Giant’s Bread · Book I · IV · Chapter 1 4 2

II

Noise⁠ ⁠… noise and pain⁠ ⁠… He woke with a start. He felt hot, very hot and there was a pain all down one side. And the noise was coming nearer. It was the noise that one always connected with Mummy⁠ ⁠…

She came into the room like a whirlwind, a kind of cloak affair she wore swinging out behind her. She was like a bird⁠—a great big bird⁠—and like a bird, she swooped down upon him.

“Vernon⁠—my darling⁠—Mummy’s own darling! What have they done to you? How awful! How terrible! My child!”

She was crying. Vernon began to cry too. He was suddenly frightened. Myra was moaning and weeping.

“My little child. All I have in the world. God, don’t take him from me. Don’t take him from me! If he dies, I shall die too!”

“Mrs. Deyre⁠—”

“Vernon⁠—Vernon⁠—my baby⁠—”

“Mrs. Deyre⁠—please!”

There was crisp command in the voice rather than appeal.

“Please don’t touch him. You will hurt him.”

“Hurt him? I? His mother?”

“You don’t seem to realize, Mrs. Deyre, that his leg is broken. I must ask you, please, to leave the room.”

“You’re hiding something from me. Tell me⁠—tell me⁠—will the leg have to be amputated?”

A wail came from Vernon. He had not the least idea what “amputated” meant, but it sounded painful⁠—and more than painful, terrifying. His wail broke into a scream.

“He’s dying!” cried Myra. “He’s dying⁠—and they won’t tell me. But he shall die in my arms.”

“Mrs. Deyre⁠—”

Somehow Nurse Frances had got between his mother and the bed. She was holding his mother by the shoulder. Her voice had the tone that Nurse’s had had when speaking to Katie, the under-housemaid.

“Mrs. Deyre, listen to me. You must control yourself. You must!” Then she looked up. Vernon’s father was standing in the doorway. “Mr. Deyre, please take your wife away. I cannot have my patient excited and upset.”

His father nodded⁠—a quiet understanding nod. He just looked at Vernon once and said: “Bad luck, old chap. I broke an arm once.”

The world became suddenly less terrifying. Other people broke legs and arms. His father had hold of his mother’s shoulder, he was leading her towards the door, speaking to her in a low voice. She was protesting, arguing, her voice high and shrill with emotion.

“How can you understand? You’ve never cared for the child like I have. It takes a mother. How can I leave my child to be looked after by a stranger? He needs his mother.⁠ ⁠… You don’t understand. I love him. There’s nothing like a mother’s care⁠—everyone says so.”

“Vernon darling”⁠—she broke from her husband’s clasp, came back towards the bed⁠—“you want me, don’t you? You want Mummy?”

“I want Nurse,” sobbed Vernon. “I want Nurse.”

He meant his own Nurse, not Nurse Frances.

“Oh!” said Myra. She stood there quivering.

“Come, my dear,” said Vernon’s father gently. “Come away.”

She leant against him, and together they passed from the room. Faint words floated back into the room.

“My own child, to turn from me to a stranger.”

Nurse Frances smoothed the sheet and suggested a drink of water.

“Nurse is coming back very soon,” she said. “We’ll write to her today, shall we? You shall tell me what to say.”

A queer new feeling surged over Vernon⁠—a sort of odd gratitude. Somebody had actually understood.⁠ ⁠…