Paul remained apart, standing looking at him. It was strange, but he had hardly given this boy a thought since Bett had died. It hadn’t really entered his mind that if this boy hadn’t infected her she’d be alive today. Why hadn’t he thought like that? Because, he supposed, there were more factors than her contagion that had led her to take her life. The disease had merely been the last straw. Not having blamed the boy in his own mind for Bett’s death he was finding it somewhat of a surprise that Brian himself should have taken on the responsibility. He hadn’t given him credit for a conscience.
He found it easy to put his hand on his shoulder and bring him from the wall. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk this out.’
He did not lead him into the drawing room, for he did not know what memories that room might evoke for the boy, but went through the waiting room and into the surgery.
After Brian was seated in the patient’s chair Paul rested against the edge of the desk within arm’s length of him and said, ‘Well now, tell me about it.’
Brian wiped his face with his handkerchief, then blew his nose before saying, ‘I’ve…I’ve got the feeling that I’ve killed her. I…I can’t get rid of it. If she hadn’t got this…contracted this…’ He closed his eyes and shook his head frantically. ‘Well, if she hadn’t got it she would never have taken her own life, would she?’ He looked up at Paul and went on under his breath, but rapidly, ‘She was so full of life, so jolly. I know she was older, a lot older, but she wasn’t like other women. She was like a girl; she sort of…well’—his head was shaking again—‘loved living, and I…I can see her face all the time, laughing as she twisted. She always used to laugh as…she…twisted.’ As his voice trailed away his body slumped until his head was in line with his knees.
As he looked down at him, Paul realised, with a sense of pity, that youth had fled from this boy. He also remembered that it was he himself who had first brought him into the house, and, what was more, that he had thought at the time that this was the kind of boy he would like for Lorna. How wrong could you be? He prided himself on being a judge of character—he’d had enough practice in that line—yet when he had first seen this boy and passed his opinion on him, Brian Bolton had already been with a number of women, and infected them. How, just how could you tell what was below the skin? And could you blame yourself for not being able to tell? As he stared at the dejected figure he knew he had the power to mar this boy’s future. He had only to let him assume all the blame for Bett’s suicide and it would remain with him, and with what dire reactions, for the rest of his life.
As he made a swift decision, he knew, as he had done two days ago, that his magnanimity was possible only because Lorna was not involved. Had she been, he had not the slightest doubt but that his attitude would have been ruthless. He said now, ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. She didn’t take her life because of that, not entirely.’
‘How do you know? Did…did she leave a letter or anything?’ There was fear in Brian’s upturned face.
He shook his head. ‘No, nothing.’
‘Then how do you know?’ His tone was despairing, insistent.
Paul looked down, and gripping the edge of the table with his hands, did a sort of swaying motion with his body before saying, ‘It’s a long story. There were many things that led up to her taking her life. All her laughter and high spirits were a form of cover-up. She…she was really very unhappy.’
‘Bett unhappy?’ Brian’s face screwed up in disbelief.
‘Yes, she was unhappy. She was unhappy because…’ How was he going to put this? How was he going to give this boy something to hang on to, something feasible that would bring him back on balance? He had no intention of telling him about the impending divorce, yet to be convincing he must give him part of the truth. He blinked his eyes rapidly and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Well, she was unhappy because she liked youth. You see, my wife was thirty-six years of age, but she was still a young girl in her mind, and I was perhaps’—he jerked his head—‘too old for her.’
This latter statement had no truth in it, yet he could see that the boy had grasped it and was holding it fast. His expression said that he could comprehend this, and this was made evident as he said, ‘Well, you’re not all that old.’
‘I’m turned forty.’
‘Aw yes.’ It was a telling sound, and the single upward movement he made with his head gave it emphasis. And this was followed by a deep intake of breath.
‘I am past being frivolous. My wife liked the company of young men, so our life wasn’t entirely compatible, you understand?’
‘Yes, yes.’
He saw that the boy’s breathing was easier.
‘She was very dissatisfied with life. Although her death came as a shock, it…it wasn’t entirely a surprise.’
‘No? Then you don’t…you don’t think it was because of the other?’
‘As I’ve been trying to tell you, not entirely.’ The eagerness in the boy’s attitude here warned him that it might be wrong to take all responsibility from him. It might be better to let him carry some of it, if only as a deterrent against passing on his crippling gift. ‘We all do things we’re sorry for,’ he went on, ‘but very often if we face up to ourselves these very mistakes help us to be more sensible.’ The triteness of the remark, the smugness that it conveyed, checked him from following this line.
As he brought himself sharply up from the support of the table Brian, his head low again, muttered, ‘I’m going to get away. I’ve got a cousin in the South. He’s…he’s got a good car business; he’s offered me a job.’
‘What about your career? Couldn’t you carry that on from some place else?’
‘I don’t want to; I want to make a complete change.’
‘What has your father to say about this?’
‘We—we’ve had words, a row yesterday.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She’s terribly upset. She—she senses something’s wrong and if I don’t get away I’m afraid I’ll blurt it all out.’
‘You mustn’t do that. That would upset them both much more than your going away. They’ll get over you going away but I doubt whether they’ll get over the real reason for your going.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘And what about the treatment?’
Brian rose to his feet and buttoned his coat, and he kept his eyes on his hands as he replied, ‘I mean to see about that, I do.’ Now he was looking at Paul and after a short silence he repeated. ‘I do. I’ll see to it.’
‘It’ll be wise, if only for your own sake, for, remember, this thing can rear its head twenty years from now. Well now,’ he moved towards the door, ‘you go home and try not to worry.’
He led the way out of the surgery, across the waiting room and unlocked the door leading into the courtyard, and when he stood aside with the door in his hand, Brian paused, and, looking up at him from under his lids, said in a shamefaced way, ‘Thanks. You’ve been kind when you needn’t have been. All along you’ve been kind. I feel a bit better than when I first came, yet—yet I know now that I’ll always feel that somehow I’m to blame for what she did.’
‘That feeling will wear off with time. If it’s any comfort to you, I feel the same way.’
Brian remained a moment longer looking at him; then briefly he said, ‘Goodnight, sir.’
‘Goodnight.’
Paul closed the door. The boy hadn’t said ‘Goodnight, Doctor’ but ‘Sir’. It put him into focus somehow. It was like a pointer to the boy’s future life. It seemed to foretell that he would make an all-out effort to regain his self-respect, yet at the same time Paul knew that Brian might never succeed, for, as the boy had said, he would always feel responsible for her death. If he was inclined to be pi he could say that it was only justice that he should carry the weight with him for life, but who wanted justice? Justice was an over-estimated quality. It was odd that this last thought should bring James Knowles to his mind. He’d had no
word from him, and he’d been expecting some word either through a letter or a phone call, and either form to convey abuse. It was very unlikely that he hadn’t heard, the whole town knew. He had no fear of him mentioning Bett’s contagion, for Knowles was sensible enough to know that other people would link it with him. One thing Paul knew was that Knowles would place the full responsibility for Bett’s death on him. Well, whatever move he made he felt capable of meeting it. He wasn’t afraid of anything Knowles could do; at least he was sure of this.
As he went through the door marked ‘Private’ the phone rang again and when he lifted it he heard John’s voice, saying, ‘Hello there! That you, Paul?’
‘Yes; yes, it’s me, John.’
‘I’ve just got back from Beresford’s.’
There followed a pause. ‘You shouldn’t have done it, John, but how did it go?’
‘Very well, very well indeed. I think putting him in the picture will have made all the difference.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘But…but what do you mean, John, by putting him in the picture? You didn’t tell him everything?’
‘As much as was necessary.’
‘You didn’t mention about Bri— About the boy?’
‘No. Well, not exactly. What I mean is, no names were mentioned.’
Paul ground his teeth lightly, then said, ‘What if he talks?’
‘He won’t. I can answer for his discretion. And after all, Paul, no matter what you think about him, he’s a doctor, and in his old-fashioned way he’s a good one; and you know this won’t be the first secret he’s kept.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, John, but I’m not easy in my mind. But…please don’t misunderstand me, I’m most grateful for what you’ve done, but well, knowing old Beresford, I suppose I’m prejudiced.’
‘Well, you’re not the only one who is prejudiced against him. I’ll give you that—he’s got more enemies than friends in the town—but I’ve always seen his good side, and he has one. By the way, I tapped him about the post.’
‘You did?’ Paul waited.
‘Yes, we had quite a natter about it. Naturally, he’s backing Rankin, but by what he said he still expects you to stand. And there’s another bit of news I’ve got for you. Sir David Cooper is off the Board, resigned, ill-health so I understand, and Baxby’s in his place.’
‘Baxby? You mean from the Royal?’
‘The same.’
‘Oh, I know Baxby very well.’
‘Good. Well, what do you say now? You’re going to take a chance?’
There followed a lengthy pause before Paul said, ‘Yes, John, I’ll take my chance. I’ve done a good deal of thinking since you left and I know I must do something besides the ordinary grind.’
‘Fine, fine. Oh, I’m glad…Now you’re sure you won’t come over and have a drink?’
‘No thanks, John, not tonight. I told Muriel, Maggie’s gone out for a while and I’ll have to stand on call. And by the way, I’m on full duty from now on. It’ll do me good to keep going; it’ll keep my mind off things. But thanks again, John. I can’t put into words what I feel. I’ll look in tomorrow.’
‘Good. And I’m delighted you’ve altered your mind about the other business. Goodnight, Paul.’
‘Goodnight, John.’
He walked slowly from the phone towards the drawing room, but before he reached it he turned about and went into the kitchen. Of a sudden he felt hungry. He hadn’t had a proper meal for days. There was a tray all nicely set on the table, and he knew there would be something tasty in the oven. Going to the Aga he opened the bottom door and lifted out the covered dish and set it on the tray, and when he raised the lid his mouth watered: curried chicken. Maggie was a dab hand with curried chicken. There should be a bowl of rice in the oven too. Bending down he pulled a dish from the back of the oven and placing this too on the tray, he carried it into the drawing room.
When some twenty minutes later he brought the tray back into the kitchen as from habit he put the dishes into the sink and ran the hot water on them, and as he stood with his back to the sink drying his hands his eyes roamed round the familiar room. The plastic-topped stools under the table offended his eyes. He looked to the corner where Maggie’s armchair used to stand but which space was now taken up by the washing machine. Then his eyes settled on the corner near the stove where stood a small chair which would not have held one of Maggie’s buttocks. Slowly he went out of the kitchen and down the passage to the playroom, and there he selected from the discarded furniture the larger of two armchairs. This he carried to the kitchen and placed it to the side of the stove. Then sitting down in it he tested it for comfort. It felt good, easy; it was a chair made to take a lot of weight. Maggie would be pleased about this. He stretched out his feet until they came opposite the lower door of the oven. Yes, Maggie would appreciate this. He must see that she got off her legs more from now on; he must get extra help in the house. She’d had it pretty tough of late years. It was a wonder she had put up with it, even taking into account her loyalty to him. Bett had been a swine to work under. It was no use trying to varnish that truth. She hadn’t the remotest idea of how to control a staff. Of course, it must have been irritating to her when Maggie loaded her blouse each night. But then, as he had said time and again, who was paying for the stuff Maggie took? In his mother’s day she hadn’t needed to help herself, her basket had been packed for her. During the hard times she had brought up her family on what his mother had given her. Looking quietly back now, he was amazed at the patience Maggie had shown since Bett had taken over, for she had a tongue of her own and would use it at times; but what Bett had never seemed to understand, what he couldn’t get her to understand, was that underneath Maggie’s rough exterior lay a thoughtful, kind creature who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
It was at this point of his thinking that the doorbell rang once more.
He did not wonder who the caller might be as he approached the door, there was just someone at the door, so when on opening he found himself enfolded in Lorna’s thin arms he stood helplessly, his own arms hanging slack, looking over her head to where Jenny, carrying only a small case and her handbag, went past him into the hall.
‘Oh, Daddy! Daddy!’
He put his hand on Lorna’s head, while he looked at Jenny and he said weakly, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Jenny’s back was towards him and she turned her head over her shoulder but did not look directly at him when she answered ‘Tell you? Why didn’t you tell us?’
He put out his hand and closed the door. Then leading Lorna, who was now crying unrestrainedly, past Jenny towards the drawing room, he muttered below his breath, ‘I had my reasons.’
In the drawing room, his arm still about Lorna, he pressed her to him, saying, ‘There now, don’t cry.’
‘Aw, but, Daddy, Daddy, it’s awful.’ She raised her tear-stained face to his and, shaking her head slowly, she repeated, ‘Awful, awful.’
‘We all feel that way. Come along, take your coat off.’
He now took her hand and led her towards the fire, and, pulling a chair forward, said, ‘Sit down; you’re frozen. When did you leave?’
‘First thing this morning, around ten.’ She sniffed and her head bobbed each time.
‘How…how did you find out?’
Lorna did not answer but turned her drenched face to where Jenny was entering the room, and she left the answer to her. But Jenny did not speak until she had seated herself stiffly in a chair to the side of the couch, away from the fire and Paul, and then looking at him she said flatly, ‘We were going into breakfast when we met the Turnbull family, the accountant. They had just arrived last night. They seemed surprised to find Lorna there and they sympathised with her about her mother’s death.’
Paul lowered his gaze and bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry. I did it for the best.’
Jenny gave a little sigh which took some of the tenseness from her body and her v
oice sounded less stiff as she said, ‘I suppose you did. But it would have been better, I think, if you had let us know.’ Again she sighed. Then turning to Lorna she said, ‘Do you think you could make us a cup of coffee, Lorna?’
It seemed a surprising request to make of the girl, the state she was in, and Paul said immediately, ‘No, no, sit where you are, I’ll see to it.’ As he made to move from the hearth Jenny said quickly, ‘Let Lorna do it, please.’
Lorna looked from one to the other, and when her eyes were held by Jenny’s she rose and went past her father, and as she rounded the couch Jenny touched her gently on the hand, saying, ‘Just make it in the cups, as long as it’s hot it’ll do. All right?’
‘Yes, Aunt Jenny.’ Lorna’s voice was submissive. She was aware that her Aunt Jenny wanted her out of the room, and she knew why.
The door had hardly closed behind her before Jenny, leaving her chair, went to the fire and resting her forearm on the mantelpiece stared at the frame of the picture as she said, ‘Now tell me what happened.’
Paul stood looking rather helplessly at her back. He didn’t know where to start. Jenny seemed alien. Whatever her attitude when they were to meet he hadn’t expected it to be like this. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I don’t know whether they told you or not, but she took her own life,’
‘They told us all right. Mrs Turnbull has a flair for shock tactics. I couldn’t believe it at first, I couldn’t take it in. But that wasn’t Lorna’s reaction; she took it in immediately and has hardly stopped crying since. You know something.’ She swung round and faced him. ‘She blames herself for Bett’s death.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘No it isn’t, not with her way of looking at it. Not when she remembers what she’s been wishing on her mother for a long time now. Do you know she’d been wishing that Bett would die, that she would drop down dead, or be knocked down—anything as long as she was out of the way?’
The Long Corridor Page 22
