Nights At the Circus (2003)
“He lay on some kind of day-bed. It was his blood tinged the water pink. He closed his eyes again. Fevvers reapplied the damp lint to his shoulder without gentleness. Now he was conscious, he howled.
‘Easy does it,’ advised Lizzie, tilting the rim of a mug of hot, sweet tea to his lips. Tea with canned, condensed milk in it. English tea. Fevvers did not release her pressure on his dressing. She wore a stern, white shirt secured at the throat with an emphatic necktie but this did not render her in the least masculine. Upholstered in the snowy linen, her bosom looked as vast as its mother’s does to a child as she bends over its bed in sickness. Her displeasure was palpable.
‘So you’ve run away to join the circus, have you, love?’ she asked, not quite pleasantly. Evidently she no longer felt the need to call him ‘sir’.
Walser twitched between her ministrations, disturbing the shawl in which they’d wrapped him.
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