Mansie unobtrusively studied his brother. Something queer about the fellow’s face; yes, must be the eyes. Tom’s eyes had an intent, almost pleased look, as if he were listening to something inside him: something ticking – Mansie could not keep the thought out of his head – ticking and ticking. Suddenly on this face that he was studying a very quick spasm ran from eye to chin. But it did not seem real somehow; and indeed it was not caused by real pain, but perhaps by a faintly vibrating memory, even a dream of pain. Yet Mansie felt profoundly cast down all at once; it had looked almost like a threat. Then the expression of intent and pleased watching returned again. So might a condemned man sitting in chains listen to the rain beating on the window of his cell, and tell himself that so long as he listened to that regular drumming no harm could come to him, for when it was raining – raining as it might rain on any day – how could anything happen, how could the blow fall? And he did not know why, Mansie felt disquieted by that pleased expression on Tom’s face.
The evening light was streaming in through the window on to the table. Mansie shifted nervously every now and then to get out of it, and its warmth on the backs of his hands was like a spidery film that he longed to tear away. His mother sat in her chair by the empty range looking into Tom’s face. Mansie felt apprehensive, almost scared, at the expression in her eyes, for although of course Tom would get better it was almost asking for trouble to be as confident as that. His heart sank at the thought that the pain might return after all, and pushing back his chair he walked to the window. There, looking out into the backyard as if that put a barrier between him and his brother, he said: ‘So the pain’s quite gone now?’
His mother threw him a warning look, but Tom replied quite coolly: ‘Yes, I haven’t had any for more than a fortnight now.’ Mansie asked him how he had liked the nurses; a queer lot, from all accounts.
‘Oh, they’re all right,’ said Tom indifferently.
‘Well, you’ll just let your mother look after you now, my lamb,’ said Mrs Manson. ‘We’ll have the whole hoose to oursel’s. You’ll get up when you like, and we’ll live like grand folk.’
‘All right, mother,’ said Tom impatiently. Then as if he had something really important to discuss he turned to Mansie: ‘They told me I was to go for walks. Have you anything on this evening?’
‘No, nothing. I’ll take you— I’ll go for a stroll with you if you like.’
In the lobby Tom turned to Mansie with a pleased look: ‘I’ve been putting on weight. Twelve pounds!’
As they were walking along Garvin Street Mansie thought he noticed something queer about Tom’s walk, but told himself that he must be mistaken. At the corner of Victoria Road Tom stopped and carefully surveyed the street before crossing. They wandered slowly in the direction of the Queen’s Park recreation grounds. And now Mansie saw – and his heart almost stopped – that Tom was really walking very strangely. His feet, flung out with the old impetuousness, seemed to hang in the air for the fraction of a second before they returned, a little uncertainly, to the ground. It was as though the additional weight of his body had made him a little top-heavy. He walked very carefully with his eyes fixed on the pavement a few steps in front of him, as if there, no nearer and no farther, lay the danger that he must circumvent, a danger that continuously advanced with him as he went on.
From the gate the recreation park stretched before them, in the distance rising to a grassy sunlit hill, behind which rose the irregular ridged roofs and chimneys of Mount Florida. In the eastern sky beyond floated a few pink fleece-like clouds, deepening at their centres to hectic rose. Shouts came towards them on the still air, mingled with the thud of footballs and the sharp click of bats. They walked over to a seat where they could watch a game of cricket. And soon the vigilant inward look had quite faded from Tom’s face; for now he followed almost with anxiety the ball as it flew from the bats of the players, followed it with tortured hope as if in its flight it might carry him into another world, a world where everybody’s head was as sound as a nut. This could take him out of himself, Mansie was thinking, and his mother couldn’t! ‘Tits, man. Hit it! Hit it!’ Tom kept muttering impatiently. A band of schoolboys were running about, and sometimes in swerving they almost knocked against the seat. For long intervals they would play at the other side of the field; then for a little they would circle round the seat as persistently as a swarm of bees. At last Tom muttered in a tearful voice: ‘Go away, damn you! Go away!’ The boys were back again. Suddenly, just in front of Mansie, one of them tottered and fell and Mansie saw a cricket ball bounding away at a tangent. The boys stood round, quite silent all at once, the batsman came running across. Tom got hastily to his feet and said: ‘Come away! It isn’t safe here.’ Mansie rose and followed him.
‘Fine rotters you are!’ the batsman panted, bending over the boy. ‘Walking away when you see someone hurt!’
‘My brother’s ill,’ said Mansie.
‘Oh! Sorry!’
Mansie turned back to see if he could help. The boy was lying on the grass, his face transparent, his breath quick and soft as if he were inhaling an infinitely subtle atmosphere. He looked like someone to whom something fortunate but very strange had happened.
The batsman raised his head: ‘Run to the pump for some water! Here’s my cap. Hurry!’
One of the boys flew away.
‘It hit him here,’ said another, pointing to his collar-bone.
The batsman felt the neck of the unconscious boy with his fingers. ‘No bones broken. It must have been the shock.’ And as though those words were a magical formula, his voice was quite confident now. He wiped the sweat from his face. The boy opened his eyes, which had a bruised and wandering look.
‘All right again?’ asked the batsman in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘I suppose I can go now,’ said Mansie. Without waiting for an answer he walked across to Tom.
‘Where did it hit him?’
‘On the collar-bone. He’ll be all right in a little. He fainted.’
‘It’s lucky for him it didn’t catch him on the head! Serve him right. These damned kids shouldn’t be out playing so late as this, anyway.’
Tom walked on. The accident was merely an accident, and soon the boy would be walking about again, none the worse. At the thought he felt the disease within his head like a grub clinging to him. He would never be able to shake it off, and yet he did not know what it was or where it was; he put up his hand to the back of his skull, which was hard and blank, like a wall. ‘And it might have hit me on the head!’ He did not notice that he had spoken the words aloud until Mansie gave him a warning glance. He walked on faster, his left leg swinging out jerkily. All at once his head seemed terribly vulnerable; a slate might fall on it from a house-roof, a chance stone flung by a boy might hit it. Or he might stumble and fall and ruin everything now that he was getting better. The sweat broke out on him. I’ve got to be very careful, he thought, at this stage. He jerked Mansie back by the sleeve. ‘Can’t you wait a bit! Don’t you see there’s a car coming?’ They were at the corner of Victoria Road. A tramcar was slowly approaching from the direction of the park gates; it was still a good distance away. Presently it ground past them, continuously pulverising some invisible and piteous object which hovered just above the dust in front of it, and Tom felt the pavement thrilling with a menace that had been and was over. They crossed the empty street.
‘You’ve got to be careful when you’ve just come out of hospital,’ Tom said half-apologetically. ‘A pretty poor game, wasn’t it?’ But immediately his thoughts closed him in again, and Mansie’s reply was cast back as from a wall.
‘Come in and sit down!’ Mrs Manson cried as soon as they entered the kitchen.
‘I’m going to bed, mother,’ said Tom coldly. ‘The doctor told me to get as much sleep as possible.’
‘Ay, just do that, lamb.’
Mansie