Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [71]
But all the good resolutions dropped away from her whenever she entered his room and saw that ghastly head again. Then it would be as it always was, and she would have to struggle to maintain the composure and smiling face that Mr. Treves had told her was essential, and that her own kind heart also prompted.
After all these weeks she was easier in his presence, but not so much easier that she felt it made much difference. This morning she had volunteered to take his breakfast tray up to him instead of delegating the job to Kathleen, because she had imposed it on herself as a duty. If she could not force herself to do distasteful things then she was no use as a nurse, and this thought haunted her.
As instructed she knocked and waited for his husky, “Come in,” then pushed the door open. He was sitting at the table, his hands occupied with some work that in her preoccupation she did not notice fully.
She set the tray on the table, managing to avoid lifting her head and looking directly at him, while despising herself for this piece of cowardliness. But as she began to lift the plates off and set them on the table, her eye fell on a cardboard box which he hastened to move out of her way. Its sides were covered with carefully drawn windows and arches. Many of the lines were shaky, but the whole thing bore evidence of hours of ingenious work.
“Good morning, Mr. Merrick,” she said politely.
“Good morning,” he responded in the same formal tone. He did not look at her, nor did he seem at ease, and Nora was shrewd enough to realize that this was because of her own unease. She busied herself in the invariable morning routine, removing a clean towel and blanket from the cabinet where they were stored, but as she headed for the bathroom with them she stopped and looked again at the cardboard box. Merrick was working on it again, holding it clumsily in his right hand while his good left one grasped the pencil to make marks on the side of the box. His breakfast stood there, ignored.
Curious now she moved a step nearer and stayed watching until he became aware of her presence and leaned back, looking up at her timidly, as though awaiting reproof.
“What is this that you’re doing?” she asked. When he did not answer she pointed at the box. “What is it?”
He indicated the window and her face lightened.
“What? Oh, I see. It’s St. Philips. Oh, of course. Why—why, it’s very good. I mean, you’ve got the windows and arches just right.”
“Yes,” he said, pleased at her tone, but not offering further information.
“But it’s so good, I mean—” she floundered, aware that it would hardly be tactful to say what she was really thinking—that it was good, considering his condition. “It’s so very good,” she finished lamely.
“Thank you—very much.”
“Where did you get this box?”
He pointed to the door. He was not sufficiently relaxed with her to speak unless it was absolutely necessary.
“The hallway?” she said, puzzled. “Oh, the waste-can?”
“I meant no harm,” he said anxiously. “It was the only place where I could find cardboard. I thought it had been thrown away.”
“It’s all right. It was thrown away. No one wants it. It’s just that it’s a little dirty, that’s all.”
Forgetting everything now but her curiosity she set down the towel and blanket and leaned closer. Through the awkward drawing of a man who could use only his left hand she was beginning to perceive real skill and meticulous observation.
“What’s this?” she said, pointing to a circle drawn on the top.
“The main spire.”
“The—oh, the spire. How silly of me, it’s as plain as day. Mr. Merrick, where did you learn to do this?”
He longed to talk to her, to answer her question fully and draw her into conversation. Then perhaps they could sit and chat as people did when they have suddenly found each