The Long Corridor

by Catherine Cookson

  As time went on and the pain of George’s loss eased, the ache of her body increased. She had had this ache before her husband had died, because during that last year of his life he’d had no power to alleviate it. It was when she had been working at the doctor’s house for fifteen months she decided to accept Arthur Wheatley’s unspoken proposal. Arthur had a small farm near by. He had twenty acres in all and her bit of land was adjacent to his. She did not know whether he wanted her for herself or for the two fields. He wasn’t a bad chap, she told herself; a bit quiet, but then that might be an asset. One thing she knew was that no matter how much her body cried out at night he wasn’t going to get her without marriage. Once you started that, marriage went up a gum tree, and she’d seen enough of people up gum trees. She wanted marriage and respectability.

  And then the doctor went down with a fever. At first they thought he had the ’flu, and then it was decided he had a bug, and the bug kept his temperature at sweating point. It had become evident to Ivy within a very short time that Mrs Higgins was no nurse; even if she had been in sympathy with the patient, she would have found nursing an irritation. And as Miss Jenny was away on a case, and the stairs taxed Maggie’s breath and bulk every time she mounted them, it seemed most natural that she herself, who had nursed her husband, should also help to nurse this man who had been so good to him. Then came the day when he was very low and she was sponging his sweat-drenched body that he said to her, ‘You’ve got kind hands, Ivy.’ That’s how it had started. In that moment as they had looked at each other they exchanged their need. In the following three weeks the look was repeated again and again, and on the day that the doctor resumed his work she gave her notice in.

  She knew Bett Higgins had been both annoyed and surprised. She was well satisfied with her work, she said. Was it because of the extra running up and down stairs over the past few weeks? No. Then did she want more money? No. In the end she had told her she was going to be married.

  She had left on the following Friday, and on the Saturday Paul had come to the house. When she opened the door to him she hadn’t been surprised, it was what she wanted. She could see him now as she had that day, this big, burly, attractive man, this man of position, this highly respected doctor, standing with his hat in his hand looking at her and asking quietly, ‘Are you going to be married, Ivy?’ Without hesitation she had said, ‘No.’ And he had said, ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘Sure as ever I’ll be of anything,’ she had answered.

  He had come towards her and taken her in his arms, and as naturally as if they had been made for each other from the beginning of time they came together and had satisfied each other; and it had been the same every time it had happened over the last two years…Yet all the while she had worried, worried about what would happen to him if their association ever leaked out. In a town like Fellburn it could mean the finish of him, and with men like old Doctor Beresford and Mr Parkins he couldn’t be too careful. She wondered at times, if he hadn’t been in the position of a doctor and hadn’t carried on his business in the old house which he loved, whether he would have thrown everything up and taken her away. She wondered…often she wondered, but she couldn’t give herself the answer.

  When the clock in the hall struck the three-quarter chime she ran her fingers through his hair, saying softly, ‘Paul, Paul it’s quarter-to.’

  ‘Eh? Oh!’ He drew in a long shuddering breath and, stretching his legs down the bed, muttered into her flesh, ‘You shouldn’t let me go to sleep. How long have I been off?’

  ‘Just over ten minutes. Come on.’ She shook him gently. ‘I’ll make you a strong coffee.’

  He dragged his head from the warm valley of her and, having pulled himself up in the bed, stretched his arms to their fullest extent and yawned. Then as he watched her pull on her dressing gown he said lazily, ‘Promise me that one night you’ll let me sleep right through, will you?’

  ‘I’ll promise you no such thing. Come on now.’ She smiled at him, and the smile covered the regret that she would never be able to do as he asked.

  When she had left the room he rose from the bed and went to the washbasin, where he splashed his face with cold water, then got into his clothes. A few minutes later he was standing near the table, fully dressed for outdoors, with a cup of coffee in his hand. She stood close to him, watching him drink, and when the cup was empty she took it from him, and going into his arms she returned his hard, fierce kiss. It seemed that the feeling between them would never be dulled with use. He said to her now, ‘Look, I’ve been thinking. What about a day out? I’m due for a few days…’

  ‘No. No.’ She shook her head quickly. ‘We’ve been over all this before; you know yourself it’s madness, you know you do. I know why you’re saying it, just because of me, but I’m all right. I’m all right. I don’t want days out…jaunts. I’ve told you.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem fair, taking everything and giving nothing.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, be quiet. Be quiet…And look; go on or you’ll be late back.’

  ‘Don’t come out’—he pulled on his hat—‘you’ll get cold.’ He kissed her again, then turning swiftly from her he went out, and as he passed through the gate he heard her locking the door. He had never said when he would be back and she had never asked. She knew he would come as often as he could.

  When he entered the house he heard laughter coming from the drawing room and he stopped in the act of taking off his coat, trying to distinguish who the company might be. It was now twenty to eleven; she usually got rid of her visitors before this—her young admirers from the Technical College usually came to tea. There had been a succession of them over the past years, one introducing another. They were rarely over twenty, except for that isolated case last year. He didn’t want to dwell on that, but still he couldn’t forget the ignominy of having to assure the parents that his wife’s interest in their twenty-one-year-old son was purely maternal; was she not fifteen years the boy’s senior? That business had made him sick, sick to the core. If she wanted a man why didn’t she go for a man, not these gangling, pimply-faced youths. Why did she do it? He did not unlock the answer from within him and say because these slim youths were in all ways opposite to himself. They were not, as yet, heavy of build, their necks weren’t short, or their faces large and square. Nor would he say that his wife’s obsession with youth was merely perverted sex, a safe outlet for a maddening frustration. When a similar case came before him in his practice he usually had a word with the husband, for nearly always, except if the woman was afraid of sex, the cause lay with him.

  As he neared the drawing room door and a rocketing bellow of mirth came to him he knew who the visitor was, and it was no youth. A frown brought his brows together and his lower lip jutting out—Friend Knowles, and the second visit in a week. Well, at least he was her own age. But he couldn’t stand the fellow, and it wasn’t because he was jealous, nor because Knowles was the slim, dapper type and the antithesis of himself. Why, he wondered, did you dislike more people than you liked? It was something that few faced up to. Most people, whether religious or not, hid behind the smokescreen of ‘Love thy neighbour’, the while hating their guts. Look at himself tonight. Starting with Gray in the surgery; then Mrs Ratcliffe; followed by Parkins and, of course, Beresford; and now Knowles.

  When he thrust the door open James Knowles and Bett both turned and looked towards him. Then the younger man rose swiftly from the couch where he had been sitting beside Bett, and coming forward with outstretched hand he said heartily, ‘Hello again, Paul. Oh, I am glad I’ve been able to see you before I left; I was just about to go.’ He shook Paul’s hand as if he were the host and Paul a hesitant visitor.

  The handshake over, he stepped back and surveyed Paul, saying, ‘Hi! You look tired, really fagged. You work too hard. Still’—he poked his head playfully towards him—‘just think of all the money you make.’

  ‘Yes, there’s that in it.’ A flat response, the opposite to wh
at James Knowles expected. It took the wind out of his verbosity for a moment, then coming back on the bounce he cried, ‘Tell you what I came for, Paul. I want you both to come to a dinner on Saturday night. My boss is giving a do up at his private house, Burley Court. You know, the big place that stands back off the top end of the new road. He hasn’t been in it long.’

  ‘But we don’t happen to know your boss, or he us.’ Paul was walking towards the wine cabinet as he spoke.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right; he told me I could bring a couple of friends, and immediately I thought of you both.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Paul lifted up a bottle of Scotch, where it was already standing on a tray on the top of the cabinet next to some used glasses, and he poured himself out a double knuckleful, and he sipped at it before he added, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a busy day on Saturday. Moreover, I’ve already made a dinner appointment at the club.’

  ‘I would like to go.’ Bett spoke for the first time since he had entered the room, but she did not turn towards him, nor move her position from in front of the fire, and he looked towards the back of her neatly waved head before he said, ‘You go then.’ He knew she would go in any case; it didn’t matter what he said. He also knew that his presence was the last thing that either of them wanted.

  ‘It’s a pity, you would have enjoyed it. When our Mr Calvert Hogan throws his house open, he throws it open, and before the evening’s out you can swim through it.’

  ‘I dare say.’ Paul drained his glass; then poured out another dose, and with it in his hand he walked towards the fire. And the indication that he was going to stay in the room gave impetus to the visitor’s departure, for now, bending over the back of the couch, James Knowles addressed Bett with playful familiarity, saying, ‘Well, little-un, I’ll have to be on my way, but is it all right for Saturday, eh?’ He lifted his gaze from her and looked towards Paul. And for answer Bett rose from the couch and walked towards the drawing room door, saying casually, ‘I’ll be ready.’

  ‘Fine. Fine. Well, goodnight, Paul.’ Again there was the hearty handshake. ‘Sorry about Saturday. Another time, eh?’

  ‘Yes, another time.’

  ‘Oh.’ Knowles was halfway across the room when he turned, adding, ‘Give my love to Lorna, will you? She was in bed when I arrived. Bye.’ He jerked his head. ‘You’re a lucky chap. She’s becoming a stunner. You’re going to have some trouble with the boys in that direction, Paul.’

  Paul said nothing; there was nothing to say. He just looked straight at the man and watched him turn about and leave the room.

  When the lowered mumble of their voices came to him he could almost hear Knowles saying, ‘He doesn’t change. By God! He is a surly cuss. I don’t know how you stand it.’ Then adding, ‘Never mind, little-un, we’ll make up for things on Saturday night, eh?’ And then he would put his arm round her waist and give her a surreptitious hug.

  His thinking urged him towards the cabinet again, where he poured out another measure of whisky, which he drained immediately. He had no room to talk, to criticise, had he? He hadn’t a leg to stand on. Yet if he had ten women he could still not condone, even in his mind, her association with a fellow like Knowles. He was a nasty piece of work. It had nothing to do with sex; he was just a nasty piece of work, and it oozed through his veneer. That was, for anyone who had eyes to see.

  He felt the best thing to do now would be to get upstairs without coming face to face with her again, at least tonight. He did not want any more words with her, any more rows. He had no desire to pick up where they had left off before Jinny had put in her timely appearance, yet he knew it could happen because he felt irritable, touchy. He had been like this for weeks now. He was tired, very tired. He wanted a rest; most of all a change.

  He was still at the cabinet when she entered the room again, and as, without speaking a word, she began her nightly ritual of puffing up the cushions and straightening the chairs he asked, ‘Any calls for me?’

  She banged a cushion into roundness before she said, ‘No; I would have told you, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know so much about that.’

  She straightened up and by way of retort stared scornfully at him.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’

  ‘I’ve never done it deliberately; when that’s happened it’s because I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘And forgotten to make a note of the call, too.’

  Her lips moved hard, one over the other. Her face took on a pinched look and her body tensed. ‘I’m not your receptionist; and in future if you want messages taken you can get somebody in to babysit the phone.’

  ‘You’re only asked to do two evenings a week.’

  ‘Two evenings, that’s all. Well, it’s two too many. And what do I get out of it? Damn all. You wouldn’t put me on your books as receptionist, would you? Oh no, I might make a bit of money. Other doctors can employ their wives, but not you. Not the big fellow, the big above-board Doctor Higgins.’

  ‘I told you’—his tone was even—‘I had no intention of dismissing Elsie to satisfy a passing whim—that’s all it would have been.’

  She stared at him as her face drained of colour; and then she said, ‘Damn you! And Elsie. And your Maggie. The both of them are like old moth-eaten nanny-goats running round a dried-up Billy.’

  He was holding the empty glass in his hand and he had the fearful desire to toss it straight into her face and see it splinter into fragments. He placed it quickly on the cabinet, turned, and went out of the room.

  When he reached his own room he switched on the electric fire, and, sitting on a chair beside it, he placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head on his open palms. Something would have to be done; but what? One thing was certain: they couldn’t go on like this, not for years and years. But the only way they could get a divorce, without it impairing his work, would be for her to petition him with cruelty. But she wouldn’t do that because professionally it wouldn’t harm him. The only way he could get free from her would be if it ruined him, if he was bereft of the work he loved, and through that this house, and his standing in the town. That would be her price for freedom. At least, in this direction, he knew exactly where he stood.

  After a few minutes he rose and, going into the bathroom that led out of his bedroom, he ran the bath, and as he lay in it he heard her come upstairs, pass over the landing and down the long corridor to the room that was hers. He tried to think back to the last time he was in her room; it must be all of five years ago. It was when she had ’flu and he had gone in with John Price when he had visited her, just to make things look normal. He shook his head at the fact that five years ago things weren’t normal between them. They had been married sixteen years and for fifteen of those years things hadn’t been right. Yet for the first years, because of his parents’ presence in the house, he had kept up the pretence, in as much as he shared a room with her, and sometimes, driven through necessity, a bed. He had done this until seven years ago when his mother had died. The day after the funeral he had taken up his abode in this room. It was, looking at it from a doctor’s point of view, a terrible thing to do to a woman, to leave her physically alone, to ignore her body, and it was because of this he had made allowances for her attitude towards him. Yet the man in him attached no blame to himself…He felt justified in this attitude towards her, for no man likes to be made a monkey of.

  Later, when he returned to his room, he immediately put the light out, and getting into bed he lay with his hands behind his head waiting for sleep. He’d had three broken nights in a week and he needed sleep. But the longer he lay the further it receded from him. And as this went on he told himself he’d have to have another glass. He’d had the equivalent of three already, besides what he’d had earlier on. The cure, he knew, could be worse than the disease. He was muzzy now, he’d feel like death in the morning. But it was either another drink or lie here staring into nothingness until the dawn, or until the phone rang.

  He sw
itched on the light and got out of bed and went to a cupboard in the corner of the room, and taking from it a bottle half-filled with whisky, together with a large glass, he returned to the bed, and, sitting on the edge, poured himself out a stiff drink. After throwing it back in one shuddering gulp he repeated the dose. Then putting the bottle and glass on the bedside table he got into bed again, switched out the light and waited for the cumulated spirit to have its effect. He reckoned that now he’d drunk nearly half a bottle since he’d come in. Well, if that didn’t do the trick, nothing would. He waited for his muscles to relax, for his mind to become more hazy. But this time the spirit did not drop the curtain of sleep over him and obliterate the day. Instead, he found himself fixed on some halfway mental platform with suppressed irritations floating around him and an aggressiveness striving to escape.

  And in this state of mind he imagined himself springing up from the bed, dashing out of the room and down the corridor, kicking open her door and standing over her. He could see the surprise on her face as he gripped her throat and yelled, ‘You bitch! You dirty conniving little bitch!’ He had always wanted to say that to her: ‘You dirty conniving little bitch!’ And if he had, perhaps things would have been better, because then she would have said, ‘What do you mean? Dirty conniving little bitch?’ And he would have told her. Aye, by God he would have told her.

  But he had never said it, and the longer he put it off the less able he was to tell her…Years ago, when she first became aware that he knew, she had retreated into herself, frightened that he’d expose her, frightened that the good marriage she’d brought off—oh yes, he knew she congratulated herself on the catch she’d made—was going to fall to pieces and she’d be out on her neck. And that’s what he should have done if he’d had any sense, finished it right off, thrown her out on her neck. But what had he done? Not a blasted thing. And all because he couldn’t bear anybody knowing he had been made a monkey of; especially his father…For two pins he’d get up now and go along and beat the living daylights out of her. He should have done that, too, years ago. When he felt his body heaving in the bed he chastised himself aloud, saying, ‘Stop it, stop it.’ He sat up now, holding his dizzying head. He shouldn’t have taken any more of the stuff, not at this hour. Aw, to hell! He’d drink if he wanted to. Yet he’d eased up on it lately; he’d not drunk so much since he’d had Ivy. Aw, Ivy. Oh, if only Ivy were here. He turned on to his side and flung his arm across the pillow. Now if Ivy had been his wife. But they wouldn’t have stood for Ivy being his wife. Nobody would have stood for Ivy being his wife, not even his mother. Because why? Because Ivy was an ordinary lass; she was without pretence. Ivy couldn’t pretend to be what she wasn’t, she couldn’t put on the twang, so they wouldn’t have stood for Ivy. What! Marry Ivy, who said WAS YOU and THOSE ARE THEM. Tut! Tut! How shocking. How the doctor had let himself down. Bloody hypocrites. That’s what people were. Bloody hypocrites. And he was living with the biggest of them, and she was driving him mad. Only yesterday she had said to him, ‘You’re going round the bend. YOU should see a doctor. Have your brain seen to,’