The Bellwether Revivals by Benjamin Wood

through the morning that he had completed most of his duties by early afternoon. He walked down to the foot of thegarden and stared at the vines of wisteria. They would bloom an intense purple in the spring, covering the front of the building, but for now, they only gave the building a feeling of unmet potential.
    He was gazing around the newly turned flowerbeds in the Cedarbrook grounds when he heard a high, scratching knock from above him. He looked up towards the building. Dr Paulsen was standing at the window of his room, rattling the handle of his cane against the glass.
Tack-tack, tack-tack
. He was wearing a tweed blazer, and a panama hat, white as a picket fence. Motioning his arm slowly, he gestured for Oscar to come inside.
    The Passions of the Soul
was in the staff room, and Oscar went to retrieve it from his locker before going upstairs. There was a bar of light under the old man’s door. Oscar called hello as he went inside but heard no reply. Paulsen was waiting at the foot of the bed, one hand gripping the crook of his cane. The floor was a chaos of clothes. ‘I can’t seem to work the telephone. All this dialling nine and zero first,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to order me a taxi?’
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘The Orchard.’
    Oscar moved deeper into the room and began picking up clothing: musty Argyle jumpers, scratchy tweed trousers, dress shirts. ‘You can’t just take yourself off to The Orchard. Don’t be silly. You know the rules. Things like that have to be arranged.’
    ‘I can go wherever I want, son. Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do. People used to open doors for me, you know. They’d stand up when I entered the room.’ Dr Paulsen got up to emphasise his point. Then he gave a long, forlorn sigh. He removed his panama and held it to his chest. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m a bit impatient today.’
    ‘Don’t worry.’
    ‘It’s just that I got this letter from a dear friend of mine last week, saying he wished to meet me at The Orchard. I told him, quite categorically, that I would be there.’
    ‘And who’s going to look after you?’
    ‘I’ve never missed an appointment in my life.’
    ‘That’s not the point.’
    ‘This man is a very,
very
dear friend of mine. I haven’t seen him in such a long time, and last time I checked, this place was not a prison.’
    Oscar folded up more of Paulsen’s clothes and set them in a careful stack on the bed. He wondered where the old man had found the strength to dress himself, and with such neatness and co-ordination. ‘Okay, look,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you a taxi, but I’ll have to go with you.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Paulsen sniffed. ‘But I don’t need a chaperone.’
    ‘They’re not going to let you out otherwise.’
    ‘And who’s going to stop me?’
    ‘About twenty nurses.’
    ‘Pah! Let them try!’
    Dr Paulsen nodded towards the shirt Oscar was folding. ‘What did you do to your hand?’
    He was amazed that Paulsen had noticed—he could’ve sworn the wound was no longer visible. ‘You can see that?’
    ‘With my eyes? I can hardly see a thing. It’s just strange that you’ve been folding everything with one hand.’
    ‘Oh.’ Oscar breathed. He pushed both hands into his pockets.
    ‘I hope you haven’t hurt yourself.’
    ‘No. I’m fine.’
    ‘Good.’ Paulsen reached into his blazer. ‘Would you like to see the letter from my friend?’ The old man handed over a piece of lavender paper. It bore a scent like cigar smoke. Oscar unfolded it and read it quietly to himself. At the end, the letter was signed: ‘Deepest Love, Herbert Crest’. He folded it back up and returned it to Paulsen. ‘This says he wants to meet on Tuesday the nineteenth.’
    ‘Yes. I can read.’
    ‘Today is Tuesday the twelfth.’
    ‘Oh, no, are you sure?’ A disconsolate look came over the old man’s face. ‘And I’ve got my glad rags on and everything,’ he said, lowering