Convalescence by Maynard Sims Page A

crossed. “What are you doing in here?”
    Confused, I turned back to the mist figure, but it had gone. There was nothing there. I glanced across to the gramophone, but its turntable was still, its brown-felt cover thick with dust, and the room was silent, with just Mrs. Rogers’s words hanging in the air like an accusation.
    â€œHe was there.” I pointed across the room to where the mist-boy had been standing. “Right there. And he wanted me to help him.”
    The skin around Mrs. Rogers’s eyes tightened slightly, and then she was smiling. “Come back to your room, Jimmy. I think you need to lie down.”
    She came across, wrapped her arm around my shoulders and guided me towards the door, but before she could propel me through it and back out into the corridor, I stole a glance backwards. The room was empty, the dust on the floor undisturbed, apart from our footprints.
    â€œBut I don’t understand,” I said.
    â€œI do,” she said. “Your Miss Holt warned me something like this might happen.”
    â€œSomething like what?” I said. “And she’s not my Miss Holt.”
    â€œThe hallucinations,” Mrs. Rogers said. “It’s part and parcel of your illness and everything you’ve been through.”
    Her voice was kind, reasonable.
    â€œBut I know I saw him,” I said.
    â€œYes, I’m sure you did,” she said condescendingly. “Now let’s get you back to your room.” She tightened her grip on my shoulders and urged me forward.
    Amy was already in the dining room when I came down to dinner, but there was no sign yet of my uncle and Mrs. Rogers. I took my seat at the table and Amy came over and laid a napkin across my knees.
    â€œI need to talk to you,” I said quietly as her head lowered.
    She turned to face me. “You can talk to me,” she said.
    I shook my head. “Not here and not now,” I said. “Can we talk in private?”
    She shrugged. “Sure. Come to my room later. We can talk in there.” She fell silent as Mrs. Rogers entered the dining room.
    I nodded my head slightly to show Amy that I understood, and she went back to the kitchen to fetch the first course.
    Uncle Thomas joined us a few minutes later. He sat down at the head of the table and launched into a series of anecdotes about his time as a professional cricketer.
    The evening passed quickly. My uncle was an excellent raconteur with a seemingly endless supply of witty, self-deprecating stories centered mostly around his playing life. Though towards the end of the meal the subject shifted to his time in the diamond mines of South Africa, and those stories were just as amusing and gave a fascinating insight into a world I had only read about in my comics.
    Throughout it all, Mrs. Rogers sat quietly, smiling at my uncle’s recollections but adding none of her own.
    When Amy came back to the dining room to clear the crockery, Mrs. Rogers had already left the room, leaving Uncle Thomas and me alone.
    My uncle got to his feet. “Come on, James, what say you and I take a walk before bedtime?”
    â€œA walk…” I said uncertainly.
    â€œYes, why not? It won’t be dark for another hour. I’ll take you down and show you the lake…well, it’s more a big pond, to be fair, but it does have a few fish—perch and chub, and a couple of reasonably sized pike. Do you fish, James?”
    I had tried it once a couple of years ago. Dad had taken me with him to the River Lea where he was a member of an angling club but, to be quite honest, I found the whole experience deadly dull.
    â€œNo,” I said in answer to my uncle’s question.
    â€œNeither do I,” he said. “Bores the pants off me, if I’m honest, but people have told me it’s pretty good down at the pond. Come along.”
    We left the house via the French doors and walked across the lawn, past the summerhouse, towards