The Citadel (44 page)

Frances did not reply. That again he felt to be eminently characteristic of her. Another woman would have flattered, contradicted him, made him feel clumsy. Driven by a sudden impulsive curiosity he exclaimed:

‘Please tell me something. Why have you been so kind to me? Helping me the way you’ve done – all those months?’

‘You are extraordinarily attractive to women. And your greatest charm is that you do not realise it.’

‘No, but, really –’ he protested flushing; then he muttered, ‘ I hope I’m some kind of a doctor as well.’

She laughed, slowly fanning away the cigarette smoke with her hand. ‘You will not be convinced. Or I should not have told you. And, of course, you’re an excellent doctor. We were talking of you only the other night at Green Street. Le Roy is getting a little tired of our company dietitian. Poor Rumbold! – he wouldn’t have enjoyed hearing le Roy bark, “We must put the skids under grandpa.” But Jackie agrees. They want someone younger, with more drive, on the board – shall I use the cliché? – a coming man. Apparently they plan a big campaign in the medical journals, they want really to interest the profession – from the scientific angle – as le Roy put it. And of course Rumbold is just a joke among his colleagues. But why am I talking like this? Such a waste of a night like this. Now don’t frown as though you were about to assassinate me, or the waiter, or the band-leader – I wish you would actually – isn’t he odious? You look exactly as you did that first day – when you came into the fitting-room – very haughty and proud and nervous – even a little ridiculous. And then – poor Toppy! By the ordinary convention it is
she
who should be here.’

‘I’m very glad she’s not,’ he said with his eyes upon the table.

‘Please don’t think me banal. I couldn’t bear that. We are fairly intelligent I hope – and we – well, I for one – just do not believe in the grand passion – isn’t the phrase enough? But I do think life is so much gayer if one has – a friend – to go a bit of the way with one.’ Her eyes showed high points of amusement again. ‘Now I sound completely Rossetti-ish – which is too frightful.’ She picked up her cigarette-case. ‘And anyhow it’s stuffy here, and I want you to see the moon on the river.’

He paid the bill and followed her through the long glass windows which an act of vandalism had inset in the fine old wall. On the balustered terrace the music of the dance band came faintly. Before them a wide avenue of turf led down to the river between dark borders of clipped yew. As she had said, there was a moon which splashed great shadows from the yews and glinted palely upon a group of archery targets standing on the bottom lawns. Beyond lay the silver sheen of water.

They strolled down to the river, seated themselves upon a bench that stood beside the verge. She took off her hat and gazed silently at the slowly moving current, its eternal murmur strangely blended with the muted hum of a high-powered car travelling at speed into the distance.

‘What queer night sounds,’ she said. ‘The old and the new. And searchlights across the moon there. It’s our age.’

He kissed her. She gave no sign either way. Her lips were warm and dry. In a minute she said:

‘That was very sweet. And very badly done.’

‘I can do better,’ he mumbled staring in front of him, not moving. He was awkward, without conviction, ashamed and nervous. Angrily he told himself that it was wonderful to be here on such a night with such a graceful, charming woman. He ought by all the canons of moonshine and the magazines to have swept her madly into his arms. As it was he became aware of his cramped position, of a desire to smoke, of the vinegar in the salad touching up his old indigestion.

And Christine’s face in some unaccountable way was mirrored in the water before him, a jaded and rather harassed face, on her cheek a plaintive smudge of paint from the brush with which she had painted the heavy folding doors, when first they came to Chesborough Terrace. It worried and exasperated him. He was here, bound by the obligation of circumstances. And he was a man, wasn’t he – not a candidate for Voronoff? Defiantly, he kissed Frances again.

‘I thought possibly you were taking another twelve months to make up your mind.’ Her eyes held that high affectionate amusement. ‘And now, don’t you think we should go, doctor. These night airs – aren’t they rather treacherous to the puritanical mind.’

He helped her to her feet and she retained his hand, holding it lightly as they walked to the car. He flung a shilling to the baroque retainer, started the engine for London. As he drove her silence was eloquently happy.

But he was not happy. He felt himself a hound and a fool. Hating himself, disappointed in his own reactions, he still dreaded the return to his sultry room, his restless solitary bed. His heart was cold, his brain a mass of tormenting thoughts. The recollection swept before him of the agonising sweetness of his first love for Christine, the beating ecstasy of those early days at Drineffy. He pushed it away from him furiously.

They were at her house and his mind still struggled with the problem. He got out of the car and opened the door for her. They stood together on the pavement while she opened her bag and took out her latchkey.

‘You’ll come up, won’t you? I’m afraid the servants are in bed.’

He hesitated, stammered.

‘It’s very late, isn’t it?’

She did not seem to hear him but went up the few flagstone steps with her key in her hand. As he followed, sneaking after her, he had a fading vision of Christine’s figure walking down the market, carrying her old string bag.

Three days later Andrew sat in his Welbeck Street consulting-room. It was a hot afternoon and through the screen of his open window, there came the pestering drone of traffic, borne upon the exhausted air. He was tired, over-worked, fearful of Christine’s return at the end of the week, expectant yet nervous of every telephone ring, sweating under the task of coping with six three-guinea patients in the space of one hour, and the knowledge that he must rush his surgery to take Frances out to supper. He glanced up impatiently as Nurse Sharp entered, more than usual acrimony on her patchy features.

‘There’s a man called to see you, a dreadful person. He’s not a patient and he says he’s not a traveller. He’s got no card. His name’s Boland.’

‘Boland!’ Andrew echoed blankly; then his face cleared suddenly. ‘Not Con Boland? Let him in, nurse! Straight away.’

‘But you have a patient waiting. And in ten minutes Mrs Roberts –’

‘Oh! never mind Mrs Roberts!’ he threw out irritably. ‘Do as I say.’

Nurse Sharp flushed at his tone. It was on her tongue to tell him she was not used to being spoken to like that. She sniffed and went out with her head in the air. The next minute she showed Boland in.

‘Why, Con!’ said Andrew jumping up.

‘Hello, hello,
hello
,’ shouted Con, as he bounded forward with a broad and genial grin. It was the red-headed dentist himself, no different, as real and untidy in his oversize shiny blue suit and large brown boots as if he had that moment walked out of his wooden garage, a shade older perhaps, but with no less violence in the beaded brush of his red moustache, still undaunted, wild-haired, exclamatory. He pounded Andrew vehemently on the back. ‘In the name of God, Manson! It’s great to see ye again. Ye’re lookin’ marvellous, marvellous. I’d have known ye in a million. Well! Well! To think of this now. It’s a high-class place you have here and all.’ He turned his beaming gaze upon the acidulous Sharp who stood watching scornfully. ‘This lady nurse of yours wasn’t for lettin’ me in till I told her I was a professional man, myself. It’s the God’s truth, nurse. This swanky-lookin’ fella ye work for was in the same wan horse medical scheme as myself not so long ago. Up in Aberalaw. If ever ye’re passin’ that way drop in on the missus and me and we’ll give ye a cup of tea. Any friend of my old friend Manson is welcome as the day!’

Nurse Sharp gave him one look and walked out of the room. But it was wasted on Con who gushed and bubbled with a pure and natural joy. Swinging round to Andrew irrepressibly:

‘No beauty, eh, Manson, my boy? But a decent woman, I’ll be bound. Well, well, well! How are ye, now? How
are
ye?’

He refused to relinquish Andrew’s hand, but pumped it up and down, grinning away in sheer delight.

It was a rare tonic to see Con again on this devitalising day. When Andrew at last freed himself, he flung himself into his swing chair, feeling himself human again, shoving over the cigarettes to Con. Then Con, with one grubby thumb in an armhole, the other pressing the wet end of a freshly lit cigarette, sketched the reason for his coming.

‘I had a bit of a holiday due to me, Manson, my boy, and a couple of matters to attend to, so the wife just told me to pack off and hit it. Ye see, I’ve been workin’ on a sort of a spring invention for tighten’ up slack brakes. Off and on I’ve been devotin’ the full candlepower of the old grey mather to th’ idee. But devil take them, there’s nobody’ll look at the gadget! But never mind, never mind, we’ll let it go. It’s not important besides the other thing.’ Con cast his cigarette ash upon the carpet and his face took a more serious turn. ‘ Listen, Manson, my boy! It’s Mary – you’ll remember Mary surely, for I can tell you she remembers you! She’s been poorly lately – not up to the mark at all. We’ve had her to Llewellyn and devil the bit of good he’s doin’ her.’ Con grew heated suddenly, his voice was thick. ‘Damn it all, Manson, he’s got the sauce to say she’s got a touch of TB – as if that wasn’t all finished and done with in the Boland family when her Uncle Dan went to the sanatorium fifteen years ago. Now look here, Manson, will ye do something for old friendship’s sake? We know ye’re a big man now, sure ye’re the talk of Aberalaw. Will ye take a look at Mary for us? Ye can’t tell what confidence that girl has in you, we’ve got it ourselves – Mrs B. and me – for that matter. That’s why she says to me she says, “ You go to Doctor Manson when you’re in the way of meetin’ him. And if he’ll see the daughter sure we’ll send her up any time that’s likely to be convenient.” Now what do you say, Manson? If you’re too busy ye’ve only got to say so and I can easy sling my hook.’

Andrew’s expression had turned concerned.

‘Don’t talk that way, Con. Can’t you see how delighted I am to see you. And Mary, poor kid – you know I’ll do everything I can for her, everything.’

Unmindful of Nurse Sharp’s significant inthrustings he squandered his precious time in conversation with Con until at last she could bear it no longer.

‘You have five patients waiting now, Doctor Manson. And you’re more than an hour behind your appointment times. I can’t make any more excuses to them, I’m not used to treating patients this way.’

Even then, he still clutched at Con, and accompanied him to the front door, pressing hospitality upon him.

‘I’m not going to let you rush back home, Con. How long are you up for? Three or four days – that’s fine! Where are you staying? The Westland – out Bayswater way! That’s no good! Why don’t you come and stop with me instead, you’re near us already. And we’ve bag loads of room. Christine’ll be back on Friday. She’ll be delighted to see you, Con, delighted. We can talk over old times together.’

On the following day Con brought his bag round to Chesborough Terrace. After the evening surgery they went together to the second house of the Palladium music-hall. It was amazing how good every turn seemed in Con’s company. The dentist’s ready laugh rang out, dismaying at first, then infecting the immediate vicinity. People twisted round to smile at Con in sympathy.

‘In the name of God!’ Con rolled in his seat. ‘ D’ye see that fella with the bicycle! D’ye mind the time, Manson –’

In the interval they stood in the bar, Con with his hat on the back of his head, froth on his moustache, brown boots happily planted.

‘I can’t tell ye, Manson, my boy, what a treat this is for me. Sure you’re kindness itself!’

In the face of Con’s genial gratitude Andrew somehow felt himself a tarnished hypocrite.

Afterwards they had a steak and beer at the Cadero; then they returned, stirred up the fire in the front room and sat down to talk. They talked and smoked and drank further bottles of beer. Momentarily Andrew forgot the complexities of super-civilised existence. The straining tension of his practice, the prospect of his adoption by le Roy, the chance of promotion at the Victoria, the state of his investments, the soft textured nicety of Frances Lawrence, the dread of an accusation in Christine’s distant eyes – these all faded as Con bellowed:

‘D’you mind the time we fought Llewellyn. And Urquhart and the rest drew back on us – Urquhart’s still goin’ strong by the same token, sends his best regards – and then we set to, the both of us, and finished the beer.’

But the next day came. And it brought, inexorably, the moment of reunion with Christine. Andrew dragged the unsuspecting Con to the end of the platform, irritably aware of the inadequacy of his self-possession, realising that Boland was his salvation. His heart was beating in painful expectation as the train steamed in. He knew one shattering moment of anguish and remorse at the sight of Christine’s small familiar face advancing amongst the crowd of strangers, straining in expectation towards his own. Then he lost everything in the effort to achieve cordial unconcern.

‘Hello, Chris! Thought you were never coming! Yes, you may well look at him. It’s Con all right! Himself and no other! And not a day older. He’s staying with us, Chris – we’ll tell you all about it in the car. I’ve got it outside. Did you have a good time? Oh, look here –
why
are you carrying your case?’

Swept away by the unexpectedness of this platform reception – when she had feared she might not be met at all – Christine lost her wan expression, and colour flowed back nervously into her cheeks. She also had been apprehensive, nervously keyed, longing for a new beginning. She felt almost hopeful now. Ensconced in the back of the car with Con she talked eagerly, stealing glances at Andrew’s profile in the driving seat.

‘Oh, it is good to be home.’ She took a long breath inside the front door of the house; then, quickly, wistfully, ‘You have missed me, Andrew?’