The Happy Prisoner Read Online Free

to take out. She said she hadn’t time for any more.”
    â€œThat sounds like old Vi,” said Oliver. “She works like a black. She’s a great soul; you’ll like her.” He fixed Elizabeth with his eye, daring her to judge by appearances.
    â€œShe seems very nice. Well, if you’re sure there’s nothing you want …” She started towards the door. He liked the pert little point of her cap at the back.
    â€œNothing, thanks. I say—Nurse!” She turned, brightly prepared to hand him something or fetch a glass of water or shake up his pillows.
    â€œLook, I don’t think I’ll call you Nurse, if you don’t mind.It seems silly when you’re going to be more or less one of the family. I think I’d better call you Elizabeth, don’t you?”
    â€œYes, whatever you like, Major North.”
    â€œSandy—that was the last nurse I had—used to call me Oliver, except when she called me Boysie. That was hell.” Elizabeth waited to see if he had anything more to say, and then went out, shutting the door carefully and quietly behind her.
    .…
    Since Oliver had come home from the hospital, it had become the family custom to forgather in his room for a drink before dinner. At six o’clock, before she padded home to her cottage in the valley, Mrs. Cowlin, looking ill-suited to anything so modern, would push open the door with her knee and bring in a tray of glasses, ice cubes, and gin, whisky, beer, or whatever Mrs. North had managed to get in Shrewsbury from the grocer, who had known Oliver for years and was sorry about him. Then would come Oliver’s younger sister Heather, with her small son David in pyjamas and a Jaegar dressing-gown, and a nursery tray containing his hot milk and one
petit beurre
, and a mug of cold milk and sandwiches, cake, or whatever wanted eating up, for Evelyn to have when she could be dragged indoors from the farm. Evelyn was the daughter of Mrs. North’s widowed brother, and had been staying at Hinkley during the war.
    Heather would pour Oliver a drink and usually have one herself while David had his supper, but she did not stay long unless there were someone amusing to talk to. After five years of living at home during the war, it did not amuse her to talk to her family, and Oliver had now been home long enough for the novelty to have worn off. Mrs. North would come in, have one sip of a drink, go out to do something to the dinner, come back for a nip, go out again, come back, like a bird making sallies at its drinking basin, or, rather, like a hippopotamus constantly being interrupted at its water-hole.
    Violet usually managed to come in, unless they were working late in the fields. Sometimes Fred Williams came in with her to see Oliver. Mrs. North did not like him very much and pretended that the room smelled of manure after he had gone. Sandy had always been there, with little finger crooked over a glass of sherry, making gay conversation to anyone who would listen, the furbelowed and trinketed silk into which she changed for dinner more unalluring even than her uniform.
    Oliver liked to be washed and have his bed made before six so that he could be presentable for his At Home. He couldenjoy his dinner more, too, if he was rid of the stickiness and creases and aches that had accumulated during the day. Elizabeth worked in silence, answering his remarks politely, but volunteering none of her own. He enjoyed her deft, assured touch. She never knocked him by mistake where it hurt, and although he was heavy for her, she had a knack of lifting and managed to make him very comfortable. She was slightly built, but her arms were firmly rounded and strong, with a bloom of youth and health. They looked nice coming out of the short sleeves of her white overall.
    â€œYou’ll come back and have a drink, won’t you, when you’ve changed?” Oliver asked when she had finished.
    â€œI ought to be