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By Root 1427 0

time since entering hospital he felt well enough to shave, but after fondling the shrub of hair on his chin he merely freshened his face and hands and lay basking in the kind light and air. Mr. Clark looked much better. His face was old and thoughtful again and he appeared to be conducting a tiny orchestra with his right forefinger. Mr. McDade’s bed was empty and stripped down to the wire mattress. Thaw imagined the small pigeon-chested body being carried away by the quiet, black-suited young man who replaced the oxygen cylinders but he was too happy to feel anything but relief. He wanted to talk to people and make them laugh. When the nurse brought breakfast he tasted and said, “Nurse! I refuse to eat this porridge without proper anesthetic!”

He said it again, louder. Nobody noticed, so he wrote it down to tell Drummond or McAlpin and went on eating.

CHAPTER 27.

Genesis

Slanting sunshine lit a cut-glass vase of cowslips and canterbury bells on Mr. Clark’s table. Thaw sat in an armchair admiring the butter-yellow cowslips with pale green drooping stems, the dark spear-leaved stalks with transparent blue-purple bells. He whispered, “Purple, purple,” and the word felt as purple to his lips as the colour to his eyes. A nurse making Mr. McDade’s old bed said, “You’ll have to be on your best behaviour today, Duncan. You’re getting a new neighbour. A minister.”

“I hope he isn’t talkative.”

“Oh, he’ll be talkative. Ministers are paid to be talkative.” She placed screens round the bed and someone with a suitcase went behind them. The screens were removed and a small grey-haired man in pyjamas sat against his pillow receiving elderly lady visitors. These talked in quick, low, consoling voices while the minister smiled and nodded absentmindedly. When they left he put on spectacles with lenses like half-moons and read a library book.

After dinner that day Thaw sat in bed sketching when a voice said, “Excuse me, but are you an artist?”

“No. An art student.”

“I’m sorry. I was misled by your beard. Would you mind showing me that drawing? I’m fond of flowers.”

Thaw handed over the notebook, saying, “It’s not very good. I’d need more time and materials to make it good.”

The minister held up the book before his face and after nodding once or twice began turning the earlier pages. Thaw felt worried but not annoyed. The minister had the quality of a mildly shining, useful, grey, neglected metal; his accent was the one Thaw liked best, the accent of shopkeepers, schoolteachers, and working men with an interest in politics and religion. He said, “Your flowers are beautiful, really beautiful, but—I hope you’re not offended—the earlier drawings confuse me a little. Of course I can see they’re very clever and modern.”

“They’re doodles, not drawings. I haven’t been fit enough to draw properly.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Six weeks.”

“Six weeks?” said the minister respectfully. “That’s a long time. I expect to be only a few days myself. They want to make certain tests and see how I react. The heart, you know, but nothing serious. Now tell me, because I’ve often wondered, what makes people artists? Is it an inborn talent?”

“Certainly. It’s born into everyone. All infants like playing with pencils and paints.”

“But not many of us take it further than that. I, for instance, would like nothing better than to sketch a nice view, or the face of a friend, but I couldnae draw a straight line to save my life.”

“There are very few good jobs for handworkers nowadays,” said Thaw, “so most parents and teachers discourage that kind of talent.”

“Did your parents encourage you?”

“No. They allowed me paper and pencil when I was an infant, but apart from that they wanted me to do well in life. My father only let me go to an school because he heard I might get a job there.”

“So your talent must be inborn!”

After pondering awhile, Thaw said, “Someone might work and work at a thing, not because they were encouraged, but because they never learned to enjoy anything else.”

“Dear me, that sounds very bleak! Tell me, just to change the subject,