The Breaking Point Read online

  ‘Sleep, then. Tomorrow will come too soon.’ There came the familiar routine of the bell put within reach, the last-minute drink, the pill, and then the soft, ‘Good night, Mrs West. Ring if you want me.’

  ‘Thank you. Good night.’

  There was always a slight sense of loss, of loneliness, as the door closed and she went away, and a feeling of jealousy, too, because there were other patients who received these same mercies, and who, in pain, would also ring their bells. When she awoke - and this often happened in the small hours - Marda West would no longer picture Jim at home, lonely on his pillow, but would have an image of Nurse Ansel, seated perhaps by someone’s bed, bending to give comfort, and this alone would make her reach for the bell, and press her thumb upon it, and say, when the door opened, ‘Were you having a nap?’

  ‘I never sleep on duty.’

  She would be seated, then, in the cubby-hole midway along the passage, perhaps drinking tea or entering particulars of charts into a ledger. Or standing beside a patient, as she now stood beside Marda West.

  ‘I can’t find my handkerchief.’

  ‘Here it is. Under your pillow all the time.’

  A pat on the shoulder (and this in itself was a sort of delicacy), a few moments of talk to prolong companionship, and then she would be gone, to answer other bells and other requests.

  ‘Well, we can’t complain of the weather!’ Now it was the day itself, and Nurse Brand coming in like the first breeze of morning, a hand on a barometer set fair. ‘All ready for the great event?’ she asked.‘We must get a move on, and keep your prettiest nightie to greet your husband.’

  It was her operation in reverse. This time in the same room, though, and not a stretcher, but only the deft hands of the surgeon with Nurse Brand to help him. First came the disappearance of the crêpe, the lifting of the bandages and lint, the very slight prick of an injection to dull feeling. Then he did something to her eyelids. There was no pain. Whatever he did was cold, like the slipping of ice where the bandages had been, yet soothing too.

  ‘Now, don’t be disappointed,’ he said. ‘You won’t know any difference for about half an hour. Everything will seem shadowed. Then it will gradually clear. I want you to lie quietly during that time.’

  ‘I understand. I won’t move.’

  The longed-for moment must not be too sudden. This made sense. The dark lenses, fitted inside her lids, were temporary for the first few days.Then they would be removed and others fitted.

  ‘How much shall I see?’ The question dared at last.

  ‘Everything. But not immediately in colour. Just like wearing sunglasses on a bright day. Rather pleasant.’

  His cheerful laugh gave confidence, and when he and Nurse Brand had left the room she lay back again, waiting for the fog to clear and for that summer day to break in upon her vision, however subdued, however softened by the lenses.

  Little by little the mist dissolved. The first object was angular, a wardrobe. Then a chair. Then, moving her head, the gradual forming of the window’s shape, the vases on the sill, the flowers Jim had brought her. Sounds from the street outside merged with the shapes, and what had seemed sharp before was now in harmony. She thought to herself, ‘I wonder if I can cry? I wonder if the lenses will keep back tears,’ but, feeling the blessing of sight restored, she felt the tears as well, nothing to be ashamed of - one or two which were easily brushed away.

  All was in focus now. Flowers, the wash-basin, the glass with the thermometer in it, her dressing-gown.Wonder and relief were so great that they excluded thought.

  ‘They weren’t lying to me,’ she thought.‘It’s happened. It’s true.’

  The texture of the blanket covering her, so often felt, could now be seen as well. Colour was not important. The dim light caused by the blue lenses enhanced the charm, the softness of all she saw. It seemed to her, rejoicing in form and shape, that colour would never matter. There was time enough for colour. The blue symmetry of vision itself was all-important. To see, to feel, to blend the two together. It was indeed rebirth, the discovery of a world long lost to her.

  There seemed to be no hurry now. Gazing about the small room and dwelling upon every aspect of it was richness, something to savour. Hours could be spent just looking at the room and feeling it, travelling through the window and to the windows of the houses opposite.

  ‘Even a prisoner,’ she decided, ‘could find comfort in his cell if he had been blinded first, and had recovered his sight.’

  She heard Nurse Brand’s voice outside, and turned her head to watch the opening door.

  ‘Well . . . are we happy once more?’

  Smiling, she saw the figure dressed in uniform come into the room, bearing a tray, her glass of milk upon it.Yet, incongruous, absurd, the head with the uniformed cap was not a woman’s head at all. The thing bearing down upon her was a cow . . . a cow on a woman’s body. The frilled cap was perched upon wide horns. The eyes were large and gentle, but cow’s eyes, the nostrils broad and humid, and the way she stood there, breathing, was the way a cow stood placidly in pasture, taking the day as it came, content, unmoved.

  ‘Feeling a bit strange?’

  The laugh was a woman’s laugh, a nurse’s laugh, Nurse Brand’s laugh, and she put the tray down on the cupboard beside the bed. The patient said nothing. She shut her eyes, then opened them again. The cow in the nurse’s uniform was with her still.

  ‘Confess now,’ said Nurse Brand, ‘you wouldn’t know you had the lenses in, except for the colour.’

  It was important to gain time. The patient stretched out her hand carefully for the glass of milk. She sipped the milk slowly. The mask must be worn on purpose. Perhaps it was some kind of experiment connected with the fitting of the lenses - though how it was supposed to work she could not imagine. And it was surely taking rather a risk to spring such a surprise, and, to people weaker than herself who might have undergone the same operation, downright cruel?

  ‘I see very plainly,’ she said at last. ‘At least, I think I do.’

  Nurse Brand stood watching her, with folded arms.The broad uniformed figure was much as Marda West had imagined it, but that cow’s head tilted, the ridiculous frill of the cap perched on the horns . . . where did the head join the body, if mask it in fact was?

  ‘You don’t sound too sure of yourself,’ said Nurse Brand.‘Don’t say you’re disappointed, after all we’ve done for you.’

  The laugh was cheerful, as usual, but she should be chewing grass, the slow jaws moving from side to side.

  ‘I’m sure of myself,’ answered her patient, ‘but I’m not so sure of you. Is it a trick?’

  ‘Is what a trick?’

  ‘The way you look . . . your . . . face?’

  Vision was not so dimmed by the blue lenses that she could not distinguish a change of expression. The cow’s jaw distinctly dropped.

  ‘Really, Mrs West!’ This time the laugh was not so cordial. Surprise was very evident. ‘I’m as the good God made me. I dare say he might have made a better job of it.’

  The nurse, the cow, moved from the bedside towards the window and drew the curtains more sharply back, so that the full light filled the room. There was no visible join to the mask: the head blended to the body. Marda West saw how the cow, if she stood at bay, would lower her horns.

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ she said, ‘but it is just a little strange. You see . . .’

  She was spared explanation because the door opened and the surgeon came into the room. At least, the surgeon’s voice was recognizable as he called, ‘Hullo! How goes it?’, and his figure in the dark coat and the sponge-bag trousers was all that an eminent surgeon’s should be, but . . . that terrier’s head, ears pricked, the inquisitive, searching glance? In a moment surely he would yap, and a tail wag swiftly?

  This time the patient laughed. The effect was ludicrous. It must be a joke. It was, it had to be; but why go to such expense and trouble, and what in the end was gained by the decepti
on? She checked her laugh abruptly as she saw the terrier turn to the cow, the two communicate with each other soundlessly.Then the cow shrugged its too ample shoulders.

  ‘Mrs West thinks us a bit of a joke,’ she said. But the nurse’s voice was not over-pleased.

  ‘I’m all for that,’ said the surgeon. ‘It would never do if she took a dislike to us, would it?’

  Then he came and put his hand out to his patient, and bent close to observe her eyes. She lay very still. He wore no mask either. None, at least, that she could distinguish. The ears were pricked, the sharp nose questing. He was even marked, one ear black, the other white. She could picture him at the entrance to a fox’s lair, sniffing, then quick on the scent scuffing down the tunnel, intent upon the job for which he was trained.

  ‘Your name ought to be Jack Russell,’ she said aloud.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He straightened himself but still stood beside the bed, and the bright eye had a penetrating quality, one ear cocked.

  ‘I mean,’ Marda West searched for words, ‘the name seems to suit you better than your own.’

  She felt confused. Mr Edmund Greaves, with all the letters after him on the plate in Harley Street, what must he think of her?

  ‘I know a James Russell,’ he said to her,‘but he’s an orthopaedic surgeon and breaks your bones. Do you feel I’ve done that to you?’

  His voice was brisk, but he sounded a little surprised, as Nurse Brand had done. The gratitude which was owed to their skill was not forthcoming.

  ‘No, no, indeed,’ said the patient hastily, ‘nothing is broken at all, I’m in no pain. I see clearly. Almost too clearly, in fact.’

  ‘That’s as it should be,’ he said, and the laugh that followed resembled a short sharp bark.

  ‘Well, nurse,’ he went on,‘the patient can do everything within reason except remove the lenses. You’ve warned her, I suppose?’

  ‘I was about to, sir, when you came in.’

  Mr Greaves turned his pointed terrier nose to Marda West. ‘I’ll be in on Thursday,’ he said, ‘to change the lenses. In the meantime, it’s just a question of washing out the eyes with a solution three times a day. They’ll do it for you. Don’t touch them yourself.And above all don’t fiddle with the lenses.A patient did that once and lost his sight. He never recovered it.’

  ‘If you tried that,’ the terrier seemed to say, ‘you would get what you deserved. Better not make the attempt. My teeth are sharp.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the patient slowly. But her chance had gone. She could not now demand an explanation. Instinct warned her that he would not understand. The terrier was saying something to the cow, giving instructions. Such a sharp staccato sentence, and the foolish head nodded in answer. Surely on a hot day the flies would bother her - or would the frilled cap keep insects away?

  As they moved to the door the patient made a last attempt.

  ‘Will the permanent lenses,’ she asked, ‘be the same as these?’

  ‘Exactly the same,’ yapped the surgeon, ‘except that they won’t be tinted. You’ll see the natural colour. Until Thursday, then.’

  He was gone, and the nurse with him. She could hear the murmur of voices outside the door. What happened now? If it was really some kind of test, did they remove their masks instantly? It seemed to Marda West of immense importance that she should find this out. The trick was not truly fair: it was a misuse of confidence. She slipped out of bed and went to the door. She could hear the surgeon say, ‘One and a half grains. She’s a little overwrought. It’s the reaction, of course.’

  Bravely, she flung open the door. They were standing there in the passage, wearing the masks still. They turned to look at her, and the sharp bright eyes of the terrier, the deep eyes of the cow, both held reproach, as though the patient, by confronting them, had committed a breach of etiquette.

  ‘Do you want anything, Mrs West?’ asked Nurse Brand.

  Marda West stared beyond them down the corridor. The whole floor was in the deception. A maid, carrying dust-pan and brush, coming from the room next door, had a weasel’s head upon her small body, and the nurse advancing from the other side was a little prancing kitten, her cap coquettish on her furry curls, the doctor beside her a proud lion. Even the porter, arriving at that moment in the lift opposite, carried a boar’s head between his shoulders. He lifted out luggage, uttering a boar’s heavy grunt.

  The first sharp prick of fear came to Marda West. How could they have known she would open the door at that minute? How could they have arranged to walk down the corridor wearing masks, the other nurses and the other doctor, and the maid appear out of the room next door, and the porter come up in the lift? Something of her fear must have shown in her face, for Nurse Brand, the cow, took hold of her and led her back into her room.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs West?’ she asked anxiously.

  Marda West climbed slowly into bed. If it was a conspiracy what was it all for? Were the other patients to be deceived as well?

  ‘I’m rather tired,’ she said. ‘I’d like to sleep.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nurse Brand, ‘you got a wee bit excited.’

  She was mixing something in the medicine glass, and this time, as Marda West took the glass, her hand trembled. Could a cow see clearly how to mix medicine? Supposing she made a mistake?

  ‘What are you giving me?’ she asked.

  ‘A sedative,’ answered the cow.

  Buttercups and daisies. Lush green grass. Imagination was strong enough to taste all three in the mixture. The patient shuddered. She lay down on her pillow and Nurse Brand drew the curtains close.

  ‘Now just relax,’ she said, ‘and when you wake up you’ll feel so much better.’The heavy head stretched forward - in a moment it would surely open its jaws and moo.

  The sedative acted swiftly. Already a drowsy sensation filled the patient’s limbs.

  Soon peaceful darkness came, but she awoke, not to the sanity she had hoped for, but to lunch brought in by the kitten. Nurse Brand was off duty.

  ‘How long must it go on for?’ asked Marda West. She had resigned herself to the trick.A dreamless sleep had restored energy and some measure of confidence. If it was somehow necessary to the recovery of her eyes, or even if they did it for some unfathomable reason of their own, it was their business.

  ‘How do you mean, Mrs West?’ asked the kitten, smiling. Such a flighty little thing, with its pursed-up mouth, and even as it spoke it put a hand to its cap.

  ‘This test on my eyes,’ said the patient, uncovering the boiled chicken on her plate. ‘I don’t see the point of it. Making yourselves such guys. What is the object?’

  The kitten, serious, if a kitten could be serious, continued to stare at her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs West,’ she said, ‘I don’t follow you. Did you tell Nurse Brand you couldn’t see properly yet?’

  ‘It’s not that I can’t see,’ replied Marda West. ‘I see perfectly well. The chair is a chair. The table is a table. I’m about to eat boiled chicken. But why do you look like a kitten, and a tabby kitten at that?’

  Perhaps she sounded ungracious. It was hard to keep her voice steady. The nurse - Marda West remembered the voice, it was Nurse Sweeting, and the name suited her - drew back from the trolley-table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘if I don’t come up to scratch. I’ve never been called a cat before.’

  Scratch was good. The claws were out already. She might purr to the lion in the corridor, but she was not going to purr to Marda West.

  ‘I’m not making it up,’ said the patient. ‘I see what I see. You are a cat, if you like, and Nurse Brand’s a cow.’

  This time the insult must sound deliberate. Nurse Sweeting had fine whiskers to her mouth. The whiskers bristled.

  ‘If you please, Mrs West,’ she said, ‘will you eat your chicken, and ring the bell when you are ready for the next course?’

  She stalked from the room. If she had a tail, thought Marda West
, it would not be wagging, like Mr Greaves’s, but twitching angrily.

  No, they could not be wearing masks. The kitten’s surprise and resentment had been too genuine.And the staff of the hospital could not possibly put on such an act for one patient, for Marda West alone - the expense would be too great. The fault must lie in the lenses, then. The lenses, by their very nature, by some quality beyond the layman’s understanding, must transform the person who was perceived through them.

  A sudden thought struck her, and pushing the trolley-table aside she climbed out of bed and went over to the dressing-table. Her own face stared back at her from the looking-glass. The dark lenses concealed the eyes, but the face was at least her own.

  ‘Thank heaven for that,’ she said to herself, but it swung her back to thoughts of trickery. That her own face should seem unchanged through the lenses suggested a plot, and that her first idea of masks had been the right one. But why? What did they gain by it? Could there be a conspiracy amongst them to drive her mad? She dismissed the idea at once - it was too fanciful. This was a reputable London nursing-home, and the staff was well known.The surgeon had operated on royalty. Besides, if they wanted to send her mad, or kill her even, it would be simple enough with drugs. Or with anaesthetics. They could have given her too much anaesthetic during the operation, and just let her die. No one would take the roundabout way of dressing up staff and doctors in animals’ masks.

  She would try one further proof. She stood by the window, the curtain concealing her, and watched for passers-by. For the moment there was no one in the street. It was the lunch-hour, and traffic was slack. Then, at the other end of the street, a taxi crossed, too far away for her to see the driver’s head. She waited. The porter came out from the nursing-home and stood on the steps, looking up and down. His boar’s head was clearly visible. He did not count, though. He could be part of the plot. A van drew near, but she could not see the driver . . . yes, he slowed as he went by the nursing-home and craned from his seat, and she saw the squat frog’s head, the bulging eyes.