idea of you being alone. What about a nurse?'
'If you're offering, I can't think of anything nicer.'
'I'm the world's worst nurse,' I told him.
'This bug I've got gives you a pretty foul time for a week or two, but according to the quack it runs a predictable course and all one can do is to sweat it out and drink pints of liquid. The temperature drops after a bit, and apart from feeling like a wet rag one survives eventually.'
'But should you be alone? What about getting to the loo or having to fetch something from downstairs?'
'My dear love, and I mean that,' he said, suddenly earnest. 'I can get to the loo. I've even had a shower or two. I'm not eating, and the doc says that's OK as long as I drink. So I'm quite all right, and there's not a thing I need. Except your company, of course.'
I collected the mugs and stood looking at him.
'If Jessie's coming night and morning, I'll come and get your liquid lunch each day, and see what you need.'
He had a telephone by the bed, and I nodded to it.
'And any time, do ring. I'll come like a shot. You know that.'
'Suppose it is in the middle of the night? What would the neighbours say?' he laughed.
'You know what I think about the neighbours! Now I'm off to Caxley. Anything else you want?'
"You know what I want.'
I bent to give him a farewell kiss. His forehead was wet with sweat.
'You're terribly dank?
That's a fine thing to say to an invalid. You make me sound like a dungeon.'
'What you need,' I told him, 'is a few hours' sleep.'
'Maybe you're right.'
He was already slipping down the bed as I departed on my mission to Caxley.
***
I parked behind the same shop where I had recently bought tights and boxes of soap.
The men's department was virtually unknown to me, and seemed very quiet and austere compared with the toiletries and haberdashery departments I usually frequented.
There was only one other customer in there, a man absorbed in turning over piles of pants and discussing with the shop assistant the merits of various weights of garment.
An elderly man hurried to serve me. He had a pink and white face, white hair and moustache, and half-glasses. He reminded me of an old gentleman who used to keep our local sweet shop when I was a child.
I explained my needs, and he held before me an oblong package wrapped in shiny cellophane, just as the sweet-shop owner had been wont to hold out a flat dish of Everton toffee, complete with a small hammer for breaking it up, so many years ago.
He slipped the contents out of the bag and displayed the pyjama jacket. It was of some satin-like crimson material with black frogging across it. It reminded me of the sort of costume a Ruritanian prince used to wear in musical comedies in the 1920s. I could not see John in this confection.
'I think something quieter ,' I said. He turned to the shelves and added three more packets to the first.
These were certainly more normal, the sort of uninspired garment sported that morning by the invalid. They also looked as though they would take hours to dry, even in Jessie's tumble drier.
'Have you got any non-iron pyjamas?' I asked, turning over the heavy ones before me.
'Hello,' said someone beside me. It was my former assistant at Fairacre school, Mrs Richards.
'What are you doing playing truant on a Monday?' I said, secretly rather taken aback in the midst of my male shopping.
'Half term,' she said succinctly.
'Of course. My goodness, it'll soon be November.'
She was eyeing the pile of pyjamas with considerable interest. I supposed resignedly that news of my purchases would soon be known to Fairacre. Ah, well!
'Getting Christmas presents already?' she hazarded.
'That's right,' I lied.
'Now these,' said my assistant returning, 'are our usual nylon sort. We sell a lot of these, particularly for summer wear.'
I looked at them. They were cold and slippery. They looked as though they would be horribly chilly for a feverish body. Possibly dank too after an hour's wear, I
'If you're offering, I can't think of anything nicer.'
'I'm the world's worst nurse,' I told him.
'This bug I've got gives you a pretty foul time for a week or two, but according to the quack it runs a predictable course and all one can do is to sweat it out and drink pints of liquid. The temperature drops after a bit, and apart from feeling like a wet rag one survives eventually.'
'But should you be alone? What about getting to the loo or having to fetch something from downstairs?'
'My dear love, and I mean that,' he said, suddenly earnest. 'I can get to the loo. I've even had a shower or two. I'm not eating, and the doc says that's OK as long as I drink. So I'm quite all right, and there's not a thing I need. Except your company, of course.'
I collected the mugs and stood looking at him.
'If Jessie's coming night and morning, I'll come and get your liquid lunch each day, and see what you need.'
He had a telephone by the bed, and I nodded to it.
'And any time, do ring. I'll come like a shot. You know that.'
'Suppose it is in the middle of the night? What would the neighbours say?' he laughed.
'You know what I think about the neighbours! Now I'm off to Caxley. Anything else you want?'
"You know what I want.'
I bent to give him a farewell kiss. His forehead was wet with sweat.
'You're terribly dank?
That's a fine thing to say to an invalid. You make me sound like a dungeon.'
'What you need,' I told him, 'is a few hours' sleep.'
'Maybe you're right.'
He was already slipping down the bed as I departed on my mission to Caxley.
***
I parked behind the same shop where I had recently bought tights and boxes of soap.
The men's department was virtually unknown to me, and seemed very quiet and austere compared with the toiletries and haberdashery departments I usually frequented.
There was only one other customer in there, a man absorbed in turning over piles of pants and discussing with the shop assistant the merits of various weights of garment.
An elderly man hurried to serve me. He had a pink and white face, white hair and moustache, and half-glasses. He reminded me of an old gentleman who used to keep our local sweet shop when I was a child.
I explained my needs, and he held before me an oblong package wrapped in shiny cellophane, just as the sweet-shop owner had been wont to hold out a flat dish of Everton toffee, complete with a small hammer for breaking it up, so many years ago.
He slipped the contents out of the bag and displayed the pyjama jacket. It was of some satin-like crimson material with black frogging across it. It reminded me of the sort of costume a Ruritanian prince used to wear in musical comedies in the 1920s. I could not see John in this confection.
'I think something quieter ,' I said. He turned to the shelves and added three more packets to the first.
These were certainly more normal, the sort of uninspired garment sported that morning by the invalid. They also looked as though they would take hours to dry, even in Jessie's tumble drier.
'Have you got any non-iron pyjamas?' I asked, turning over the heavy ones before me.
'Hello,' said someone beside me. It was my former assistant at Fairacre school, Mrs Richards.
'What are you doing playing truant on a Monday?' I said, secretly rather taken aback in the midst of my male shopping.
'Half term,' she said succinctly.
'Of course. My goodness, it'll soon be November.'
She was eyeing the pile of pyjamas with considerable interest. I supposed resignedly that news of my purchases would soon be known to Fairacre. Ah, well!
'Getting Christmas presents already?' she hazarded.
'That's right,' I lied.
'Now these,' said my assistant returning, 'are our usual nylon sort. We sell a lot of these, particularly for summer wear.'
I looked at them. They were cold and slippery. They looked as though they would be horribly chilly for a feverish body. Possibly dank too after an hour's wear, I
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