James Hilton: Collected Novels (89 page)

And Jones, who afterward conquered his nervousness and became an anaesthetist in a big city hospital, commented when he was prosperous and successful: “Yes, I used to work under Newcome at Calderbury. He was damn nice to me, say what you like about him. He’d have had a career, that man, if he hadn’t stuck in Calderbury—well, maybe he wouldn’t—he wasn’t the kind to use his chances properly. Funny little chap, rather like a wise child, but not wise enough for municipal politics. Didn’t know which side his bread was buttered on.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, well, Mrs. Newcome was all in with the Cathedral crowd—great opening for Newcome in a place like Calderbury if he’d played his cards properly. As it was…well, there was one incident: Newcome was going round the wards—he’d been operating—and Archdeacon Rogers was going round too, doing
his
stuff—you remember what a pompous fellow he was? If you knew Calderbury, I’m sure you
do
remember. Anyhow, in the corridor after the grand tour he kept Newcome and me talking, wasting our time, in point of fact, and one of the things he said was that a surgeon in the course of his job was bound to acquire respect for the mind of God in creating such a wonderful thing as the human body. Of course when parsons talk like that one doesn’t usually say anything—bad form, you know, as well as pretty useless. But Newcome answers in that mild soft-toned voice he had: ‘I’ve just been operating on an enlarged prostate, and, believe me, any intelligent plumber could invent a better drainage system than you and I possess, Archdeacon!’ Of course old Rogers was terribly shocked—I believe that was why he used his influence to prevent Newcome being offered the medical officership.”

David had begun the operation on Charlie at eight o’clock in the morning; the final stage was not complete until after ten. It had been an awkward case, largely inoperable, and complicated by a weak heart. Twice the man had almost died on the table. But at last, still breathing faintly, and with bandages like a great white bundle tied in front of him, he was wheeled away to hours of lingering unconsciousness, days of pain, a few months of half-life, pain again, and death.

David pulled off the stained gloves and washed his hands and face in the lavatory adjoining the theatre. As always after an operation he felt the sudden deflation of personal ascendancy; he had given himself, and was now utterly spent. Rallying himself a little, he visited a few of his patients in the wards; then he rode away for his usual morning round of house calls. One of them was the pneumonia he had been called to the night before; to his surprise and gratification the boy was a little better.

He was late home for lunch and was neither startled nor disconcerted when Susan greeted him with: “Mrs. Newcome wouldn’t wait, sir.”

“Oh, I don’t mind—all I want is some coffee.”

“She asked if you would go in and see her.”

“Eh? Where? Why? What does she want?”

“I don’t know, sir. She’s in the dining room.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll go.”

Because he was used to obeying in these small outward things, he went. Jessica had finished lunch and was toying with biscuits and cheese.

“Really, David, I couldn’t wait for you—I really do think you might try to be punctual for at least one occasion of the day.”

“It’s all right. I’m glad you didn’t wait.”

“I suppose you’ve got the usual excuse of having had an exceptionally busy morning.”

“Well yes, I have been rather busy.”

“I’m sorry you preferred to stay in the surgery rather than join your guests last night.”

He said nothing.

“Did you
invite
that girl into the surgery?”

He said nothing.

“What business had she in there?”

He said nothing.

“A good job she’s leaving in a few days, anyhow.”

He said nothing.

“Are you too tired to answer me?”

Suddenly his nerves chafed to a raw edge he could barely endure. He said: “Yes, I’m rather tired. I’m sorry for the boy’s sake, that’s all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I just don’t see any point in sending her away or in sending him away.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I’m talking about Leni.”

“Oh, you are? I understand
that,
of course. It’s quite obvious why
you
want her to stay here.”

“What on earth are you driving at?”

Then, with even his indignation tired, he shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room. It was true; they did not know what either of them meant; they had no points of contact, not even enough for an intelligible quarrel.

He drank his coffee in the surgery, and afterwards, as he went out for a few afternoon visits, the cloud of doubt and desperation suddenly lifted when he passed Leni in the hall. In her smile he saw something that made him exclaim, eagerly: “Leni, the boy I told you about last night—that case I said was hopeless—do you remember?”

“Yes?”

“Well, it isn’t—quite.”

“Nothing’s hopeless, is it?”

He thought seriously for a moment: was it really true that nothing was hopeless? Then he offered the result of his self-questioning. “A few things, probably, but we don’t know what they are, thank heaven.”

David had earned the reputation of being absent-minded—something in his glance, perhaps, in the casual way he would begin and end a chance conversation in the street, in the way he walked and dressed, with the knot of his tie always working looser and looser as the day advanced; most of all, perhaps, in the Legend of the Umbrella. This legend dated from 1902, from the service held in the Cathedral to celebrate the end of the South African War. David and Jessica had walked up Shawgate, David smoking a pipe and Jessica carrying an umbrella; and just outside the Cathedral porch, recollecting that he was about to enter a sacred building, David had pressed down the glowing tobacco and slipped the pipe, as he thought, into his pocket. But no; in the midst of the service the umbrella, left in the stand outside the pew, had begun to emit clouds of smoke and, before anyone could attend to it, burst into flame. No harm was done, nothing but a mild diversion caused, but the discovery of the doctor’s pipe in the wreckage had amused Calderbury more than it had amused Jessica.

After that we called the doctor absent-minded and made jokes about the likelihood of his sewing up sponges in a patient’s body after an operation. To anyone who ever saw him operate, there could seem no risk of that. But he did, occasionally, forget appointments, and outside his professional work there lay a misty territory in which he could not be relied upon except for good intentions. This business of helping Leni to find a job was in just such territory. His promises had been sincere enough, but he had had no idea of the practical difficulties that might lie ahead. The uncomfortable thing (to him) was that she had to leave at all; not till the second week of the fortnight did he suddenly realize that within a few days she might find herself with nowhere else to go. Her arm was still unfit for the strain of regular stage dancing, even if any theatrical work had been on offer; and he had innocently imagined that in the last resort a knowledge of German would easily secure her a post in some school. He was surprised to find that so many other qualifications were required.

When, however, he returned to the house at midday on the morning after the musical party, Leni had news. A private school near Manchester was actually advertising for a part-time teacher of German—“no diplomas necessary, only a guaranteed ability to speak and teach the language.” David, perceiving no freakishness in this, but simply common sense, was delighted; clearly it was just the thing. He even exclaimed: “Why, I go to Manchester now and again—I shall be able to look you up!”

All afternoon a warm feeling enveloped him which was really a childish dream that this business of Leni, himself, and Jessica might be settled with good will all round and to everyone’s satisfaction: Leni in this new job, he himself seeing her from time to time, and Jessica—well, changing a little. It wasn’t that he wanted anything more of her—merely an absence of that silent hostility, that cold brooding of which he had lately become aware. So much of his life was beyond anything that she could touch; yet the part that wasn’t, though small, could fret the larger part, and did.

Leni wrote an application for the job, and David composed a testimonial for her to enclose with it. Then he went out to visit two or three cases. It was a hot day, glooming over with an approaching storm, and when he returned about four o’clock he went into the drawing-room because he saw it was cool with drawn blinds and also empty. Jessica’s recent presence showed in a pile of letters on the bureau, addressed in her writing and waiting for the post. He might not have noticed them had not his sleeve, in passing, swept them over. Picking them up, he saw that one was addressed to the school near Manchester. Then Jessica entered, followed by Susan with the tea things, and he had the swift feeling that Jessica knew all about his having seen the address on that letter. He felt uneasy—partly, no doubt, his usual physical reaction to a storm. It was certainly coming. All day the heat wave had been lifting to a climax; the sky had grown opaque, like soiled muslin through which sunlight could barely strain. Then blackness began in a little patch and spread over half the sky. The storm broke while Jessica was pouring tea, and she said immediately: “David, please put the window up—we shall have all the tops of the curtains drenched.”

He knew, or thought he knew, that she had asked him to do this because he disliked going near the window. It was not that he had any bodily fear; it was from the look of doom in the sky and from the sound of doom in the thunderclaps that he shrank as from the symbols of discord. He stood on the window seat and braced himself for an eruption that seemed due at any moment. It did not come, but the tension held him miserably.

“I think you ought to know, David, I’ve just been writing letter…”

He swung around. “You
have?
To that school? About Leni?”

“You evidently have it on your mind…More tea?”

“N—no…But why on earth should
you
have written?”

“Well,
you
wrote, didn’t you?”

“Only a testimonial.”

“Don’t you realize what that means?”

“Well, surely—”

“Do you realize that if she’s put in a position of trust and betrays it you might be held responsible for concealing the truth?”

“What truth? I only vouched for her character and knowledge of German.”

“Character?
Did you state that you met her first a few months ago, and that you didn’t know a thing about her past life except that she’d been on the stage and had tried to kill herself?”

“But—why—surely—”

“Well, I put it all in my letter in case you’d forgotten.”

“But—she may not get the job if you’ve said all that.”

“Isn’t that
her
business? Why not try minding
ours
for a change?”

“Yes! Why not? That’s just it! Can’t you leave the girl alone?”

“Can’t
you?”

Suddenly he realized that the letter was still there, unposted on the bureau. Striding over, he sought it hastily amidst the pile and tore it across. He was aware that the act was melodramatic, but all his nerves were craving for some if even the stupidest release in action.

“That just gives me the trouble of writing another. Really, David, you do the most childish things.”

The room lit up with the tremendous flashing and roaring outburst that he had been expecting, yet was not and never could be prepared for. He saw Jessica’s eyes gleaming at him across the hearthrug.

“And one more thing, David. I believe she sometimes comes in here to play the piano?”

“Yes, I said she could. After all, what harm does it do? She’s really quite good at it—she ought to take it up seriously—”

“I don’t wish her to play my piano in future, that’s all.”

“But there isn’t any future! Good God, don’t you realize that? In five days—”

“David, I think you’d better calm yourself.”

“Yes, yes, I know—it’s the storm, I think—I must get away—”

He rushed from the room and down the three steps, through the double doors into the surgery. It was far more dangerous there in a storm, for if a chimney stack were struck by lightning the debris would crash through the glass roof as through paper. But all he craved was the personal citadel where he could rest and be alone; and to be alone with Leni was still, in this deep sense, to be alone. There she was, arranging his papers, her upward glance a warm and welcoming thing.

“Please…is anything the matter?”

“I hate storms, Leni, that’s all.”

“It is nearly over now.”

“Yes, I hope so…I’m sorry to have to tell you…about that job…”

He told her all that had happened, ending with: “I tore it up, but I daresay she’s written it again and posted it by now.”

Suddenly it occurred to him that they were both children, acting and talking like children, with the same terrible intentness upon the hostile behavior of a grown-up.

“It means I won’t get the job?”

“Probably not. But don’t worry. I’ll look in at the Burrowsford Library to-morrow—there may be some advertisements in scholastic papers. The trouble is, as we’ve already found, most of those posts go to people who have degrees.”

“Degrees?”

“What do you call them? I forget. Diploma? Baccalaureate? Doctorate?”

“Oh yes, I know.”

An idea came to him, an offshoot, of an already favorite idea. “Of course there’s one thing you really ought to do, especially if you can’t get a job.”

“What’s that?”

“Take up the piano seriously. There must be a school somewhere you could join. Yes, I’ll look it up to-morrow in Burrowsford. There’s a conference there—I’ve got to attend. I hate things like that, but I’m on the board of the County Hospital and it lets me in for them now and again. Of course I could lend you the money for the fees and you could pay me back when you get a job again…Yes, that certainly
is
an idea. I’ll find all the details for you to-morrow. You see, there’s an excellent reference library in Burrowsford—much better than here… Perhaps the Academy of Music or something like that—in London, it might be. Maybe they offer scholarships and you could win one. I’ll find out everything for you.”