by A. J. Cronin
One Friday afternoon five weeks after his installation at Welbeck Street an elderly woman came to consult him about her throat. Her condition was no more than a simple laryngitis but she was a querulous little person and she seemed anxious for a second opinion. Mildly injured in his pride, Andrew reflected to whom he should send her. It was ridiculous to think of her wasting the time of a man like Sir Robert Abbey. Suddenly his face cleared as he thought of Hamson round the corner. Freddie had been extremely kind to him lately. He might as well ‘ pick up’ the three guineas as some ungrateful stranger. Andrew sent her along with a note to Freddie.
Three quarters of an hour later she came back, in quite a different humour, soothed and apologetic, satisfied with herself, with Freddie and – most of all – with him.
‘Excuse me for coming back, doctor. I only wanted to thank you for the trouble you’ve taken with me. I saw Doctor Hamson and he confirmed everything you said. And he – he told me the prescriptions you gave me simply couldn’t be improved on.’
In June Sybil Thornton’s tonsils came out. They were to a certain extent enlarged, and lately, in the Journal, suspicion had been thrown upon tonsillar absorption in its bearing upon the etiology of rheumatism. Ivory did the enucleation with tedious care.
‘I prefer to go slow with these lymphoid tissues,’ he said to Andrew as they washed up. ‘I daresay you’ve seen people whip them out. I don’t work that way.’
When Andrew received his cheque from Ivory – again it came by post – Freddie was with him. They were frequently in and out of each other’s consulting-rooms. Hamson had promptly returned the ball by sending Andrew a nice gastritis in return for the laryngitis case. By this time, in fact, several patients had found their way, with notes, between Welbeck and Queen Anne Streets.
‘You know, Manson,’ Freddie now remarked. ‘ I’m glad you’ve chucked your old dog-in-the-manger, holy-willy attitude. Even now, you know,’ he squinted across Andrew’s shoulder at the cheque, ‘you’re not getting all the juice out of the orange. You hang in with me, my lad, and you’ll find your fruit more succulent.’
Andrew had to laugh.
That evening, as he drove home, he was in an unusually light-hearted mood. Finding himself without cigarettes he drew up and dashed into a tobacconist’s in Oxford Street. Here, as he came through the door he suddenly observed a woman loitering at an adjacent window. It was Blodwen Page.
Though he recognised her at once, she was sadly altered from the bustling mistress of Bryngower. No longer erect, her figure had a listless droop, and the eye which she turned upon him when he addressed her was apathetic, indifferent.
‘It is Miss Page,’ he went up to her. ‘ I ought to say Mrs Rees now, I suppose. Don’t you remember me? Doctor Manson.’
She took him in, his well-dressed and prosperous air. She sighed:
‘I remember you, doctor. I hope you’re very well.’ Then, as though afraid to linger, she turned to where a few yards along the pavement a long bald-headed man impatiently awaited her. She concluded apprehensively, ‘I’ll have to go now, doctor. My husband’s waiting.’
Andrew observed her hurry off, saw Rees’s thin lips shape themselves to the rebuke: ‘What d’you mean – keeping me waiting!’ while she submissively bent her head. For an instant he was conscious of the bank manager’s cold eye directed blankly upon himself. Then the pair moved off and were lost in the crowd.
Andrew could not get the picture out of his head. When he reached Chesborough Terrace and entered the front room he found Christine knitting there, with his tea – which she had rung for at the sound of his car – set out upon a tray. He glanced at her quickly, sounding her. He wanted to tell her of the incident, longed suddenly to end their period of strife. But when he had accepted a cup of tea, and before he could speak, she said quietly:
‘Mrs Lawrence rang you again this afternoon. No message.’
‘Oh!’ He flushed. ‘ How do you mean – again?’
‘This is the fourth time she’s rung you in a week.’
‘Well, what of it?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything.’
‘It’s how you look. Can I help it if she rings me.’
She was silent, her eyes downcast, upon her knitting. If he had known the tumult in that still breast he would not have lost his temper as he did.
‘You would think I was a bigamist the way you go on. She’s a perfectly nice woman. Why, her husband is one of my best friends. They’re charming people. They don’t hang about looking like a sick pup. Oh, hell –’
He gulped down the rest of his tea and got up. Yet the moment he was out of the room he was sorry. He flung into the surgery, lit a cigarette, reflecting wretchedly that things were going from bad to worse between Christine and himself. And he did not want them to get worse. Their growing estrangement depressed and irritated him, it was the one dark cloud in the bright sky of his success.
Christine and he had been ideally happy in their married life. The unexpected meeting with Miss Page had brought back a rush of tender memories of his courtship in Drineffy. He did not idolise her as he once had done, but he was – oh, damn it all! – he was fond of her. Perhaps he had hurt her once or twice lately. As he stood there he had a sudden desire to make up with her, to please, propitate her. He thought hard. Suddenly his eye brightened. He glanced at his watch, found that he had just half an hour before Laurier’s closed. The next minute he was in his car on his way to interview Miss Cramb.
Miss Cramb, when he mentioned what he desired, was immediately and fervently at his service. They fell into serious conversation together, then walked into the fur department where various ‘skins’ were modelled for Doctor Manson. Miss Cramb stroked them with expert fingers, pointing out the lustre, the silvering, all that one should look for in this special pelt. Once or twice she disagreed gently with his views, earnestly indicating what was quality and what was not! In the end he made a selection which she cordially approved. Then she departed in search of Mr Winch and presently returned to state glowingly:
‘Mr Winch says you’re to have them at cost.’ No such word as ‘wholesale’ had ever sullied the lips of a Laurier employee. ‘That brings them out at fifty-five pounds and you can take it from me, doctor, it’s genuine value. They’re beautiful skins, beautiful. Your wife will be proud to wear them.’
On the following Saturday at eleven o’clock Andrew took the dark olive-green box, with the inimitable marque artistically scrawled upon its lid, and went into the drawing-room.
‘Christine!’ he called. ‘Here a moment!’
She was upstairs with Mrs Bennett helping to make the beds but she came at once, slightly out of breath, her eyes wondering a little at his summons.
‘Look, dear!’ Now that the climax approached he felt an almost suffocating awkwardness. ‘I bought you this. I know – I know we haven’t been getting on so well lately. But this ought to show you –’ He broke off and, like a schoolboy, handed her the box.
She was very pale as she opened it. Her hands trembled upon the string. Then she gave a little overwhelmed cry:
‘What lovely, lovely furs.’
There, in the tissue paper, lay a double stole of silver fox, two exquisite skins shaped fashionably into one. Quickly he picked them up, smoothing them as Miss Cramb had done, his voice excited now.
‘Do you like them, Chris? Try them on. The good old Half-Back helped me choose them. They’re absolutely first-class quality. Couldn’t have better. And value too. You see that sheen on them and the silver marking on the back – that’s what you want specially to look for!’
Tears were running down her cheeks. She turned to him quite wildly.
‘You do love me, don’t you, darling? That’s all that matters to me in the world.’
Reassured at last, she tried on the furs. They were magnificent.
He could not admire them enough. He wanted to make the reconciliation complete. He smiled.
‘Look here, Chris. We m
ight as well have a little celebration while we’re about it. We’ll go out to lunch today. Meet me one o’clock at the Plaza Grill.’
‘Yes, darling,’ she half questioned. ‘Only – I’ve got some shepherd’s pie for lunch today – that you used to like so much.’
‘No, no!’ His laugh was gayer than it had been for months. ‘Don’t be an old stay-at-home. One o’clock. Meet the dark handsome gentleman at the Plaza. You needn’t wear a red carnation. He’ll know you by the furs.’
All morning he was in a mood of high satisfaction. Fool that he’d been! – neglecting Christine. All women liked to have attention paid to them, to be taken out, given a good time. The Plaza Grill was just the place – all London, or most of it that mattered, could be seen there between the hours of one and three.
Christine was late, an unusual occurrence which caused him to fret slightly, as he sat in the small lounge facing the glass partition watching all the best tables become quickly occupied. He ordered himself a second martini. It was twenty minutes past one when she came hurrying in, flustered by the noise, the people, the ornate flunkeys and the fact that, for the last half-hour, she had been standing in the wrong lounge.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she gasped. ‘I really did ask. I waited and waited. And then I found it was the restaurant lounge.’
They were given a bad table wedged against a pillar beside the service. The place was grotesquely crowded, the tables so close together people seemed to be sitting on each other’s laps. The waiters moved like contortionists. The heat was tropical. The din rose and fell like a transpontine college yell.
‘Now, Chris, what would you like?’ Andrew said determinedly.
‘You order, darling,’ she answered faintly.
He ordered a rich, expensive lunch: caviare, soupe prince de Galles, poulet riche, asparagus, fraises de bois in syrup. Also a bottle of Liebfraumilch, 1929.
‘We didn’t know much about this in our Drineffy days.’ He laughed, determined to make merry. ‘Nothing like doing ourselves well, old girl.’
Nobly she tried to respond to his mood. She praised the caviare, made an heroic effort with the rich soup. She pretended interest when he pointed out Glen Roscoe, the cinema star, Mavis Yorke, an American woman celebrated for her six husbands, and other cosmopolitans equally distinguished. The smart vulgarity of the place was hateful to her. The men were over-groomed, smooth and oiled. Every woman visible to her was a blonde, dressed in black, smart, made up, carelessly hard.
All at once Christine felt herself turn a little giddy. She began to lose her poise. Usually her manner was one of natural simplicity. But lately the strain upon her nerves had been great. She became conscious of the discrepancy between her new furs and her inexpensive dress. She felt other women staring at her. She knew she was as out of place here as a daisy in an orchid house.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Aren’t you enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she protested, wanly trying to smile. But her lips were stiff now. She could barely swallow, let alone taste, the heavily creamed chicken on her plate.
‘You’re not listening to a thing I say,’ he muttered resentfully. ‘You haven’t even touched your wine. Damn it all, when a man takes his wife out –’
‘Could I have a little water?’ she asked feebly. She could have screamed. She didn’t belong to a place like this. Her hair wasn’t bleached, her face not made up, no wonder even the waiters watched her now. Nervously she lifted an asparagus stalk. As she did so the head broke and fell, dripping with sauce, on the new fur.
The metallic blonde at the next table turned to her companion with a smile of amusement. Andrew saw that smile. He gave up the attempt at entertainment. The meal ended in a dreary silence.
They went home more drearily. Then he departed, summarily, to do his calls. They were wider apart than before. The pain in Christine’s heart was intolerable. She began to lose faith in herself, to ask herself if she was really the right wife for him. That night she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, thanking him again for the furs and for taking her out.
‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ he said flatly. And went to his own room.
Chapter Twelve
At this point an event occurred which, for the time being, diverted Andrew’s attention from his difficulties at home. He came upon a paragraph in the Tribune, which announced that Mr Richard Stillman, the well-known health expert of Portland, USA, had arrived on the Imperial and was staying at Brooks Hotel.
In the old days he would have rushed excitedly to Christine with the paper in his hand.
‘Look here, Chris! Richard Stillman has come over. You remember – I corresponded with him all those months. I wonder if he’d see me – honestly – I’d love to meet him.’
But now he had lost the habit of running to Christine. Instead he pondered maturely over the Tribune, glad that he could approach Stillman, not as a medical aid assistant, but with the standing of a Welbeck Street consultant. Methodically he typed a letter recalling himself to the American and asking him to lunch at the Plaza Grill on Wednesday.
The following morning Stillman rang him up. His voice was quiet, friendly, alertly efficient.
‘Glad to be talking to you, Doctor Manson. I’d be pleased for us to lunch. But don’t let’s make it the Plaza. I hate that place already. Why don’t you come here and lunch with me?’
Andrew found Stillman in the sitting-room of his suite at Brooks, a quietly select hotel which put the racket of the Plaza to shame. It was a hot day, the morning had been a rush, and at the first sight of his host Andrew almost wished he had not come. The American was about fifty, small and slight, with a disproportionately large head and an undershot jaw. His complexion was a boyish pink and white, his light coloured hair thin and parted in the middle. It was only when Andrew saw his eyes, pale, steady and glacially blue, that he realised – almost felt the impact of – the driving force behind this insignificant frame.
‘Hope you didn’t mind coming here,’ said Richard Stillman in the quiet manner of one to whom many had been glad to come. ‘I know we Americans are supposed to like the Plaza.’ He smiled, revealing himself human. ‘But it’s a lousy crowd that goes there.’ He paused. ‘And now I’ve seen you, let me really congratulate you on that splendid inhalation paper. You didn’t mind my telling you about serecite? What have you been doing lately?’
They descended to the restaurant, where the head of many waiters gave Stillman his attention.
‘How about you? I’m going to have orange juice,’ Stillman said then, promptly, without looking at the long French menus, ‘ and two mutton cutlets with peas. Then coffee.’
Andrew gave his order and turned with increasing respect to his companion. It was impossible to remain in Stillman’s presence long without acknowledging the compelling interest of his personality. His history, which Andrew knew in outline, was in itself unique.
Richard Stillman came of an old Massachusetts family which had, for generations, been connected with the law, in Boston. But young Stillman, despite this continuity, at the age of eighteen at last persuaded his father to allow him to begin his studies at Harvard. For two years he had followed the medical curriculum at this University, when his father died suddenly, leaving Richard, his mother, and his only sister in unexpectedly poor circumstances.
At this point, when some means of support had to be found for the family, old John Stillman, Richard’s grandfather, insisted that his grandson should abandon his medical studies in favour of the family tradition of the law. Arguments proved useless – the old man was implacable – and Richard was forced to take, not the medical diploma he had hoped for, but after three tedious years, a legal degree. Then in 1906 he entered the family offices in Boston and for four years devoted himself to the law.
It was, however, a half-hearted devotion. Bacteriology, in particular, microbiology, had fascinated him from his earliest student days and in the attic of his Beacon Hill home
he set up a small laboratory, took his clerk as assistant, and devoted every spare moment to the pursuit of his passion. This attic was in fact the beginning of the Stillman Institute. Richard was no amateur. On the contrary he displayed not only the highest technical skill but an originality amounting almost to genius. And when, in the winter of 1908 his sister Mary, to whom he was much attached, died of rapid consumption, he began the concentration of his forces against the tubercle bacillus. He picked up the early work of Pierre Louis and Louis’s American disciple, James Jackson, jr. His examination of Laennec’s life work on auscultation brought him to the physiological study of the lungs. He invented a new type of stethoscope. He commenced, with the limited apparatus at his disposal, his first attempts to produce a blood serum.
In the year 1910, when old John Stillman died, Richard had at last succeeded in curing tuberculosis in guinea-pigs. The results of this double event were immediate. Stillman’s mother had all along sympathised with his scientific work. He needed little urging to dispose of the Boston law connection, and, with his inheritance from the old man’s estate, to purchase a farm near Portland, Oregon, where he at once flung himself into the real business of his life.
So many valuable years had already been wasted he made no attempt to take a medical degree. He wanted progress, results. Soon he produced a serum from bay horses, succeeded with a bovine vaccine in the mass immunisation of a herd of Jersey cows. At the same time he was applying the fundamental observations of Helmholtz and Willard Gibbs of Yale, and of later physicists like Bisaillon and Zinks, to the treatment of the damaged lung through immobilisation. From this he launched straight into therapeutics.
His curative work at the new Institute soon brought him into prominence with triumphs greater than his laboratory victories. Many of his patients were ambulant consumptives, wandering from one sanatorium to another, reputably adjudged incurable. His success with these cases immediately earned for him disparagement, accusation and the determined antagonism of the medical profession.
