NOW A LANGUOROUS1 waiting settled over the hospital. Only the jaundiced seamen2 remained. There was much fascination3 and amused talk about them among the nurses. These tough ratings sat up in bed darning their socks, and insisted on hand-washing their own smalls, which they dried on washing lines improvised4 from string, suspended along the radiators5. Those who were still bed-bound would suffer agonies rather than call for the bottle. It was said the able seamen insisted on keeping the ward6 shipshape themselves and had taken over the sweeping7 and the heavy bumper8. Such domesticity among men was unknown to the girls, and Fiona said she would marry no man who had not served in the Royal Navy.
For no apparent reason, the probationers were given a half day off, free from study, though they were to remain in uniform. After lunch Briony walked with Fiona across the river past the Houses of Parliament and into St. James’s Park. They strolled around the lake, bought tea at a stall, and rented deck chairs to listen to elderly men of the Salvation9 Army playing Elgar adapted for brass10 band. In those days of May, before the story from France was fully11 understood, before the bombing of the city in September, London had the outward signs, but not yet the mentality12, of war. Uniforms, posters warning against fifth columnists13, two big air-raid shelters dug into the park lawns, and everywhere, surly officialdom. While the girls were sitting on their deck chairs, a man in armband and cap came over and demanded to see Fiona’s gas mask—it was partially14 obscured by her cape15. Otherwise, it was still an innocent time. The anxieties about the situation in France that had been absorbing the country had for the moment dissipated in the afternoon’s sunshine. The dead were not yet present, the absent were presumed alive. The scene was dreamlike in its normality. Prams16 drifted along the paths, hoods17 down in full sunlight, and white, soft-skulled babies gaped19 at the outdoor world for the first time. Children who seemed to have escaped evacuation ran about on the grass shouting and laughing, the band struggled with music beyond its capabilities20, and deck chairs still cost twopence. It was hard to believe that barely a hundred miles away was a military disaster.
Briony’s thoughts remained fixed21 on her themes. Perhaps London would be overwhelmed by poisonous gas, or overrun by German parachutists aided on the ground by fifth columnists before Lola’s wedding could take place. Briony had heard a know-all porter saying, with what sounded like satisfaction, that nothing now could stop the German army. They had the new tactics and we didn’t, they had modernized22, and we had not. The generals should have read Liddell Hart’s book, or have come to the hospital porter’s lodge23 and listened carefully during tea break.
At her side, Fiona talked of her adored little brother and the clever thing he had said at dinner, while Briony pretended to listen and thought about Robbie. If he had been fighting in France, he might already be captured. Or worse. How would Cecilia survive such news? As the music, enlivened by unscored dissonances, swelled24 to a raucous25 climax26, she gripped the wooden sides of her chair, closed her eyes. If something happened to Robbie, if Cecilia and Robbie were never to be together . . . Her secret torment27 and the public upheaval28 of war had always seemed separate worlds, but now she understood how the war might compound her crime. The only conceivable solution would be for the past never to have happened. If he didn’t come back . . . She longed to have someone else’s past, to be someone else, like hearty29 Fiona with her unstained life stretching ahead, and her affectionate, sprawling30 family, whose dogs and cats had Latin names, whose home was a famous venue31 for artistic32 Chelsea people. All Fiona had to do was live her life, follow the road ahead and discover what was to happen. To Briony, it appeared that her life was going to be lived in one room, without a door.
“Briony, are you all right?”
“What? Yes, of course. I’m fine, thanks.”
“I don’t believe you. Shall I get you some water?”
As the applause grew—no one seemed to mind how bad the band was—she watched Fiona go across the grass, past the musicians and the man in a brown coat renting out the deck chairs, to the little café among the trees. The Salvation Army was starting in on “Bye Bye Blackbird” at which they were far more adept33. People in their deck chairs were joining in, and some were clapping in time. Communal34 sing-alongs had a faintly coercive quality—that way strangers had of catching35 each other’s eye as their voices rose—which she was determined36 to resist. Still, it lifted her spirits, and when Fiona returned with a teacup of water, and the band began a medley37 of old-time favorites with “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” they began to talk about work. Fiona drew Briony into the gossip—about which pros38 they liked, and those that irritated them, about Sister Drummond whose voice Fiona could do, and the matron who was almost as grand and remote as a consultant39. They remembered the eccentricities40 of various patients, and they shared grievances—Fiona was outraged41 that she wasn’t allowed to keep things on her windowsill, Briony hated the eleven o’clock lights-out—but they did so with self-conscious enjoyment42 and increasingly with a great deal of giggling43, so that heads began to turn in their direction, and fingers were laid theatrically44 over lips. But these gestures were only half serious, and most of those who turned smiled indulgently from their deck chairs, for there was something about two young nurses—nurses in wartime—in their purple and white tunics45, dark blue capes46 and spotless caps, that made them as irreproachable47 as nuns48. The girls sensed their immunity49 and their laughter grew louder, into cackles of hilarity50 and derision. Fiona turned out to be a good mimic51, and for all her merriness, there was a cruel touch to her humor that Briony liked. Fiona had her own version of Lambeth Cockney, and with heartless exaggeration caught the ignorance of some patients, and their pleading, whining53 voices. It’s me ’art, Nurse. It’s always been on the wrong side. Me mum was just the same. Is it true your baby comes out of your bottom, Nurse? ’Cos I don’t know how mine’s going to fit, seeing as ’ow I’m always blocked. I ’ad six nippers, then I goes and leaves one on a bus, the eighty-eight up from Brixton. Must’ve left ’im on the seat. Never saw ’im again, Nurse. Really upset, I was. Cried me eyes out.
As they walked back toward Parliament Square Briony was light-headed and still weak in the knees from laughing so hard. She wondered at herself, at how quickly her mood could be transformed. Her worries did not disappear, but slipped back, their emotional power temporarily exhausted54. Arm in arm the girls walked across Westminster Bridge. The tide was out, and in such strong light there was a purple sheen on the mudbanks where thousands of wormcasts threw tiny sharp shadows. As Briony and Fiona turned right onto Lambeth Palace Road they saw a line of army lorries drawn55 up outside the main entrance. The girls groaned56 good-humoredly at the prospect57 of more supplies to be unpacked58 and stowed.
Then they saw the field ambulances among the lorries, and coming closer they saw the stretchers, scores of them, set down haphazardly59 on the ground, and an expanse of dirty green battle dress and stained bandages. There were also soldiers standing60 in groups, dazed and immobile, and wrapped like the men on the ground in filthy62 bandages. A medical orderly was gathering63 rifles from the back of a lorry. A score of porters, nurses and doctors were moving through the crowd. Five or six trolleys64 had been brought out to the front of the hospital—clearly not enough. For a moment, Briony and Fiona stopped and looked, and then, at the same moment, they began to run.
In less than a minute they were down among the men. The brisk air of spring did not dispel66 the stench of engine oil and festering wounds. The soldiers’ faces and hands were black, and with their stubble and matted black hair, and their tied-on labels from the casualty-receiving stations, they looked identical, a wild race of men from a terrible world. The ones who were standing appeared to be asleep. More nurses and doctors were pouring out of the entrance. A consultant was taking charge and a rough triage system was in place. Some of the urgent cases were being lifted onto the trolleys. For the first time in her training, Briony found herself addressed by a doctor, a registrar67 she had never seen before.
“You, get on the end of this stretcher.”
The doctor himself took the other end. She had never carried a stretcher before and the weight of it surprised her. They were through the entrance and ten yards down the corridor and she knew her left wrist could not hold up. She was at the feet end. The soldier had a sergeant68’s stripes. He was without his boots and his bluish toes stank69. His head was wrapped in a bandage soaked to crimson70 and black. On his thigh71 his battle dress was mangled72 into a wound. She thought she could see the white protuberance of bone. Each step they took gave him pain. His eyes were shut tight, but he opened and closed his mouth in silent agony. If her left hand failed, the stretcher would certainly tip. Her fingers were loosening as they reached the lift, stepped inside and set the stretcher down. While they slowly rose, the doctor felt the man’s pulse, and breathed in sharply through his nose. He was oblivious73 to Briony’s presence. As the second floor sank into their view, she thought only of the thirty yards of corridor to the ward, and whether she would make it. It was her duty to tell the doctor that she couldn’t. But his back was to her as he slammed the lift gates apart, and told her to take her end. She willed more strength to her left arm, and she willed the doctor to go faster. She would not bear the disgrace if she were to fail. The black-faced man opened and closed his mouth in a kind of chewing action. His tongue was covered in white spots. His black Adam’s apple rose and fell, and she made herself stare at that. They turned into the ward, and she was lucky that an emergency bed was ready by the door. Her fingers were already slipping. A sister and a qualified74 nurse were waiting. As the stretcher was maneuvered75 into position alongside the bed, Briony’s fingers went slack, she had no control over them, and she brought up her left knee in time to catch the weight. The wooden handle thumped76 against her leg. The stretcher wobbled, and it was the sister who leaned in to steady it. The wounded sergeant blew through his lips a sound of incredulity, as though he had never guessed that pain could be so vast.
“For God’s sake, girl,” the doctor muttered. They eased their patient onto the bed.
Briony waited to find out if she was needed. But now the three were busy and ignored her. The nurse was removing the head bandage, and the sister was cutting away the soldier’s trousers. The registrar turned away to the light to study the notes scribbled77 on the label he had pulled away from the man’s shirt. Briony cleared her throat softly and the sister looked round and was annoyed to find her still there.
“Well don’t just stand idle, Nurse Tallis. Get downstairs and help.”
She came away humiliated78, and felt a hollow sensation spreading in her stomach. The moment the war touched her life, at the first moment of pressure, she had failed. If she was made to carry another stretcher, she would not make it halfway79 to the lift. But if she was told to, she would not dare refuse. If she dropped her end she would simply leave, gather her things from her room into her suitcase, and go to Scotland and work as a land girl. It would be better for everyone. As she hurried along the ground-floor corridor she met Fiona coming the other way on the front of a stretcher. She was a stronger girl than Briony. The face of the man she was carrying was completely obliterated80 by dressings81, with a dark oval hole for his mouth. The girls’ eyes met and something passed between them, shock, or shame that they had been laughing in the park when there was this.
Briony went outside and saw with relief the last of the stretchers being lifted onto extra trolleys, and porters waiting to push them. A dozen qualified nurses were standing to one side with their suitcases. She recognized some from her own ward. There was no time to ask them where they were being sent. Something even worse was happening elsewhere. The priority now was the walking wounded. There were still more than two hundred of them. A sister told her to lead fifteen men up to Beatrice ward. They followed her in single file back down the corridor, like children in a school crocodile. Some had their arms in slings84, others had head or chest wounds. Three men walked on crutches85. No one spoke86. There was a jam around the lifts with trolleys waiting to get to the operating theaters in the basement, and others still trying to get up to the wards87. She found a place in an alcove88 for the men with crutches to sit, told them not to move, and took the rest up by the stairs. Progress was slow and they paused on each landing.
“Not far now,” she kept saying, but they did not seem to be aware of her.
When they reached the ward, etiquette89 required her to report to the sister. She was not in her office. Briony turned to her crocodile, which had bunched up behind her. They did not look at her. They were staring past her, into the grand Victorian space of the ward, the lofty pillars, the potted palms, the neatly90 ranged beds and their pure, turned-down sheets.
“You wait here,” she said. “The sister will find you all a bed.”
She walked quickly to the far end where the sister and two nurses were attending a patient. There were shuffling91 footsteps behind Briony. The soldiers were coming down the ward.
Horrified92, she flapped her hands at them. “Go back, please go back and wait.”
But they were fanning out now across the ward. Each man had seen the bed that was his. Without being assigned, without removing their boots, without baths and delousing and hospital pajamas93, they were climbing onto the beds. Their filthy hair, their blackened faces were on the pillows. The sister was coming at a sharp pace from her end of the ward, her heels resounding94 in the venerable space. Briony went to a bedside and plucked at the sleeve of a soldier who lay faceup, cradling his arm which had slipped its sling83. As he kicked his legs out straight he made a scar of oil stain across his blanket. All her fault.
“You must get up,” she said as the sister was upon her. She added feebly, “There’s a procedure.”
“The men need to sleep. The procedures are for later.” The voice was Irish. The sister put a hand on Briony’s shoulder and turned her so that her name badge could be read. “You’ll go back to your ward now, Nurse Tallis. You’ll be needed there, I should think.”
With the gentlest of shoves, Briony was sent about her business. The ward could do without disciplinarians like her. The men around her were already asleep, and again she had been proved an idiot. Of course they should sleep. She had only wanted to do what she thought was expected. These weren’t her rules, after all. They had been dinned95 into her these past few months, the thousand details of a new admission. How was she to know they meant nothing in fact? These indignant thoughts afflicted96 her until she was almost at her own ward when she remembered the men with crutches downstairs, waiting to be brought up in the lift. She hurried down the stairs. The alcove was empty, and there was no sign of the men in corridors. She did not want to expose her ineptitude97 by asking among the nurses or porters. Someone must have gathered the wounded men up. In the days that followed, she never saw them again.
Her own ward had been redesignated as an overflow98 to acute surgical99, but the definitions meant nothing at first. It could have been a clearing station on the front line. Sisters and senior nurses had been drafted in to help, and five or six doctors were working on the most urgent cases. There were two padres, one sitting and talking to a man lying on his side, the other praying by a shape under a blanket. All the nurses wore masks, and they and the doctors had rolled up their sleeves. The sisters moved between the beds swiftly, giving injections—probably morphine—or administering the transfusion100 needles to connect the injured to the vacolitres of whole blood and the yellow flasks101 of plasma102 that hung like exotic fruits from the tall mobile stands. Probationers moved down the ward with piles of hot-water bottles. The soft echo of voices, medical voices, filled the ward, and was pierced regularly by groans103 and shouts of pain. Every bed was occupied, and new cases were left on the stretchers and laid between the beds to take advantage of the transfusion stands. Two orderlies were getting ready to take away the dead men. At many beds, nurses were removing dirty dressings. Always a decision, to be gentle and slow, or firm and quick and have it over with in one moment of pain. This ward favored the latter, which accounted for some of the shouts. Everywhere, a soup of smells—the sticky sour odor of fresh blood, and also filthy clothes, sweat, oil, disinfectant, medical alcohol, and drifting above it all, the stink104 of gangrene. Two cases going down to the theater turned out to be amputations.
With senior nurses seconded to casualty-receiving hospitals further out in the hospital’s sector106, and more cases coming in, the qualified nurses gave orders freely, and the probationers of Briony’s set were given new responsibilities. A nurse sent Briony to remove the dressing82 and clean the leg wound of a corporal lying on a stretcher near the door. She was not to dress it again until one of the doctors had looked at it. The corporal was facedown, and grimaced107 when she knelt to speak in his ear.
“Don’t mind me if I scream,” he murmured. “Clean it up, Nurse. I don’t want to lose it.”
The trouser leg had been cut clear. The outer bandaging looked relatively108 new. She began to unwind it, and when it was impossible to pass her hand under his leg, she used scissors to cut the dressing away.
“They did me up on the quayside at Dover.”
Now there was only gauze, black with congealed109 blood, along the length of the wound which ran from his knee to his ankle. The leg itself was hairless and black. She feared the worst and breathed through her mouth.
“Now how did you do a thing like that?” She made herself sound chirpy.
“Shell comes over, knocks me back onto this fence of corrugated110 tin.”
“That was bad luck. Now you know this dressing’s got to come off.”
She gently lifted an edge and the corporal winced111.
He said, “Count me in, one two three like, and do it quick.”
The corporal clenched112 his fists. She took the edge she had freed, gripped it hard between forefinger113 and thumb, and pulled the dressing back in a sudden stroke. A memory came to her from childhood, of seeing at an afternoon birthday party the famous tablecloth114 trick. The dressing came away in one, with a gluey rasping sound.
The corporal said, “I’m going to be sick.”
There was a kidney bowl to hand. He retched, but produced nothing. In the folds of skin at the back of his neck were beads115 of perspiration116. The wound was eighteen inches long, perhaps more, and curved behind his knee. The stitches were clumsy and irregular. Here and there one edge of the ruptured118 skin rose over the other, revealing its fatty layers, and little obtrusions like miniature bunches of red grapes forced up from the fissure119.
She said, “Hold still. I’m going to clean round it, but I won’t touch it.” She would not touch it yet. The leg was black and soft, like an overripe banana. She soaked cotton wool in alcohol. Fearful that the skin would simply come away, she made a gentle pass, around his calf120, two inches above the wound. Then she wiped again, with a little more pressure. The skin was firm, so she pressed the cotton wool until he flinched121. She took away her hand and saw the swath of white skin she had revealed. The cotton wool was black. Not gangrene. She couldn’t help her gasp122 of relief. She even felt her throat constrict123.
He said, “What is it, Nurse? You can tell me.” He pushed up and was trying to look over his shoulder. There was fear in his voice.
She swallowed and said neutrally, “I think it’s healing well.”
She took more cotton wool. It was oil, or grease, mixed in with beach sand, and it did not come away easily. She cleaned an area six inches back, working her way right round the wound.
She had been doing this for some minutes when a hand rested on her shoulder and a woman’s voice said in her ear, “That’s good, Nurse Tallis, but you’ve got to work faster.”
She was on her knees, bent124 over the stretcher, squeezed against a bed, and it was not easy to turn round. By the time she did, she saw only the familiar form retreating. The corporal was asleep by the time Briony began to clean around the stitches. He flinched and stirred but did not quite wake. Exhaustion125 was his anesthetic126. As she straightened at last, and gathered her bowl and all the soiled cotton wool, a doctor came and she was dismissed.
She scrubbed her hands and was set another task. Everything was different for her now she had achieved one small thing. She was set to taking water around to the soldiers who had collapsed127 with battle exhaustion. It was important that they did not dehydrate128. Come on now, Private Carter. Drink this and you can go back to sleep. Sit up now . . . She held a little white enamel129 teapot and let them suck the water from its spout130 while she cradled their filthy heads against her apron131, like giant babies. She scrubbed down again, and did a bedpan round. She had never minded it less. She was told to attend to a soldier with stomach wounds who had also lost a part of his nose. She could see through the bloody132 cartilage into his mouth, and onto the back of his lacerated tongue. Her job was to clean up his face. Again, it was oil and sand which had been blasted into the skin. He was awake, she guessed, but he kept his eyes closed. Morphine had calmed him, and he swayed slightly from side to side, as though in time to music in his head. As his features began to appear from behind the mask of black, she thought of those books of glossy133 blank pages she had in childhood which she rubbed with a blunt pencil to make a picture appear. She thought too how one of these men might be Robbie, how she would dress his wounds without knowing who he was, and with cotton wool tenderly rub his face until his familiar features emerged, and how he would turn to her with gratitude134, realize who she was, and take her hand, and in silently squeezing it, forgive her. Then he would let her settle him down into sleep.
Her responsibilities increased. She was sent with forceps and a kidney bowl to an adjacent ward, to the bedside of an airman with shrapnel in his leg. He watched her warily135 as she set her equipment down.
“If I’m having them out, I’d rather have an operation.”
Her hands were trembling. But she was surprised how easily it came to her, the brisk voice of the no-nonsense nurse. She pulled the screen around his bed.
“Don’t be silly. We’ll have them out in a jiff. How did it happen?”
While he explained to her that his job was building runways in the fields of northern France, his eyes kept returning to the steel forceps she had collected from the autoclave. They lay dripping in the blue-edged kidney bowl.
“We’d get going on the job, then Jerry comes over and dumps his load. We drops back, starts all over in another field, then it’s Jerry again and we’re falling back again. Till we fell into the sea.”
She smiled and pulled back his bedcovers. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
The oil and grime had been washed from his legs to reveal an area below his thigh where pieces of shrapnel were embedded136 in the flesh. He leaned forward, watching her anxiously.
She said, “Lie back so I can see what’s there.”
“They’re not bothering me or anything.”
“Just lie back.”
Several pieces were spread across a twelve-inch area. There was swelling137 and slight inflammation around each rupture117 in the skin.
“I don’t mind them, Nurse. I’d be happy leaving them where they are.” He laughed without conviction. “Something to show me grandchildren.”
“They’re getting infected,” she said. “And they could sink.”
“Sink?”
“Into your flesh. Into your bloodstream, and get carried to your heart. Or your brain.”
He seemed to believe her. He lay back and sighed at the distant ceiling. “Bloody ’ell. I mean, excuse me, Nurse. I don’t think I’m up to it today.”
“Let’s count them up together, shall we?”
They did so, out loud. Eight. She pushed him gently in the chest.
“They’ve got to come out. Lie back now. I’ll be as quick as I can. If it helps you, grip the bedhead behind you.”
His leg was tensed and trembling as she took the forceps.
“Don’t hold your breath. Try and relax.”
He made a derisive138, snorting sound. “Relax!”
She steadied her right hand with her left. It would have been easier for her to sit on the edge of the bed, but that was unprofessional and strictly139 prohibited. When she placed her left hand on an unaffected part of his leg, he flinched. She chose the smallest piece she could find on the edge of the cluster. The protruding140 part was obliquely141 triangular142. She gripped it, paused a second, then pulled it clear, firmly, but without jerking.
“Fuck!”
The escaped word ricocheted around the ward and seemed to repeat itself several times. There was silence, or at least a lowering of sound beyond the screens. Briony still held the bloody metal fragment between her forceps. It was three quarters of an inch long and narrowed to a point. Purposeful steps were approaching. She dropped the shrapnel into the kidney bowl as Sister Drummond whisked the screen aside. She was perfectly143 calm as she glanced at the foot of the bed to take in the man’s name and, presumably, his condition, then she stood over him and gazed into his face.
“How dare you,” the sister said quietly. And then again, “How dare you speak that way in front of one of my nurses.”
“I beg your pardon, Sister. It just came out.”
Sister Drummond looked with disdain144 into the bowl. “Compared to what we’ve admitted these past few hours, Airman Young, your injuries are superficial. So you’ll consider yourself lucky. And you’ll show some courage worthy145 of your uniform. Carry on, Nurse Tallis.”
Into the silence that followed her departure, Briony said brightly, “We’ll get on, shall we? Only seven to go. When it’s over, I’ll bring you a measure of brandy.”
He sweated, his whole body shook, and his knuckles146 turned white round the iron bedhead, but he did not make a sound as she continued to pull the pieces clear.
“You know, you can shout, if you want.”
But he didn’t want a second visit from Sister Drummond, and Briony understood. She was saving the largest until last. It did not come clear in one stroke. He bucked147 on the bed, and hissed148 through his clenched teeth. By the second attempt, the shrapnel stuck out two inches from his flesh. She tugged149 it clear on the third try, and held it up for him, a gory150 four-inch stiletto of irregular steel.
He stared at it in wonder. “Run him under the tap, Nurse. I’ll take him home.” Then he turned into the pillow and began to sob151. It may have been the word home, as well as the pain. She slipped away to get his brandy, and stopped in the sluice152 to be sick.
For a long time she undressed, washed and dressed the more superficial of the wounds. Then came the order she was dreading153.
“I want you to go and dress Private Latimer’s face.”
She had already tried to feed him earlier with a teaspoon154 into what remained of his mouth, trying to spare him the humiliation155 of dribbling156. He had pushed her hand away. Swallowing was excruciating. Half his face had been shot away. What she dreaded157, more than the removal of the dressing, was the look of reproach in his large brown eyes. What have you done to me? His form of communication was a soft aah sound from the back of his throat, a little moan of disappointment.
“We’ll soon have you fixed,” she had kept repeating, and could think of nothing else.
And now, approaching his bed with her materials, she said cheerily, “Hello, Private Latimer. It’s me again.”
He looked at her without recognition. She said as she unpinned the bandage that was secured at the top of his head, “It’s going to be all right. You’ll walk out of here in a week or two, you’ll see. And that’s more than we can say to a lot of them in here.”
That was one comfort. There was always someone worse. Half an hour earlier they had carried out a multiple amputation105 on a captain from the East Surreys—the regiment158 the boys in the village had joined. And then there were the dying.
Using a pair of surgical tongs159, she began carefully pulling away the sodden160, congealed lengths of ribbon gauze from the cavity in the side of his face. When the last was out, the resemblance to the cutaway model they used in anatomy161 classes was only faint. This was all ruin, crimson and raw. She could see through his missing cheek to his upper and lower molars, and the tongue glistening162, and hideously163 long. Further up, where she hardly dared look, were the exposed muscles around his eye socket164. So intimate, and never intended to be seen. Private Latimer had become a monster, and he must have guessed this was so. Did a girl love him before? Could she continue to?
“We’ll soon have you fixed,” she lied again.
She began repacking his face with clean gauze soaked in eusol. As she was securing the pins he made his sad sound.
“Shall I bring you the bottle?”
He shook his head and made the sound again.
“You’re uncomfortable?”
No.
“Water?”
A nod. Only a small corner of his lips remained. She inserted the little teapot spout and poured. With each swallow he winced, which in turn caused him agony around the missing muscles of his face. He could stand no more, but as she withdrew the water pot, he raised a hand toward her wrist. He had to have more. Rather pain than thirst. And so it went on for minutes—he couldn’t bear the pain, he had to have the water.
She would have stayed with him, but there was always another job, always a sister demanding help or a soldier calling from his bed. She had a break from the wards when a man coming round from an anesthetic was sick onto her lap and she had to find a clean apron. She was surprised to see from a corridor window that it was dark outside. Five hours had passed since they came back from the park. She was by the linen165 store tying her apron when Sister Drummond came up. It was hard to say what had changed—the manner was still quietly remote, the orders unchallengeable. Perhaps beneath the self-discipline, a touch of rapport166 in adversity.
“Nurse, you’ll go and help apply the Bunyan bags to Corporal MacIntyre’s arms and legs. You’ll treat the rest of his body with tannic acid. If there are difficulties, you’ll come straight to me.”
She turned away to give instructions to another nurse. Briony had seen them bring the corporal in. He was one of a number of men overwhelmed by burning oil on a sinking ferry off Dunkirk. He was picked out of the water by a destroyer. The viscous167 oil clung to the skin and seared through the tissue. It was the burned-out remains168 of a human they lifted onto the bed. She thought he could never survive. It was not easy to find a vein169 to give him morphine. Sometime in the past two hours she had helped two other nurses lift him onto a bedpan and he had screamed at the first touch of their hands.
The Bunyan bags were big cellophane containers. The damaged limb floated inside, cushioned by saline solution that had to be at exactly the right temperature. A variation of one degree was not tolerated. As Briony came up, a probationer with a Primus stove on a trolley65 was already preparing the fresh solution. The bags had to be changed frequently. Corporal MacIntyre lay on his back under a bed cradle because he could not bear the touch of a sheet on his skin. He was whimpering pathetically for water. Burn cases were always badly dehydrated. His lips were too ruined, too swollen170, and his tongue too blistered171 for him to be given fluid by mouth. His saline drip had come away. The needle would not hold in place in the damaged vein. A qualified nurse she had never seen before was attaching a new bag to the stand. Briony prepared the tannic acid in a bowl and took the roll of cotton wool. She thought she would start with the corporal’s legs in order to be out of the way of the nurse who was beginning to search his blackened arm, looking for a vein.
But the nurse said, “Who sent you over here?”
“Sister Drummond.”
The nurse spoke tersely172, and did not look up from her probing. “He’s suffering too much. I don’t want him treated until I get him hydrated. Go and find something else to do.”
Briony did as she was told. She did not know how much later it was—perhaps it was in the small hours when she was sent to get fresh towels. She saw the nurse standing near the entrance to the duty room, unobtrusively crying. Corporal MacIntyre was dead. His bed was already taken by another case.
The probationers and the second-year students worked twelve hours without rest. The other trainees173 and the qualified nurses worked on, and no one could remember how long they were in the wards. All the training she had received, Briony felt later, had been useful preparation, especially in obedience174, but everything she understood about nursing she learned that night. She had never seen men crying before. It shocked her at first, and within the hour she was used to it. On the other hand, the stoicism of some of the soldiers amazed and even appalled175 her. Men coming round from amputations seemed compelled to make terrible jokes. What am I going to kick the missus with now? Every secret of the body was rendered up—bone risen through flesh, sacrilegious glimpses of an intestine176 or an optic nerve. From this new and intimate perspective, she learned a simple, obvious thing she had always known, and everyone knew: that a person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn, not easily mended. She came the closest she would ever be to the battlefield, for every case she helped with had some of its essential elements—blood, oil, sand, mud, seawater, bullets, shrapnel, engine grease, or the smell of cordite, or damp sweaty battle dress whose pockets contained rancid food along with the sodden crumbs177 of Amo bars. Often, when she returned yet again to the sink with the high taps and the soda178 block, it was beach sand she scrubbed away from between her fingers. She and the other probationers of her set were aware of each other only as nurses, not as friends: she barely registered that one of the girls who had helped to move Corporal MacIntyre onto the bedpan was Fiona. Sometimes, when a soldier Briony was looking after was in great pain, she was touched by an impersonal179 tenderness that detached her from the suffering, so that she was able to do her work efficiently180 and without horror. That was when she saw what nursing might be, and she longed to qualify, to have that badge. She could imagine how she might abandon her ambitions of writing and dedicate her life in return for these moments of elated, generalized love.
Toward three-thirty in the morning, she was told to go and see Sister Drummond. She was on her own, making up a bed. Earlier, Briony had seen her in the sluice room. She seemed to be everywhere, doing jobs at every level. Automatically, Briony began to help her.
The sister said, “I seem to remember that you speak a bit of French.”
“It’s only school French, Sister.”
She nodded toward the end of the ward. “You see that soldier sitting up, at the end of the row? Acute surgical, but there’s no need to wear a mask. Find a chair, go and sit with him. Hold his hand and talk to him.”
Briony could not help feeling offended. “But I’m not tired, Sister. Honestly, I’m not.”
“You’ll do as you’re told.”
“Yes, Sister.”
He looked like a boy of fifteen, but she saw from his chart that he was her own age, eighteen. He was sitting, propped181 by several pillows, watching the commotion182 around him with a kind of abstracted childlike wonder. It was hard to think of him as a soldier. He had a fine, delicate face, with dark eyebrows183 and dark green eyes, and a soft full mouth. His face was white and had an unusual sheen, and the eyes were unhealthily radiant. His head was heavily bandaged. As she brought up her chair and sat down he smiled as though he had been expecting her, and when she took his hand he did not seem surprised.
“Te voilà enfin.” The French vowels184 had a musical twang, but she could just about understand him. His hand was cold and greasy185 to the touch.
She said, “The sister told me to come and have a little chat with you.” Not knowing the word, she translated “sister” literally186.
“Your sister is very kind.” Then he cocked his head and added, “But she always was. And is all going well for her? What does she do these days?”
There was such friendliness187 and charm in his eyes, such boyish eagerness to engage her, that she could only go along.
“She’s a nurse too.”
“Of course. You told me before. Is she still happy? Did she get married to that man she loved so well? Do you know, I can’t remember his name. I hope you’ll forgive me. Since my injury my memory has been poor. But they tell me it will soon come back. What was his name?”
“Robbie. But . . .”
“And they’re married now and happy?”
“Er, I hope they will be soon.”
“I’m so happy for her.”
“You haven’t told me your name.”
“Luc. Luc Cornet. And yours?”
She hesitated. “Tallis.”
“Tallis. That’s very pretty.” The way he pronounced it, it was.
He looked away from her face and gazed at the ward, turning his head slowly, quietly amazed. Then he closed his eyes and began to ramble188, speaking softly under his breath. Her vocabulary was not good enough to follow him easily. She caught, “You count them slowly, in your hand, on your fingers . . . my mother’s scarf . . . you choose the color and you have to live with it.”
He fell silent for some minutes. His hand tightened189 its grip on hers. When he spoke again, his eyes were still closed.
“Do you want to know something odd? This is my first time in Paris.”
“Luc, you’re in London. Soon we’ll be sending you home.”
“They said that the people would be cold and unfriendly, but the opposite is true. They’re very kind. And you’re very kind, coming to see me again.”
For a while she thought he might have fallen asleep. Sitting for the first time in hours, she felt her own fatigue190 gathering behind her eyes.
Then he was looking about him with that same slow turn of the head, and then he looked at her and said, “Of course, you’re the girl with the English accent.”
She said, “Tell me what you did before the war. Where did you live? Can you remember?”
“Do you remember that Easter, when you came to Millau?” Feebly, he swung her hand from side to side as he spoke, as though to stir her memory, and his dark green eyes scanned her face in anticipation191.
She thought it wasn’t right to lead him on. “I’ve never been to Millau . . .”
“Do you remember the first time you came in our shop?”
She pulled her chair nearer the bed. His pale, oily face gleamed and bobbed in front of her eyes. “Luc, I want you to listen to me.”
“I think it was my mother who served you. Or perhaps it was one of my sisters. I was working with my father on the ovens at the back. I heard your accent and came to take a look at you . . .”
“I want to tell you where you are. You’re not in Paris . . .”
“Then you were back the next day, and this time I was there and you said . . .”
“Soon you can sleep. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, I promise.”
Luc raised his hand to his head and frowned. He said in a lower voice, “I want to ask you a little favor, Tallis.”
“Of course.”
“These bandages are so tight. Will you loosen them for me a little?”
She stood and peered down at his head. The gauze bows were tied for easy release. As she gently pulled the ends away he said, “My youngest sister, Anne, do you remember her? She’s the prettiest girl in Millau. She passed her grade exam with a tiny piece by Debussy, so full of light and fun. Anyway, that’s what Anne says. It keeps running through my mind. Perhaps you know it.”
He hummed a few random192 notes. She was uncoiling the layer of gauze.
“No one knows where she got her gift from. The rest of our family is completely hopeless. When she plays her back is so straight. She never smiles till she reaches the end. That’s beginning to feel better. I think it was Anne who served you that first time you came into the shop.”
She was not intending to remove the gauze, but as she loosened it, the heavy sterile193 towel beneath it slid away, taking a part of the bloodied194 dressing with it. The side of Luc’s head was missing. The hair was shaved well back from the missing portion of skull18. Below the jagged line of bone was a spongy crimson mess of brain, several inches across, reaching from the crown almost to the tip of his ear. She caught the towel before it slipped to the floor, and she held it while she waited for her nausea195 to pass. Only now did it occur to her what a foolish and unprofessional thing she had done. Luc sat quietly, waiting for her. She glanced down the ward. No one was paying attention. She replaced the sterile towel, fixed the gauze and retied the bows. When she sat down again, she found his hand, and tried to steady herself in its cold moist grip.
Luc was rambling196 again. “I don’t smoke. I promised my ration52 to Jeannot . . . Look, it’s all over the table . . . under the flowers now . . . the rabbit can’t hear you, stupid . . .” Then words came in a torrent197, and she lost him. Later she caught a reference to a schoolmaster who was too strict, or perhaps it was an army officer. Finally he was quiet. She wiped his sweating face with a damp towel and waited.
When he opened his eyes, he resumed their conversation as though there had been no interlude.
“What did you think of our baguettes and ficelles?”
“Delicious.”
“That was why you came every day.”
“Yes.”
He paused to consider this. Then he said cautiously, raising a delicate matter, “And our croissants?”
“The best in Millau.”
He smiled. When he spoke, there was a grating sound at the back of his throat which they both ignored.
“It’s my father’s special recipe. It all depends on the quality of butter.”
He was gazing at her in rapture198. He brought his free hand to cover hers.
He said, “You know that my mother is very fond of you.”
“Is she?”
“She talks about you all the time. She thinks we should be married in the summer.”
She held his gaze. She knew now why she had been sent. He was having difficulty swallowing, and drops of sweat were forming on his brow, along the edge of the dressing and along his upper lip. She wiped them away, and was about to reach the water for him, but he said,
“Do you love me?”
She hesitated. “Yes.” No other reply was possible. Besides, for that moment, she did. He was a lovely boy who was a long way from his family and he was about to die.
She gave him some water. While she was wiping his face again he said, “Have you ever been on the Causse de Larzac?”
“No. I’ve never been there.”
But he did not offer to take her. Instead he turned his head away into the pillow, and soon he was murmuring his unintelligible199 scraps200. His grip on her hand remained tight as though he were aware of her presence.
When he became lucid201 again, he turned his head toward her.
“You won’t leave just yet.”
“Of course not. I’ll stay with you.”
“Tallis . . .”
Still smiling, he half closed his eyes. Suddenly, he jerked upright as if an electric current had been applied202 to his limbs. He was gazing at her in surprise, with his lips parted. Then he tipped forward, and seemed to lunge at her. She jumped up from her chair to prevent him toppling to the floor. His hand still held hers, and his free arm was around her neck. His forehead was pressed into her shoulder, his cheek was against hers. She was afraid the sterile towel would slip from his head. She thought she could not support his weight or bear to see his wound again. The grating sound from deep in his throat resounded203 in her ear. Staggering, she eased him onto the bed and settled him back on the pillows.
“It’s Briony,” she said, so only he would hear.
His eyes had a wide-open look of astonishment204 and his waxy205 skin gleamed in the electric light. She moved closer and put her lips to his ear. Behind her was a presence, and then a hand resting on her shoulder.
“It’s not Tallis. You should call me Briony,” she whispered, as the hand reached over to touch hers, and loosened her fingers from the boy’s.
“Stand up now, Nurse Tallis.”
Sister Drummond took her elbow and helped her to her feet. The sister’s cheek patches were bright, and across the cheekbones the pink skin met the white in a precise straight line.
On the other side of the bed, a nurse drew the sheet over Luc Cornet’s face.
Pursing her lips, the sister straightened Briony’s collar. “There’s a good girl. Now go and wash the blood from your face. We don’t want the other patients upset.”
She did as she was told and went to the lavatories206 and washed her face in cold water, and minutes later returned to her duties in the ward.
At four-thirty in the morning the probationers were sent to their lodgings207 to sleep, and told to report back at eleven. Briony walked with Fiona. Neither girl spoke, and when they linked arms it seemed they were resuming, after a lifetime of experience, their walk across Westminster Bridge. They could not have begun to describe their time in the wards, or how it had changed them. It was enough to be able to keep walking down the empty corridors behind the other girls.
When she had said her good nights and entered her tiny room, Briony found a letter on the floor. The handwriting on the envelope was unfamiliar208. One of the girls must have picked it up at the porter’s lodge and pushed it under her door. Rather than open it straight away, she undressed and prepared herself for sleep. She sat on her bed in her nightdress with the letter in her lap and thought about the boy. The corner of sky in her window was already white. She could still hear his voice, the way he said Tallis, turning it into a girl’s name. She imagined the unavailable future—the boulangerie in a narrow shady street swarming209 with skinny cats, piano music from an upstairs window, her giggling sisters-in-law teasing her about her accent, and Luc Cornet loving her in his eager way. She would have liked to cry for him, and for his family in Millau who would be waiting to hear news from him. But she couldn’t feel a thing. She was empty. She sat for almost half an hour, in a daze61, and then at last, exhausted but still not sleepy, she tied her hair back with the ribbon she always used, got into bed and opened the letter.
Dear Miss Tallis,
Thank you for sending us Two Figures by a Fountain, and please accept our apologies for this dilatory210 response. As you must know, it would be unusual for us to publish a complete novella by an unknown writer, or for that matter a well-established one. However, we did read with an eye to an extract we might take. Unfortunately we are not able to take any of it. I am returning the typescript under separate cover.
That said, we found ourselves (initially211 against our better judgment212, for there is much to do in this office) reading the whole with great interest. Though we cannot offer to publish any part of it, we thought you should know that in this quarter there are others as well as myself who would take an interest in what you might write in the future. We are not complacent213 about the average age of our contributors and are keen to publish promising214 young writers. We would like to see whatever you do, especially if you were to write a short story or two.
We found Two Figures by a Fountain arresting enough to read with dedicated215 attention. I do not say this lightly. We cast aside a great deal of material, some of it by writers of reputation. There are some good images—I liked “the long grass stalked by the leonine yellow of high summer”—and you both capture a flow of thought and represent it with subtle differences in order to make attempts at characterization. Something unique and unexplained is caught. However, we wondered whether it owed a little too much to the techniques of Mrs. Woolf. The crystalline present moment is of course a worthy subject in itself, especially for poetry; it allows a writer to show his gifts, delve216 into mysteries of perception, present a stylized version of thought processes, permit the vagaries217 and unpredictability of the private self to be explored and so on. Who can doubt the value of this experimentation218? However, such writing can become precious when there is no sense of forward movement. Put the other way round, our attention would have been held even more effectively had there been an underlying219 pull of simple narrative220. Development is required.
So, for example, the child at the window whose account we read first—her fundamental lack of grasp of the situation is nicely caught. So too is the resolve in her that follows, and the sense of initiation221 into grown-up mysteries. We catch this young girl at the dawn of her selfhood. One is intrigued222 by her resolve to abandon the fairy stories and homemade folktales and plays she has been writing (how much nicer if we had the flavor of one) but she may have thrown the baby of fictional223 technique out with the folktale water. For all the fine rhythms and nice observations, nothing much happens after a beginning that has such promise. A young man and woman by a fountain, who clearly have a great deal of unresolved feeling between them, tussle224 over a Ming vase and break it. (More than one of us here thought Ming rather too priceless to take outdoors? Wouldn’t Sèvres or Nymphenburg suit your purpose?) The woman goes fully dressed into the fountain to retrieve225 the pieces. Wouldn’t it help you if the watching girl did not actually realize that the vase had broken? It would be all the more of a mystery to her that the woman submerges herself. So much might unfold from what you have—but you dedicate scores of pages to the quality of light and shade, and to random impressions. Then we have matters from the man’s view, then the woman’s—though we don’t really learn much that is fresh. Just more about the look and feel of things, and some irrelevant226 memories. The man and woman part, leaving a damp patch on the ground which rapidly evaporates—and there we have reached the end. This static quality does not serve your evident talent well.
If this girl has so fully misunderstood or been so wholly baffled by the strange little scene that has unfolded before her, how might it affect the lives of the two adults? Might she come between them in some disastrous227 fashion? Or bring them closer, either by design or accident? Might she innocently expose them somehow, to the young woman’s parents perhaps? They surely would not approve of a liaison228 between their eldest229 daughter and their charlady’s son. Might the young couple come to use her as a messenger?
In other words, rather than dwell for quite so long on the perceptions of each of the three figures, would it not be possible to set them before us with greater economy, still keeping some of the vivid writing about light and stone and water which you do so well—but then move on to create some tension, some light and shade within the narrative itself. Your most sophisticated readers might be well up on the latest Bergsonian theories of consciousness, but I’m sure they retain a childlike desire to be told a story, to be held in suspense230, to know what happens. Incidentally, from your description, the Bernini you refer to is the one in the Piazza231 Barberini, not the Piazza Navona.
Simply put, you need the backbone232 of a story. It may interest you to know that one of your avid233 readers was Mrs. Elizabeth Bowen. She picked up the bundle of typescript in an idle moment while passing through this office on her way to luncheon234, asked to take it home to read, and finished it that afternoon. Initially, she thought the prose “too full, too cloying” but with “redeeming shades of Dusty Answer” (which I wouldn’t have thought of at all). Then she was “hooked for a while” and finally she gave us some notes, which are, as it were, mulched into the above. You may feel perfectly satisfied with your pages as they stand, or our reservations may fill you with dismissive anger, or such despair you never want to look at the thing again. We sincerely hope not. Our wish is that you will take our remarks—which are given with sincere enthusiasm—as a basis for another draft.
Your covering letter was admirably reticent235, but you did hint that you had almost no free time at present. If that should change, and you are passing this way, we would be more than happy to see you over a glass of wine and discuss this further. We hope you will not be discouraged. It may help you to know that our letters of rejection236 are usually no more than three sentences long.
You apologize, in passing, for not writing about the war. We will be sending you a copy of our most recent issue, with a relevant editorial. As you will see, we do not believe that artists have an obligation to strike up attitudes to the war. Indeed, they are wise and right to ignore it and devote themselves to other subjects. Since artists are politically impotent, they must use this time to develop at deeper emotional levels. Your work, your war work, is to cultivate your talent, and go in the direction it demands. Warfare237, as we remarked, is the enemy of creative activity.
Your address suggests you may be either a doctor or suffering from a long illness. If the latter, then all of us wish you a speedy and successful recovery.
Finally, one of us here wonders whether you have an older sister who was at Girton six or seven years ago.
Yours sincerely,
CC
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languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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radiators
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| n.（暖气设备的）散热器( radiator的名词复数 )；汽车引擎的冷却器，散热器 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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columnists
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| n.专栏作家( columnist的名词复数 ) | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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prams
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| n.（手推的）婴儿车( pram的名词复数 ) | |
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hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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modernized
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的过去式和过去分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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venue
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| n.犯罪地点，审判地，管辖地，发生地点，集合地点 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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consultant
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| n.顾问；会诊医师，专科医生 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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44
theatrically
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| adv.戏剧化地 | |
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45
tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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46
capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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47
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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48
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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49
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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50
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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51
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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52
ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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53
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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54
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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55
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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56
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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57
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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58
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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59
haphazardly
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| adv.偶然地，随意地，杂乱地 | |
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60
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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61
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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62
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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63
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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64
trolleys
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| n.（两轮或四轮的）手推车( trolley的名词复数 )；装有脚轮的小台车；电车 | |
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65
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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66
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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67
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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68
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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69
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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70
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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71
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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72
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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74
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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75
maneuvered
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵 | |
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76
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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78
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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79
halfway
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|
| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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80
obliterated
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|
| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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81
dressings
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|
| n.敷料剂；穿衣( dressing的名词复数 )；穿戴；（拌制色拉的）调料；（保护伤口的）敷料 | |
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82
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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83
sling
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|
| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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84
slings
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| 抛( sling的第三人称单数 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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85
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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86
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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87
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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88
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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89
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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90
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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91
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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92
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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93
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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94
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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95
dinned
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| vt.喧闹（din的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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96
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
ineptitude
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|
| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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98
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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99
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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100
transfusion
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| n.输血，输液 | |
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101
flasks
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| n.瓶，长颈瓶， 烧瓶( flask的名词复数 ) | |
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102
plasma
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| n.血浆，细胞质，乳清 | |
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103
groans
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|
| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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104
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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105
amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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106
sector
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|
| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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107
grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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109
congealed
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|
| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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110
corrugated
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|
| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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111
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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114
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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115
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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116
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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117
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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118
ruptured
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| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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119
fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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120
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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121
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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123
constrict
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| v.压缩，收缩，阻塞 | |
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124
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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125
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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126
anesthetic
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| n.麻醉剂，麻药；adj.麻醉的，失去知觉的 | |
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127
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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128
dehydrate
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| vt.使脱水 | |
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129
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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130
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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131
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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132
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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133
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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134
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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135
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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136
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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137
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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138
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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139
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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140
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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141
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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142
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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143
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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144
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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145
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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146
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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147
bucked
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| adj.快v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的过去式和过去分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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148
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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149
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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151
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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152
sluice
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| n.水闸 | |
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153
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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154
teaspoon
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| n.茶匙 | |
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155
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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156
dribbling
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| n.（燃料或油从系统内）漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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157
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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158
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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159
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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160
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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161
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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162
glistening
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|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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163
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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164
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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165
linen
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|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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166
rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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167
viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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168
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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169
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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170
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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171
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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172
tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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173
trainees
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| 新兵( trainee的名词复数 )； 练习生； 接受训练的人； 训练中的动物 | |
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174
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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175
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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176
intestine
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| adj.内部的；国内的；n.肠 | |
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177
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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178
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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179
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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180
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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181
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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183
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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184
vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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185
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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186
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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187
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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188
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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189
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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190
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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191
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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192
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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193
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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194
bloodied
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| v.血污的( bloody的过去式和过去分词 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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195
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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196
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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197
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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198
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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199
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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200
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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201
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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202
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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203
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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204
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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205
waxy
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| adj.苍白的；光滑的 | |
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206
lavatories
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| n.厕所( lavatory的名词复数 )；抽水马桶；公共厕所（或卫生间、洗手间、盥洗室）；浴室水池 | |
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207
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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208
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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209
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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210
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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211
initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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212
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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213
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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214
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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215
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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216
delve
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| v.深入探究，钻研 | |
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217
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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218
experimentation
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| n.实验，试验，实验法 | |
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219
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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220
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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221
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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222
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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223
fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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224
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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225
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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226
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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227
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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228
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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229
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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230
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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231
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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232
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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233
avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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234
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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235
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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236
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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237
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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