The Good Doctor

by Paul Butler

  Florence smiles. Judy can’t tell if the sadness behind her crow’s feet is ironic or real.

  “Then you will have to fill in the gaps.”

  “We can’t fill the gaps without evidence.” Her fingers twitch over the scrapbook again. This is not evidence, they seem to say. She sees the hurt in Florence’s face.

  “You can use your imagination, Miss Agar. If not for your readers, perhaps for yourself. You can skim a pebble along the waters. Watch as it catches the waves, the facts we do know. Faith and intuition will do the rest.”

  A flutter of something comes against the pane and then disappears. Judy searches the blue beyond the glass, then turns back to Florence.

  “I know anyway,” Florence says. “But it looks as though knowing will have to do.”

  — Chapter Nineteen —

  1881: Parkgate, the Wirral Peninsula, Cheshire

  ***

  With his familiar, solemn turn of the wrist, Grenfell’s father breaks the dinner roll on his side plate, indicating it is time to eat. The gruel’s surface ripples to Grenfell’s spoon, its multicoloured grease pools stretching from circles to ovals and back again. The liquid is merely warm and the taste is sour.

  “Tell me, Wilfred,” Father says, spoon clinking against his bowl. “How do you plan to spend your day tomorrow?”

  Grenfell takes another sip to delay answering.

  “I was going to do some research, Father, down by the water.”

  “Research?”

  His mother reaches for some salt, gives a small cough.

  “Science, Father. Mr. Goff, the Biology Master, wants us to return with essays about nature, growth cycles and so on. I was going to catch some pollywogs and watch them develop.”

  He doesn’t look up. “I was hoping you could help me at school tomorrow. The village children could benefit from your learning, and there’s only two weeks left before you return.”

  A vision of those scruffy little devils races through Grenfell’s mind, the dirty shirt collars, the unruly tufts of hair, unwashed faces. He lays down his spoon and breaks off a piece of dinner roll.

  “Perhaps I could find something tomorrow, something enlightening for your students, and bring it in the following day, Father.”

  His father’s eyes narrow suspiciously as they meet his.

  “That sounds like a fine idea, Algernon,” Mother comes in softly. “All too often it seems the true benefits of living under God’s own sky seem lost on the children here. Wilfred can open their minds to the glories of nature.”

  Father nods at his wife, but his lips become taught as he looks toward Grenfell.

  “Indeed, Wilfred, you can share the privilege of your learning. Your brothers are scattered this summer, and I rely on you for a little help in serving the village boys and girls.”

  Father takes the gruel silently and the clock ticks. Two weeks only separate Grenfell from a return to Marlborough, but he wonders if he’ll survive it.

  ***

  A shaded spot on the riverbank. Swallows dart overhead like missiles. Grenfell’s breath is heavy, his pulse racing with agitation. The village girl with the loose tresses falling from beneath her bonnet came with him willingly, and he is on the verge of something momentous.

  In his tweeds, with Ivanhoe tucked under his arm, a talisman of chivalry and inspiration against the desperate provinciality of his home, he whistled along the dusty path, lofting words to the girl as boys at school would loft a football, knowing that if he spoke she would have to reply, that the rally of words between them would bring them closer with each bend in the path. No doubt he seemed a rare find to her, a story with which to regale her twittering friends. He took her hand and led her through the reeds, down the shimmering path, flies and gnats bobbing and hovering around their shoulders. Her laugh softened into a whisper when he mentioned a quiet spot on the riverbank. There was a tingle in his loins as he led the way, their fingers intertwined now and perspiring.

  At first, he wasn’t sure he wanted her; it was the expectation that did it: the girl’s and his own, and that of the fellows who would await him in the Marlborough dorms when September came. Along with the boxing ring, the fencing blocks, and the rugby field, there lurked another, darker rite of passage. He was doing all right at school. Month after month, year after year, he was beginning to encompass all that should comprise a man, but he wanted to distinguish himself, to bound free of the pack. The girl with the loose tresses falling from beneath her bonnet, the colouring cheek, was the gatekeeper of an inner fortress that needed breaching.

  Now with ripples of the water’s surface skimming bright reflections, his fingers hold the second button of her blouse, and he is sure he wants her. But her hand lies upon his, a white, hairless spider, obstructing his course. The slosh and murmur of the river calms a mind that would otherwise over-brim with impatience.

  The first button at her neck must have taken fifteen minutes and a hundred words of coaxing. Its unfastening caused the reddest of flushes, the most hen-like of warnings of what Mother and Father would think. Her eyes fasten him now in a clear exhortation to stop.

  “What kind of trick is this?” The words come not unkindly but edged with confusion.

  “What do you mean, ‘trick’?” she says, her nasally accent mismatching her prettiness.

  “Why did you come if you were going to act this way?”

  “I came because you brought me here.” She kicks her legs and smoothes her skirt for the fourth or fifth time, making sure it’s drawn down over her ankles. She doesn’t make a move to leave, though, and this encourages him. “I don’t want grass stains on my skirt, you know. What’s my father going to say?” The words seem an odd combination—practicality and virtue all mushed into a working-class morality entirely alien to him. Perhaps self-worth alone can’t provide a village girl’s defence. How dare you? belongs to his own kind. This girl needs the excuse of some third party’s opinion. Grenfell takes his hand from the button and sits, cold eddies from the river breeze curling around his ankles.

  There must be a way through, he thinks, still feeling her warm breath close to his cheek. He breaks off a little, picks up a stick, and hurls it. Water gulps down the stick, sending a high splash of droplets into the air. A swallow changes its path, zigzagging away. Why all the games? It was a trick and she knows it. Her blue eyes looked at him before with mischief and promise. Her hips swayed lasciviously within the dress that she now prized so dearly. What’s the use of a village girl if she won’t give him what he wants?—the kinds of things that he couldn’t get from the young ladies of whom his father would approve.

  A fly buzzes close to his ear and a new hope picks up the rhythm in his chest. Grass stains; this is her worry. Not virtue or propriety. And if he finds a way to ensure her skirt remains clean, what then? There can be no further objection.

  He turns to her again, and she seems to meet his gaze, curious but ready enough, it seems. In a moment the dress will be off, and the idea of it, the promise of white flesh resting upon the grass, of his own licensed hands, sends a rushing noise through his ears. This and the thunder in his chest become so loud he barely hears the crunch of approaching footsteps.

  It’s the girl who scrambles to her feet. Grenfell’s reaching fingers haven’t even touched the hem of her dress yet.

  A rough hand grabs his collar.

  “Jack, don’t!”

  Her surprise seems genuine enough. Her eyes are wide and a little glazed. But even as Grenfell struggles to unloose the grip, he suspects an ambush, suspects the whole thing was just some grubby scheme to rob him. The hold upon his clothes is strong, so strong he’s hauled upwards, feet cycling against air. He glimpses two faces, one just after the other, brothers in flat caps and plain jackets, former students—oh God!—of his father. And they’re both still members of his father’
s congregation, too. He’s often seen them sitting sullenly at the back of the church, leaving before the final hymn.

  One of them stares at him blankly, grabbing his collar at the front now, the other wrenching his shoulders from behind. Now the first lets go his collar and grabs his legs. In a moment he’s aloft, hands gripping each underarm and encircling both ankles as though the three of them together are an acrobatic team simulating a chariot upon the stage. The river surface slants toward him, a swan seeming to glide downwards from a divided sky.

  “One,” the brothers chant, swinging him backwards.

  “Stop!” shouts the girl.

  “Two,” the brothers chant. Overhead branches form a jagged V against the sun. He feels dizzy.

  “Three!” Grenfell tries to grip the air as it sails by him. A crow in the tree ruffles its wings. He catches its black, shiny eye as he arcs past. He plunges, cool water receiving him. Ivanhoe, flying after him, lands on his chest. He grips the soggy pages as he flaps at the water.

  — Chapter Twenty —

  Grenfell gazes at the open sea. The view is bleak and grey, but at least it’s an expanse. He spent a miserable morning with some slimy tadpoles, spawn, and runny-nosed village children, some of whom seemed to be smirking oddly at him. When a pale young girl with stringy hair said, “You like the water, do you, Master Grenfell?” the class erupted into titters, and he knew he’d had enough.

  At lunchtime, he begged leave from his father and took to some footpaths away from the river and the endless ponds and waterways, which circled back upon themselves networking the sands and barrens.

  Inland waterways were entrapment, but the sea is escape. Now, in the rich light of late afternoon, the horizon fades in the distance like the ridge of a giant coin. There is a world out there. Adventure is in his mother’s line; she was even born in India. Her father was a colonel and his brother held the fort at Lucknow. Gallantry and valour were in his blood, and he could claim this heritage for himself. If he could just escape this place permanently, he would see yesterday for what it was, uncouth and ignorant young men protecting the dubious virtue of a girl one of them intended to marry. For the remainder of the summer, he would have to keep away from the river and that stretch of farmland. He would study the face of his father for signs he had caught wind of the event, although ultimately it hardly mattered if he did. He would soon be away from Parkgate and the filthy tributaries of the Dee and back at school, embellishing the tale of the village girl and the two ruffians. Perhaps, in his version, he would be defending her honour from them. And, as a reward for his courage, she could give herself to him.

  The logic is lacking, of course, but since when have his school friends been interested in logic? They’ll believe because it will be in their interests to believe. Everyone desires that adventure, and the chance to be a hero, exists somewhere beyond the narrow confines of themselves.

  He plunges once more, turning full circle under water, facing the bubbling haze as he scoops around and hauls himself toward the light. A setback, that’s all it was—a setback and also a challenge. The strength in his arms comforts him as his head emerges into the warm afternoon. He can’t deny his disappointment and the water—the way it buoys him and obeys the commands of his limbs—gives him the strength to admit it; yesterday he’d been in the wrong.

  It’s a terrible, humbling realization, yet it frees him as well, especially as the calming sea lets him see that it’s an aberration. He’s been caught in the wrong by people infinitely inferior to himself, and the rest of his life must be devoted to proving his worth, proving how much better he is than the liberty-taking weakling encountered by those simple brothers.

  The village girl probably was blameless, after all. Water cools upon his hair as it drips, but he lets the full embarrassment sink in. Yes, she was innocent in the way that the animals which chomped on the farmer’s pasture were innocent. And the men had never meant to rob him, either. In their own primitive way, they were protecting their own. It was understandable.

  He treads water, gazing at the still bright sun and the dark ribbon of land below. A man in tweeds, likely a local squire, walks, gun in hand, yellow dog romping around him.

  But being in the wrong is only half the shame. The other is that he had not possessed the physical strength or alertness to defend his own point of view. There can be no virtue without the power and the courage to assert it. This much he has learned many times. Without strength and the force of will, civilization could slide overnight into the barbarian mud.

  He turns in the water once more and, taking a deep breath, plunges hard, kicking with his feet, letting the bubbles escape his lips slowly. It would be better to have been in the wrong and to have defeated the ruffians than to have been in the right and have lost.

  As the water darkens, he closes his eyes and holds his breath. One other sickly undercurrent to the whole business is harder to ignore—the suspicion that if his own father was to find out about the incident, he would undoubtedly side with his son’s enemies. Something in the action, a brute, unimaginative punishment for the most natural of urges, fits in perfectly with his father’s provincially English view of religion. For his father, as for most in this country, Christianity is merely a device through which individual desire can be successfully thwarted.

  Grenfell turns quickly, pointing his hands toward the surface and kicking hard against the water. He opens his eyes to the oncoming light, certain of what he must do in the weeks and months ahead.

  He will redouble his efforts at school, on the athletics field, in the classroom, and the boxing ring. He will return from the gym to his study with swollen eyes and bleeding teeth if necessary and carry those scars with pride. To fuel his imagination, he will immerse himself in the lurid violence of Greek mythology and the Old Testament. To train his body, he will learn the patience of a left jab, practise the stealth that will get him under his opponent’s guard and deliver the undercut to the jaw. Never again will he be unready for conflict and adventure. Never again will he be bested in a tussle.

  He comes to the surface once more and gasps the warm summer air, panting and treading water again. He will obey where one is expected to obey, volunteer where eagerness is sought by the master or prefect. He will do all things that are recognized as the correct and virtuous route to attainment. His growth will encompass it all: the reading, the mental agility, the study of civilized behaviour, the physical prowess, and the calculated daring. What is Parkgate, after all, but the place from which he must escape? Only the most modest of successes is ever recognized in his own town, because true ambition is, by nature, abrasive. It kicks up dust and offends.

  His limbs are aching now and his breath still comes in gasps. He’d swum as far from his depth as he dared, and now it is time to return. Settling into a slow crawl, he vows this return to Parkgate will be one of the last.

  — Chapter Twenty-One —

  1883: London

  ***

  The humiliation is startling, unfathomable. All day, fury has been rising like a fire in his chest. How dare she? The words burn mutely on his lips. He stares up at the square windows—some black, some burning orange—of the nurses’ residences.

  Two sucker punches one after the other. The first came from Dr. Bleaker squirming on his stool. His face beneath the growing stubble of late afternoon was a patchwork of purple and crimson, like the skin of some exotic caterpillar.

  “Nurse Mills requests you to stop following her. You must accept that she and her fiancé be given the appropriate respect.”

  “But . . .” A snort followed the single spoken word; it aptly conveyed, at least to Grenfell, his astonishment, his contempt, and his indignation at this grotesque inversion of truth. But it was lost on Dr. Bleaker, whose caterpillar skin merely puckered, straightened, and puckered again where his neck met his collar. Worse, he seemed oddly prepared for Grenfell’
s reaction.

  “It’s no use, Grenfell,” he said, lifting an empty test tube from the table and folding his fingers around it. “In view of everything, it might be best for you to be transferred. I will provide an excellent reference, of course, and the episode need not affect your progress adversely.”

  Grenfell wasn’t often lost for words, but it didn’t take long for his mind, swarming in all directions at once for self-justifications, to realize that none existed. If a woman or man tells a bold-faced lie, and if that lie is corroborated by one other, there is little one can do other than burn inside and long for revenge. And Dr. Bleaker clearly wanted an end to the matter. The false intimacy of his tiny office space would make further denials and explanations unbearable to both of them. Furthermore, withdrawn and unsociable though he was, Dr. Bleaker had shown an uncommon insight when it came to encouraging Grenfell to conform to this distortion. The episode need not affect your progress adversely, he had said. He had lost a battle but not a war. If the recommendation was wholehearted enough, the switch might even help.

  ***

  The second sucker punch was Grenfell’s own fault, a lapse of judgment due to anger and pride, but that didn’t make it any better. Moments ago, in the courtyard, he’d intercepted Florence. Her face was wary, expectant, when she turned the corner to find him there. But what had she supposed would happen? The slowing of her step, the warning stare, and the studied backing away from him as she arced toward her entrance—as though he were a lion and she were a deer—infuriated Grenfell further. He leapt forward and caught hold of Florence’s wrist. He blurted the facts—his voice a curious blend of anger and pleading; he’d had no choice but to accept a transfer to another London hospital.

  He still couldn’t say what he’d wanted from her, perhaps some sign of contrition, some acknowledgement of the lie and the embarrassment it had caused him.