by A. J. Cronin
‘I’d never have thought, then,’ he ended with a shake of his head, ‘that old Manson would have buried himself in the South Wales valleys.’
‘Do you think he’s quite buried?’ Christine asked, and her smile was rather forced. There was a pause. Freddie surveyed the crowded grill room, grinned at Andrew.
‘What do you think of the Conference?’
‘I suppose,’ Andrew answered doubtfully, ‘it’s a useful way of keeping up to date.’
‘Up to date, my uncle! I haven’t been to one of their ruddy sectional meetings all week. No, no, old man, it’s the contacts you make that matter, the fellows you meet, mix up with. You’ve no idea the really influential people I’ve got in with this week. That’s why I’m here. When I get back to town, I’ll ring them up, go out and play golf with them. Later on – you mark my words – that means business.’
‘I don’t quite follow you, Freddie,’ Manson said.
‘Why it’s as simple as falling off a log. I’m holding down an appointment in the meantime but I’ve got my eye on a nice little room up West where a smart little brass plate with Freddie Hamson, MB, on it would look dashed well. When the plate does go up these fellows, my pals, will send me cases. You know how it happens. Reciprocity. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’ Freddie took a slow appreciative sip of hock. He went on: ‘And apart from that it pays to push in with the small suburban fellows. Sometimes they can send you stuff. Why, in a year or two, you old dog, you’ll be sending patients up to me in town from your stick-in-the-mud Drin – whatever you call it.’
Christine glanced quickly at Hamson, made as if to speak, then checked herself. She kept her eyes fastened upon her plate.
‘And now tell me about yourself, Manson, old son,’ Freddie continued, smiling. ‘What’s been happening to you?’
‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. I consult in a wooden surgery, average thirty visits a day – mostly miners and their families.’
‘Doesn’t sound too good to me.’ Freddie shook his head again, condolingly.
‘I enjoy it,’ Andrew said mildly.
Christine interposed. ‘And you get in some real work.’
‘Yes, I did have one rather interesting case lately,’ Andrew reflected. ‘As a matter of fact I sent a note of it to the Journal.’
He gave Hamson a short account of the case of Emlyn Hughes. Though Freddie made a great show of interested listening, his eyes kept rolling round the room.
‘That was pretty good,’ he remarked when Manson concluded. ‘I thought you only got goitre in Switzerland or somewhere. Anyhow, I hope you socked in a whacking good bill. And that reminds me. A fellow was telling me today the best way to handle this fee question –’ He was off again, full of a scheme, which someone had suggested to him, for the cash payment of all fees. They had reached the end of the dinner before his voluble dissertation was over. He rose up, flinging down his napkin.
‘Let’s have coffee outside. We’ll finish our pow-wow in the lounge.’
At quarter to ten, his cigar burned down, his stock of stories temporarily exhausted, Freddie yawned slightly and looked at his platinum wrist-watch.
But Christine was before him. She glanced at Andrew brightly, sat up straight and remarked:
‘Isn’t it almost our train time now?’
Manson was about to protest that they had another half-hour when Freddie said:
‘And I suppose I must think about this confounded dance. I can’t let the party I’m going with down.’
He accompanied them to the swing doors, taking prolonged and affectionate farewell of them both.
‘Well, old man,’ he murmured with a final shake of the hand and a confidential pat on the shoulder. ‘When I put the little plate up in the West End I’ll remember to send you a card.’
Out in the warm evening air Andrew and Christine walked along Park Street in silence. Vaguely, he was conscious that the evening had not been the success he had anticipated, that it had, at least, fallen short of Christine’s expectations. He waited for her to speak but she did not. At last, diffidently, he said:
‘It was pretty dull for you, I’m afraid, listening to all these old hospital yarns?’
‘No,’ she answered. ‘I didn’t find that dull in the least.’
There was a pause. He asked:
‘Didn’t you like Hamson?’
‘Not a great deal.’ She turned, losing her restraint, her eyes sparking with honest indignation. ‘The idea of him, sitting there, all evening, with his waxed hair and his cheap smile, patronising you.’
‘Patronising me?’ he echoed in amazement.
She nodded hotly.
‘It was unbearable. “A fellow was telling me the best way to handle the fee question.” Just after you’d told him about your wonderful case! Calling it a goitre, too. Even I know it was exactly the opposite. And that remark about your sending him patients’ – her lip curled – ‘it was simply superb.’ She finished quite fiercely. ‘Oh! I could hardly stand it, the way he put himself above you.’
‘I don’t think he put himself above me,’ reasoned Andrew, puzzled. He paused. ‘I admit he seemed rather full of himself tonight. May have been a mood. He’s the best natured fellow you could hope to meet. We were great friends at College. We had digs together.’
‘Probably he found you useful to him,’ Christine said with unusual bitterness. ‘Got you to help him with his work.’
He protested unhappily.
‘Now, don’t be mean, Chris.’
‘It’s you,’ she flared, bright tears of vexation in her eyes. ‘You must be blind not to see the kind of person he is. And he’s ruined our little expedition. It was lovely till he arrived and started talking about himself. And there was a wonderful concert at the Victoria Hall we could have gone to. But we’ve missed it, we’re too late for anything – though he’s just in time for his idiotic dance!’
They trudged towards the station some distance apart. It was the first time he had seen Christine angry. And he was angry too – angry at himself, at Hamson, yes, at Christine. Yet she was right when she said that the evening had not been a success. Now, in fact, secretly observing her pale constrained face he felt it had been a dismal failure.
They entered the station. Suddenly, as they made their way towards the up platform, Andrew caught sight of two people on the other side. He recognised them at once: Mrs Bramwell and Doctor Gabell. At that moment the down train came in, a local which ran out to the seaside at Porthcawl. Gabell and Mrs Bramwell entered the Porthcawl train together, smiling at one another. The whistle blew. The train steamed off.
Andrew experienced a sudden sensation of distress. He glanced quickly at Christine, hoping she had not observed the incident. Only that morning he had encountered Bramwell who, commenting on the fineness of the day, had rubbed his bony hands with satisfaction, remarking that his wife was going to spend the weekend with her mother at Shrewsbury.
Andrew stood with his head bent, silent. He was so much in love, the scene he had just witnessed, with all its implications, hurt him like a physical pain. He felt slightly sick. It had only wanted this conclusion to make the day thoroughly depressing. His mood seemed to undergo a complete revulsion. A shadow had fallen on his joyfulness. He longed with all his soul to have a long quiet talk with Christine, to open his heart to her, to straighten out their stupid little disagreement. He longed, above everything, to be quite alone with her. But the up-valley train, when it came in, was overcrowded. They had to be content with a compartment packed with miners, loudly discussing the City football match.
It was late when they reached Drineffy and Christine looked very tired. He was convinced that she had seen Mrs Bramwell and Gabell. He could not possibly speak to her now. There was nothing for it but to see her to Mrs Herbert’s and unhappily bid her good night.
Chapter Ten
Though it was nearly midnight when Andrew reached Bryngower he found Joe Morgan waiting on him, walking up and
down with short steps between the closed surgery and the entrance to the house. At the sight of him the burly driller’s face expressed relief.
‘Eh, doctor, I’m glad to see you. I been back and forward here this last hour. The missus wants ye – before time too.’
Andrew, abruptly recalled from the contemplation of his own affairs, told Morgan to wait. He went into the house for his bag, then together they set out for No 12 Blaina Terrace. The night air was cool and deep with quiet mystery. Usually so perceptive, Andrew now felt dull and listless. He had no premonition that this night-call would prove unusual, still less that it would influence his whole future in Drineffy. The two men walked in silence until they reached the door of No 12, then Joe drew up short.
‘I’ll not come in,’ he said and his voice showed signs of strain. ‘But, man, I know ye’ll do well for us.’
Inside, a narrow stair led up to a small bedroom, clean but poorly furnished, and lit only by an oil lamp. Here Mrs Morgan’s mother, a tall grey-haired woman of nearly seventy, and the stout elderly midwife waited beside the patient, watching Andrew’s expression as he moved about the room.
‘Let me make you a cup of tea, doctor, bach,’ said the former quickly, after a few moments.
Andrew smiled faintly. He saw that the old woman, wise in experience, realised there must be a period of waiting, that she was afraid he would leave the case, saying he would return later.
‘Don’t fret, mother. I’ll not run away.’
Down in the kitchen he drank the tea which she gave him. Overwrought as he was, he knew he could not snatch even an hour’s sleep if he went home. He knew, too, that the case here would demand all his attention. A queer lethargy of spirit came upon him. He decided to remain until everything was over.
An hour later he went upstairs again, noted the progress made, came down once more, sat by the kitchen fire. It was still, except for the rustle of a cinder in the grate and the slow tick-tock of the wall clock. No, there was another sound – the beat of Morgan’s footsteps as he paced in the street outside. The old woman opposite him sat in her black dress, quite motionless, her eyes strangely alive and wise, probing, never leaving his face.
His thoughts were heavy, muddled. The episode he had witnessed at Cardiff station still obsessed him morbidly. He thought of Bramwell, foolishly devoted to a woman who deceived him sordidly, of Denny, living unhappily, apart from his wife. His reason told him that all these marriages were dismal failures. It was a conclusion which, in his present state, made him wince. He wished to consider marriage as an idyllic state, yes, he could not otherwise consider it with the image of Christine before him. Her eyes, shining towards him, admitted no other conclusion. It was the conflict between his level, doubting mind and his overflowing heart which left him resentful and confused. He let his chin sink upon his chest, stretched out his legs, stared broodingly into the fire.
He remained like this so long, and his thoughts were so filled with Christine, that he started when the old woman opposite suddenly addressed him. Her meditation had pursued a different course.
‘Susan said not to give her the chloroform if it would harm the baby. She’s full set upon this child, doctor, bach.’ Her old eyes warmed at a sudden thought. She added in a low tone, ‘Ay, we all are, I fancy.’
He collected himself with an effort.
‘It won’t do any harm, the anaesthetic,’ he said kindly. ‘They’ll be all right.’
Here the nurse’s voice was heard calling from the top landing. Andrew glanced at the clock which now showed half past three. He rose and went up to the bedroom. He perceived that he might now begin his work.
An hour elapsed. It was a long harsh struggle. Then, as the first streaks of dawn strayed past the broken edges of the blind, the child was born, lifeless.
As he gazed at the still form a shiver of horror passed over Andrew. After all that he had promised! His face, heated with his own exertions, chilled suddenly. He hesitated, torn between his desire to attempt to resuscitate the child, and his obligation towards the mother who was herself in a desperate state. The dilemma was so urgent he did not solve it consciously. Blindly, instinctively, he gave the child to the nurse and turned his attention to Susan Morgan who now lay collapsed, almost pulseless, and not yet out of the ether, upon her side. His haste was desperate, a frantic race against her ebbing strength. It took him only an instant to smash a glass ampoule and inject pituitrin. Then he flung down the hypodermic syringe and worked unsparingly to restore the flaccid woman. After a few minutes of feverish effort, her heart strengthened, he saw that he might safely leave her. He swung round, in his shirt sleeves, his hair sticking to his damp brow.
‘Where’s the child?’
The midwife made a frightened gesture. She had placed it beneath the bed.
In a flash Andrew knelt down. Fishing amongst the sodden newspapers below the bed he pulled out the child. A boy, perfectly formed. The limp warm body was white and soft as tallow. The cord, hastily slashed, lay like a broken stem. The skin was of a lovely texture, smooth and tender. The head lolled on the thin neck. The limbs seemed boneless.
Still kneeling, Andrew stared at the child with a haggard frown. The whiteness meant only one thing: asphyxia pallida, and his mind, unnaturally tense, raced back to a case he once had seen in the Samaritan, to the treatment that had been used. Instantly he was on his feet.
‘Get me hot water and cold water,’ he threw out to the nurse. ‘And basins, too. Quick! Quick!’
‘But, doctor –’ she faltered, her eyes on the pallid body of the child.
‘Quick!’ he shouted.
Snatching a blanket he laid the child upon it and began the special method of respiration. The basins arrived, the ewer, the big iron kettle. Frantically he splashed cold water into one basin; into the other he mixed water as hot as his hand could bear. Then, like some crazy juggler, he hurried the child between the two, now plunging it into the icy, now into the steaming bath.
Fifteen minutes passed. Sweat was now running into Andrew’s eyes, blinding him. One of his sleeves hung down, dripping. His breath came pantingly. But no breath came from the lax body of the child.
A desperate sense of defeat pressed on him, a raging hopelessness. He felt the midwife watching him in stark consternation while there, pressed back against the wall, where she had all the time remained, her hand pressed to her throat, uttering no sound, her eyes burning upon him, was the old woman. He remembered her longing for a grandchild, as great as had been her daughter’s longing for this child. All dashed away, futile, beyond remedy.
The floor was now a draggled mess. Stumbling over a sopping towel, Andrew almost dropped the child which was now wet and slippery in his hands, like a strange white fish.
‘For mercy’s sake, doctor,’ whimpered the midwife. ‘It’s stillborn.’
Andrew did not heed her. Beaten, despairing, having laboured in vain for half an hour, he still persisted in one last effort, rubbing the child with a rough towel, crushing and releasing the little chest with both his hands, trying to get breath into that limp body.
And then, as by a miracle the pigmy chest, which his hands enclosed, gave a short convulsive heave. Another. And another. Andrew turned giddy. The sense of life, springing beneath his fingers after all that unavailing striving was so exquisite, it almost made him faint. He redoubled his efforts feverishly. The child was gasping now, deeper and deeper. A bubble of mucus came from one tiny nostril, a joyful iridescent bubble. The limbs were no longer boneless. The head no longer lay back spinelessly. The blanched skin was slowly turning pink. Then, exquisitely, came the child’s cry.
‘Dear Father in Heaven,’ the nurse sobbed hysterically. ‘ It’s come … it’s come alive.’
Andrew handed her the child. He felt weak and dazed. About him the room lay in a shuddering litter: blankets, towels, basins, soiled instruments, the hypodermic syringe impaled by its point in the linoleum, the ewer knocked over, the kettle on its side in a puddle of w
ater. Upon the huddled bed the mother still dreamed her way quietly through the anaesthetic. The old woman still stood against the wall. But her hands were together, her lips moved without sound. She was praying.
Mechanically Andrew wrung out his sleeve, pulled on his jacket.
‘I’ll fetch my bag later, nurse.’
He went downstairs, through the kitchen into the scullery. His lips were dry. At the scullery he took a long drink of water. He reached for his hat and coat.
Outside he found Joe standing on the pavement with a tense, expectant face.
‘All right, Joe,’ he said thickly. ‘ Both all right.’
It was quite light. Nearly five o’clock. A few miners were already in the streets; the first of the night shift moving out. As Andrew walked with the others under the morning sky he kept thinking blindly, oblivious to all other work he had accomplished in Drineffy: ‘I’ve done something, oh, God, I’ve done something real at last.’
Chapter Eleven
After a shave and a bath – thanks to Annie there was always plenty of boiling water in the tap – he felt less tired. But Miss Page, finding his bed unslept in, was dryly ironic at the breakfast table, the more so as he received her shafts in silence.
‘Hah! You seem a bit of a wreck this mornin’, doctor. Bit dark under the eyes like! Didn’t get back from Cardiff till this mornin’, eh? And forgot my pastries from Parry’s too, like. Been out on the tiles, my boy? Yes! You can’t deceive me! I thought you were too good to be true. You’re all the same, you assistants. I never found one yet that didn’t drink or go wrong somehow!’
After morning surgery and his forenoon round Andrew dropped in to see his case. It had just gone half past twelve as he turned up Blaina Terrace. There were little knots of women talking at their open doorways and as he passed they stopped talking to smile and give him a friendly, ‘Good morning.’ Approaching No 12 he fancied he saw a face at the window. And it was so. They had been waiting on him. The instant he placed his foot on the newly pipe-clayed doorstep the door was swung open and the old woman, beaming unbelievably all over her wrinkled face, made him welcome to the house.
