Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [62]
Merrick turned a few more pages and found himself looking at Alice shrunk too small for her gigantic surroundings. Yet another picture, a few pages on, showed her grown again, this time in the little cottage. He became very still. Treves watched him intently, wondering for a horrible moment if he’d badly misjudged. Merrick was too intelligent to fail to understand the significance of this book to himself, even at a first glance. Perhaps he would draw from it not the comfort that Treves had intended, but further despair.
Then Treves became aware that Merrick was looking at him with glowing eyes and stretching out a hesitant hand. He took it at once.
“Thank you,” Merrick whispered again.
“Don’t thank me,” said Treves hastily. “It belongs to my daughters. They’d like you to have it.”
“That is very kind of them,” Merrick said with careful formality. “Please give them my thanks.”
“I came to tell you that I’ll be here early tomorrow morning,” Treves said. “We’re moving you to a better place. I’m sure you’ll be very happy there, John. So get a good night’s rest; there’ll be new people to meet tomorrow.” He patted Merrick’s arm and got up, closing his bag. “I must be off home now. Goodnight, John.”
If it occurred to him that there was something mechanical about the reply he received, he attributed it to Merrick’s absorption in the book. As he hurried down the stairs and out of the hospital Treves was congratulating himself on an ingenious idea, and made a mental resolution to riffle the bookshelves at home. He had a conviction that his elder daughter’s taste might prove helpful here, for though Merrick was intelligent he was neither educated nor sophisticated, and the kind of luridly dramatic tale for which Jenny had developed an interest might prove ideal.
His way home took him past the Peacock Public House, one of the more notorious establishments of the Whitechapel Road, and one which, on a Saturday night, provided a steady stream of minor casualties to the hospital.
A cab passed him as he drew level with the pub, and in hailing it he forgot all else. But as he settled back into his seat he noticed that the pub door had opened to admit a large man that he recognized as Renshaw, the night porter. The man was laughing in a way that suggested this was not his first port of call that evening, and he seemed to be taking great care not to lose something that was tucked under one arm.
Then the cab jerked and was off. Renshaw immediately disappeared from Treves’ view and he tried to put the man out of his mind. The moment had made a disagreeable impression on him, but he put that down to the fact that he didn’t like Renshaw.
Renshaw’s usual crowd of cronies were waiting to welcome him in the Peacock. His sharp eyes took in one or two additions—girls whose highly colored, tatty finery proclaimed their profession. Normally Renshaw had little time for such. It would be a long time, he reckoned, before he had to pay for it. But right now he was in possession of a piece of good fortune that could purchase favors for him without the necessity of cash changing hands. The thought improved his mood, and when he had secured a pint of ale he beamed genially round.
“Here, listen to this!” Having gained their attention he pointed to the copy of the Times which he had brought in under his arm, and which was now lying on the bar. “This is a letter to the London Times from the guv’nor of the hospital.” A groan of boredom went up. His audience were not Times readers.
“Listen, will yer?” Renshaw picked up the paper and began to read from it. “There is now in a little room off one of our attic wards a man named John Merrick, so dreadful a sight that he is unable even to come out by daylight to the garden. He has been called the Elephant Man on account of his terrible deformity.”
Renshaw looked up, pleased to note that he now had