by A. J. Cronin
‘Oh, I will,’ she said shyly.
Before the silence became awkward he exclaimed lightly:
‘Good gracious! Past five o’clock. Time for tea. I’ve been running the show so far, but now I’m going to let you take over. Which place do you recommend?’
She named a cafe unhesitatingly as being not only the best but moderate in price. It was not far off and presently they were seated upstairs in a bright, warm room filled with the cheerful sound of voices and overlooking the gardens across the way. The table, in Scottish fashion, was already laden with tempting scones and buns, and with a many tiered-central stand bearing every variety of that native confection made of sponge, icing and marzipan, known as a ‘French’ cake. He handed her the menu which was safely anchored in a little metal ball.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Starving.’
‘So am I.’ She gave him a modest, playful smile. ‘You haven’t forgotten what a good Scots high tea is?’
‘Indeed I haven’t. And the best I had were in your old home at Ardfillan.’
‘Well, there’s a dish they have here, fried fillet of fish with parsley sauce; it doesn’t sound much but it would just melt in your mouth.’
He looked at her quizzically.
‘Is it expensive?’
She laughed outright, freely and spontaneously, such a happy laugh it evoked responsive smiles from dour Edinburgh citizens at the adjoining tables.
‘It’ll cost a good half crown. And after the perfect ransom you’ve spent today I think I’d better pay.’
When the waitress approached he let Kathy give the order. The fish, as she had promised, was delicious, fresh from the sea, the toast hot buttered, the tea strong and scalding. The excitement of the expedition and the consciousness that she was looking her best had released her from shyness, giving her an animation that made her companionship the more delightful, since already he had detected an introspective strain in her nature, even a tendency to sadness, and it was good to be able to lift her to a lighter frame of mind. And how attractive she was in her new smart outfit, so transformed as to draw towards her many admiring glances, which he clearly saw but of which she remained unaware. Yes, he thought, watching her indulgently, she’s worth all that I mean to do for her, she’ll do me credit.
When they had finished they sat for some time in a communicative silence, then she gave a contented sigh.
‘It’s a shame this wonderful day has to end. But I must be back to relieve Nurse Ingram at seven o’clock.’
‘Must you really?’ he exclaimed with a note of disappointment.
‘I’m afraid I must.’
‘And I was hoping we could stay and go on to a theatre. Wouldn’t you have liked that?’
She lowered her eyes, but after a moment raised them and looked at him frankly.
‘It will probably amaze you, Mr Moray – I mean, David – I have never been to the theatre in my life. When Mother was alive we went every year to the Orpheus Choir’s performance of “The Messiah”. And I’ve been to concerts at the Usher Hall.’
‘But the regular theatre – good plays, the opera, and such-like?’
She shook her head with such a look it touched him to the heart.
‘But Kathy dear, I can’t bear to think what you’ve missed. Didn’t you ever want to go?’
‘No – not really.’
‘But why?’
She paused, as if to consider his question. In the end she said, simply:
‘Mother didn’t care for me to go. Besides, I suppose I’ve been too busy … and had other things on my mind.’
‘What a serious little person you are.’
‘Don’t you think we’re living at a pretty serious time.’
‘Yes,’ he had to admit, ‘I suppose we are.’
Her capacity to astound him seemed unlimited. And how withdrawing she could be at times, when that contained expresssion came into her eyes. Yet how wonderful, in this age of debased morality, to find such fresh unspoiled innocence.
‘Come then, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll take you home.’
He drove back slowly through the little towns on the firth where lights were already springing up against the encroaching night, and as the car purred softly he meditated on the future. Virgin soil, he repeated to himself, worthy of any effort on his part. Time was on his side of course but there was much to be done. Despite her sweetness and native wit he was obliged to acknowledge, as a man of the world, that she was a simple and untutored girl, knowing nothing of music, art, or literature. That one picture in her room – terrrible: those few text-books and the Bible, edifying no doubt, but scarcely comprehensive. Poor child, she was probably too hard-worked, too tired at night to read. That must be changed, she must be educated, taught several languages, attend a good university, Geneva or Lausanne would be suitable, take a course in, say, social science. All this, and mixing with cultured and civilised people would give her poise, smooth out her little gaucheries, bring her to perfection. Her upbringing must in a sense be held responsible – pure and spartan though it had been, it had undoubtedly been … well … narrow. And this obsession with Willie, splendidly unselfish though it might be, was a nuisance and must be watered down. But the most pressing need was to remove her from her present work. Indeed, she had hinted that she was preparing to leave it, and with an idea of encouraging this, he said:
‘I’ve been wondering if you’d take me on your round one day. I’d be most interested. Could it be this week?’
‘Of course,’ she said readily. ‘Not tomorrow, for I have to see the County Medical Officer at Dalhaven, but the day after if you like.’
‘Good. I’ll call for you at nine o’clock.’
When they reached Markinch he collected her parcels, escorted her to her door, stilled her renewed thanks, said good-night kindly yet briefly. The day he had so carefully planned would speak for itself. A bond had been created between them; he would not risk breaking it by doorstep sentiment.
Chapter Seven
Moray turned in early that night with an unusual sense of serenity, conscious that everything had passed off well, had indeed been perfect. And what a refreshing little companion she had proved, how supremely restful! Properly educated she could be a source of interest to him, a new objective in his life, besides affording him the long-sought satisfaction of an exercise in virtue. He fell asleep as soon as he had settled his head comfortably on the pillow.
Next morning when his early tea was brought the weather, unfortunately, had changed. Heavy rain beating on the window gave no inducement to rise in haste. Having swallowed his tea and the thin bread and butter that accompanied it, he lay back and closed his eyes, but failing to get off again rang for the morning paper. The boots, who brought it up, handed him a packet of mail forwarded by Arturo from Schwansee: a few business communications from his New York brokers, a couple of bills, several dividends, an illustrated catalogue of a sale of Daumier drawings to be held in Bern, and finally a letter from Madame von Altishofer. He opened it.
Gasthof Lindenhof Baden-Baden. Thursday, the 15th.
My dear friend,
I hear from my correspondents in Schwansee that you are not yet returned to your villa and I begin to fear that some mischance is responsible for your prolonged absence, especially since I have no single word from you since your unexpected departure. Has your business proved more tiresome than you foretold? Or can it be that you are ill? I trust sincerely that both of these suspicions, which have lately troubled me, are not well founded. But please, you must take time to send me news of yourself. I am sure you acknowledge that nothing could exceed my deep interest in all concerning you.
The weather has been pleasant here and I am much the better of my residence. But I am dull – dull – in fact I am becoming increasingly aware of being alone. I do not freely make new friends, and saving an old acquaintance, an invalid lady I met at the spa, I speak r
arely to anyone. And how quietly I exist. I rise early, drink the waters, then take my coffee and zwieback at a little nearby café. Afterwards I walk into the hills – you know how much I love to walk – then come back to this modest pension, where they are so very good to me, and eat my simple mittagessen on the terrace under the linden tree. I then rest for an hour or so. The afternoon I sit in the gardens, still green and blooming, having selected carefully a chair not too near the orchestra which since my arrival has already fourteen times dispensed Strauss’s Wiener-Walzer. Here, I pass the time partly in dreaming, partly in studying the faces of those who pass. Are they happy, I ask myself? So often I doubt it. At least I find them altogether different from the people one met and knew when first I came here with my parents in my early youth. This reflection depresses me and I hasten to the pavilion where I have my cup of tea – not, alas, so good as your delicious Twinings – and a slice of the English plum cake. In the evening I do not venture to the casino, the sight of all those greedy eyes repels me. Instead I take my nice book – now I am reading again ‘Anna Karenina’ – and retire to the ever open window of my room. The light of my lamp attracts an occasional moth, fireflies gleam beneath the linden tree, I begin to feel sleepy and so, in the words of your Mr Pepys, to bed.
That, dear friend, is my day. Is it not simple and a little sad? Yes, sad because I miss you, and your charming kameradschaft. I also need your advice, since a man from Basle – someone in chemicals – asks to buy the Seeburg. I do not wish to part with that beloved house which I know you also admire, but circumstances are now most difficult. So write me soon and let me know when you will be home. As there is nothing to take me back to Schwansee until you are there, I shall remain in Baden until I hear from you.
Forgive me for revealing my regard for you,
Sincerely, Frida von Altishofer.
He put down the letter slowly. A nice letter he told himself, despite its rather stilted style, the letter of a well born and distinguished woman who was utterly devoted to him. Normally he would have been touched by it, but now, perhaps because of his mood, the aftermath of yesterday, it found him unresponsive. He was glad, naturally, to hear from her, flattered that she should miss him, yet at the moment he could not generate his usual interest in her activities. And was she not slightly exaggerating her solitude? She was a woman who invited and enjoyed society. That frugal lunch, too, struck an incongruous note. He well knew that she was not averse to the pleasures of the table, and on her last visit to Baden had brought back a marvellous recipe for chestnut soup. In any case, he was not in the mood to answer today. He would advise her about the Seeburg, but later; at present he had other things upon his mind.
It was almost noon when he got up and began idly to dress. After lunch the rain continued. He hung about the hotel trying to occupy himself with some ancient magazines, devoted mainly to Scottish sport and agriculture. Then an impulse took hold of him to get out the car and drive to Markinch, but he reflected that she would not be there. She had told him that she must go to Dalhaven. Still, he would have the satisfaction of passing her window.… At this absurdity he drew himself up with a sudden self-conscious flush. He would see her tomorrow and must wait. Gazing in bored fashion out of the blurred windows of the lounge he hoped the weather would turn fine.
But when the next day came it was still raining, the sky remained heavily overcast. Nevertheless he was in a mood of cheerful expectation as he backed the car out of the hotel garage and drove between the sodden hedgerows towards Markinch.
She had already finished the forenoon clinic when he arrived. She locked the dispensary door and, carrying her black bag, got in beside him.
‘Good morning.’ He greeted her, feeling how good it was to see her again. ‘Or rather, what a morning! I’m glad to be driving you today. Not having you cycle around in the rain.’
‘I don’t mind cycling,’ she said. ‘Or the rain either.’
The tone of the remark mildly surprised him but he made no comment except to say:
‘Anyhow, I’m entirely at your disposal. Where do we go?’
‘Towards Finden. I can’t promise you beautiful country. It’s all poor clay land. And Finden is a poor village, built round a brickworks that’s just been re-started after a long shut-down.’
‘Well, it’s not a day for viewing the scenery,’ he said amiably, and after asking and receiving directions he set off through the village.
As they proceeded, she remained unnaturally silent, and he began to fancy a certain reserve in her manner. Not exactly a coldness. But she had lost that uplifted and responsive spirit that marked their day in Edinburgh, when he had felt the beginnings of a sympathetic understanding throb between them. After glancing sideways towards her several times, he said: ‘You look tired.’ And indeed she had not her usual air of well-being. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’
‘I enjoy hard work.’ She spoke in that same odd, rather constrained tone. ‘And I’ve quite a number of serious cases on hand.’
‘That proves you’ve been doing too much. You’re quite pale.’ He paused. ‘Surely it’s time you took the remainder of your vacation?’
‘In this weather?’
‘All the more reason for you to get away from it.’
She did not answer. And why did she not look at him? He waited a few moments then said:
‘What is wrong, Kathy? Have I offended you in any way?’
She blushed deeply, vividly, all over her fresh young face.
‘No, no,’ she said hastily. ‘Please don’t think that. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s just that … probably I am a little out of sorts.’
It was true enough, though very far from the full explanation. Yet how could she tell him of the mood which had followed their day in Edinburgh, or of the intensity of her reaction to it? On awakening yesterday morning she had experienced, in warm and sleepy recollection, an afterglow of happiness, but this had been succeeded, almost immediately, by a sharp pang of troubled conscience. The gay and spendthrift adventure of the day before, far exceeding all her previous experience, now took on the colours of an act of self-indulgence, almost of wrong-doing. With what silly vanity she had preened herself in her new clothes. They were beautiful, of course, but they were not for the likes of her. Be not solicitous what you put on – had she forgotten that? She felt guilty … guilty, untrue to herself and all that she had been brought up to believe. Remembrance of the smart saleswoman, seeing her undressed in her cheap rayon slip and darned navy blue woollen knickers, patting and patronising her in the fitting room, made her flush painfully. What would her dear mother have thought had she seen her then!
It was not Mr Moray, or rather – true to her promise she corrected herself – David, who was to blame. No one could have been kinder or more generous, he had meant well, acted from the most disinterested motives. He was so nice, too, so interesting and companionable, and had such a tactful and pleasing way with him that it would have seemed most ungracious to refuse his gifts. Yet an inner sense told her that she should have done so. Yes, the fault had been entirely hers, and she must see that it was not repeated.
She had risen quickly, washed in cold water and put on her uniform. But as she did so, trying to fix her mind on the work awaiting her at Dalhaven Hospital and the difficult interview with the M.O.H., when she must tell him of her intention to leave the Welfare Service, the prospect looked so flat and dull she could scarcely face it. Worst of all, longing came over her for a repetition of the previous unique day, not necessarily a return to the city, but something of a similar nature, under the same kindly guidance and patronage.
Abruptly, with all the firmness of a mind habituated to self-discipline, she had put the thought away, yet even now she had not altogether forgiven herself. However, as they drew near the first cottage she was due to visit she willed herself to throw off her constraint. Turning to him she asked if he would like to come inside with her.
‘That’s why I’m here,�
� he exclaimed. ‘I want to see everything.’
The cottage was tenanted by a farm-worker whose leg had been caught in a threshing machine at the last harvest. He lay in the usual alcove bed in the dark little kitchen, where also were his wife, a defeated-looking woman in a torn wrapper, and three half-dressed unwashed young children, one of whom was crawling on the floor with naked buttocks, slavering over a slice of bread and jam. The room was in a state of disorder, used pots piled in the sink, greasy dishes on the table which was covered by an old soiled newspaper. Into this mess and muddle, which left him appalled, Kathy walked with an air of unconcern, said good morning to the woman and the children, calling each by name, then turned to the bed.
‘Well, John, man, how are you today?’
‘Oh, not so bad, nurse.’ His face had cleared at the sight of her. ‘It’s just that, like the wife there, I never seem to get out the bit.’
‘Tuts, man, don’t give up. You’ll be getting about in a week or so. Now let’s have a look at you.’ As she opened her bag, she added casually: ‘This gentleman is a friend who has come along to say hello to you.’
It was a severe and extensive injury. Viewing it across her shoulder Moray could see that only by the barest margin had the femoral artery escaped. Several of the tendons had been severed, and as healing had not taken place by first intention, some of the sutures had gone septic. He watched as, having noted pulse and temperature, she cleansed the wound, renewed the dressing and rebandaged the leg, meanwhile maintaining a flow of encouraging remarks. Finally, straightening, she said:
‘John here doesn’t know how lucky he’s been. Another inch and the thresher would have been through the big blood vessel of the leg.’ In an undertone to Moray, modestly displaying her knowledge, she added: ‘ It’s called the femoral artery.’
He restrained a smile, accepted the information with an appreciative glance, meanwhile continuing to observe her as she closed her bag and moved from the bed exclaiming:
