Colin M. Johnson's Fiction - Novels

"ONE POTATO, TWO"

by Colin M. Johnson

CHAPTER 5


      Shortly after Christmas, Sarah was standing one afternoon in the kitchen with Aunt Dottie, helping her to wash up.

      "You know, you really are just like Mummy," she said.   "I still love Mummy, of course, but you're just as good at being Mummy, now you've had a bit more practice."

      "Thank you, darling.   It's good to know an understudy can still turn in a laudable performance, even if she doesn't have a star nailed to her dressing-room door."

      "What's an understudy?"

      "Someone who stands waiting in the wings in case an actor or actress falls ill - which reminds me - we've got a little surprise for you.   Guess where you and I are going on Saturday afternoon."

      "I don't know.   Oh, do tell me."

      Sarah felt it appropriate to jig up and down.   Without her sister, she could be as Wendyish as she liked now, with no fear of competition.

      "We're going to a big West End Theatre to see - Peter Pan."

      "Oh."

      It puzzled Dottie at the time that Sarah received this news with such half-hearted enthusiasm, as though she could have wished for a far better treat than a visit to a theatre.

      "You'll like it, I promise.   It'll be much more exciting than that video we once gave you."

      It wasn't till late on the Friday evening that it suddenly dawned on Dottie why she had seen that sudden cloud of doubt on Sarah's face.   The girl in the story of Peter Pan was called Wendy.

      "Oh, Jim," she sighed wretchedly, "I never gave it a thought - I could kick myself.   Perhaps we ought to choose another show instead?"

      "Oh, I think that'd be a mistake, my love - after all, we can't go through life trying to steer young Sarah clear of anyone called Wendy, any more than we can shield her from Mickey Mouse, aeroplanes or a hundred other things to remind her of that Disney trip.   She may well be reminded every day of her life, so it's best we teach her to face up to it.   Tomorrow may be tough on you, but I reckon it'll do her good."

      They went to see Peter Pan, and Sarah thoroughly enjoyed it despite thinking of her missing sister every time she heard the name.   But somehow she felt she was sharing the occasion with Wendy - perhaps because she and Wendy had watched the video so often at home.   And it was far more exciting, she agreed, being a member of the audience up in the Dress Circle, looking down onto a stage with real live actors.

      Afterwards, as she and her aunt made their way back to the station, they passed an ice-cream parlour called Wendy-House.   Aunt Dottie saw it first, and tried to steer her niece in another direction.   But it was too late.

      "Look, there's Wendy's House!" exclaimed the excited Sarah.   "Can we go and get an ice cream?"

      "I think we ought to hurry on and catch our train," replied her aunt, hoping the ever-recurring name of Wendy wasn't going to cause tearful upsets later on.   But the subject wouldn't go away, as Dottie found out on their journey home, when Sarah asked the question she'd been dreading all day.

      "Where do you suppose our Wendy is now?"

      "I think your Wendy is probably up in heaven, my pet, helping to make it nice and tidy for when you and I get there one day."

      Aunt Dottie knew she'd given the best answer she could.   She'd spent all day rehearsing it.

      "It must be nice for her," Sarah declared, "especially if she's got Mummy and Daddy there as well.   Why didn't Peter Pan have a Mummy?"

      "He must have done once, but she probably went to heaven."

      "I'd better make sure I'm extra good from now on," she concluded, "otherwise they might not let me in."

      After ten minutes of thoughtful silence, Sarah spoke up again:

      "Do I belong to you and Uncle Jim now?"

      The loving aunt put a strong arm around her niece.   "Let's put that another way, my darling, and say that your uncle and I belong to YOU.   We always have done, and we always will."

      This time it was a spontaneous reply, but Dottie felt again she'd given a good answer to another very awkward question.

      "You know, Auntie, I'm glad we saw PETER PAN today.   I felt I was sharing it with Wendy too, and that was good.   I think Wendy's a nice name, don't you?"

      Her aunt agreed it was a very nice name.   After all, it was she herself who had chosen it, nearly eight years ago.  

*****

      Barely a week earlier, Cyril and Barbara Latham had sat talking long into the night about their little friend in the hospital.   One by one she was releasing pieces of her puzzle in unguarded moments, as if her traumatized brain was trying to block something out.   Only when she wasn't thinking would the subconscious mind let slip an odd scrap of information before it could be censored.

      The focus of her amnesia was a loss of names.   Words like Potato and Christmas conjured up vivid mental images, keeping them firmly in her mind.   She had no trouble with arithmetic, since numbers were based on fundamental fact rather than memory.   But there was often no mental picture on which to base a name.

      A notable exception was Captain Hook, whom she remembered easily because of its strong pictorial association, whilst the name of Peter Pan had been triggered by Nurse Edwards.   The doctor was certain that all her memories lay dormant inside the girl's head ready to emerge when the right stimulus was applied.

      "It's the difference," he sighed, "between remembering a name, which she finds hard, and being reminded of it when some chance remark brings it to the surface.   She has no trouble with names of people she's met since the accident, like yours or the hospital staff, and I'm sure she'd spot her parents at once if they happened to wander into the ward.   But they're not likely to do that - not if they were both killed in that accident."

      "And you're sure there are no reports of missing children who fit Potato's description?   I mean, surely someone cares about her?   If it's not her parents, surely there are other relatives?"

      The doctor began pacing the living room, his patience wearing thin, exasperated by weeks of tireless effort and frustration.

      "Yes, but we can't find them until we know who she is.   If only Potato would provide more clues!   I need to get her out of that ward.   If we could find the town she came from, the school she went to, anything to narrow down the search ..."

      "You really want to?" Barbara challenged him.

      "Want to?   Of course I want to.   Dammit, what the hell do you think I've been trying to do all these weeks?"

      "Oh, I know you've tried," she said calmly.   "But if you're honest with yourself, you must admit you'd be mighty sorry to see her go."

      "Of course.   She's a very lovable, lonely, frightened little girl, and I want to see her looking bright and happy again.   That's what I want."

      "How important is she to you?   I mean, we both know she's not just another patient, not any more."

      "No, she isn't," he agreed, "She's become very special to a lot of people."

      "Including you.   Darling, you've talked of no other patient for weeks as you have about this one little girl.   Are you sure you're still acting professionally in her case, or have you become too emotionally involved?"

      "Of course I'm involved, dammit!   We're all involved.   You've seen what she's like.   You'd need a heart of stone not to love that little mite."

      "And that's something you don't have, is it, my love."

      "No," he could only murmur.   "Not me."

      "So, do something about it.   If you'd like us to become foster-parents until there's a breakthrough in her case, then do the thing properly.   We both know psychiatrists who become father-figures to their patients, but it's time to admit this one is now a daughter-figure to her psychiatrist.   I'll gladly support you if you'd like us to offer her a home, you know that, so the next move is up to you."

      The following morning, Dr. Cyril Latham made an official request to the hospital administrators that he and his wife might provide a temporary home for the mystery patient.   He was warned there would be delays while formal procedures took place, but there were no objections to Barbara Latham taking the child out for the day, particularly as a more stimulating environment might prompt further clues to her identity.

      So arrangements were made for Potato to go with Barbara Latham one Saturday to a West End theatre to see PETER PAN.   With both legs freshly replastered to the hips, she was wheeled outside and carefully positioned in Barbara's car.   A dozen nurses managed to slip away from their wards for a moment to watch this event, and many more faces were seen pressed to windows overlooking the forecourt as Potato gave everyone a royal wave before being driven away into the heart of Central London.

      They arrived at the theatre early.   Barbara had obtained a concession from the police to park her car nearby, and arranged with the theatre management to accommodate this special visitor in the orchestra stalls.   Potato chattered incessantly as the auditorium filled, awed into silence only when the atmosphere intensified to an expectant hush, and the curtain slowly rose.

      She was enthralled by everything she saw, and looked perfectly content as if everyone in the theatre had become a close friend.   She sensed a strange presence too, an instinctive twin-like awareness that amidst the vast crowd around her, there had to be someone whom she knew intimately.

      When the show was over, Barbara and her companion stayed behind until the theatre was quite empty, in case anyone had accidentally knocked into the patient's legs which stuck out in front of her like railway buffers.   And that's why Potato never caught sight of the almost identical young girl who'd been sitting proudly with her aunt, high above in the Dress Circle.

      "Well?" asked Barbara as they drove back towards the hospital.   "Was Peter Pan worth going to see?"

      "Oh yes, thank you," she replied, giving Barbara one of those smiles that had effectively melted her husband's heart.   "I know I haven't seen it on the stage before, but I'm sure we saw it many times on a video."

      "That's more than likely."

      "And I think," she added firmly after a careful pause, "I think I'd like you to call me Wendy."

      "Wendy?   Why Wendy?   You think that's your real name?"

      "It feels right.   Everything felt right today.   I also think my sister was there too."

      "You mean you saw her?   And you didn't say anything?" Barbara looked alarmed, as though she'd let slip some vitally important opportunity.

      "No, I didn't see anyone I knew," Wendy explained.   "But I know I had a twin sister, and I'm sure she was there in the theatre."

      "But why on earth didn't you say so at the time?"

      "You'd only have laughed and told me off for being silly," she replied.   "If you're not a twin yourself, then you wouldn't understand."

      "Well, if you ever get that feeling again, you tell me straight away."

      "But I might be wrong, and then you'd waste a lot of time.   But today I suddenly began thinking of Sarah ...   yes, Sarah!   I'm sure that's her name."

      Barbara stopped the car and turned to Wendy.   "Listen, Potato, Wendy, whatever your name is - get this into your head.   Scores of people have spent a great deal of time trying to discover who you are.   Why you can't tell them it's not for me to say, because I don't understand these things the way my husband does.   But we all desperately want to know who you are, do you understand?   Now, you say you have a sister called Sarah and you feel Sarah may have been in that same theatre this afternoon.   If you had said anything, my love, anything at all to me in the interval, I would willingly have had the theatre sealed off and climbed onto the stage myself to make a public announcement, just to try and get to the bottom of this whole business.   All we can hope for is another chance like the one we lost today.   I can hardly ring up the theatre manager now and ask if they had a Sarah there this afternoon - particularly as you still haven't given us a surname to go with it."

      Wendy looked totally stunned.   No-one had spoken so sharply to her for months.   She'd been surrounded by kindness and loving attention, the centre of attraction since waking up after her accident.   Now suddenly she was being ticked off for not saying something that would only have caused trouble if she had.   The shock of this injustice and the unaccustomed reprimand brought tears to her eyes, and Barbara knew she'd overstepped the mark.

      "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean to upset you, but please!   If you get any more thoughts like that, do let us know.   We all want to help you, my pet, never forget that."

      Wendy flung her arms around Barbara, pressing her face close as she sobbed quietly to herself.

      "I know we're twins," she said at last, "and I'm sure my sister's called Sarah.   It was when I heard Peter calling out for Wendy, I just knew it was me."

      "But Wendy's a lovely name, sweetheart.   How could you forget a name like Wendy?"

      "I don't know how I forget.   I just know the harder I try to remember names the worse it gets because I think of lots of names that aren't right and I end up getting all muddled.   I can't help it if I'm dotty like my sister.   That's what Mummy used to say - Dottie like my sister."

      "Of course, my sweet, but you mustn't let it worry you.   You're not the only one who gets muddled, I promise you."

      "Look!" Wendy yelled suddenly, and Barbara brought the car to a shuddering halt.   "Wendy's House!   Mummy bought us an ice cream there once because it's got my name on it."

      "Do you want us to stop and get one now?"   Barbara was ready to try anything that might trigger further revelations.

      "Not with my legs like this," Wendy decided ruefully.   "I'm tired of being so stiff.   When do you think I'll be able to run about again?"

      "You're asking the wrong person, my sweet, but I'll try to get an answer for you in the morning."

      Later that night, long after Wendy had fallen asleep, Cyril Latham was in his office, listening to an eminent consultant who'd been called in to advise on the best treatment for Wendy's fractured legs.

      "I've given your patient several thorough examinations," he said, "and her left leg's doing fine.   But as to the right leg, again I have to say in my opinion we should amputate.   It'll be above the knee, of course, but she'll have an ideal stump for a prosthesis."

      "Oh, come on, Bill - are you telling me that after thirty years' in this business you can't come up with any better solutions than eighteenth century butchery?   I brought you in, not just as an old friend, but because you're the best.   You've always been an innovator, the guy who's not afraid to try something new in the interests of his patient.   This is a darling little girl we've got here, Bill, not a retired sea-dog.   You can't kid me your pioneering days are over.   We need to keep the leg, Bill - and we want skilled medical expertise, not brutal tree surgery."

      "Cyril, you're being emotional and unrealistic.   The advances in modern prosthetics are streets ahead of what they were ten years ago.   And children are amazingly resilient.   She'll adapt in no time, you'll see."

      "But Bill - listen to me - we don't have consent, and I certainly can't give it - she's not my child.   For God's sake, do you want an American law-suit on your hands when the next of kin show up."

      The surgeon's enthusiasm faded at once.   "American?"

      "Five times this week, Bill, Wendy's told me to have a nice day!   That sounds mighty American to me.   Come, it's not as if her life's in danger."

      "No consent, eh?   All right, damn you, you talked me into it.   I'll do what I can with a section of the fibula to provide extra support, though there's no guarantee it'll work, and I may still have to amputate.   And for the record, Dr. Latham, I'd like you to know, I think on this case you're stepping way out of line."

      "That's because we have a special case here, Bill, which is why I'm stepping out of line.   And I'm lucky, Bill.   I've got two perfectly sound legs to step out of line with."

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