"Christopher Priest - The Glamour" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

He had always been an active man, and although he had been at
Middlecombe for a long time, he had still not fully adjusted to the idea of
being a patient.
Although there were no more operations to come, it seemed to him that
his recovery was interminable. His days in the hospital were on the whole
unpleasant. The physiotherapy was tiring, and left him aching afterward. On
his own he was lonely, but mixing with the other patients, many of whom did
not speak English well, made him impatient and irritable. Lacking friends, the
gardens and the view were all he had to himself.
Every day Grey would come down to this quiet place to stare at the sea
below. This was a part of the coast known as Start Bay, the western extremity
of Lyme Bay, on the South Devon coast. To his right, the rocky headland of
Start Point ran out into the dismal sea, sometimes obscured by mist or rain.
To his left, just visible, were the houses of Beesands, the ugly neat rows of
holiday caravans, the silent waters of Widdicombe Ley. Beyond these, the
cliffs rose again, concealing the next village from him. The shore here was
shingle, and on calm days he would listen to the hissing of the waves as they
broke insipidly at the bottom of the cliff.
Above all, he wished for a stormy sea, something positive and dramatic,
something to break his routine. But this was Devon, a place of soft weather
and temperate seasons, the climate of convalescence.
It all reflected his state of mind, which had become unquestioning. His
body had been severely injured, his mind less so, and he sensed that both
would repair in the same way: plenty of rest, gentle exercise, increasing
resolve. It was often all he was capable of--to stare at the sea, watch the
tides, listen to the waves. The passage of birds excited him, and whenever he
heard a car he felt the tremor of fear.
His sole aim was to return to normality. Using sticks he could stand on
his own now, and he was sure the crutches were permanently in his past. After
wheeling himself down the garden he would lever himself out of his chair and
take a few steps leaning on the sticks. He was proud of being able to do this
alone, of not having a therapist or nurse beside him, of having no rails, no
encouraging words. When standing he could see more of the view, could go
closer to the edge.
Today it had been raining when he woke, a persistent, drifting drizzle
that had continued all morning. It meant he had had to put on a coat, but now
it had stopped raining and he was still in the coat. It depressed him because
it reminded him of his real disabilities--he could not take it off on his own.
He heard footsteps on the gravel, and the sound of someone pushing
through the damp leaves and branches that grew across the path. He turned,
doing it slowly, a step and a stick at a time, keeping his face immobile to
conceal the pain.
It was Dave, one of the nurses. "Can you manage, Mr. Grey?"
"I can manage to stay upright."
"Do you want to get back in the chair?"
"No . . . I was just standing here."
The nurse had stopped a few paces away from him, one hand resting on the
chair as if ready to wheel it forward quickly and slide it under Grey's body.
"I came to see if you needed anything."
"You can help me with my coat. I'm sweating under this."