The Citadel (25 page)

‘I’m sorry about that arm of yours, Tom. I know you’ve lost your work underground over the head of it. Don’t think I’m trying to crow over you or anything like that. I’m just damned sorry.’

‘You’re not any sorrier than I am,’ Evans said.

There was a pause, then Andrew resumed:

‘I wonder if you’d let me speak to Mr Vaughan about you. Shut me up if you think I’m interfering – but I’ve got a little bit of influence with him and I feel sure I could get you a job on the surface – timekeeper – or something –’

He broke off, not daring to look at Evans. This time the silence was prolonged. At length Andrew raised his eyes only to lower them again immediately. Tears were running down Evans’s cheek, his entire body was shaking with his effort not to give way. But it was no use. He laid his good arm on the table, buried his head in it.

Andrew got up and crossed to the window where he remained for a few minutes. At the end of that time Evans had collected himself. He said nothing, absolutely nothing, and his eyes avoided Andrew’s with a dumb reticence more significant than speech.

At half past three the Evans family departed in a mood contrasting cheerfully with the constraint of their arrival. Christine and Andrew went into the sitting-room.

‘You know, Chris,’ Andrew philosophised, ‘all that poor fellow’s trouble – his stiff elbow I mean – isn’t
his
fault. He distrusted me because I was new. He couldn’t be expected to know about that damn carron oil. But friend Oxborrow – who accepted his card –
he
should have known. Ignorance, ignorance, pure damned ignorance. There ought to be a law to make doctors keep up to date. It’s all the fault of our rotten system. There ought to be compulsory post-graduate classes – to be taken every five years –’

‘Darling!’ protested Christine smiling at him from the sofa. ‘ I’ve put up with your philanthropy all day. I’ve watched your wings sprouting like an archangel’s. Don’t give me the Harveian Oration on top of it! Come and sit by me, I had a really important reason for wanting us to be alone today.’

‘Yes?’ Doubtfully; then, indignantly, ‘ You’re not complaining, I hope. I thought I had behaved pretty decently. After all – Christmas Day –’

She laughed silently.

‘Oh, my dear, you’re just too lovely. Another minute there’ll be a snowstorm and you’ll take out the St Bernards – muffled to the throat – to bring in somebody off the mountain – late, late at night.’

‘I know somebody who came down to Number Three Sinking – late, late at night,’ he grunted in retaliation, ‘and she wasn’t muffled either.’

‘Sit here.’ She stretched out her arms. ‘I want to tell you something.’

He went over to seat himself beside her when suddenly there came the loud braying of a Klaxon from outside.

‘Krr-krr-krr-ki-ki-ki-krr.’

‘Damn!’ said Christine concisely. Only one motor horn in Aberalaw could sound like that. It belonged to Con Boland.

‘Don’t you want them?’ Andrew asked in some surprise. ‘Con half said they’d be round for tea.’

‘Oh, well!’ Christine said, rising and accompanying him to the door.

They advanced to meet the Bolands who sat, opposite the front gate, in the reconstructed motor-car, Con upright at the wheel in a bowler hat and enormous new gauntlets with Mary and Terence beside him, the three other children tucked around Mrs Boland, who bore the infant in her arms, in the rear, all packed, despite the elongation of the vehicle, like herrings in a tin.

Suddenly the horn began again: ‘Krr-krr-krr-krr –’ Con had inadvertently pushed the button in switching off and now it was jammed. The Klaxon would not stop. ‘Krr-krr-krr –’ it went while Con fumbled and swore, and windows went up in the Row opposite and Mrs Boland sat with a remote expression on her face, unperturbed, holding the baby dreamily.

‘In the name of God,’ Con cried, his moustache bristling along the dashboard. ‘I’m wastin’ juice. What’s happened? Am I short circuited or what?’

‘It’s the button, father,’ Mary told him calmly. She took her little finger-nail and edged it out. The racket ceased.

‘Ah! that’s better,’ Con sighed. ‘How are you, Manson, my boy? How d’you like the old car now? I’ve lengthened her a good two feet. Isn’t she grand? Mind you there’s still a little bother with the gear-box. We didn’t quite take the hill in our stride, as ye might say!’

‘We only stuck a few minutes, father,’ interposed Mary.

‘Ah! never mind,’ said Con. ‘I’ll soon have that right when I strip her again. How are ye, Mrs Manson! Here we all are to wish ye a merry Christmas and take our tea off ye!’

‘Come in, Con,’ Christine smiled. ‘I like your gloves!’

‘Christmas present from the wife,’ Con answered admiring the flapping gauntlets. ‘Army Surplus. Would ye believe they were still dishin’ them out! Ah! what’s gone wrong with this door?’

Unable to open the door he threw his long legs over it, climbed out, helped the children and his wife from the back, surveyed the car – fondly removing a lump of mud from the windscreen – then tore himself away to follow the others to Vale View.

They had a cheerful tea party. Con was in high spirits, full of his creation. ‘ You’ll not know her when she has a lick of paint.’ Mrs Boland abstractedly drank six cups of strong black tea. The children began upon the chocolate biscuits and ended with a fight for the last piece of bread. They cleared every plate upon the table.

After tea while Mary had gone to wash the dishes – she insisted that Christine looked tired – Andrew detached the baby from Mrs Boland and played with it on the hearthrug before the fire. It was the fattest baby he had ever seen, a Rubens infant, with enormous solemn eyes and pads of plumpness upon its limbs. It tried repeatedly to poke a finger into his eye. Every time it failed a look of solemn wonder came upon its face. Christine sat with her hands in her lap, doing nothing. Watching him playing with the baby.

But Con and his family could not stay long. Outside the light was fading and Con, worried about his ‘juice’, had doubts which he did not choose to express concerning the functioning of his lamps. When they rose to go he delivered the invitation:

‘Come out and see us start.’

Again Andrew and Christine stood at the gate while Con packed the car with his offspring. After a couple of swings the engine obeyed and Con, with a triumphant nod towards them, pulled on his gauntlets and adjusted his derby to a more rakish tilt. Then he heaved himself proudly into the driving-seat.

At that moment Con’s union broke and the car, with a groan, collapsed. Bearing the entire Boland family the over extended vehicle sank slowly to the ground like some beast of burden perishing from the sheer exhaustion. Before the bedazzled eyes of Andrew and Christine, the wheels splayed outwards. There was the sound of pieces dropping off, a vomit of tools from the locker, then the body of the car came to rest, dismembered, on street level. One minute there was a car and the next a fun-fair gondola. In the forepart was Con clutching the wheel, in the aft part his wife, clutching the baby. Mrs Boland’s mouth had dropped wide open, her dreamy eyes well fixed upon eternity. The stupefaction on Con’s face, at his sudden loss of elevation, was irrestible.

Andrew and Christine gave out a shriek of laughter. Once they began they could not stop. They laughed till they were weak.

‘In the name of God,’ Con said, rubbing his head and picking himself up. Observing that none of the children were hurt, that Mrs Boland remained, pale but undisturbed in her seat, he considered the wreckage, pondering dazedly. ‘Sabotage,’ he declared at last, glaring at the windows opposite as a solution struck him. ‘Some of them devils in the Rows has tampered with her.’ Then his face brightened. He took the helpless Andrew by the arm and pointed with melancholy pride to the crumpled bonnet, beneath which the engine still feebly emitted a few convulsive beats. ‘ See that, Manson! She’s still runnin’.’

Somehow they dragged the remains into the backyard of Vale View. In due course the Boland family went home on foot.

‘What a day!’ Andrew exclaimed when they had secured peace for themselves at last. ‘ I’ll never forget that look on Con’s face as long as I live.’

They were silent for a moment, then, turning to her, he asked:

‘You did enjoy your Christmas?’

She replied oddly:

‘I enjoyed seeing you play with baby Boland.’

He glanced at her.

‘Why?’

She did not look at him. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you all day. Oh, can’t you guess, darling? – I don’t think you’re such a smart physician after all.’

Spring once more. And early summer. The garden at Vale View was a patch of tender colours which the miners often stopped to admire on their way back from their shift. Chiefly these colours came from flowering shrubs which Christine had planted the previous autumn, for now Andrew would allow her to do no manual work at all.

‘You’ve
made
the place!’ he told her, with authority. ‘Now
sit
in it.’

Her favourite seat was at the end of the little glen where, beside a tiny water-splash, she could hear the soothing converse of the stream. An overhanging willow offered protection from the rows of houses above. It was the difficulty with the garden of Vale View that they were completely overlooked. They had only to sit outside the porch for all the front windows of the Rows to be tenanted and the murmur to go round: ‘Eh! There’s nice! Come an’ ’ave a look, Fan-ee! Doctor and his missis are havin’ bit of sun, like!’ Once indeed, in their early days, when Andrew slipped his arm round Christine’s waist as they stretched by the bank of the stream, he had seen the gleam of focused glass from old Glyn Joseph’s parlour. ‘ Damn it!’ Andrew had realised hotly. ‘The old dog – he’s got his telescope on us!’

But beneath the willow they were completely screened and here Andrew defined his policy.

‘You see, Chris’ – fidgeting with his thermometer; it had just occurred to him in a passion of precaution to take her temperature – ‘ we’ve got to keep calm. It’s not as if we were – oh! well –
ordinary
people. After all you’re a doctor’s wife and I’m – I’m a doctor. I’ve seen this happen hundreds, at least scores of times before. It’s a very
ordinary affair.
A phenomenon of nature, survival of the race, all that sort of thing, see! Now don’t misunderstand me, darling, it’s
wonderful
for us, of course. The fact is I’d begun to ask myself if you weren’t too slight, too much of a kid ever to – oh well, I’m
delighted.
But we’re not going to get sentimental. Slushy I mean. No, no! Let’s leave that sort of thing to Mr and Mrs Smith. It would be rather idiotic, wouldn’t it, for me, a doctor, to start – oh, say to start mooning over those little things you’re knitting or crocheting, or whatever it is. No! I just look at them and grunt: “Hope they’ll be warm enough!” And all this junk about what colour of eyes she – er – it, will have and what sort of rosy future we’ll give her – that’s right off the map!’ He paused, frowning, then gradually a reflective smile broke over his face. ‘ I say, though, Chris! I wonder if it
will
be a girl!’

She laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. She laughed so hard that he sat up, concerned.

‘Now stop it, Chris! You’ll – you might bring on something.’

‘Oh, my dear.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘As a sentimental idealist I adore you. As a hard-boiled cynic – well! – I wouldn’t have you in the house!’

He did not quite know what she meant. But he knew he was being scientific and restrained. In the afternoons when he felt she ought to have some exercise he took her for walks in the Public Park, climbing up the uplands being severely forbidden. In the Park they strolled about, listened to the band, watched the miners’ children who came to picnic there with bottles of liquorice water and sherbet suckers.

Early one May morning as they lay in bed he became aware, through his light sleep, of a faint movement. He awoke, again conscious of that gentle thrusting, the first movement of the child within Christine. He held himself rigid, scarcely daring to believe, suffocated by a rush of feeling, of ecstasy. Oh, hell! he thought a moment later, perhaps I’m just a Smith after all. I suppose that’s why they make the rule a medico can’t attend his own wife.

The following week he felt it time to speak to Doctor Llewellyn whom from the outset they had both decided must undertake the case. Llewellyn, when Andrew rang him, was pleased and flattered. He came down at once, made a preliminary examination. Then chatted to Andrew in the sitting-room.

‘I’m glad to help you, Manson,’ accepting a cigarette. ‘ I always felt you didn’t like me enough to ask me to do this for you. Believe me, I’ll do my best. By the way, it’s pretty stifling in Aberalaw at present. Don’t you think your little missus ought to have a change of air while she can?’

‘What’s happening to me?’ Andrew asked himself when Llewellyn had gone. ‘I like that man! He was decent, damned decent. He’s got sympathy and tact. He’s wizard at his work. And twelve months ago I was trying to cut his throat. I’m just a stiff, jealous, clumsy Highland stot!’

Christine did not wish to go away but he was gently insistent.

‘I know you don’t want to leave me, Chris! But it’s for the best. We’ve got to think of – oh! everything. Would you rather have the seaside or maybe you’d like to go up North to your aunt. Dash it all, I can afford to send you, Chris. We’re pretty well off now!’

They had paid off the Glen Endowment and the last of the furniture instalments and now they had nearly one hundred pounds saved in the bank. But she was not thinking of this when, pressing his hand, she answered steadily:

‘Yes! We’re pretty well off, Andrew.’

Since she must go, she decided to visit her aunt in Bridlington, and a week later he saw her off at the Upper Station with a long hug and a basket of fruit to sustain her on the journey.

He missed her more than he could have believed, their comradeship had become such a part of his life. Their talks, discussions, squabbles, their silences together, the way in which he would call to her whenever he entered the house and wait, his ear cocked, for her cheery answer – he came to see how much these meant to him. Without her, their bedroom became a strange room in an hotel. His meals, conscientiously served by Jenny according to the programme written out by Christine, were arid snatches behind a propped-up book.