Later, as John made for the annexe he thought of Henry’s feeling for his employer, and that if at the end of his life a servant of his could give him such a recommendation, he would feel that his living hadn’t been altogether self-centred. But he doubted that would happen. He wasn’t made in the same mould as Leonard. And every day he could understand more and more the extent of Helen’s love for the man, and love him, she did. And her sorrowing would be great. So, what hope could he hold in that direction, even if he had been free of Beatrice? If he was brave enough to tell himself the truth, he would have to say, little or none. The first words his mother uttered when he got in were, ‘My! You’re back early. Well, how did you find him?’
‘Poorly. Going downhill rapidly.’
‘How long d’you think he’s got?’
It was some seconds before he replied, ‘A few days.’
‘Poor soul,’ she said. ‘Poor soul.’
Four
Leonard died at half-past three on the Saturday morning. John had seen him the previous evening, but only for a moment because Doctor Peters was with him, as was Johnson. As he stood by the bed he had been unable to speak but he had taken the long white hand in his and held it for a moment. It was then between gasps that Leonard said, ‘See you . . . tomorrow, John,’ and he had answered, ‘Yes, Leonard. Yes, I’ll pop in tomorrow.’ And as he went to release his hold on the hand and move from the bed, Leonard, looking at him with that penetrating gaze, said, ‘Thanks, John. Thanks.’ And John knew that the thanks wasn’t referring to his calling on the morrow, but a final goodbye.
He met Helen in the hall, but he felt unable to speak to her, and she spoke no word to him: they exchanged a look, and then he left the house . . .
But here he was, again standing in the hall, but facing Rosie now. When she said, ‘He died at half-past three,’ he offered no rejoinder, except to ask, ‘How is she?’
For the second time Rosie rubbed a handkerchief around her face, then gulped before she said, ‘Calm, strangely calm. Since Leonard was seen to, she has sat by him – but it isn’t wise. And she hasn’t shed a tear.’
No, she wouldn’t cry; there were some pains that could not immediately be relieved by tears.
He said to Rosie, ‘Tell her I shall call later.’ . . .
He did call later, and the next day, and the next, and on each occasion found he was slightly nonplussed by her demeanour, for she seemed fully in command of herself. As Rosie said quietly to him, ‘It isn’t right. She’s acting as if every day was an ordinary day: giving orders to the servants and seeing the undertakers and such. It’s strange. The solicitor came and said he would see to things, but she thanked him and told him she could manage.’ . . .
Leonard was buried two days later and Helen broke the custom that it wasn’t suitable for a woman to attend her husband’s funeral; moreover, she remained standing by the open grave after the others had moved away. But she still remained dry-eyed, which of course was remarked upon by the mourners.
Many people had attended the funeral and a number had returned to the house, about some of whom Daisy had remarked, ‘They’ll get short shrift from me; they’ve left their visits a little late.’
It was she who dared to stand in the hallway and give polite messages to those visitors who had earlier been afraid to come near the house, using such phrases as, Lady Spears thanked them for their attendance; but she was sure that they understood she now wanted to be alone. Only one lady dared to press her right to see the bereaved, and to her Daisy spoke more than plainly. Leading her firmly to the door, she pressed her through and onto the step, saying frankly, ‘Claire, you’re years too late. She doesn’t want to see you now or at any other time. Am I making myself plain?’ And that lady had rejoined, ‘Yes, as plain as your face,’ and, comforting herself that she had had the last word, she marched away to her carriage.
Two days after the funeral Rosie returned home. She was not a little perplexed at Helen’s reaction to her husband’s death and she said as much to John; also, that Helen seemed to be more at ease with Mrs Wheatland, and she had asked if John didn’t think that Mrs Wheatland was a rather strange woman, for at times she never stopped talking, while at others she would sit and not open her mouth. But Helen did not seem to mind her either way.
John understood that Rosie was a little peeved that this strange woman should be more acceptable company to Helen than herself. And he understood them both: Helen would prefer Daisy’s company, for Daisy, even when she was being amusing, emanated life, painful life; whereas Rosie had, in a way, regained the joy of living which could not be entirely hidden by the tears of compassion or comforting words, or by the unnatural solemn expression.
Johnson met him in the hall and said, ‘Her Ladyship is in the drawing room, sir.’
‘Thank you, Johnson.’ Then John paused for a moment before he said, ‘What d’you intend to do now? I mean, are you going to look for another position in your own line?’
‘Oh, that’s been all arranged, sir. Her Ladyship has asked me to stay on and look after the establishment while she is away. I’ll inform her Ladyship that you’re here, sir.’
He’d inform her Ladyship that he was here. This was the first time he’d had to be announced. But, of course, it had been usually one of the girls who opened the door to him. He realised now that he really disliked this man: something about him got under his skin. But she had made arrangements and apparently everything was settled, at least with regard to the running of her household. Like Rosie he felt slightly piqued.
When Johnson said, ‘Doctor Falconer, m’lady,’ he had the urge to thrust the man aside.
Helen was sitting on the couch. He walked slowly up the room towards her, saying as she made to rise, ‘Don’t get up.’ He did not immediately sit down beside her, but as he had not previously taken off his overcoat and was carrying his hat in his hand, he now laid these both on a chair, saying ironically, ‘Your butler needs training, madam; he has omitted to divest me of my outer garments.’
‘Oh.’ She moved her head slightly. ‘He’s not my butler, John; quite candidly’ – she gave him a wan smile – ‘I don’t know what to call him.’
‘No? Well, he informed me almost before I got across the step that you have arranged for him to be in charge of the house whilst you are away . . . It’s all arranged then? You’re going away?’
‘Sit down, John.’ She motioned to a chair opposite her. And when he was seated, she said, ‘It’s all been done in a hurry. I had a letter yesterday from Leonard’s cousin in Paris. She’s the old lady; I think he mentioned her to you as someone who has never lifted a finger for herself in her life. Well, she wrote to me apologising for being unable to attend the funeral – she’s in her late seventies – but expressing a deep wish that I should visit her. It’s a very nice letter, very moving. And so, well, I wrote straight back and accepted her invitation because—’ she now leaned forward and made a motion of appeal with her hand towards him as she said, ‘John, I must get away. I’ll . . . I’ll break down completely if I stay here. It will only be for a time.’
‘What d’you mean by a time, Helen?’
She closed her eyes as she said, ‘I don’t know. A few months. I . . . I won’t admit his loss, John; I can’t, not while I’m here.’
‘So, you’re going away to get rid of him, and his memory, to wipe him out as if he had never been?’
He had expected her to deny this vehemently, but she surprised him with her answer: ‘Yes. Yes, something like that, because I can’t put up with this pain. I knew it would be bad. For a long time I had faced up to what it would be like, at least, I thought I had; but now I’m in this vast . . . vast emptiness. There is nothing or no-one I can reach out to.’
‘No-one?’ His words were deeply sad, and she turned her head away from him and drew her lower lip tightly between her t
eeth before she said, ‘I . . . I thought you would understand.’
His tone changed now as he murmured, ‘Yes. Yes, I do, dear. Yes, I do. I, too, am feeling the pain of his loss, but of course it’s nothing compared with yours. Yes, I do understand.’
She lay back on the couch and, taking a handkerchief from her cuff, she wiped her lips. There was no sign of tears in her eyes: they were dry and bright and they fixed on him now as she said softly, ‘If there’s anyone who could keep me here, it would be you, John . . . and Daisy. The rest’ – she gave a contemptuous lift to her chin – ‘they flood in daily now that the danger of infection is passed. But as I pointed out to dear Gwendoline Fenwick, I wasn’t sure if I had contracted it; that it was a very contagious disease, and I could actually see her shrinking within her voluminous gown. Well’ – she nodded – ‘she’s one I’ll not be seeing again.’
‘When d’you intend to leave?’
‘Within the next day or two.’
‘And you’re travelling alone?’
‘Yes. Yes, John.’ She nodded. ‘It’s done these days, you know.’
‘I . . . I know that.’ His tone was sharp. ‘But . . . but I wondered, what about Daisy?’
‘Yes, I thought about asking her, but her life is well arranged, with her leper committees and good deeds. Now, in no way am I ridiculing those. What’s more, she has never come anywhere near to suggesting that she should accompany me. Yet, I know that had she done so I would readily have accepted her company for, as Leonard used to say about her, “She, tight-corner fellow.” The saying goes back to Leonard’s Indian corporal; when men had to be chosen for a dangerous mission, he would say, “That one, tight-corner fellow.”’
John was to remember and to endorse this description of Daisy.
There was a short silence before he said, ‘D’you know Leonard asked me to . . . well, to be your friend, to help you in . . . in any way you needed me?’
‘Yes. Yes, I know.’ Her words came rapidly now. ‘Yes, I know, John, and . . . we’ll talk about it some time later. I know I couldn’t have a better friend; and he knew that, too. Yes’ – her head was bobbing now – ‘We’ll talk about it later, some time.’ She rose quickly to her feet now and he could see she was disturbed, and he said, ‘Will I be seeing you before you go then?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. It will be another couple of days or so before all arrangements are made.’
‘And you are leaving Johnson in charge?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes widened now and there was an appeal in them as she said, ‘What else can I do? I can’t just walk out and expect either you or Daisy to come and keep an eye on the staff. As good as they are, and they are wonderful, they need to have someone in charge, someone who is used to arranging and giving orders.’ She paused before she added, ‘He’s a little bumptious, I know, and very conscious of his position. I think it is far better to have someone of that nature, one whom you can trust, than the alternative, which is to engage a housekeeper. Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. Yes, of course you are.’
Again they were facing each other; and now she began nervously to straighten the narrow hem of the handkerchief in her hand, and she had brought it into a complete square before she said, ‘I’d . . . I’d like to say this to you, John – I’ve . . . I’ve wanted to say it before – it’s just that I’m . . . I’m so sorry that your life . . . marriage, went awry. You . . . You deserve a happy home.’
He knew his face was flushed; and it was as if his voice had suddenly taken on the depths of a baritone as he muttered, ‘I have a good life with my mother.’
‘Oh, John, I’m . . . I’m sorry I’ve spoken about it; I just wanted you to . . .’
The colour was now ebbing from his cheeks and he thrust out his hand towards her, and when hers lay in it he said, ‘Don’t worry, Helen, I understand. And one could say it was my own fault, for my marriage came about through my indulgence in home-made wine.’
He had hoped to make light of the matter for he was smiling at her; but the next moment her eyelids began to blink and her lips to tremble, so he said swiftly, ‘Please! Please! Don’t distress yourself. Look! Believe me,’ and now he proceeded to lie gallantly, ‘my life is just as I want it. I have made it as it is and I’m content with my handiwork. I am not troubled by her, not at all. We don’t see each other, so there is no irritation on either side. Now look, I am going; I’ll pop in tomorrow.’ He let go of her hand now and went to pick up his hat and coat from the chair as he said, ‘And if you’re all ready and packed, I’ll see you to the station. That’s if—’ he was now shrugging his arms into his coat and he repeated, ‘that’s if you promise to write to me.’
She swallowed deeply before she said, ‘Oh, yes, John. Yes, I’ll write to you.’
‘D’you intend to stay in Paris?’
‘Oh, I won’t know until I get there and meet the old dame, as Leonard used to call her.’
‘And if you don’t like the old dame you’ll go on?’
‘Yes. Likely I’ll go on.’
‘Have you any place in mind?’
‘I’d like to go to Italy; Rome. And Austria intrigues me.’
‘And all on your own?’ He sounded anxious now: looking as she did, she would be a prey to men of all types. But, he could do nothing about it.
His voice sounded quite ordinary as he said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’
‘Yes, John.’
Without further word, he left.
He had a number of calls to make, but as he drove into the town he recalled that he had made up a bottle of medicine for a bronchial patient, but hadn’t put it in his bag. And he was surprised when he opened the door of his surgery to come face to face with Doctor Cornwallis.
‘Oh! Oh! I thought you were on your rounds.’
‘Yes, I am on my rounds. Were you wanting something?’
‘Yes, I wanted the loan of that . . . this.’ He held up a syringe. ‘Doctor Rees is ham-fisted; he’s broken two during the last month. I’m taking it out of his salary. I’ve told him.’ He went to pass John, but then stopped and, looking him fully in the face, he said, ‘Had to visit your wife early this morning.’
Doctor Cornwallis seemed to be waiting for some comment, and when none was forthcoming, he said, ‘Did she ever complain of feeling unwell when you were . . . well, living with her?’
‘I wasn’t living with her, Doctor, I was married to her.’
‘Oh well, we won’t split hairs.’ And there was a touch of anger in his voice as he said, ‘I’m asking you, did she have turns, as it is colloquially put?’
‘I wasn’t aware of any “turns”, specifically.’
‘Well, I wasn’t there when this one happened, but it looked like a fit. And, all I know is, she was as stiff as a board when I did get there.’
‘What do you mean, “as stiff as a board”? She’s not dead?’
‘No, she’s not dead. But if my diagnosis is correct, she’s suffering from a form of neurosis, all to do with the mind.’
John repeated to himself, ‘All to do with the mind.’ The man was explaining neurosis as if to a layman. Nevertheless, he hadn’t experienced any real surprise.
‘Do you know what I think?’
‘No, Doctor; but I’m sure you will tell me.’
‘Oh—’ Doctor Cornwallis turned a red face towards John and retaliated, saying, ‘That manner of yours annoys me, do you know that? Sometimes I’m for you because I know you’re hooked up to a woman whose behaviour seems anything but normal; but at other times, as now, when you’re acting like a young whipper-snapper, I’d like to kick you in the . . . arse, and not metaphorically speaking either, bad leg or no bad leg.’
John bowed his head and bit on his lip. He had a great desire to laugh a
s he watched his superior turn his limp into a march as he made for his office. And after closing his door, he leant back against it and put his hand over his brow as he repeated to himself, ‘Metaphorically speaking, bad leg or no bad leg.’ He couldn’t help it, he liked the old boy, Nosy Parker or not. What had he really come into this room for? There was nothing he could find in here, except that which had to do with his profession. And yet he had been clever enough about the syringe. Oh, he was a devious old boy.
He now went into his dispensary and picked up the bottle he had forgotten. He did not, however, immediately leave, but leaning against the marble slab, he stared ahead as he muttered quietly to himself, ‘Neurasthenia? Turns? Stiff as a board?’ Well, he wasn’t surprised. She had likely had what seemed like a fit before the seizure took hold. Unbalanced, he had implied. Oh, he would endorse that; but that wouldn’t be neurasthenia. He gazed down at the bottle. How long would he have to remain tied to her? A legal separation was, after all, just a separation. What was he going to do with his life? Was it to be spent every day but one in a week between that room there and this little cubby hole?
And what was left of his evenings? Sitting with his mother. No longer would there be any visiting.
From tomorrow or the next day he would not even be able to glimpse her. France, Italy, Austria. And men, everywhere men, and she was only human. She didn’t think she was, for she was convinced that the pain of her loss would never leave her. But love was a disease, and, like some diseases, it could be cured and the patient be given a new lease of life. And it could easily happen to her if she met up with some sympathetic smart alec . . . Oh, for God’s sake! let him get out of here and do some work.
As he was stepping into the passage, the door opposite opened and out stepped . . . that woman. She looked haggard and bedraggled. He recalled he had noticed an item in the paper last week, reporting that she had been charged with soliciting and had been given the option of a fine of five pounds or ten days in jail. She had paid the fine. He thought of her husband and her son and of the effect on them.
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