Page 46 of The Missing Sister
‘And what are my duties?’ she asked when she reached the top of the stairs and followed Mrs Houghton down a corridor wide enough to drive a Black and Tan truck along it.
‘In the afternoons, Philip likes to be read to, then he will ring for tea and sandwiches around four o’clock. At seven, you will help him wash and put on his nightshirt and robe. He might listen to the radio, then at eight, you will help him into bed and he will take a hot drink and a biscuit, then his medicine. Once he is in bed, you are free to leave. Now’ – Mrs Houghton turned to Nuala – ‘I hope you are not squeamish?’
‘I’m not, so,’ Nuala replied, thinking ‘squeamish’ must be an English word for something she shouldn’t be. ‘Why?’
‘Poor Philip’s face was badly disfigured when he was caught in the blast. He lost one eye and can barely see out of the other.’
‘Oh, that’ll be no problem, I’ve seen the like in... hospital in Cork,’ Nuala continued, horrified that she had been about to say ‘in an ambush’ when one of the IRA volunteers had been injured by an explosion.
‘Good. Shall we go in?’
Mrs Houghton gave a light tap on the door and a voice called, ‘Come.’
They walked into an airy sitting room, with windows facing out over the parkland beyond. The furnishings were so sumptuous that Nuala had an urge to simply run her hands over the soft silk damask that covered the sofa and chairs, and the shiny, elegant mahogany sideboards and tables that stood around the room. Sitting by the window with his back to them was a man in a wheelchair.
‘Your new nurse is here, Philip.’
‘Bring her over then,’ a voice said in an English accent that had a slow thickness to it.
Nuala followed Mrs Houghton across the room, glad her mammy had insisted she put on her only good cotton dress.
The man turned his wheelchair round to face her, and Nuala did her best not to gulp in horror. His facial features had been cruelly rearranged: his empty eye socket, his nose and the left side of his mouth hung lower than his right. The skin in between was desperately scarred, and yet, the right side of his face remained untouched.
Nuala was able to see that, with his head of thick blond hair, he’d once been a handsome young man.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Nuala said as she dipped a small curtsey.
‘Good afternoon, Miss...?’
‘Murphy, sir. Nuala Murphy.’
‘I’m presuming you are Irish?’
‘Indeed I am, sir. I live only a couple of miles away.’
‘Your mother has already contacted staffing agencies in England,’ cut in Mrs Houghton, ‘but as Nuala has just said, she’s local and a nurse.’
‘As we both know, Mrs Houghton, I’m hardly in need of a nurse,’ Philip shrugged. ‘Come closer so I can see you properly.’
Philip beckoned Nuala towards him and only allowed her to halt when there were merely inches between them. He stared at her, and she could tell that even though he only had one eye that was apparently half-blind, there was a perceptiveness about him.
‘She’ll do fine, Mrs Houghton. Please’ – he gave a dismissive wave with his hand – ‘leave us to get to know each other.’
‘Very good, Philip. Ring if you need anything.’
Mrs Houghton turned out of the room and Nuala was left alone with him. Despite her negative thoughts on coming over here, her big, warm heart immediately went out to this poor, disfigured man.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘first of all, call me Philip, not “sir”. As the staff already know, I can’t bear it. Reminds me of a time I do not want to remember. Now, do sit down,’ he said as he wheeled himself to the centre of the room.
Even though this was a simple request, given the fact that she had been drilled for her whole life to stand straight (and secretly proud) in front of any member of the British gentry, being asked to ‘sit down’ – especially on a damask sofa – was a confusing moment.
‘Yes, sir, I mean, Philip,’ Nuala replied, then did so. Now she had overcome the shock of seeing his face, her eyes travelled downwards to the half-empty trouser leg on his left side.
‘So, Nuala, tell me about yourself.’ Due to his twisted lip, she could see that it took effort for him to speak slowly and clearly.
‘I... well, I’m one of three siblings, and I live at a farm with them and my cousin, my mammy and my daddy, Daniel Murphy.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Murphy. My father says he’s a decent sort of Irishman. Sensible type,’ Philip nodded. ‘Not one to involve himself with the kind of activities that are going on around here and across Ireland at the moment, I’m sure.’
