Song

A nurse from London, doing ‘Special’, was singing. The piano was at the end of the long dining-hall. ‘Ups’ were grouped around it listening. The nurse’s voice was neither good nor bad. The music carried across the court to the patients’ rooms under the wings. All sounds were common property at the San.

Men and women patients lay in bed, some critical, others soothed. Nurses paused in corridors, maids stood just inside the dining-room swing doors. A hefty foot swung the door from the kitchen, scattering the maids. The door stayed open. Mrs. Green’s plump elbow kept it so. She stood lapping up the music. Soon she was weeping over the mawkish sentiment that sent nurses about their business, patients to their rooms.

I looked in to see Jenny. “Hear the music, Jenny?”

“Uh, huh.”

“Enjoy it?”

“Not much. Hark! He does it every night just at this time. I have been so afraid her noise would drown him.”

Across the night, across the garden, into Jenny’s room swept the serene melody of a nightingale. Again and again it came. Jenny and I held our breath. It was the nesting season. All night the male sat near, singing to his brooding mate. It is the nightingale way.

In a room down the corridor Mrs. Viney sprang from her bed. “Confound the brute! Just as I was getting off!” Bang! went the smelling-bottle onto the floor, as she reached across the table for cotton wool. She jabbed a wad into each ear and slapped her head down onto the pillow.

Mrs. Viney appealed to the Parson next day. The Parson was reclining on the terrace. Nurse Maggie came staggering under a load of invalid accessories. Everybody knew to whom they belonged, before he saw the peevish face behind.

Mrs. Viney sank into the chair. “Have I everything, Nurse? Book, glasses, smelling-bottle, handkerchief. Oh! the thermometer, hand me the thermometer. I shall take my Rest Hour here.” She languished among her pillows with closed eyes, long enough to impress. Then she “unfurled”, (she had stated on the terrace that people should unfurl their lids like petals, not pop them like ginger-beer corks).

The Parson had just found his place. He plunged into his book the moment Mrs. Viney came. She generally sought his proximity. Today she leaned across, laid an appealing hand on his rug, “Mr. . . . Mr. . . . ?”

Stork

“The Rev. Brocklebee, if you please.”

“How stupid of me! Brocklebug of course.” For sweetness her smile would have shamed honey. “Do you not think, Mr. Brocklebug, the price we pay and all, something should be done? Why should our rest be disturbed by vermin? You, a clergyman, a public speaker, could you not voice our opinion publicly?”

“Do you refer to mice? I have experienced no trouble,” said the Parson stiffly. “Our rooms are open; creatures come in naturally; field mice are quite harmless.”

Mrs. Viney shouted, “Nightingales, Sir! Who can sleep through their horrible din? Something must be done! Invalids waked! I declare. Only poets and fools rave about the nightingale. I had hoped, . . . being a public speaker . . .” She gave the Parson a saccharine smile.

Reverend Brocklebee’s heavy face lifted from his book. “I take great delight in the nightingale’s song, pray excuse!” He lifted his book.

Upright in her chair sprang Jenny, eyes flaming, cheeks scarlet. “How can you say those things? The birds making night hideous! Calling them vermin! Oh, Mrs. Viney!”

“Don’t excite yourself, Jenny child. There! I would not wonder if you have put your temperature up. All for nothing! Silly Jenny, very, very silly, little girl.”