“I suppose so.”
“Well, personally”—Lewis cleared his throat once or twice— “personally, of course, if I were in your position, I shouldn’t want to leave England and my friends—it would be the last thing. But if for some reason I felt I had to go off again I’d be much more inclined to try to get over on health grounds.
It’s altogether different now you’re here personally. I should think Halliday could put your case to the Treasury in such a way as to make it seem essential. My own feeling would be to go and talk it over with Halliday first.”
“Afraid it isn’t mine. I’m sick of eye specialists.”
“Just so. You must be. Well, there it is. If you feel like taking on a job which is likely to be so exacting—always supposing you get it—then you must go ahead. I wish you well.…”
During that week I argued it out—trying to settle whether I did want to go back or not—trying to decide as well whether there was any more than a chance likeness between Bénat and the man who’d been at Villefranche. Neither question got anywhere, and in the end I drifted with events. So I saw McWheeler’s Chamber of Commerce after all. It was either funny or pathetic, I don’t know which.
The meeting was in a room at the Savoy, and I couldn’t move about as freely as in the Chapels’ sitting-room. But I found the hands extended and the seat I was expected to take. McWheeler sat on the right in a deep armchair; a man called Beardmore was by the window, and there was another called Newton who was more or less in charge of proceedings. From his hand I judged him to be a small, quick, dry little man of about sixty. On his left was Jeffrey, another Scotsman, whose room this was.
Newton started the ball rolling and from the beginning I took rather a dislike to him. It was clear he thought McWheeler had been unbusinesslike in talking it over with me as if it might become an arrangement between friends. In the first place Newton took care to point out that this was purely an exploratory meeting—it was early to talk of an appointment being made. The interests they represented were considering whether it wouldn’t be to their advantage to have a legal and trade representative-resident abroad—that was what it came to. That being so, Newton delicately implied, it wasn’t so much a question of whether I was willing to take the post as, first, whether the post was to be created and, second, whether someone could be found suitable for it. What was my age? Parents? Married? Where educated? Legal qualifications? Yes, yes. Satisfactory enough so far as it went. Of course, this was work which needed not only a knowledge of foreign law but also experience in trade. He personally would have thought—
McWheeler said; “ I think what we have to consider is Mr. Gordon’s all-round suitability. It’s not a question of whether we could get a better man to represent us in one respect but whether any one other person would combine the qualifications.… You’ll excuse us talking like this before you, Gordon—Mr. Newton only arrived back from America yesterday. But it’s rather embarrassing for you.”
“Not at all,” I said.
“Well,” Newton said. “Let’s hear of Mr. Gordon’s all-round suitability.”
“He has the legal training; he wants to live abroad; he’s British and will understand our views; at the same time he knows and understands the French.”
Newton said: “Just what is your knowledge of France?”
I said: “I’ve known the language all my life. I’ve spent several holidays there. I lived a year in Paris when I was twenty-one. I’m attracted to the country sentimentally and believe in its future.”
“Yes, yes, no doubt. No doubt.” Newton seemed to think this over. “I confess I wish we had Smith here. I’m a little at sea when it comes to law.… Of course plenty of us are fond of France—would like a holiday there at this moment. I’d like to go. But the restriction on holiday money does make it difficult.”
I said with a smile: “I don’t want to take another holiday there at your expense.”
Jeffery made tutting noises. “ Naturally not. Er—this work as we see it is bound to cover a good deal of ground. It would probably extend to Belgium and possibly Holland as well. I suppose you’d be willing to make Paris your centre if that were thought most suitable.”
“I’d prefer to live in the south, but it’s entirely up to you.”
Newton said: “Why are you not practising law in England, Mr. Gordon?”
“The close work tries my eyes.” I didn’t really want to start lying to them, but the interview had somehow gone downhill since Newton began putting his questions.
“Don’t you think this work may be too close for you also?”
“I hope not.”
Jeffery said: “I don’t think the question of salary has been discussed at all yet. Perhaps it’s premature, but personally I should like some sort of proposition in mind, and probably Mr. Gordon would too.”
I said: “ It’s not the most important point in the early stages.”
“Oh?” Newton was interested. “Mean to say you’d be willing to work as it were on a piece-rate basis?”
“Within reason, yes.”
McWheeler said: “I don’t think we can expect all that of Gordon. Either we ask him to represent us or we don’t. If he represents us then he must receive expenses and some fixed yearly salary which—”
“Which he’s willing to have adjusted according to the amount of work he happens to have to do for us. That’s what he says. That seems very fair. Something satisfactory anyhow.”
Beardmore spoke for the first time; he’d a voice like a professional bass singer. “I think if the appointment is made, Mr. Gordon, you should first spend a month or so in Scotland just meeting each one of the manufacturers and talking over his business with him. Then once you’d a firm picture of the situation in your mind you could return to France. It’s the personal touch that counts—at this end as well as at the other.”
“That’s perfectly reasonable.”
We went on for a few minutes. Newton hadn’t anything more to say, and I suspected him of hatching some unpleasantness. Then McWheeler said: “ I’m thinking it’s best now for us to talk this over during the week, and then let you know more on Saturday. Don’t you think so?”
There was a murmur of agreement. I got up. “ Thank you. That will suit me.” I shook hands all round and left them there.
When I got out I missed the lift and wandered a good way past before knowing I’d gone wrong. So when I got back there I was rather annoyed to find Newton just pressing the button.
“Ah, Mr. Gordon. We can go down together.”
“Yes.”
“Give you a lift somewhere, eh?” he asked as we left the hotel.
“No, thanks, I’ll get a taxi.”
“No need to do that. My car’s just here.”
I thought, if I was really considering the job …
“Thank you.” We got into a large saloon. I was rather surprised to find he drove himself.
He said: “ You’re very clever, aren’t you?”
I said: “ What the devil d’you mean?”
“About your blindness. Fooled me for a time. Tackled McWheeler as soon as you’d gone. None of the others was sure.”
I didn’t speak for a bit “And what did McWheeler say?”
“He told us all about it then. Must say I admire your pluck.”
We turned into the Strand, waited for traffic lights, moved off.
“I lost a son at El Alamein,” said Newton. “ Twenty-one. Just had a year at Cambridge before going in. Brilliant youngster. The clever one’s been taken and the stupid one left. You should have told us at the beginning. McWheeler should have told us.”
“What effect would that have had?”
“More understanding attitude. I’m a hard-headed businessman, pride myself on being no fool, no sentimentalist. But admire pluck. And losing a son makes a difference.…”
I didn’t speak.
“Great thing when one has disability like yours is to be self-supporting. That’s how you feel,
I imagine. Self-respect. Well, it’s up to other people to co-operate. Mind you, can’t promise anything yet—whole proposition, I think, needs more careful consideration—it’s up in the air, nothing concrete. I like propositions I feel I can stand on—three-dimensional, see all round them, if you follow me. That’s a matter of detail. But if it comes to an appointment no doubt you’d do good work for us over there. No doubt at all.”
“Thanks,” I said again.
“Where are you going now? Lunch with me? Rather a dull club, but passable food. And no waiting, that’s the main thing.”
“It’s very good of you. I’d like to another day, but to-day I’m booked. If you could drop me at the corner of Park Lane I can get a bus from there.”
“Sure you can manage? But of course, silly of me to ask. You get about everywhere, don’t you. Well, now, don’t worry about the job. Mind you, I’d like to have Smith present on Saturday, have the legal side thrashed out. Get the details. That’s what we need now. Hope we shall be able to get something fixed.” The car came to a stop.
“Thank you very much,” I said for the last time, getting down. “Good-bye.”
I walked up Park Lane.
Newton had called me clever, but on the whole I was inclined to think myself a fool. I’d been flattering myself without justification. All this time I’d thought I was cheating McWheeler and all this time he’d known the truth perfectly well. It was pretty silly really. John had not only given him a sales talk about me but had also told him the truth. “This poor chap, wounded in the war, very talented really, anxious to go on living in the south of France, etc. etc.” One could hear it.
The mistake McWheeler had made was not telling the others beforehand: then they could have kept up the tactful farce. As it was he’d tried me out on them and halfway through the interview they’d tumbled to the truth—as any normally observant person, I now realised, easily would. I’d been priding myself on being different from the other blind, able to carry on, look normal, be normal.
Newton wasn’t a bad fellow really. Anyway, the thing had touched him on a soft spot. Support the war heroes. Poppy day and all that. I’d write to them before Saturday, tell them how much I appreciated their gesture; it wasn’t everyone who was prepared to subsidise an invalid with no claims on them.
Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as that. I should have been able to do a good bit for them. Some of the qualifications they needed. Capable enough within limits. But if I couldn’t get a job on the plain merits of the case I wasn’t taking one at all. Perhaps it was silly but it was the way I felt. I didn’t feel I could take charity from anyone, however gracefully it might be put up.
Chapter 3
It didn’t come easy asking favours even of Halliday, but now there was no other way out.
With the McWheeler job gone the need to go back had contrarily grown stronger. I just wasn’t willing to forget what had happened in Nice. Not a minute or a syllable of it. Of course one could try to push money across and manage that way, but the heavy fines being dealt out all round just then didn’t make it seem a healthy pastime. Besides, I was not like Charles Bénat: in my case familiarity with the law hadn’t brought contempt. I kept putting off the visit to Harley Street and putting it off, but eventually I made a date.
Halliday listened to what I had to say.
“Oh, I think something can be done about that. The health of the eyes is partly governed by the health of the body. Mind you, if you’d asked my advice before going last time I should have said the intense fight wasn’t what you wanted at all. However, all that low-grade irritability looks as if it’s cleared up. Come round to-morrow and I’ll have something thought out. After all, I don’t think the Treasury can afford to be too mean. If it hadn’t been for men like you there wouldn’t be any sterling area left.”
“I leave it to you to make up the story.”
“I can see your eye has deteriorated a good deal since I saw you last. Sight isn’t completely gone, is it?”
“Pretty well.”
“A great pity. You’re sensitive to certain impressions still?
It won’t get any worse now, if that’s any consolation.”
“Not very much.”
“I’ll just examine you while you’re here.”
I sighed in resignation and sat back in my chair. The usual thing followed.
“Ye-es. Can you see that?”
“As a flash of some sort, yes.”
“Um. You have no watering or redness now? This is the normal condition of the eye?”
“I haven’t had any trouble of that kind for nine months. But the loss of sight’s come just the same.”
“Oh, yes, it would; it would. I wonder if it might be worth your seeing Mr. Cotilson.”
“Who’s he?”
“A surgeon who’s done some remarkable operations during the last year or two.”
Not that again, I thought
“What could he do?”
“Well … as the eye was last time I saw it, no one could have done anything. Now, it’s just possible he might think it worth attempting. There wouldn’t be any harm in your seeing him, anyway.”
“No harm, perhaps.”
Halliday grunted. “ Definitely if I were in your shoes I should make the effort. I don’t want to raise false hopes in the slightest—”
“You won’t.”
“But in this case a second opinion … Before you go abroad. After all, you’ve very little to lose.”
I’d had six or eight opinions while in hospital.
“Where does he live?”
“He has rooms just round the corner in Queen Anne’s Street, but I should arrange for you to see him at the Vauxhall where he’s consultant surgeon. Of course it’s entirely up to you.”
A visit to the Vauxhall for another bout of head shaking. “All right,” I said.
Coulson was a little man with a quick, rather nervous way of talking and warm, light hands. He sounded more like a businessman than a surgeon.
He said: “The sight of the left eye isn’t gone, Mr. Gordon, it’s obscured, d’you see. Mr. Halliday will have explained, no doubt.”
“He did, but I didn’t follow him.”
“What he proposes is that I should perform an iridotomy. Of course, in an eye with a history like yours it’s so much a matter of chance what one finds behind. There might be any sort of disorganisation arising from the earlier injuries.”
“I follow roughly.”
“Well, it’s like this. You know what the pupil is, don’t you? It’s the gap in the eye that the light goes through. Like the iris diaphragm in a camera. It expands or contracts according to the amount of light it has to cope with. Surrounding it is the iris. Well, the operation you had two years ago left a scar which contracted badly, drawing the iris so much out of shape that it has now almost completely closed the gap. No pupil’s left, d’you see. Little light gets in. What I should do if I attempted that operation would be to cut you a new pupil.”
I thought this one out.
“What then?”
“Then the eye would begin to function more or less normally again.”
“I should see?”
“Yes, if it was a success.”
“What’s against it?”
“At any time it’s an operation of delicacy. The extra hazards in this case I’ve already told you.”
“And if the hazards turned up?”
Coulson blew out a slow breath. “At present you can tell the difference between daylight and darkness; you can detect, though you can’t identify, objects moved in the region of the eye. It helps you to live your life. There are three possibilities if I operated. One is full sight. A second is a great improvement in the sight you would get but slight or no increase of vision. The third is complete darkness.”
“What are the chances?”
“It’s almost impossible to say.… If I had to make some sort of estimate I should say three to two.”
“Against
?”
“Against complete success, yes.”
“Well, that’s frank anyhow.”
“There’d be no virtue in being otherwise. But I may be unduly cautious. I’m going somewhat on the history Mr. Halliday has provided, d’you see.”
I got up and stretched my legs. “Would you mind if I had a cigarette?”
“Of course not. Have one of mine.”
“Thanks.”
“D’you find much difficulty in getting them?” he asked. I could detect the flicker of his lighter.
“No, as a matter of fact I don’t smoke much now.”
We talked shortages for a minute or two.
I said: “There’s one thing. This operation you’re proposing: might it mean the same as last time? Sight for twelve months, then a tactful fade-out?”
“Not if it’s successful. There’s no reason why you should get any decrease of vision afterwards—provided you get the vision at all. But there’s no hurry to decide. I’d advise you to go home now and think it over quietly. Discuss it with your wife—I beg your pardon, your family then. Try to weigh up the alternatives. For my part, if I were in your place, I should have it done, not because I was in any way certain of success but because the possible gain is so much greater than the possible loss.”
The cigarette was proving the usual disappointment.
“I suppose it would be a local anaesthetic?”
“Yes. You don’t find that very unpleasant, do you?”
“Well, there are nicer ways of spending the afternoon.”
He said with a twinkle: “ I always operate in the morning.”
“All right. Thank you for your candour. Ill let you know in, say, a week.”
“There’s no hurry. Good-bye.”
I went to Oxford and discussed it with “ my family.” After three years’ delay Hugh had just got the proofs of his book The Philosophical Content of Hegel and Kierkegaard; and Caroline had broken a bone in her ankle coming down the steps from a lecture on Hindu theosophy. Aside from these preoccupations they were sympathetic and kind.
Caroline said: “ I should certainly take the chance. Personally I hate to be dependent on anyone in the smallest degree—I’m so thankful the new treatment allows one to move about with a broken bone—and I suspect you’re very much the same, Giles. We’re alike in very few things, but I believe that’s one of them. I can bear invalidism in others but not in myself.”
Night Without Stars Page 11
