The Tall Stranger

by D.E. Stevenson

It was not really a question, for of course Nell was going – it was her usual hour of departure and here she was in the hall with her hat and coat on – but if nobody ever asked unnecessary questions there would be a good deal less to say.

The ambulance rolled along smoothly but already Barbie was at Underwoods. Her thoughts had arrived before her body.

‘Hospitals are wonderful,’ said Penney. ‘They give you everything they can think of; they give you oxygen and blood transfusions and all the drugs in the chemist’s shop, but they never seem to think of giving you enough sleep. I’ve often wondered why.’

sleep was – somehow sacred (it was one of God’s greatest blessings to a weary world);

‘Well, honestly I don’t think I did actually want to die. I was just so tired that I didn’t want to live. There’s quite a lot of difference.’

Their two voices chimed together pleasantly. Henry Buckland’s voice was deep; it was a real man’s voice. He had lived so much with men and was so intensely masculine that he made her feel very feminine. They were silly words – masculine and feminine – thought Barbie, but she could find no others to describe the sensation he gave her.

(It is a strange quirk of human nature that if we are very fond of people we like them to be plump.)

There was a short silence. ‘You’ll either have to tell me or not tell me,’ said Nell. Barbie had realised this ten seconds before her friend. Five seconds later she realised that already she had told Nell too much to leave her guessing; besides she wanted Nell’s judgment.

There was a time to speak of her own experiences and a time for silence. This obviously was a time for silence.

Barbie did not reply. She took out her note-book and jotted down some figures. (Afterwards, when she examined her notes, these figures puzzled her considerably.)

Don’t think about what might have happened to the child. Just think she’s safely in bed and asleep. If we think of “what might have happened” we never get very far. Every time we cross the street we might have been run over …’