the flying contraptions that we have winking about everywhere? He’d think it was magic. And you diverted me—well done. Why are you worried about Mrs. Shaw?”
Laura relented and told him. From the night the lorry was wrecked, to her conversation with Pim upstairs. The only thing she left out was her sight of Freddie in Faland’s hotel.
Jones kept silent while she talked, and smoked another cigarette. When she was done, he gave a low whistle. “Sly, Iven, not saying a word. You really did meet the fiddler.”
“A mesmerist with drugged wine. But Pim wants to be swindled. She wants to believe. She wants to find him again.”
“And so she’s going about with Young so he’ll help her look,” Jones finished for her. “That boy is probably delighted at the chance. If she’s not the prettiest woman in Flanders, she’s damned close.”
Laura jerked a nod.
“However,” Jones added, “I don’t know what you can do. Her choices are her own, so long as she does her duty by the hospital. Lot of letters she’s writing, does the men a world of good.”
“Will you keep an eye on her?” said Laura. “I’ll be gone tomorrow and I won’t be here to—”
