‘If you could help me up onto my knees, I should be able to stand,’ he said. He had a very nice voice, she thought, but his pattern of speech was distinctly upper class – and oddly old-fashioned. Where on earth had he learned to speak like that?
She crouched down beside him so that he could lean on her. He pushed down heavily on her shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
Using the stick as support and with her aid, he managed to get to his feet. She steered him back towards the bed, where he landed with a groan. She studied him, unable to understand what on earth he was doing there.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me off?’ he asked.
‘What for?’
‘For being out of bed.’
‘No. Not unless you want me to, that is.’
He frowned. She could make out that his brows were dark. ‘That’s rather an odd thing for a nurse to say. Are you new? Better not let Sister hear you talk like that. She’s a tartar. You’ll want to get on her right side.’
‘Oh, I’m not a nurse.’
‘Then I beg your pardon. I assumed you were one of the VADs. I’ve lost my eyesight, you see. I’ve been lying on the floor for an age calling out for help. Then I heard you make a noise downstairs. Are you here visiting someone?’
‘No, I’m a patient. In the other wing.’
‘A patient…? I’d no idea there were women here. I thought it was just soldiers.’
‘Soldiers? What soldiers?’
‘War-wounded, of course, like me. I say, what are you doing over here? This is a men’s ward.’
‘Exploring.’
‘Exploring?’
‘It’s fascinating over here.’
‘You’d best not get caught or you’ll be in the most fearful trouble. This is a military hospital and they’re pretty hot on rules and regulations.’
Louisa was mystified. Was it possible that there was some kind of treatment facility for servicemen here, in the closed-up side of the hospital? But how? The place was ruined, condemned, about to be bulldozed. It didn’t make any sense. And apart from this man, there wasn’t the least sign of anyone. It was as still as the grave. Had he made some kind of home here for himself? Clearly, he must be suffering from some kind of delusion, like Samir or Pam.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘I can look after myself. But you know you really shouldn’t be here on your own like this. I think perhaps I should go and get someone.’
‘I wish you luck with that,’ he said. ‘Everyone seems to have disappeared. I think there must be a rush on. I say, would you mind awfully fetching me a glass of water?’
On the wooden locker next to his bed she made out a carafe of water with a tumbler over the top. Above it, mounted on the wall, was an antiquated-looking light installation with a chain running down from it, completely intact.
She poured him a glass of water and put it into his hand. His fingers were long and warm, but he shook. Louisa held the glass steady while he took a long drink. He had clearly been thirsty. She could make out that he had dark hair, which fell forward over his forehead, and high, well-shaped cheekbones.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘My apologies. I’m Robert Lovett, Lieutenant Robert Lovett of the South Middlesex Regiment.’
‘Louisa Casson.’
‘How do you do, Miss Casson? Please excuse me for not offering you my hand. As you see, I’ve got the shakes.’
‘No need to apologise. And please, it’s just Louisa.’
She was distracted: in the narrow shaft of light, she’d spotted a picture on the wall depicting a scene she recognised very well. Carefully, she took it down from its hook and held it to the light at the window. It was a watercolour of the Seven Sisters cliffs – of Birling Gap seen from the beach. But not painted as she’d ever seen it before. It was incredibly simple but effective. The artist had employed all sorts of different colours – purples, blues, reds even. It must have been painted many years before, because the cliffs were not so eroded and there was a row of houses that had long since fallen into the sea. And even the Anchoress Arch was still there, fully intact.
‘This picture,’ she said. ‘It’s stunning.’
‘Which one?’
‘The watercolour of the cliffs. They look so… so terrifying and so vivid. This is exactly how I’ve always seen them. Most artists just depict them as a sort of sedate grey-and-white mass, but that’s not how they are at all. They’re just like this.’
‘You know the Seven Sisters?’
‘Very well. The cliffs are pretty much my second home. Who painted this?’
‘I did,’ he said after a moment’s pause.
In the corner were the initials R. L. ‘Wow,’ she said softly. ‘You have a real gift.’
‘You’re extremely kind,’ he said a little sullenly. ‘It’s actually very derivative. I did it when I was younger.’
‘Derivative? Of whom?’
‘Alfred Sisley most of all, probably. But it isn’t a patch on his work.’
‘No, it’s incredibly good,’ she said. ‘And anyway, aren’t all artists influenced by those who’ve gone before? Isn’t that part of how you learn your craft?’
He seemed to mull over what she’d said.
‘Are you from Sussex?’ she asked.
‘No, from near Woking. We used to go down to the Seven Sisters for holidays when I was a child. My mother hung up that picture when I first came here, as if I were still a little boy at prep school. I suppose she wanted to brighten up the place. But I can’t see anything, so it makes no difference. And even if I could see, I’d far rather not look at it. Please, if you like it, you’re most welcome to have it.’
‘Really? But I couldn’t possibly… I mean, it’s much too kind. And anyway, I couldn’t bring it back to the ward. Everyone would want to know where I’d got it. And then they’d confiscate it anyway.’
‘Are there many of you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lady patients.’
‘Thirty perhaps? I don’t really know.’
‘Extraordinary. I hadn’t the least idea. But won’t the nurses be wondering where you are?’
She shrugged, then remembered he couldn’t see. ‘Apparently not.’
‘Do you paint?’ he asked.
‘No. I’m rubbish at anything like that. But I’ve always been very affected by art – books, poems, paintings. I spent my entire childhood with my nose in a book. I think I preferred books to people.’