She went towards the shaft of light coming through the shutters, where there was a cane-backed chair with a tartan blanket folded over it. There was the watercolour of the Seven Sisters, exactly as last time. She saw there were two more pictures on the wall but couldn’t make out any details in the gloom.
‘Are these other pictures yours too? May I see?’
‘Of course. If you like.’
She brought them into the light. The first was another watercolour, depicting fishing boats on a rough, dark sea. Huge clouds, bruised purple and grey, heaved across the enormous sky, the sun imprisoned dismally behind them like a pale ghost of itself.
The second was a simple charcoal drawing of a man, unembellished and stark. He was looking down, as if reading or lost in thought. His face was thin to the point of gauntness and he wore glasses. It was as if every sinew of his face had been picked out and depicted, and more – his very character, somehow. The impression of light on the man’s skin was incredible.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked. ‘It’s stunning.’
‘The man? Edgar Brocklebank. A great friend of mine.’
‘He looks interesting. Intelligent.’
‘He’s both. And the best and most decent person I know.’
‘I’ve got someone like that. Or… at least I used to. She would have made a wonderful subject for a portrait.’ Louisa smiled. ‘Though she probably wouldn’t have sat still for long.’
‘Well, I can’t paint any more anyway,’ he said.
‘What happened to your eyes?’ she asked.
He was silent.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘My grandmother always told me off for being too direct. Although she was just as bad.’
‘Apparently, my eyes are in perfect working order, but I choose not to see,’ he said. ‘I can make out light and shadow but not much else. Any strong light gives me physical pain.’
‘I’ve read about that. It’s called conversion disorder.’
‘Conversion disorder? What is that exactly?’
‘It’s when you experience neurological symptoms without an organic cause. It’s a reaction to stressful events. Your shaking is a symptom of the same thing.’
He leant back, seeming to weigh carefully what she’d said. His dark hair had fallen in front of his eyes. Even though it would clearly make no difference to what he could see, he pushed it away.
‘How do you know this?’ he asked.
‘I’m training to be a doctor. Or at least I was. I had to stop. And I’ve spent my life poring over medical textbooks.’
‘It… it hardly seems possible. I can understand the shakes, tears, that sort of thing – most of the officers are jittery. But to go blind? Physically blind?’
‘It’s perfectly possible. Really.’
‘An army doctor in France told me shell shock was the result of a shell exploding too close to the head, causing lesions. “An invisibly fine molecular commotion in the brain” – that’s what he said. I thought the signals between my eyes and brain had been disrupted by the force of the blast.’
‘No, shell shock isn’t physical. Your eyesight will recover in its own time.’
He paused. ‘Really? You’re… quite sure about this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well that’s… that’s extraordinary.’
‘You’ll be able to paint again.’
‘No. I’ll be able to go back to France, to my unit.’
‘Well, you’re clearly in no fit state to go anywhere just yet.’
‘No, but you’ve given me reason to hope, and I can’t tell you how much that means.’ He went silent. ‘So why did you leave your studies,’ he asked after a while, ‘when you’ve clearly such a passion for medicine?’
‘My grandmother was ill, and I had to look after her.’
‘I see.’
‘She died recently.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. It sounds as though you were very close to her.’
She nodded, then realised that of course he couldn’t see her. ‘Yes. She brought me up. My mother died when I was young, and I don’t have a relationship with my father.’
‘Oh. I see. How awfully sad. Do you have any other family?’
‘No. But it’s all right. I’m pretty resilient.’
‘I get the impression that you are.’ He laughed, and it was a nice sound. ‘It must take an awful lot of determination to become a lady doctor. I admire you.’
Suddenly, there were footsteps and a knock at the door. Robert jumped. Without further warning, someone came in. Louisa dropped to the floor behind the cane-backed chair.
‘How are we today, Mr Lovett?’ a woman asked, pushing the door almost closed behind her. ‘I’ve come to change your dressing.’
There was a pause, as if Robert was just waiting for the inevitable, for Louisa to be discovered.
‘Is everything all right, Mr Lovett?’ the woman asked.
‘I…’ Robert cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sorry. I’m much the same.’
Hardly daring to breathe, Louisa carefully moved her head so she could see around the chair. With the door now ajar, it wasn’t quite as dark in the room as before. A nurse was standing next to Robert’s bed. But no modern-day nurse dressed in a simple blue uniform like Enema – a nurse with an elaborate old-fashioned headdress tied under her chin, an ankle-length white dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a long apron tied in a bow. Louisa shrank back, all her breath caught up inside her. This was unthinkable; contrary to all reason. How could it possibly be?
‘That’s coming along nicely,’ she heard the nurse say. ‘Just a little sting now while I dab on some iodine. There. Not very talkative today, Mr Lovett?’
‘I’m just a little tired.’
‘What if I bring you a brandy with your lunch? What do you think?’
‘I… I think that would be marvellous.’
The nurse laughed. ‘Romania’s declared war on Austria-Hungary,’ she said. ‘It’s in all the newspapers. I know you’re not meant to talk about the war, but it’s tremendous news, isn’t it? There, all done. Shall I plump up your pillow?’
‘No. Thank you, Sister. I think I’ll close my eyes now.’
‘All right then. I’ll be back presently.’ She went out and shut the door softly behind her.