Henry came in to help us with our Christmas decorations on Christmas Eve, and as he cleverly made wreaths my Sister whispered to me, "He's never spitting ... in the ward!"
But he wasn't, it was part of his language—little clicks and ticks. He comes from somewhere in Central Africa, and one of the T.B.'s told me, "He's only got one wife, nurse."
He is very proud of his austerity, for he has somehow discovered that he has hit on a country where it is the nutty thing only to have one wife.
No one can speak a word of his language, no one knows exactly where he comes from; but he can say in English, "Good morning, Sister!" and "Christmas Box!" and "One!"
Directly one takes any notice of him he laughs and clicks, holding up one finger, crying, "One!"
Then a proud T.B. (they regard him as the Creator might regard a humming-bird) explains: "He means he's only got one wife, nurse."
Then he did his second trick. He came to me with outstretched black hand and took my apron, fingering it. Its whiteness slipped between his fingers. He dropped it and, holding up the hand with its fellow, ducked his head to watch me with his glinting eyes.
"He means," explained the versatile T.B., "that he has ten piccaninnies in his village and they're all dressed in white."
It took my breath away; I looked at Henry for corroboration. He nodded earnestly, coughed and whispered, "Ten!"