Doctor's Wife

by Brian Moore

  When he drove into the driveway of Redden’s big gazebo of a house in the Somerton Road, he noticed the front door opening before he stopped the car engine. Redden came out into the night, obviously nervous, shaking his hand, thanking him profusely for coming. No sign of Sheila, and when they went into the drawing room, he saw that a silver tray had already been laid out on a table, with whiskey, Waterford water jug, and glasses.

  At first Redden said it all over again, about how sorry he was to bring him out at this time of night. He poured whiskey and both men sat, awkwardly, looking at the fire. And then, in a rush, Redden began to talk, and the whole story came out—how he had been held up by a series of accidents from joining Sheila on their holiday in the South of France, and how she had gone alone, and so on, and then, at last, about the telephone calls.

  “I mean, Owen, I don’t have to tell you I just couldn’t believe my ears. There’s only one conclusion in my mind and that is that she’s not herself.”

  “Has she been ill, then?”

  “Well, she has these premenstrual depressions.”

  “How bad are they?”

  “Hard for me to say. You’re a gynecologist, I’m not. I wonder—it couldn’t be some sort of early menopause?”

  “At her age? No, no,” Dr. Deane said.

  “I just don’t understand it. I have no idea of who the man could be. She certainly wasn’t running around with anybody from here, as far as I know.”

  “Mnn,” Dr. Deane said.

  “I wondered—I mean, I said to her on the phone that maybe if you could speak to her, Owen? Both as her brother and as a medical man, ha ha.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Oh, she was against it. I tell you the truth, Owen, I don’t know what to do now.”

  “It’s a rotten business,” Dr. Deane said. He was shocked more than he would have guessed. The idea of Sheila taking up with some man abroad, then telling her husband about it over the telephone. It didn’t sound normal. Anxiety filled him: this family thing again. He thought of Ned, his older brother. Another rotten business.

  “Mind you, I could go over there and have it out with her,” Redden said. “But that might not be the wisest thing to do at this point. I mean, if she’s there with some man, it would be confronting her with her sin, so to speak. You know what I mean, ha ha. There would be no denying it later.”

  Unfortunate, that laugh, Dr. Deane thought, but gave his brother-in-law full marks for sense. If he wants her back, he’s right not to force things. Besides, Sheila is not the sort to be bullied.

  “Anyway, I don’t even know where she’s staying. I’ve been ringing Peg Conway’s place, but I can’t get any answer.”

  “You’ll excuse my asking,” Dr. Deane said. “But have you two been getting along all right?”

  “Not one cross word.”

  “She’s had no previous bother with men? Admirers and so forth?”

  “No, no. Ah, she’s a bit of a flirt, though. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it. But nothing serious.”

  “And before she went on her holiday, how did she seem?”

  “Well, she was nervous. I noticed that. Worrying about every little thing, as though she was afraid the holiday would fall through. Of course, these times, as you know, who isn’t nervous, living here in Ulster?”

  “And the holiday did fall through, in a way.”

  “Yes. I suppose so. I know, it’s partly my fault. To tell you the truth, I never was dead keen on holidays abroad.”

  “Tell me,” Dr. Deane said, “has Sheila ever mentioned anything to you about my brother’s illness?”

  “You mean Ned. The dentist? No.”

  “Yes, you know him, surely?”

  “Oh, of course, of course. But it’s been years since I last ran into him. He never married, am I right?”

  “That’s right. He used to live in Dublin but now he’s in Cork. Well, about three years ago, he had a nervous breakdown. None of us knew anything about it. I stumbled on it by accident when I went to a meeting in Dublin and went around to see him. It was a desperate thing. He wasn’t looking after his practice. He was sitting in his rooms all day. Weeping spells. What had happened was he had fallen for some girl—late in life—and she threw him over. He was in a very bad way, poor chap. The upshot of it all was, I got him off to a hospital in Scotland. The psychiatrist there recommended electroshock.”

  Kevin Redden whistled.

  “It was all done on the q.t., mind you. We arranged a story about him going on a cruise, winning a ticket and so forth. He had a couple of hospital appointments in Dublin. Any hint of mental illness would have affected his practice. Besides, Kitty, my mother, didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

  “But he’s all right now?”

  “Oh, right as rain. He moved to Cork two years ago, and he’s doing well. Still, the point is, he was diagnosed as depressive. And unfortunately he’s not the only one in the family.”

  Redden took a stiff drink of whiskey. “Oh?” he said.

  “My mother; between you and me, she had a similar episode. She was middle-aged at the time so it was put down to the menopause. But she was in Purtysburn Asylum for a few months. Ned and I knew about it, but the girls didn’t. And, of course, on my father’s side of the family, there are ulcers galore. I have them and so has Eily.”

  “I see,” Kevin Redden said. “Listen, you’ll have another drink?”

  “No, no, I’m all right.”

  But Redden stood, took the glass from his hand, and insisted on pouring. “So you think in Sheila’s case it could be something similar? A depressive cycle?”

  “I don’t know. So far, she’s not had any symptoms of breakdown or whatever. But it’s possible that, after this episode, she might find herself in trouble.”

  “You mean if this fellow, whoever he is, throws her over?”

  “Look,” Dr. Deane said. “There may be nothing wrong with her. I suppose I’d know better if I could see her.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, Owen, I wish there was some way you could talk to her.”

  Dr. Deane drank a swallow of the whiskey and stared at a little escritoire in the corner, which he recognized as coming from his mother’s house. Kitty’s writing desk. “I wonder,” he said. “Thursday’s my day off. Maybe I could go to Paris and come back Thursday night. Oh, I suppose I could spend the night and get someone to cover for me on Friday. I’ll see what I can fix up.”

  “Ah, if you could do that, Owen, it would be blood) marvelous. I’d stand the fare, of course. It’s the least I can do.”

  The man had no tact or sense in some matters, Dr. Deane decided. But then remembered that his own Agnes might have made the same sort of offer. “No, no,” Dr. Deane said, “I’m her brother.”

  “Ah, now, Owen, listen—”

  “No, Kevin. I’ll try to go over on Thursday. And I’ll ring you as soon as I’ve talked to her.”

  “That’s great. If she’ll listen to anyone, she’ll listen to you. She’s always told me how fond she is of you.”

  “Well,” said Dr. Deane. “Now I’ll have a chance to find out.”

  Chapter 11

  • On Wednesday morning Peg Conway woke in Ivo’s bed. Last night, when she had gone to get her clothes from her flat, she had forgotten to pick up a letter which she needed in the office. So she breakfasted early and telephoned the Quai Saint-Michel. There was no answer. She decided Sheila wasn’t answering the phone because of the husband and so, on her way to work, she made a detour to collect the letter.

  When she arrived at the flat, it was about eight-fifteen. She rang, but there was no answer. She rang again, heard a noise inside, and the door opened to reveal Tom Lowry, his hair and shoulders wet, an inadequate hand towel draped around his middle. It was a sight which at once aroused her.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I phoned earlier, but there was no answer.”

  “Right,” he said. “We haven’t been answering the phone.”

  �
�I came to pick up something.”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  She went into the bedroom, noticing the rumpled bed, and thought of him making love in it. She stood on a chair and, from the top of the wardrobe, took down the large cardboard box in which she kept her private correspondence. As she searched for the letter from Maître Saval, she heard Tom moving around in her bathroom. When she went outside again, he was waiting for her in the hall, dried and wearing just an old pair of blue jeans, which sat very low on his belly. She could see the line of his pubic hair.

  “How are you getting on here?” she asked.

  “Great. Hey, why don’t you stay and have some breakfast with us?”

  “No, I’ve had mine,” she said, surprised at herself, for she could not take her eyes off his belly. He must certainly be an improvement on Kevin Redden.

  “Let me at least make you some coffee. Sheila will be back in a minute.”

  “Tell me,” Peg said, “when are you supposed to go back to the States? Ivo said you have a charter ticket.”

  “Right. For the twenty-eighth. If we go then.”

  “We?” She did not hide her surprise.

  “Oh,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I didn’t know it was like that.”

  “Well, it is. Wish me luck.”

  Suddenly the new sexual attraction she felt for him turned to anger. “I don’t know if I should.”

  “Why not?”

  “Aren’t you a bit young for Sheila? After all, she’s married and has a teenage child.”

  “Oh, come on, Peg. Age isn’t the problem.”

  Of course it is, you stupid young bastard, Peg wanted to say, but held her tongue, remembering that, in a way, she had started all this by introducing them to each other. “Listen, Tom,” she said. “I’m a very old friend of Sheila’s. I don’t know what her life is like at home. I’ve no idea. But, my God, that’s an awfully big step for her, going off with you to America. You hardly know each other.”

  He nodded. “I know. I’m not trying to make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. I think people should be left free to make up their own minds. If she decides to stay with her husband, I’ll have to accept her decision. I won’t try to do any con job on her, I promise you. End of speech, I guess.”

  “All right,” Peg said. “Sorry if I sounded cross. I’d better run now. Say hello to Sheila for me, will you?”

  “Okay. And thanks again for lending us the flat.”

  Peg went out and down the stairs, head filled with this news. Was life in Belfast so desperate that people wanted to run away from it, no matter when and with whom? Was that it? Running away with a boy you’d met only a week ago. As she reached the street door, it opened and a woman carrying a small parcel came into the lobby, a tall woman with a blue canvas hat pulled down around her eyes, hurrying, almost bumping into Peg before she looked up. It was Sheila Redden.

  “Peg? Were you upstairs?”

  “Yes, I had to get a letter.”

  “I’ve just bought croissants. Come up and have breakfast with us.”

  Peg hesitated, then said, “Look, could we go around the corner and have a quick coffee, just the two of us? There’s something I have to talk to you about.”

  “All right.” They went into Le Départ and ordered two cafés crèmes. Mrs. Redden took off her blue canvas hat.

  “What’s this about America?”

  Mrs. Redden, startled, looked up, opened her mouth as if to try to laugh it off, but decided not to. “Did Tom tell you?”

  Peg nodded.

  “Well, nothing’s been settled yet.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Why are you glad?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Peg said. “You hardly know this boy. Tell me, are you having trouble at home?”

  “No.”

  “Is it Belfast, then? Is it the life there, the bombs and all that? I can understand it would be enough to drive you into doing something drastic.”

  Mrs. Redden began to twist her blue hat nervously in her fingers. “No, it’s not that,” she said.

  “Well then, what is it?”

  “I don’t know. We put up with our lives, we don’t try to change them. I didn’t realize it, until I fell in love. What I’m doing now is supposed to be selfish. It’s what people used to call sinful. But I’m happy, in a way I never was before. Is that a sin?”

  “No. But if you go off to America, you’ll make other people unhappy. Kevin and Danny. And, in the end, maybe yourself.”

  The waiter brought the coffees. Across the river on the Quai des Orfèvres a police wagon started up its siren, badgering other traffic out of its way, squalling across the Pont Saint-Michel, stalled in a traffic glut outside Le Départ, then, dodging around a truck, set off loudly up the Boulevard Saint-Michel.

  When it was quiet again, Peg said, “Sheila, I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

  “But I am.”

  “You’re really thinking of leaving Kevin for a boy you hardly know?”

  “But I do feel I know him. I’ve never felt closer to anybody.”

  “You have a crush on him, that’s all. He’s handsome and sexy.”

  Mrs. Redden began to drink her coffee, as though in a hurry to finish it.

  “I’m sorry,” Peg said. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you might feel very differently about all this a month from now. If you do it, you might regret it all your life.”

  “But I can’t go back now. Not after this.”

  “Of course you can. Do you want to go back?”

  “I don’t want anything. I’m glad this happened. That’s all I think about.”

  “But if it ends,” Peg said. “Remember, I know about affairs. You think now you’ll never get over this. You think if it ends you’ll jump in the Seine. But life isn’t like that. You can go back, you know. People do it all the time.”

  Mrs. Redden put money on the waiter’s chit. “Maybe so. Look, Peg, I must go. I must bring these croissants up to Tom.”

  “Let me pay that.”

  “No, it’s paid.”

  “All right,” Peg said. “Why don’t you and Tom come around and have a drink with us tonight?”

  “Would you mind awfully if I said no? We like to be alone.”

  Peg laughed. “Well, at least you’re frank.”

  “And, Peg, can I ask you a great favor? Could we stay on in the flat until next week?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Suddenly, Mrs. Redden leaned across the table and kissed Peg on the cheek. “You and Ivo have been super about all this. You don’t know how much it’s meant to me.”

  “Oh, go on with you. Beat it,” Peg said and smiled, watching her friend stand, put on the blue sun hat, and hurry off around the corner, wearing that red dress she probably thought was great but which Peg could have told her was already out of style. Next week, Peg said to herself, she wants the flat until next week. Isn’t it next week that her holiday ends? Yes, that’s it, next Monday. She’ll go home then. She’ll see the light.

  •

  Tom Lowry, on the balcony, looking down at the Seine and the street below, saw her for a moment on the sidewalk, directly beneath him, saw her red dress and blue sun hat, then lost her as she went in the street door to the building. A moment ago church bells had struck off the hour. The sky was a grimy fat mattress of cloud. Wind rattled the wooden shutters at his back and rain spattered on the gray balcony floor. He guessed she’d met Peg. He thought of what Peg had said about his being too young and wondered if she’d said the same thing to Sheila. Suddenly tense, he went back into the room and out to the front hall. He opened the front door and watched as she came up the flights of stairs.

  “You ran into Peg?”

  “Yes, alas.”

  “What did she say? Was it about us?”

  “Mn, hm. Did the phone ring?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” She went into th
e kitchen and put the croissants on a plate. “Let’s have our breakfast, then go out and look at pictures.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Let’s do something useful. Why don’t we go and get your photographs taken and then go to the embassy and get you a tourist visa?”

  “No, let’s have fun.”

  “Can we really have fun?”

  “Why not?”

  “How can you have fun when you’re sitting here scared that the phone will ring? Or that he’ll take it into his head to come over here and raise hell?”

  “He won’t. If he hasn’t phoned this morning, it means he’s calmed down.”

  “Okay. But what about the visa? I mean, my charter flight is about two weeks from today. We don’t have all that much time.”

  “No!” She got up from the table as though she would strike him. “I haven’t decided anything. I’m not going to decide anything until this damn period starts. I can’t.”

  “I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry.”