Redux

Eventually, I shake myself from my stupor. There is a bowl and pitcher in one corner of the room, with a clean cloth laid next to them. I make a guess that this is how basic sanitation works here, and I turn out to be right.

I wash a little bit more thoroughly than I need to, not knowing if they have a private steamshower here or not. I hope they do - I can see myself spending the majority of my time here outdoors. Among all those plants and soil and stones. . .

I draw a deep breath. Indoors the air isn't nearly so shockingly fresh, but there is still a tang of fullness to it - a savour of blooming fungus and the mould of leaves, mingled with a million things I've never smelled before. I yearn to be outside again, surrounded by things I've only read about. My fingers itch to explore, to sort pebbles and sketch leaves, to see tree bark, and flowers, and herbs, and fruit, and mushrooms, and even insects. Do they have rodents around here, I wonder? Amphibians? Snakes? Fish? Mammals? After the expanse of clean ocean I've witnessed, I figure anything is possible. The world of this Cold Island is so enormous, I've never felt so small.

For some reason, that comforts me a little.

I have to look a long time at the little washing station to realize that underneath the shelf that holds small rolled cloths, there is a large jar - and it takes me even longer to realize that it is meant to hold the greywater. Blushing at my own ignorance, I dump the rinsing bowl out into it. Then I pause for a minute, wondering if I can afford to wash my feet. I shrug. I have to assume water is at least somewhat cheaper here, so I pour nearly a half-liter more into the rinsing bowl. It's been a couple of days since I've had my boots off, and after all, I don't know what sort of clothing - or even behaviour, come to think of it - will be expected from me here.

I was more than half expecting to be cooped up in a hospital for the duration of my time here. . . and now that it's clear Uncle intends nothing of the kind. . . well. . . I feel at quite a loose end.

I don't know exactly how I'm supposed to be feeling, and my actual emotions are even more confused. . .

I'm just drying my feet when Mrs. Graham knocks briefly at my door, and then walks in.

"Oh, good, I was hoping you'd still be washing," she smiles, and holds out a small pile of clean, soft cloth, "I don't know if these will fit you, dearie, but I thought they might be more comfortable for you than. . ." she trails off, unable to politely say anything more, even though she has obviously looked over my worn, patched and threadbare clothes, and found them woefully wanting. I find I have to agree with her.

"I'm sure they will be, thank you, Mrs. Graham."

I take the little pile of neatly folded things. At my first touch, I gasp. These are no ordinary clothes.

"Ohhh, linen!" I exclaim, "Marvelous!"

"You know linen?" she says, eyes brightening.

I lightly run the hem of the pale blue tunic between my fingers, "Oh yes, I studied Historic Botany in school. I know all the natural plant fibres. Hemp, sisal, cotton, jute. . ." I throw off my dark brown tunic, and slip into this one. She needn't have worried that it wouldn't fit. If anything, it hangs a little loosely on my underfed body. The cloth is fresh, smooth, and almost infinitely more comfortable than my old Tyfon-cloth things. "But I've never worn anything like this," I say, stepping into the dark blue cotton trousers. They are thicker-woven than the thin tunic, and not as smooth or soft. But I can fit into them, and at the moment, that's all that matters.

At the bottom of the pile, there's a pair of soft little knitted house-slippers. These also fit reasonably well.

"Thank you again, Mrs. Graham," I say, a great deal comforted.

"Well, I'll tell my daughter her clothes went to a good use. Now ye'r expected downstairs for tea," she smiles and gestures gently.

"Oh!" I start, suddenly remembering myself, "I nearly forgot! You may not want me to be eating with you. . ." I dive into my discarded trouser pocket to fish out my Quarantine Order, "I've just gotten over this season's 'flu. I might still be contagious."

She barely looks at the little plastic square before waving it away, "Nae, dearie, there's nothing wrong with you a few good meals and warm bed at night couldn't cure, that's certain."

Reluctantly, I tuck the card away in my bag, "But. . . if you or Uncle catch it. . ."

She laughs, "Oh, no dear, we won't get it! Our immune systems develop better on the ground, and anyway, we were inoculated two weeks ago."

"We?" I take a brush from a nearby table and hastily tie back my hair.

"The whole island, dear. Now come and have tea. I've made a few extra special treats for you. . ." she chats away gently as she escorts me out.

Halfway down the hall, I remember something again, "Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot!" I say, interrupting her chatter, "I meant to bring my bottle of lemon syrup to tea. I wanted to. . ." I stammer slightly, "Well. . . W-wanted to contribute as much as I can. . . I mean, it's little enough, of course. . ."

Mrs. Graham pats my arm, then grips it to prevent me turning around, "No, no, dearie, you're a guest this time, nothing owing." She cocks her head and smiles, "But lemon syrup you say? I've never heard of it, but it sounds an ideal thing to have with our supper tonight. I'll go and get it, no worries, dearie."

I half smile back, still slightly unsure with all the newness of this place. "It's in my mother's old enamel bottle. . ." I mention, cautiously.

"Be sure I'll be careful as the day, dearie."

I smile fully, already liking this small grey-haired person more than I have anyone in years, "You can call me Claire, Mrs. Graham."

"Oh, bless ye, Claire, child," she says, smiling and patting my arm again, "I've a feeling we're going to be friends." She stops in front of the door to the library. "Here we are, then. Enjoy yer tea."

I enter my uncle's library with considerably less trepidation than I did half an hour ago.