Doctor's Wife

by Brian Moore

  Irlandaise—argent faire suivre

  He paused and looked over his spectacles. Then added,

  Tentative de suicide?

  Part 3

  Chapter 21

  • After two days in Paris, Dr. Deane decided he might as well go home. He was a doctor, not a detective, and he had found out what he could. From now on, it seemed likely that his investigations would be reduced to following after every tall young woman he saw in the street, in hopes that if she turned around she would reveal herself to be his sister. Besides, his tachycardia was worse, and last night, in his hotel room, his mind had begun to prey again on the most gloomy possibilities. So he phoned Peg Conway to say he was leaving and to thank her for her help, then wired Belfast to give his flight-arrival time. He had hoped that Anne, his older daughter, might drive out to the airport to pick him up. But when he landed in Belfast, the person who met him was Agnes.

  “Well,” she said, after he had kissed her. “Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes. I was right, wasn’t I? It was a complete wild-goose chase.”

  “Yes, in a way,” he said, for it was never wise to contradict her. “But, on the whole, I think it was worthwhile.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, dear,” he said and, taking her arm, led her out of the building. It was raining, and so cold it was hard to believe this was summer. “Actually,” he said, “I found out quite a bit. She’s not in America at all. She’s probably still in France.”

  This was to have been his bombshell, but he might as well have said it was a rainy day for all the notice Agnes took. She found the car-park ticket and he put up the umbrella she had brought. Under its shelter they went out toward the car. “Remember the letter the boy friend sent in care of Peg? Well, there was an American address on the envelope. So I took the bull by the horns and rang up, asking for her. She wasn’t there. Then I asked for him, and got him. He was very hostile, as a matter of fact, but I had a definite impression that he doesn’t know any more than we do about where she is. In fact, I think there’s a good chance she’s still in France. I’ll tell you why.”

  “You rang up America? How much did that cost?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t bad. Peg wouldn’t let me pay but I forced a few pounds on her.”

  “Why didn’t you open the letter?”

  “Ah, no, I couldn’t do that. I have it with me, though. I thought I’d send it on to Sheila when I hear where she wants her money sent. Don’t you think that’s the best idea?”

  “You forgot to fasten your seat belt,” Agnes said.

  “So I did. Thanks, dear.” He buckled up, and they drove out of the car park. “Yesterday,” he said, “I went to see that priest.”

  “The French priest?”

  “Yes, the one she wrote me to send the money to. A nice man. He hears confessions in English. Anyway, I played the innocent with him, didn’t say a word about her mental state. I just said that I was worried I might have trouble getting the money to her in America because of foreign-exchange regulations. So he said, ‘Your sister is not in America.’

  “ ‘So, where is she?’ said I. He said he couldn’t say, but that there wouldn’t be any necessity to send the money to her in dollars. So I asked him, ‘Where should I send it and in what currency?’ He said he didn’t know yet, but that he would let me know as soon as he could. Of course, that worried me, do you see? I mean, if he hasn’t heard from Sheila yet. You see what I mean, dear? I hope she’s all right.”

  “Don’t you worry your head,” Agnes said, and laughed. “Sherlock Holmes. Going to Paris and ringing up New York. And do you know all you had to do? Sit tight at home at 54 Dundrum Road.”

  “What are you talking about, dear?”

  “I’m talking about Sheila. She rang you up this morning. She’s going to call back at nine o’clock tonight.”

  “Where did she ring from? Did she tell you where she is?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything, she didn’t even have the manners to ask for me. She spoke to Imelda, and when the child asked if she wanted to speak to me, she said no, she’d call back.”

  “And did Imelda not say I was in Paris?”

  “Yes, she told her.”

  “And did Imelda say how she sounded?”

  “How would Imelda know?”

  “Yes, I suppose. Anyway, that’s great news, isn’t it? I can’t tell you the terrible gloomy thoughts I had in Paris last night. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her now.”

  “Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to her. Didn’t I tell you she’d be all right? Any woman who’ll walk out on her husband and child after a three-week fling is not going to kill herself. Didn’t I say that?”

  “So you did, dear,” Dr. Deane said. “So you did.”

  •

  His daughters were making supper when he and Agnes got back to the house. He kissed them, gave them presents of silk scarves from the Paris duty-free shop, and then went into the den, shutting the door, saying he wanted to look over his post. What he wanted was a large whiskey. He poured it and lit the fire. He supposed he should phone Kevin Redden, but, honestly, he didn’t feel up to it. He had barely been able to be civil to the man ever since Redden let sb’p that he had showed Sheila that letter. And, in his most recent conversation, Redden said that he’d made a full report to the American Embassy in Dublin and that, furthermore, he was suing for divorce on the grounds of desertion. So why phone him to tell him the news? What does he care?

  Instead of phoning, therefore, Dr. Deane downed a second whiskey. As he finished it, the girls came to the door and said supper was on the dining-room table. Food was the last thing he wanted, but there was still an hour to kill before Sheila’s phone call was due and so he went in and managed a few bites of the ham and cauliflower. Imelda had made a chocolate cake with a cream filling and Agnes was very pleased with it and praised it and so nothing would do them but that he try it. “That piece is far too big for me,” he protested, and as he did, the telephone rang. He stood up precipitately and hurried into the den, shutting the door behind him before he picked up the receiver. But he was too late. Agnes had already run to the hall and picked up the phone out there.

  “It’s Agnes, Sheila,” he heard her say.

  “Hello, Agnes. Is Owen back yet?”

  “Yes. How are you? Where are you?”

  “Hello,” he said, cutting in. “Sheila?”

  “Yes.”

  “Agnes, I’d like to speak to Sheila alone, if you don’t mind.”

  He’d pay for that later, no doubt, but still, it had to be done. “All right, I’ll hang up,” Agnes said and clicked the receiver, but he was not deceived. He knew she was still on the line. At least, now she would be quiet.

  “Hello, Sheila?” he said. “Did you know I was over there in Paris looking for you? I’ve been terribly worried. How are you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “And where are you?”

  “Owen, I’m ringing you about those shares. Did you get my letter?”

  “Yes, I did. And I’ve sold the lot and there’s about sixteen hundred pounds out of it.”

  He heard Agnes’s intake of breath on the other line. She had had no idea it was that much.

  “It could have been more,” he said. “But the market’s down just now. How do you want it paid? Into a bank would be best, I suppose?”

  “Can you pay it into a post-office savings account?”

  “I suppose so, yes. Do they have that sort of thing in France?”

  “I don’t want it paid in France. I want it paid in London.”

  “Then you’re in London, are you?”

  She did not answer. “Can you pay it into a post office in London? I can open an account at the Belsize Park post office on Haverstock Hill.”

  “That’s in Hampstead,” he said. “I know that part. John Devaney used to live near there. On Parkhill Road, I believe.”

  “How long will it take for t
he money to get to London?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A few days, a week, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, there’s some of it I want paid out at once,” she said. “I owe it. It’s whatever the equivalent is of four hundred and fifteen dollars. I wonder if you could send that directly to someone in the United States.”

  “Of course I could. Who will I send it to?”

  “Have you got a pencil?”

  “Yes, fire away.”

  “It’s to go to a Mr. Tom Lowry, Pine Lodge, Rutland, Vermont.”

  “Yes, I spoke to him the other day.”

  “Where?” Her voice faltered.

  “I rang him up in Vermont. He wrote you a letter in care of Peg in Paris. It gave his address. I rang him, hoping to get some news of you.”

  “How is he?” Her voice was now a whisper.

  “He seems all right. I have his letter here, I can send it on. But, Sheila, I think you did the right thing, not going with him. The only thing. By the way, what are you living on now?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “I feel bloody terrible about Kevin showing you that letter I wrote him. I shouldn’t have written it, and he shouldn’t have shown it. I only wanted to help you. Will you believe that?”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “And thanks for cashing in my shares.”

  “Listen, Sheila, I’d love to see you. What if I flew over and put the money in your hand? I have this letter for you, too. Just let me talk to you for half an hour. And I promise there’ll be no preaching.”

  She hesitated. “You’d bring the money, and the letter?”

  “Yes, I’ll go to my bank first thing in the morning. Just tell me where.”

  “Could you come tomorrow? Say late tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Come where?”

  “London,” she said. “Meet me at six o’clock at the Primrose Hill Park gate opposite Regent’s Park zoo on Prince Albert Road. Do you know where that is?”

  “I’m writing it down. I can find it. At six, you said?”

  “Yes. And we’ll only talk for half an hour. You can be back home tomorrow night. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. All right.”

  “See you at six, then. And thanks, Owen.”

  “Take care of yourself,” he said. He heard her hang up, then Agnes hung up. He sat down in the den and stared at the fire, waiting for her.

  “Well, aren’t you the soft one,” she said, coming in. “Did you hear the way she ordered you around? Just like a messenger boy. And sixteen hundred pounds you’re going to hand over to her.”

  “It’s her own money, dear.”

  “And the letter. It was the minute you mentioned you had a letter from her boy friend that her ladyship changed her mind about seeing you. If you go, Owen, you’re making a real fool of yourself.”

  “I want to see her,” he said. “I thought I told you to get off the phone.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you brought that up. You were so rude, I couldn’t believe my ears. I felt as if I was going to cry. You and that family of yours, I declare you’re married to them, not to me. I mean, here’s your own wife in her own house being told to get off the phone as if she’s some outsider.”

  Anne and Imelda were in the doorway. They had heard her.

  “Was that Aunt Sheila, Daddy?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And where is she?”

  “London. Did you make any tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee,” Anne said. “Do you want it in here?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “So you’re going, then?” Agnes began. “Cupid, love’s messenger, bringing her the boy friend’s letter. Well, I never heard the like.”

  “Agnes,” he said. “Please?”

  “What’s the matter? I just asked you a question. I just want to know how many more fares you’re going to pay, running after her. Why don’t you ask her at least to pay your expenses, out of her sixteen hundred quid?”

  “Mummy,” Anne said. She took her mother’s arm. “Come on, Mum,” Imelda said, taking the other arm. And somehow they did what he never could do. Got her out. Got him some peace.

  Chapter 22

  • The manageress in charge of all of the Hampstead branches of Fastkleen Laundries was a stout, awkward person in her fifties, with a face empty as an actor’s after the curtain comes down. Every customer, irrespective of age or sex, was addressed as “Dear.” She worried about mistakes in making change and counted everything twice; yet, in a crisis, when a customer’s laundry had been mislaid, she was a model of patience, turning over docket after docket and almost always coming up with the missing item. On the first day of Mrs. Redden’s employment, the manageress spent the morning with her, then left her on her own for the afternoon, returning just before closing to collect the day’s takings. “All right, dear? Everything all right? Good. Tomorrow, you can run the shop yourself.”

  On the afternoon of the third day, the manageress came in about four and saw that Mrs. Redden had been weeping. “Anything wrong, dear? Customers making a fuss?” Mrs. Redden said, no, she was all right, it was all going very well, really. “That’s good, dear,” the manageress said and reached under the counter for a sign which read BACK IN 15 MINS. She put the sign in the window. “Let’s go across the street for a minute.”

  “Been in England long, dear?” the manageress asked, when, settled in the back of the pub, they had ordered a ruby port and a dry sherry.

  “No, just about a week.”

  “Got a place to stay?”

  “I have a bed-sitter. It’s off Haverstock Hill.”

  “Bit pricey, I’ll bet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have any friends in London, dear?”

  “No, not really.”

  “You want to join one of these social clubs. There’s an Irish club over in Camden Town. We have some Irish girls working for us up in Hampstead Village branch, they took me there last week. We had a nice time. I like the Irish songs. You’re not going to keep this job, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I should imagine you could do better, dear. You’ve been to the university, haven’t you? I saw it on your application form. You’ll get a better-paying job soon, I should think.”

  “Oh, but this job suits me. I mean, for now. I don’t want a job I can’t do, you see.”

  “Yes, you get your bearings. Yes, that’s right. You married, dear?”

  “I was, yes.”

  “Well, here’s to us that was. By the way, dear, if you ever have to leave the shop, better give me a ring first, so that I can cover for you. We have inspectors, you know. I know sometimes the girls like a little time off to nip out to shop or something. It’s hard getting settled, especially when you’re new, like.”

  “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

  “Yes. Oh, we had to laugh, that night at the Irish Club. There was a fellow sang these songs. Laugh! It can be a bit lonely, I should imagine, when you first come over. Listen, maybe you’d better run on back now, dear. See you tomorrow, half past five. All right?”

  •

  The room was in the attic of a Victorian terrace house at the unfashionable end of Gloucester Gardens. The roof sloped so that, when she was in bed, it seemed that the ceiling was sliding down on top of her. There was a large wardrobe, its drawers and compartments empty as she had no change of clothing. There was also an easy chair and a desk facing the window, which looked out on a view of four long narrow back gardens. In the evenings, when she came home from the laundry, she ate sitting at this desk, and, later, moved the easy chair to the window and read books from the local library until the long summer light had faded. At night she dreamed a lot. Her dreams were erotic and often jealous, in particular a recurring dream where she stood on the balcony of the room in the Hôtel Welcome while he made love to some young girl on the bed inside. She dreamed often of accidents, of being with him in a crashing airplane, or holding him as their car
plunged over a cliff. Sometimes these dreams would waken her and she would lie sleepless, wondering what he was doing today, wondering if he was thinking of her, as she was thinking of him. And often she would think of money: she had never thought of money in the old days. Now she would think of how she used to spend six pounds having her hair done and never even notice when she paid it out. She remembered her first three days here in London, when she had only two pounds left in her purse after paying a week’s rent on the room. She would wonder why Owen had not written to Father Brault in Paris, or why Father Brault had not sent the money on. Kitty’s little nest egg. Now it seemed such an awful lot. She earned twenty-five pounds a week and paid ten pounds of it for this room. Far too much. But all the other rooms she had looked at had been so dirty.

  And then, while she lay under the sloping wall, the light would come in, a morning light, and soon it would be time to rise and hurry through half-deserted streets to open the laundry shop at eight.

  At work, she would start to think of him again. It had been this way ever since she had walked out of the airport, two weeks ago. Even when she was busy, making change or finding a customer’s shirts, she would look up each time the shop bell rang, as though he might be the next person to walk in. She knew that this could not happen. She knew there was no way in which he could trace her. She did not want him to walk in. And yet she could not help it. She thought of him constantly. She knew that some day she would no longer think of him all the time. But it had not happened yet.

  And so, when at last she got up the courage to phone Owen and was told there was a letter from him, she felt a sudden terrible urgency to know what he had done and what he had written to her. That was why she agreed to Owen’s coming. It was foolish.

  Or so she now thought. Mrs. Dixon had come by at five-thirty as usual, to pick up the day’s receipts, and had agreed to let her go a few minutes early and to close up the shop for her. And so at ten minutes to six she walked up Regent’s Park Road to Primrose Hill, entering the park. It was a warm summer’s evening. Ahead of her, coming in off the street, a girl and a young man let loose their dogs, which, released from their leashes, ran in absurd galumphing circles, barking, tongues lolling with joy. To her left, on a broad lawn of grass now yellowing from the summer heat, four young men kicked a football, aiming at impromptu goalposts made by their jackets, while two older men walked slowly along a path, their loud voices deep in argument, oblivious to the pastoral sweep of the hill, the lawns, the panorama of London, distant and still in a summer’s evening haze. She had told Owen she would meet him at the entrance nearest the zoo. As she went toward that gate, she realized that he would expect her to come from the street and not from the park. She would probably see him before he saw her. For one frightening moment she wondered if Owen had told Kevin about this meeting and if, by any chance, Kevin might come with him. There was no trusting Owen any more. But somehow she did not think Kevin would come, and so she walked on, her pace a little slower now, her mind going again to that which obsessed her: Tom’s letter and what he had said in it. And so, as a church clock, somewhere, began to toll six times, she came down past the children’s playground, past the mothers, the sandbox, the swings, going toward the gate where Owen would be. She saw him, and as she came closer, she watched to see if he was alone. He was. He stood underneath the park notice board, tall and ill at ease, wearing the same green suit he had worn when she spoke to him last month. He carried a small attaché case and turned this way and that, looking up and down the road as though she might pass by and he would miss her.