Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [76]
From Miss Ireland it usually passed on down to the kitchen maid, but there came a day when the maid searched Miss Ireland’s room in vain for the week’s discarded Gazette. The magazine was by now on its way to London, accompanied by a letter from the governess to her sister Nora at the London Hospital.
“I noticed the mention of the hospital’s name,” she wrote, “and, reading further, discovered a description of the man I think must be the one you wrote to me about—the one who frightened you so. If so, do write and tell me. Did you actually see Mrs. Kendal? I can’t wait to hear from you.”
When Nora had read the item, her first thought was to check the magazine’s date. It was now four weeks old. She stopped in the corridor on her way to breakfast, feeling a gleam of satisfaction. Much had happened in four weeks, and the letter she would send back to her sister Elizabeth would be full of news of the most surprising kind.
Over breakfast she yielded (without much difficulty) to the entreaties of the other young nurses at her table, to read from the Gazette.
“Mrs. Kendal,” she read, “always at the forefront of fashion and form, was seen leaving the London the other afternoon. No, dear readers, the most facile actress of our day has not been taken ill, but rather said she was ‘visiting a friend.’ And who was the lucky recipient of this attention? Quick inquiries proved it to be none other than Mr. John Merrick, the Elephant Man, of whom our readers may have heard. After a chat of three-quarters of an hour Mrs. Kendal was kind enough to leave Mr. Merrick an autographed portrait of herself.
“Owing to a disfigurement of the most extreme nature, Mr. Merrick has never been properly presented to London society. But knowing that wherever Mrs. Kendal goes, others inevitably follow, the question arises—will London society present itself to him?”
Amid the little ripple of excitement that shook the table Nora announced with some pleasure, “I told you there was a whole load of tofts going in there, didn’t I? Every day for nearly a month. Now we know. And it’s not just Mrs. Kendal’s picture he’s got—oh Lord!”
This last exclamation was drawn from her by the sight of Mothershead bearing down on the table. As if by a signal every one of the young nurses suddenly remembered that she was due on duty any minute. Mrs. Mothershead watched the mass exodus with grim humor. But when they were gone and she picked up the magazine that Nora had dropped in her haste, the humor vanished from her face to be replaced by an expression of anger.
It had been seething inside her for some time now as she watched Merrick’s room fill up with a succession of photographs and trinkets, for his new visitors seldom came without bringing a gift in addition to the pictures—an elegant necktie, a set of studs, a watch; they seemed, thought Mothershead crossly, to have a genius for offering Merrick what was useless to him.
Her anger did not touch Merrick himself, who, despite his disturbing quickness of mind, she still regarded as a child to be cared for. She would never be close to him or touch his heart as Treves had done, but his plight, his gentleness, and above all his need of her care had aroused the protective instincts she usually kept deeply buried within her. These days she often stopped Treves to inquire how fast the donations were coming in, and shared the sinking of his heart at their slowness.
She seldom did the menial tasks of nursing Merrick now, but she supervised them constantly to see that his care was kept up to standard, and this morning she went herself to collect his used breakfast things.
He looked up timidly at her polite greeting. He had finished eating and was making marks on his cardboard cathedral, which had grown very little recently. Shortage of cardboard was one reason, but the other was the sudden dramatic upturn in his social life.
“The nurses will be along