Page 97 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Summer 1917

Herewich

—50—

Within a few weeks, Tanveer was stable enough to leave the hospital. I arranged for a car to drive us to Herewich, a distance of some two hours. He didn’t speak on the journey, only looking out the window with the cat in his lap.

Some part of me wanted to fuss, to make sure he was comfortable, that his legs weren’t too cramped, to offer him water. I resisted. The summer landscape offered poppies and daisies and Queen Anne’s lace; sheep grazing in green pastures, trees bending down over brooks. A cow stood nearby a pond, clouds reflecting in the water.

I wondered what passed through his mind, if he would ever begin to talk to me again. Aside from a few directions, and the moments when I washed his hair, he had barely spoken since I’d arrived at the hospital.

At Herewich, I realized the journey into the house would be a challenge. The front entrance was approached by a wide, high rise of steps, and then we would face a long journey to the sitting room. “Pull around to the back,” I said to the driver.

The kitchen was level with the back garden. “This will be better. Will you help me, good man?”

He looked uncomfortable, which bewildered me, but I didn’t have time to sort out judgments or nonsense. “We must get him into the house. I am not strong enough for him to lean on.”

Grimly, Tanveer leaned on him, his arm in a sling useless to hold a cane. I wrapped my arm around his waist. “Use my body to keep the weight off your leg.”

Between the three of us, we navigated into the cold house, through the kitchen and into the sitting room. Once we had him situated in a comfortable wingback chair, the man brought in our things. I carried Topaz into the house, where he happily sniffed and explored and peered under stoves. “I can use a good mouser, little one.”

Tanveer sat upright, but his face was gray with effort. “Are you in pain?”

“A little.”

I reached into my deep pockets. “The matron sent morphine with me.”

“No. Thank you.”

“I shall make tea, and then decide how to make you a bed.”

He leaned gingerly back into the chair, closing his eyes. I pushed an ottoman over and lifted his feet onto it.

“Right. I’ll get the fire going. There won’t be any fresh milk.”

“No matter.”

“It won’t take long.”

I hurried out of the room to hide my collapsing resolve. It had seemed such a good choice to bring him to Herewich, where he could convalesce as long as was required. I had not taken into account stairs and drafty cold rooms and the fact that I had no nursing ability whatsoever and he still had a long road ahead for recovery.

In the kitchen, I took a full minute to lean on the counter and bend my head in faint despair, feeling all my inadequacies and the stilted nature of our communication. It was hard to be with this version of Tanveer. At times, I felt he despised me, or if not me personally, then my world; at others, I glimpsed the extreme sorrow that cloaked him like a shroud. I wanted to ease his suffering, not add more.

After a moment, I straightened, blew out my fear, and started the fire. In truth, I was all he had here in England. What I could offer was comfort, kindness, and a brisk attendance to his physical needs.

So I put the kettle on, scrounged up sugar and tea, and what was left of a tin of biscuits. On a shelf in the pantry were three cans of condensed milk, a favorite of my mother’s, and it felt like a minor miracle. The potatoes still looked solid, and surely someone in town had some eggs. I should see about purchasing some chickens of my own.

While the water heated, I moved to the sitting room to build a fire in the hearth, pleased with my ability to get it going properly in a matter of minutes. As it caught, I shook open the drapes to let in the light. Blue sky peeked through puffy clouds, and a bird whistled on the branch of lilac bush. Topaz came running to squeak at it. “Mice, little one. Not birds, do you hear me?”

Hands on my hips, I looked around the room to see how to best create a sickroom, or a wellroom or whatever we would call it. I could drag a mattress down from upstairs easily enough, and create a little nook with the chair so he could read by the window and take advantage of the fire.

“Is it always so cold in here?” he asked.

“Afraid so. Centuries of English damp.”

“It’s summer.”

“Imagine what it’s like in the winter.”