I had been in Edinburgh only three days before I became acquainted with Iris.
My bedroom was on the top floor of the hotel at the end of a long, long corridor. Like the rest of the hotel, it was large, chilly and gloomy. The bed was brass, the carpet threadbare and the curtains green velvet. My tea was brought each morning by a grey-haired chambermaid with whiskers on her chin. I saw her for approximately two minutes each day, when she plonked down the tea-tray after much rattling at the door with keys, mumbled “Good-morning” and swept back the curtains, releasing little clouds of dust into the room. On the fourth morning I didn’t even open my eyes to greet this vision and was surprised when I heard the tray put gently on my bedside table and then a gay voice calling:
“Good-morning, Doctor! And a beautiful morning, too. It’s a little bit late, so you’d better wake up or you’ll be late for your lecture.”
I opened my eyes and was almost blinded by a bush of bright red hair close to my face. Tender hands were replacing the eiderdown from where it had slipped on to the floor.
“I’m Iris,” she said, and giggled. “I should have done you all along but I’ve been off with a septic finger so old Ma Mackenzie’s being doing you. I don’t know why they stuck you up here. We usually put the doctors on the first and second.”
She sat down on the bed and poured out my tea. While I drank it she wandered round the room picking up the dirty socks and handkerchiefs I had left strewn about and collecting the assortment of golf tees from the dressing-table and mantelpiece.
“I’ll find you a box for those,” she said, “and I’ll take your dirty washing.” She picked up Sylvia’s photograph from the dressing-table. “Married?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty, isn’t she? I nearly got married once.”
“What happened?”
“I came to my senses. I don’t like being tied down. I like to move around.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.” She sighed. “I love men. And babies.”
I thought it was about time that I got the eighteen-year-old Iris, with her red hair and her impudent figure, out of my room.
“I’d better get up,” I said.
“I’ll run your bath. You’ve got Metabolic Bone Disease at nine o’clock. Professor Popper. It’ll be fine for golf this evening, though. It always is when we get a misty morning. Nice and hot?”
“What’s that?”
“The bath. Don’t worry, I’ll Vim it first.”
“Yes, nice and hot.”
After she had gone, with a shake of her jolly posterior which crackled her white apron, the room seemed quiet. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem so drab.
My own mother couldn’t have looked after me better. Iris did my washing, brushed my suits, sewed a button on my shirt, found a brighter bulb for the sad, fringed light, kept me informed as to my timetable and told me the best places to eat. My hotel bedroom began to feel like home.
Sylvia’s letters were wonderful and arrived every day. It was almost worth being separated from her to see how much she loved me, written down on paper. She wrote in detail about the practice and the progress of Doctor Cataract, who appeared to be dealing quite competently with everything. She wrote like a seasoned doctor’s wife: “We had two coronaries in one day and Billy Jones did turn out to be glandular fever. Mrs Christopher had her baby two weeks early, a girl! Isn’t it a shame? She did so want a little boy. Doctor Cataract is frightfully conscientious and goes trotting off as soon as a call comes in. He is very neat and tidy and always throws his empty ampoules straight into the bin. Please note!
“Molly has been doing the cooking and it is like old times in the flat – more ‘tin-opener’ than anything. We are having an exotic diet of snails, lichees, fonds d’artichauts and, of course, Molly’s renowned spaghetti with a sauce containing just about every herb under the sun. To be quite honest, Sweetie, I had got out of the habit of this haphazard eating and will be quite pleased to make you a straightforward steak and chips when you come home.
“Molly thinks it’s wonderful to be a doctor’s wife because there’s never a dull moment. You would laugh if you heard her answer the phone. The patients must think we change our staff every day, because she never uses the same accent twice. They get everything from Eliza Dolittle (Act One) to Lady Bracknell. Sometimes she gets quite carried away and booms, ‘Oh! My dear, how perfectly frightful,’ in that deep bass voice of hers when some poor woman rings to say the baby has a napkin rash!
“I am waiting for a letter from Moonface to say exactly when she is arriving…”
On a Saturday at the end of our first week, we had a free day with no lectures. Musgrove and I decided that we would go on a shopping expedition to find presents to take home to our wives. It was a job which neither of us relished, as we were unused to shopping and had no idea of what we wanted. We set out gloomily after breakfast and plodded doggedly up and down Princess Street looking in the windows. We rejected handbags as too expensive; it wasn’t, after all, a birthday or an anniversary; tray cloths as too plebeian, perfume as too bewildering, stockings as pointless as neither of us knew the size, gloves (ditto), tartan tins of shortbread as not good enough and books as obtainable more cheaply from the library. At eleven-thirty Musgrove yawned and said what about some coffee, and we sat miserably in a café making futile suggestions to each other and wishing we had a little more experience in dealing with wives.
Our conversation went something like this:
“Tartan scarves.”
“Tartan kilts.”
“Tartan socks.”
“Stuff to put on their faces.”
“Slippers. Tartan.”
“Cookery books,” Musgrove said meaningly.
We drank our coffee. I tried to think. Sylvia was always saying “I must get this,” or “that,” or “the other,” but since I was rarely paying complete attention I was unable to think of one item she had declared indispensable to her well-being.
Musgrove had gone into a trance. Suddenly he put down his coffee cup with a bang. His glasses, always at the end of his nose, fell into a plate of shortbread.
“Nightdresses!” he shouted, his face illuminated.
The manageress, a green band crosswise over her heaving bosom, hastened up.
“Was there something, sir?” she said, quivering with indignation at the obscene word Musgrove had let loose in her restaurant.
We paid the bill and fled.
This time we moved eagerly. We passed acres and acres of tartan kilts, scarves, gloves, stoles, ties, slippers, coats, hats, comb cases and suitcases before we found what we were looking for.
The window was tastefully decorated: brassières, stuffed and unstuffed, chopped-off torsos wearing roll-ons, panties in colours of the rainbow, and in the centre, on a waxen-breasted dummy, a black, diaphanous nightdress.
“That’s the one,” Musgrove said, pointing, and a woman, who had been standing behind us as we looked in the window, said “Disgusting!” and walked quickly on.
The manageress, despite her grey hair and forbidding appearance, was helpful. Since we had no idea of the size worn by either of our “Madams” she lined up four of her young assistants. Musgrove chose a simpering Miss Jeannie, from which I came to the conclusion that Mrs Musgrove was short and dumpy, and I picked on Miss Marjorie as being as near as I could tell, without actually putting my arms around her, approximately the same size as Sylvia. That problem being resolved we selected a style; black nylon trimmed with pink roses for Sylvia and black nylon trimmed with blue ribbon for Mrs Musgrove. Well pleased with our purchases, we each clutched our tartan carrier bags bearing the legend “Frillywear (Lingerie), Ltd,” and made for the door. The manageress saw us out.
“Good-day to you, Doctor,” she said to Musgrove. I looked at her in astonishment. “And to you, Doctor.”
“How do you think she knew?” Musgrove said, outside.
“Haven’t a clue. Unless it was because we
didn’t blush. Let’s get rid of these damned things and go up to Braid Hills. We’ve time for a full round today.”
Back at the hotel I slung the “Frillywear (Lingerie), Ltd,” bag on top of the wardrobe and started looking for my golf socks when Iris came in with a telegram. It was from Sylvia and said: “Moonface unable to come, mother ill. Any maids Edinburgh? Love S.”
“Is it serious?” Iris asked in the manner of all the working classes associating telegrams with illness and death.
An idea leaped into my head.
“Iris,” I said, “how would you like to come and work for us? We’ve been let down, and it’s awfully difficult in a doctor’s house. It means my wife can never get out.”
Iris considered.
“Is she expecting?”
“Who, Sylvia? No.”
“Pity. I like babies.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said.
“Well, never mind. I’ll come till you get someone.” She looked at Sylvia’s photograph. “She looks nice.”
By the door she shook a warning finger at me. “I don’t promise to stay, though. I’ve got itchy feet. I’ll go and give my notice to the housekeeper.” She gave me a cheeky look. “I never stay here after the doctors have gone, anyway. The commercials are too troublesome.” She winked suggestively. “If you’re looking for your clean golf socks they’re in your bag. Try not to make such a potato in them next time.”
I was sure Sylvia would be more pleased with Iris than with her nightie.
Seven
The course finished on Friday night. Musgrove and I, anxious to have a last round of golf, decided to leave after lunch on Saturday.
On Saturday morning the rain literally fell out of a dour Scottish sky. Reluctant as we were, both Musgrove and I came to the conclusion that our waterproof hats, jackets, trousers and gaily striped umbrellas were no match for this type of downpour. Sadly we abandoned the hope of the new balls we might have won and decided to take an early train home. I thought I would surprise Sylvia and didn’t ring her about the change of plan. I paid my hotel bill and told Iris to get ready.
In London I said goodbye to Musgrove. We agreed that we had had a splendid fortnight: had profited by the lectures, which had been most interesting, and played some excellent golf. We exchanged telephone numbers and firm assurances that we would keep in touch with each other. Musgrove went off carrying his clubs and his “Frillywear (Lingerie), Ltd,” underwear bag, his glasses as usual at the end of his nose. Iris was carrying my carrier bag, as I had forgotten to pack it and she had rescued it at the last minute from the top of the wardrobe. We gathered our belongings and got into a taxi.
It was half-past five when we pulled up outside my house, behind a white Jaguar. My first thought was that Doctor Cataract had been collecting wealthy patients. My second thought was Wilfred Pankrest. I remembered the car well from the time when Sylvia had been engaged to Wilfred and had brought him to tea with me. On getting out of the taxi, my suspicions were confirmed. With the typical Pankrest love of ostentation his car bore the number plates WP 1. With an upsurge of schoolboy desires I longed to let the air out of his tyres; with a swift return to manhood and reality I wondered what the blazes he was doing in my house, presumably with Sylvia, while I was away. My mood of gaiety, nurtured all the way from Edinburgh by the thought of coming home and seeing Sylvia again, disappeared. I was angry. I never had been able to stand the sight of Wilfred’s upper-class, chinless, champagne-filled face, and Sylvia knew it. “Come on, Iris,” I snarled, and I picked up the two heaviest cases.
As we stepped into the porch the door opened and Wilfred stepped out, cramming his soft green trilby on his aristocratic head. Sylvia followed him out to see him off. There was a moment of complete silence and immobility as Iris and I stared at Sylvia and Wilfred, and then the tableau broke up.
“Sweetie!” Sylvia said.
Wilfred said, “Good Lord!”
I said grimly, “We caught an earlier train,” and Iris, staring open-mouthed at Wilfred, said, “Ooh, I’ve seen your picture in the Mirror!” and in her excitement at meeting Britain’s Number One Playboy face to face, clutched at the wrong end of the “Frillywear (Lingerie), Ltd,” carrier bag. The black nylon nightdress, looking even more diaphanous than it had in the shop, slid sighingly out and wafted down to drape itself over Wilfred’s elegant, pointed-toed, brown suede shoes. We were all again transfixed – Iris with horror, Sylvia with suspicion, Wilfred with amusement and myself with rage at Wilfred for messing up my homecoming. Somebody had to act. I picked up the nightdress, shook Wilfred’s codfishy hand and said it was nice to have seen him, hustled Iris and the cases over the threshold and shut the front door firmly. Molly came running out of the waiting-room.
“Thank heavens you’re back!” she proclaimed dramatically.
“Why? What’s the matter?”
Molly fluttered her not inconsiderable eyelashes. “There’s some poor soul having a baby and doing some quite unmentionable things. The midwife has sent the husband down twice.”
“Where’s Doctor Cataract?”
“He’s taken Shanks’ pony to an insulin coma over at Granville Road.”
“Next time the husband comes tell him to tell the midwife I’m not home yet and she’ll get someone else or send her into hospital.”
“But I’ve got the poor man in the waiting-room,” Molly said, “and he knows you’re home. He saw you from the window.” She lowered her eyelids and said in a gallery-reaching dirge: “There are complications.”
Tired and angry, I went towards the waiting-room. Sylvia ran after me. “Don’t bother me now,” I snapped.
“I wasn’t going to,” she said, and undraped the nightdress from where it dangled over my arm.
Mrs Taylor took her time over producing a squalling nine-pound infant. By the time Sister Snead and I had sewn her up, cleaned her up, and left her sitting up, drinking a cup of tea, it was after nine. I felt weary, dirty and irritable, and only partly mollified by the fact that Mrs Taylor had named the baby after me.
At home, Doctor Cataract was waiting for me, ready to hand the practice back. He sat with me in the dining-room while I had my dinner, and as I shovelled in mouthfuls of Molly’s risotto in which were hidden numerous unidentifiable objects, he told me what had been happening while I had been away. Everything appeared to have gone smoothly. The old man had coped with everything, made meticulous notes about each patient he had seen, and taken everything in his stride. When I had finished some cold, quivery, lemon-flavoured concoction that was my dessert, I settled up with Doctor Cataract and he put on his duffle coat, anxious to be going home to bed.
In the hall he dropped his voice conspiratorially and put his hand into his pocket.
“There was just one thing, Doctor,” he said, and handed me an opened pale blue envelope. “You did tell me to open all the correspondence, but I think this one was rather personal.” He looked at me from under his bushy grey eyebrows. “I didn’t like to give it to your wife.”
I drew the single sheet of blue paper from the envelope. The writing was illiterate, backward-sloping. “My darling Brown Eyes,” I read, “I’m worried not seeing you…”
I smiled at Doctor Cataract. “That’s all right,” I said. “It’s only some psychopathic girl who imagines she’s in love with me.”
The eyebrows shot up, sweeping away the frown as they went.
“I’m so glad, my boy. So glad. You’ve such a charming wife. Indeed charming.” He held out his hand and, stuffing Renee Trotter’s letter into my pocket, I thanked him for all he had done.
“It’s been a pleasure, Doctor,” the old man said, “and I trust that you’ll find everything in good order.”
From the morning-room I heard strange noises. I listened outside the door. A cultured voice was saying: “…spread on toast it’s wonderful! Add it to your soups, stews, gravies. Give it to your children when they want a snack. You can be sure then that they’ve had more than a t
reat, for Boxo Beef Spread is a jarful of vitamins…” It sounded like the television, but since we hadn’t one I opened the door curiously. Molly was standing on the coffee table holding one of my Elastoplast tins before her and grinning brightly from ear to ear. When she saw me the smile faded.
“Oh! it’s you,” she said, and jumped down on to the floor. “I was just rehearsing. I’m on the Boxo stand at the Family Fare Exhibition next week.” She held out the Elastoplast tin and put back her charming leer. “Won’t you try some Boxo Beef Spread?” she breathed, advancing seductively towards me. “Jarful of vitamins!”
“Blast Boxo!” I said. “Where’s Sylvia?”
“Gone to bed.”
“I’m going, too. Goodnight, Molly.”
She held up her tin. “A little Boxo in a glass of hot milk will ensure sound sleep,” she said hopefully. I shut the door.
In the bedroom Sylvia was sitting up in bed in the nightdress she had worn, for a short while, on our wedding night. She looked very lovely and I almost forgot how angry and tired I was.
“Sweetie,” she said, and held out her arms. “I haven’t even had a chance to kiss you.”
I stayed away from the bed and began deliberately to take the small change out of my pockets and put it neatly on the mantelpiece. I came straight to the point.
“What was Wilfred doing here?” I snapped.
Sylvia, snubbed, her arms still in the air, pouted.
“He came to tea.”
“Well, what were you doing having that miserable, gormless, nightclub-hopper here to tea the minute my back was turned? It was just as well I took an earlier train or I might never have found out what was going on.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sylvia said. “You know perfectly well there was nothing going on.” She lowered her voice: “Don’t be cross, Sweetie. Come here and say hallo.”
Love on My List Page 6
