by A. J. Cronin
Indeed, she was so eager to make much of him she could barely frame the words. She asked him to come first for some refreshment to the parlour. When he refused she fluttered:
‘All right, all right, doctor, bach. It’s as you say. Maybe you’ll have time, though, on your way down for a drop of elderberry wine and a morsel of cake.’ She patted him upstairs with tremulous old hands.
He entered the bedroom. The little room, lately a shambles, had been scoured and polished until it shone. All his instruments, beautifully arranged, gleamed upon the varnished deal dresser. His bag had been carefully rubbed with goose-grease, the snib catches cleaned with metal polish, so that they were as silver. The bed had been changed, spread with fresh linen and there, upon it, was the mother, her plain middle-aged face gazing in dumb happiness towards him, the babe sucking quiet and warm at her full breast.
‘Ay!’ The stout midwife rose from her seat by the bedside, unmasking a battery of smiles. ‘They do look all right now, don’t they, doctor, bach? They don’t know the trouble they gave us. They don’t care either, do they!’
Moistening her lips, her soft eyes warmly inarticulate, Susan Morgan tried to stammer out her gratitude.
‘Ay, you may well say,’ nodded the midwife, extracting the last ounce of credit from the situation. ‘An’ don’t you forget, my gal, you wouldn’t never have another at your age. It was this time or never so far as you were concerned!’
‘We know that, Mrs Jones,’ interrupted the old woman meaningly, from the door. ‘ We know we do owe everything here to doctor.’
‘Has my Joe been to see you yet, doctor?’ asked the mother timidly. ‘No? Well he’s comin’, you may be sure. He’s fair overjoyed. He was only sayin’ though, doctor, that’s the thing we will miss when we’re in South Africa, not havin’ you to ’tend to us.’
Leaving the house, duly fortified with seed cake and home-made elderberry wine – it would have broken the old woman’s heart had he refused to drink her grandson’s health – Andrew continued on his round with a queer warmth round his heart. They couldn’t have made more of me, he thought self-consciously, if I’d been the King of England. This case became somehow the antidote to that scene he had witnessed upon Cardiff platform. There was something to be said for marriage and the family life when it brought such happiness as filled the Morgan home.
A fortnight later when Andrew had paid his last visit at No 12 Joe Morgan came round to see him. Joe’s manner was solemnly portentous. And, having laboured long with words, he said explosively:
‘Dang it all, doctor, bach, I’m no hand at talkin’. Money can’t repay what you done for us. But all the same the missus and I want to make you this little present.’
Impulsively, he handed over a slip to Andrew. It was an order on the Building Society made out for five guineas.
Andrew stared at the cheque. The Morgans were, in the local idiom, tidy folk, but they were far from being well-off. This amount, on the eve of their departure, with expenses of transit to be faced, must represent a great sacrifice, a noble generosity. Touched, Andrew said:
‘I can’t take this, Joe, lad.’
‘You must take it,’ Joe said with grave insistence, his hand closing over Andrew’s, ‘or missus and me’ll be mortal offended. It’s a present for yourself. It’s not for Doctor Page. He’s had my money now for years and years and we’ve never troubled him but this once. He’s well paid. This is a present – for yourself – doctor, bach. You understand.’
‘Yes, I understand, Joe,’ Andrew nodded, smiling.
He folded the order, placed it in his waistcoat pocket and for a few days forgot about it. Then, the following Tuesday, passing the Western Counties Bank he paused, reflected a moment and went in. As Miss Page always paid him in notes, which he forwarded by registered letter to the Endowment offices, he had never had occasion to deal through the bank. But now, with a comfortable recollection of his own substance, he decided to open a deposit account with Joe’s gift.
At the grating he endorsed the order, filled in some forms and handed them to the young cashier, remarking with a smile:
‘It’s not much, but it’s a start anyhow.’
Meanwhile he had been conscious of Aneurin Rees hovering in the background, watching him. And, as he turned to go, the long-headed manager came forward to the counter. In his hands he held the order. Smoothing it gently, he glanced sideways across his spectacles.
‘Afternoon, Doctor Manson. How are you?’ Pause. Sucking his breath in over his yellow teeth. ‘ Eh – you want this paid into your new account?’
‘Yes.’ Manson spoke in some surprise. ‘Is it too small an amount to open with?’
‘Oh, no, no, doctor. ’Tisn’t the amount, like. We’re very glad to have the business.’ Rees hesitated, scrutinising the order then raising his small suspicious eyes to Andrew’s face. ‘Eh – you want it in your own name?’
‘Why – certainly.’
‘All right, all right, doctor.’ His expression broke suddenly into a watery smile. ‘I only wondered, like. Wanted to make sure. What lovely weather we’re havin’ for the time of year. Good day to you, Doctor Manson. Good day!’
Manson came out of the bank puzzled, asking himself what that bald, buttoned-up devil meant. It was some days before he found an answer to the question.
Chapter Twelve
Christine had left on her vacation more than a week before. He had been so occupied by the Morgan case that he had not succeeded in seeing her for more than a few moments, on the day of her departure. He had not spoken to her. But now that she was gone he longed for her with all his heart.
The summer was exceptionally trying in the town. The green vestiges of spring had long been withered to a dirty yellow. The mountains wore a febrile air and when the daily shotfiring from the mines or quarries re-echoed on the still spent air they seemed to enclose the valley in a dome of burnished sound. The men came out from the mine with the ore dust smeared upon their faces like rust. Children played listlessly. Old Thomas, the groom, had been taken with jaundice and Andrew was compelled to make his rounds on foot. As he slogged through the baking streets he thought of Christine. What was she doing? Was she thinking of him, perhaps, a little? And what of the future, her prospects, their chance of happiness together?
And then, quite unexpectedly, he received a message from Watkins asking him to call at the Company Offices.
The mine manager received him in agreeable fashion, invited him to sit down, pushed over the packet of cigarettes on his desk.
‘Look here, doctor,’ he said in a friendly tone, ‘I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you for some time – and we better get it over afore I make up my annual return.’ He paused to pick a yellow shred of tobacco off his tongue. ‘There’s been a number of the lads at me, Emlyn Hughes and Ed Williams are the leadin’ spirits, askin’ me to put you up for the Company’s list.’
Andrew straightened in his chair, pervaded by a swift glow of satisfaction, of excitement.
‘You mean – arrange for me to take over Dr Page’s practice?’
‘Why no, not exactly, doctor,’ Watkins said slowly. ‘You see the position is difficult. I’ve got to watch how I handle my labour question ’ ere. I can’t put Doctor Page off the list, there’s a number of the men wouldn’t have that. What I was meanin’, in the best interests of yourself, was to squeeze you, quiet like, on to the Company’s list; then them that wanted to slip away from Doctor Page to yourself could easily manage it.’
The eagerness faded from Andrew’s expression. He frowned, his figure still braced.
‘But surely you see I couldn’t do that. I came here as Page’s assistant. If I set up in opposition – no decent doctor could do a thing like that!’
‘There isn’t any other way.’
‘Why don’t you let me take over the practice,’ Andrew said urgently. ‘I’d willingly pay something for it, out of receipts – that’s another way.’
Watkins shook his head blun
tly.
‘Blodwen won’t have it. I’ve put it up to her afore. She knows she’s in a strong position. Nearly all the older men here, like Enoch Davies for instance, are on Page’s side. They believe he’ll come back. I’d have a strike on my hands if I even tried to shift him.’ He paused. ‘Take till tomorrow to think it over, doctor. I send the new list to Swansea head office then. Once it’s gone in we can’t do anything for another twelve months.’
Andrew stared at the floor a moment, then slowly made a gesture of negation. His hopes, so high a minute ago, were now dashed completely to the ground.
‘What’s the use. I couldn’t do it. If I thought it over for weeks.’
It cost him a bitter pang to reach this decision and to maintain it in the face of Watkins’s partiality towards him. Yet there was no escaping the fact that he had gained his introduction to Drineffy as Doctor Page’s assistant. To set up against his principal, even in the exceptional circumstances of the case, was quite unthinkable. Suppose Page did, by some chance, resume active practice – how well he would look fighting the old man for patients! No, no. He could not, and would not accept.
Nevertheless, for the rest of the day he was sadly cast down, resentful of Blodwen’s calm persistence, aware that he was caught in an impossible position, wishing the offer had not been made to him at all. In the evening, about eight o’clock, he went dejectedly to call on Denny. He had not seen him for some time and he felt that a talk with Philip, perhaps some reassurance that he had acted correctly, would do him good. He reached Philip’s lodging about half past eight and, as was now his custom, walked into the house without knocking. He entered the sitting-room.
Philip lay on the sofa. At first, in the fading light, Manson thought that he was resting after a hard day’s work. But Philip had done no work that day. He sprawled there on his back, breathing heavily, his arm flung across his face. He was dead drunk.
Andrew turned to find the landlady at his elbow, watching him sideways, her eyes concerned, apprehensive.
‘I heard you come in, doctor. He’s been like this all day. He’s eaten nothing. I can’t do a thing with him.’
Andrew simply did not know what to say. He stood staring at Philip’s senseless face, recollecting that first cynical remark, uttered in the surgery on the night of his arrival.
‘It’s ten months now since he had his last bout,’ the landlady went on. ‘And he don’t touch it in between. But when he do begin he goes at it wicked. I can tell you it’s more nor awkward with Doctor Nicholls bein’ away on holiday. It looks like I must wire him.’
‘Send Tom up,’ Andrew said at last. ‘And we’ll get him into bed.’
With the help of the landlady’s son, a young miner who seemed to regard the matter as something of a joke, they got Philip undressed and into his pyjamas. Then they carried him, dull and heavy as a sack, through to the bedroom.
‘The main thing is to see that he doesn’t get any more of it, you understand. Turn the key in the door if necessary.’ Andrew addressed the landlady as they came back into the sitting-room. ‘And now – you’d better let me have today’s list of calls.’
From the child’s slate hanging in the hall he copied out the visits which Philip should have made that day. He went out. By hurrying round he could get most of them done before eleven.
Next morning immediately after surgery he went round to the lodgings. The landlady met him, wringing her hands.
‘I don’t know where he’s got it. I ’aven’t done it, I’ve only done my best for him.’
Philip was drunker than before, heavy, insensible. After prolonged shakings and an effort to restore him with strong coffee, which in the end was upset and spilled all over the bed, Andrew took the list of calls again. Cursing the heat, the flies, Thomas’s jaundice, and Denny, he again did double work that day.
In the late afternoon he came back, tired out, angrily resolved to get Denny sober. This time he found him astride one of the chairs in his pyjamas, still drunk, delivering a long address to Tom and Mrs Seager. As Andrew entered Denny stopped short and gave him a lowering, derisive stare. He spoke thickly.
‘He! The Good Samaritan. I understand you’ve done my round for me. Extremely noble. But why should you? Why should that blasted Nicholls clear out and leave us to do the work?’
‘I can’t say.’ Andrew’s patience was wearing thin. ‘All I know is it would be easier if you did your bit of it.’
‘I’m a surgeon. I’m not a blasted general practitioner. GP. Huh! What does that mean? D’you ever ask yourself? You didn’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s the last and most stereotyped anachronism, the worst, stupidest system ever created by God-made man. Dear old GP! And dear old BP! – that’s the British Public – Ha! Ha!’ He laughed derisively. ‘They made him. They love him. They weep over him.’ He swayed in his seat, his inflamed eye again bitter and morose, lecturing them drunkenly. ‘ What can the poor devil do about it? Your GP – your dear old quack of all trades! Maybe it’s twenty years since he qualified. How can he know medicine and obstetrics and bacteriology and all the modern scientific advances and surgery as well. Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Don’t forget the surgery! Occasionally he tried a little operation at the cottage hospital. Ha! Ha!’ Again the sardonic amusement. ‘Say a mastoid. Two hours and a half by the clock. When he finds pus he’s a saviour of humanity. When he doesn’t, they bury the patient.’ His voice rose. He was angry, wildly, drunkenly angry. ‘Damn it to hell, Manson. It’s been going on for hundreds of years. Don’t they ever want to change the system? What’s the use? What’s the use, I ask you? Give me another whisky. We’re all cracked. And it seems I’m drunk as well.’
There was a silence for a few moments, then, suppressing his irritation, Andrew said:
‘Oughtn’t you to get back to bed now. Come on, we’ll help you.’
‘Let me alone,’ said Denny sullenly. ‘Don’t use your blasted bedside manner on me. I’ve used it plenty in my time. I know it too well.’ He rose abruptly, staggering, and, taking Mrs Seager by the shoulder, he thrust her into the chair. Then, swaying on his feet, his manner a savage assumption of bland suavity, he addressed the frightened woman. ‘And how are you today, my dear lady? A leetle better, I fancy. A leetle more strength in the pulse. Sleep well? Ha! Hum! Then we must prescribe a leetle sedative.’
There was, in the ludicrous scene, a strange, alarming note – the stocky, unshaven, pyjama-clad figure of Philip aping the society physician, swaying in servile deference before the shrinking miner’s wife. Tom gave a nervous gulp of laughter. In a flash Denny turned on him and violently cuffed his ears.
‘That’s right! Laugh! Laugh your blasted head off. But I spent five years of my life doing that. God! When I think of it I could die.’ He glared at them, seized a vase that stood on the mantelpiece, and dashed it hard upon the floor. The next instant the companion piece was in his hands and he sent it shattering against the wall. He started forward, red destruction in his eye.
‘For mercy’s sake,’ whimpered Mrs Seager. ‘Stop him, stop him –’
Andrew and Tom Seager flung themselves on Philip who struggled with the wild intractability of intoxication. Then, perversely, he suddenly relaxed and was sentimental, fuddled.
‘Manson,’ he drooled, hanging on Andrew’s shoulder, ‘ you’re a good chap. I love you better than a brother. You and I – if we stuck together we could save the whole bloody medical profession.’
He stood, his gaze wandering, lost. Then his head drooped. His body sagged. He allowed Andrew to help him to the next room and into bed. As his head rolled over on the pillow he made a last maudlin request.
‘Promise me one thing, Manson! For Christ’s sake, don’t marry a lady!’
Next morning he was drunker than ever. Andrew gave it up. He half suspected young Seager of smuggling in the liquor, though the lad, when confronted, swore, palefaced, that he had nothing to do with it.
All that week Andrew struggled through Denny’s calls in addition t
o his own. On Sunday, after lunch, he visited the Chapel Street lodgings. Philip was up, shaved, dressed, and immaculate in his appearance but, though drawn and shaky, cold sober.
‘I understand you’ve been doing my work for me, Manson.’ Gone was the intimacy of these last few days. His manner was constrained, icily stiff.
‘It was nothing,’ Andrew answered clumsily.
‘On the contrary, it must have put you to a great deal of trouble.’
Denny’s attitude was so objectionable that Andrew flushed. Not a word of gratitude, he thought, nothing but that stiff, hide-bound arrogance.
‘If you do want to know the truth,’ he blurted out, ‘it put me to a hell of a lot of trouble!’
‘You may take it from me something will be done about it!’
‘What do you think I am!’ Andrew answered hotly. ‘Some damned cabby that expects a tip from you. If it hadn’t been for me Mrs Seager would have wired Doctor Nicholls and you’d have been thrown out on your neck. You’re a supercilious, half-baked snob. And what you need is a damned good punch on the jaw.’
Denny lit a cigarette, his fingers shaking so violently he could barely hold the match. He sneered:
‘Nice of you to choose this moment to offer physical combat. True Scottish tact. Some other time I may oblige you.’
‘Oh! Shut your bloody mouth!’ said Andrew. ‘ Here’s your list of calls. Those with a cross should be seen on Monday.’
He flung out of the house in a fury. Damn it, he raged, wincing, what kind of man is he to behave like God Almighty! It’s as if he had done me the favour, allowing me to do his work!
But, on the way home, his resentment slowly cooled. He was genuinely fond of Philip and he had by now a better insight into his complex nature: shy, inordinately sensitive, vulnerable. It was this alone which made him secrete a shell of hardness around himself. The memory of his recent bout, of how he had exposed himself during it must even now be causing him excruciating torture.
