Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [12]
conversation.’
‘Ah, a family trait!’ exclaimed Sands cheerfully. (I cannot image Sands at the heart of some gay soirée, impressing all and sundry with his wit and tale-telling, but we will let it pass. Perhaps the landed gentry and I have differing ideas on good conversation and fine company.) Sands then added ‘As is. . . his condition.’ – and he shook his head slowly, as if fearful for the moorings within his own mind. ‘Are you one of those that believe we are all a little mad?’ he directly asked of Torby.
Torby’s response again did not surprise – it is a conversation we have often had. ‘I think there is wisdom in most philosophies,’ he said. ‘When God came and walked among us, many thought him mad.’
‘And what of working in a place such as this?’
Torby paused before replying. ‘There are some, I am afraid, who simply cannot cope with the look of madness in these people’s eyes. It pushes them too far. It can bring out the. . . demonic in even the heartiest of souls.’
Torby opened the door to reveal Mr Samuel Sands, sitting on the edge of a bunk fastened to the stonework, looking clean-shaven and healthy.
‘Uncle?’
At this Samuel looked up. For a fleeting moment he seemed perplexed, but then he smiled brightly. ‘Joseph! How wonderful it is to see you! It is so good of you to come and see me so often.’
I remained in the doorway, wondering whether the older man had even seen, or recognised, me. Joseph Sands, to his credit, sat, somewhat hesitantly, on the bunk. ‘Are you well?’
The words tumbled out of Samuel’s mouth in a torrent. ‘Yes – I am more clever than those people give me credit, and can tell which food they have poisoned – it has a certain odour, you see. Consequently, I stay well – which in turn causes them much concern. I hear them talking about me when I put my ear to the floor. Sound travels well here.’
‘Is it better now Porter has gone?’
‘I do not see him as often as once I did. But no, nothing’s changed.’
‘Your family is well.’ Doubtless Mr Sands hated moments like those – with no common ground, no reason to believe his uncle really understood him, there seemed to be so little to say. I am sure, at that moment at least, he wished he were at home with his family preparing for Christmas.
Samuel Sands brightened at this news. ‘Good. They say I shall leave here soon.’
‘Who? Dr Christie?’ Joseph Sands glanced over at me, but I said nothing.
Samuel laughed. ‘Oh no, they want to keep me here. When I lie down, my friends talk to me – I think they’re in the next cell, the sound always comes from there. I am told St Joan heard always voices from the side, not from up 21
or down – I am in good company!’ He paused, turning his head as if struggling to listen to something. ‘My friends taught me to smell for poisoned food. They feel that I shall soon be well enough to travel home. Has it changed?’
‘Home? No, it is much as you remember it.’
‘How I long to sit under the oak in the grounds and sketch the hills. And yet. . . I seem to recall feeling much sadder then.’
‘Sadder, Uncle?’
‘Oh yes. No friends, so much to do. Whereas now. . . All the time I need –
and my friends in the next room – but something’s still not quite right.’ Samuel pressed his fingers to his temples as if hoping to stem the tide of his worried thoughts. ‘Not altogether happy. A little muddled. I sometimes think that is why I am here.’
‘One day you will feel better, Uncle,’ said Joseph.
‘Really? Do you think so?’ asked Samuel, happily. ‘I cannot even remember how long I’ve been here! They say it has only been a few days.’ He reached over and patted his nephew’s hand. ‘It is so good of you to come and see me so often.’
I left the younger Mr Sands with Torby and went about my business. Miss Thorne seems to improve her outlook with every passing day, and I was impatient to snatch a few more minutes in her company.
I must admit I surveyed her room with a certain amount of satisfaction.
What had once been a grim cell has been transformed into something that any servant, and not a few lords