Love on My List

by Rosemary Friedman

  “Yes?” I said, taking off the receiver and praying I wouldn’t have to go out.

  “Doctor? It’s H H Brindley here. Me and the wife were worrying over our Tessa.”

  “Tessa?” I said. “What’s the matter with her?”

  “Nowt’s the matter,” he said. “I was wondering when she was coming home.”

  “But isn’t she in?”

  “No. We’re sitting up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but she left here soon after ten. She said she had a headache. She was offered a lift home, but she said she’d rather walk by herself.”

  “Well, she’s not come in.”

  I felt worried because Faraday hadn’t insisted on taking her home.

  “Did she say she was coming straight home?” HH asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said.

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone.

  “Well, maybe she met up with some of her friends,” HH said unconvincingly. “Sorry to have troubled you, but me and the wife were waiting up, like, to see what she had to say about this pal of yours. I dare say she won’t be long. Coffee bars close at midnight.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything,” I said vaguely.

  “Right. Thanks, Doctor. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” I said, and put the phone down.

  We lay awake wondering what had happened to Tessa and feeling a little responsible.

  Twelve

  I intended phoning H H Brindley before I started the surgery to see if Tessa had got safely home. I had wakened on and off in the night, worrying about her and wondering what could possibly have happened. When I was still in the bath, though, an urgent message came from one of the patients on the Council estate, who wanted me to go round right away as “something terrible” had happened to the baby.

  “Ask what seems to be the matter,” I shouted at Iris, who had yelled the message to me after battering on the bathroom door as if the house was on fire.

  “I can’t,” she said. “It was a small boy gave the message, and he’s gone. He just said to hurry and was out of breath from running.”

  I hurried. Mrs Padwick was a nice woman and one of the more sensible mothers who never sent for me for nothing. This morning she opened the door to me with terror and panic in her eyes.

  “Doctor!” she said, before I had a chance to speak. “I went in to the baby just after Sid left to work and he’s lying there, not moving, not breathing. I think he’s died!”

  She ran up the stairs and I followed her.

  The eighteen-months-old Padwick baby was dead.

  “I’m sorry,” I said inadequately. “Was he all right last night?”

  “He did have a bit of a snuffle. But he was fine in himself.”

  “There will have to be a post-mortem so that we can see what happened. My own guess is that he died from a sudden severe form of pneumonia. It does happen sometimes as quickly as that.”

  “But I can’t believe it.” She stroked the child as though willing him to wake. “What will Sid say? I don’t know how to tell him.”

  I left her in the care of a neighbour and hurried home, promising that I would make all the necessary arrangements.

  “What was it?” Sylvia asked, insisting that I at least drink my coffee before starting the surgery.

  I was just about to tell her when I looked up and saw her standing there beginning to look more beautiful than ever but now in a softer, maternal way, and changed my mind, not wanting to upset her.

  “Nothing much,” I said. “Panic for nothing.”

  “Don’t ever lie to me,” she said. “Apart from anything else, you’re such a rotten liar.” She kissed the top of my head.

  “What happened to the Padwick baby?”

  “It died, for no apparent reason, in the night.”

  “Oh!”

  Her hands tightened for a moment on my shoulders, then she said:

  “How old was it?”

  “Eighteen months. A sudden pneumonia, I should imagine. It sometimes happens like that in babies.”

  She started clearing the table. “We’ve got chops for lunch,” she said, “done your favourite way. Try not to be too late.” She was making a visible effort, but her voice was higher than usual and I could see that her mind was not on the chops at all but on the Padwick baby.

  I got up to start the surgery but put my arms round her for a brief moment.

  “You only have to sound a bit fiercer on the telephone,” I said, “and you’ll be a proper, fully fledged, heartless doctor’s wife.”

  My first patient was a young girl with mousy hair who looked vaguely familiar but whom I couldn’t quite place. I asked her name, but she just looked down at the floor and simpered.

  “Now, come along,” I said, “I’ve a packed waitingroom this morning; don’t let’s waste any more time. What’s your name?”

  She giggled. “Come off it,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Actin’ like you don’t know my name! You don’t have to be like that. Not when there’s only the two of us here.”

  Light was beginning to dawn.

  “Renee,” I said. “Renee Trotter?”

  “Go on,” she said; “as if you didn’t know.”

  “I’m glad you came, Miss Trotter,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to have a word with you. You’ve got to stop writing those letters to me.”

  “Why?” She lowered her voice. “Has she found out?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said sternly. “But if you don’t stop I shall have to remove your name from my list.”

  “You’d still be in my dreams,” she said, “and I’d see you driving about.”

  “That may be. But you’re not to write any more letters. Now, what have you come to consult me about?”

  “Oh! nothing. I thought you’d like to see me.”

  “Miss Trotter,” I said, standing up. “I’m extremely busy. Please don’t come here wasting my time for nothing.”

  “Then it’s all over between us.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Good-morning.”

  “I never thought it would end like this.”

  I opened the door for her and as she passed she gave me a reproachful look. “I reely never did.”

  I made a note to remove her name from my list before she started making wild accusations about me, and I got hauled before the Executive Council.

  I had seen about fifteen patients when a young woman in drainpipe trousers and sunglasses, with a scarf tied tightly round her head, came in.

  As soon as she had sat down facing me on the chair, she took off the glasses, which had been practically obscuring her face, and removed the headscarf. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders.

  “Tessa!” I said. “Tessa Brindley. What are you doing here?”

  What I really meant was, “What are you doing here all dressed up like that?” She was, after all, my patient and had a perfect right to consult me.

  She smiled. “Oh! the disguise,” she said. “I didn’t particularly want anyone to see me coming here in case it got back to Daddy.”

  “What happened to you last night? Your father phoned me. He was worried because you didn’t go straight home.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about that. It’s all rather a long story, but I’ll tell you, then you’ll understand about last night. I owe your wife an apology. It was very rude of me to leave like that.”

  I watched her. She looked as if she had been crying, but it did nothing to impair her beauty; only made it sadder.

  “I’m at your disposal.”

  She looked at the cherry-red headscarf and the black glasses on her lap, then straight at me.

  “I’m going to have a baby,” she said.

  Sitting there, wrapped in my professional composure which allowed me to show neither surprise nor dismay, I felt chiefly pity for H H Brindley, who would have to face a fallen idol.

  “Are you sure, Tessa?�
�

  “It’s three months now. Nobody knows, of course, except me and…”

  “The father?”

  She nodded.

  “Do your parents know anything about him?”

  “About Tony? No. Daddy wouldn’t approve of Tony,” she said bitterly. “He’s not wealthy; he’s quiet, serious; what Daddy would call ‘very ordinerry.’ He’s a journalist.”

  “You know, Tessa,” I said, “I think you’ve got your father wrong. He loves you very much and you’re his only daughter. He’d give anything to see you happily married to the right man. I’m quite sure that the fact that he had no money wouldn’t matter at all.”

  Looking at her, I couldn’t fit her into the picture HH had painted for me of Tessa, rocking and rolling and spending hours in coffee bars with long-haired youths. I told her how worried he had been about the company she kept.

  “Oh! that.” She laughed. “That was just my alibi for spending the time with Tony. It was the sort of story he could never check up on. I hate rock and roll.”

  “But you love Tony?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I love Tony.”

  “Well,” I said, “there seems nothing for it but for you to take Tony home and tell your father everything and that you want to get married. I’m sure he loves you enough to get over the shock about the baby.”

  Tessa looked at me. “I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that,” she said. “You see, Tony’s already married.”

  For a moment I could think of nothing to say. The poor girl had certainly landed herself with a lot of trouble.

  “Please don’t worry about Daddy,” she said. “I know I shall have to settle that problem myself. I came to ask you what to do about the baby.”

  “You mean…”

  She was shaking her head. “No, I don’t. I just want to know where I can have it. Somewhere quiet, not too public.”

  Tessa was a very brave girl. I examined her to confirm about the baby, and found it was all just as she had said.

  “What has Tony got to say about it?” I asked her.

  “I only told him last night. I went to meet him after I left here. We sat in the car arguing until half past two. He doesn’t love his wife, but he has two young children at school. It wasn’t that I thought he would ever marry me. I knew all the time that it wasn’t possible. But I thought he ought to know about the baby, and when he did he wanted me to get rid of it. He said he could raise enough money for that, and I needn’t even tell Daddy. He couldn’t understand why I couldn’t agree. I think,” she said, “perhaps he doesn’t love me as much as I love him.”

  “Look, Tessa,” I said, “about having the baby. I think it would be a good idea to wait until you’ve told your parents before we make any arrangements.” What I really meant was that if H H Brindley was going to do anything as stupid as to cut her off with a shilling, the arrangements were going to be very different from those we could fix up if he were willing to stand by her financially. I wanted to be sure, too, that she did confide in him quickly. It wasn’t a nice situation to cope with alone, especially at eighteen.

  “Just as you think,” Tessa said, standing up, “and thank you for your help. I know that this is all my fault and I can’t expect anyone to wave a magic wand and get me out of this mess. I did want to be sure that everything would be all right about the baby, though.” She put on her dark glasses and said shyly, “I don’t know much about babies.”

  When she had put on her headscarf again and had gone, I thought what a pity it was that in cases like Tessa’s I couldn’t wave a magic wand. It was clear from where she had inherited her courage and singleness of purpose. It seemed sad that a girl like Tessa Brindley, who held every winning card in the pack, should have started out on the wrong foot. She must have been very much in love with Tony.

  I was on rota for the three women practitioners in the district. One of the messages Sylvia had taken was for me to see a patient of Doctor Phoebe Miller’s. He was an old man complaining of a sore chest.

  The house was a very large, old-fashioned, rambling one in a street of such houses owned by the more wealthy inhabitants of the district. Most of them were freshly painted and had well-tended drives in which stood large, glossy car Number One, if the master was at home, Or small, easy-to-park car Number Two waiting to take madam shopping. Sometimes, like mother and child, both waited patiently before the front door. Number sixteen, belonging to Mr Pompey Lodwick, stood out from the rest, chiefly because the house looked neglected, the drive sprouted tufts of grass, and there was neither Number One nor Number Two car to be seen.

  I was surprised when the door was opened by a young and exceedingly brassy blonde, who looked as if she had escaped from the second row of the chorus; she was smoking a cigarette in a jewelled holder and seemed surprised to see me.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’m the doctor.”

  She patted her hair, licked her lips, threw out her not inconsiderable bosom and smiled. “I was expectin’ the lady,” she said.

  “Doctor Miller’s off duty today; I’m doing her work,” I explained. “I’ve come to see Mr Lodwick.”

  “Come in,” she said; “I’ll call the old sod.”

  She showed me into a large room in which the curtains were drawn, letting in only a glimmer of daylight; the furniture was shrouded with dust covers and everything smelled musty.

  “Sorry about this,” she said, “but the mean old buzzard doesn’t want his carpet to fade or anyone to sit on his chairs.” She shuddered. “I sometimes wonder why I stick it.”

  She left me alone, and I wandered round peering at dusty Dresden shepherdesses and old copies of old magazines. It was very depressing. In the bay window was a grand piano also wearing a shroud. I lifted the lid of the keyboard and played chopsticks on the stiff, yellowed keys. I didn’t hear the old man come in, but when I looked round he was standing beside me in the grubbiest dressing-gown I had ever seen. I closed the piano carefully and, I hoped, nonchalantly, and introduced myself to Mr Pompey Lodwick.

  “I understand it’s your chest,” I said, taking out my stethoscope. “Shall we have a look at you?” I indicated the shrouded sofa for him to lie on and went over to draw the curtains so that I could see what I was doing.

  “No!” the old man shouted. “My carpet!”

  “Very well,” I said, “are you mad? It’s broad daylight outside. Don’t you know that electricity costs money?”

  “Well, it’s one or the other,” I said, getting fed up, and pulled back the curtain, nearly choking from the dust.

  There was very little wrong with the old man’s chest, but I said I would give him some linctus to soothe the soreness, and began to write a prescription.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Blondie said from where she was leaning seductively against the door watching me. “He won’t get it, whatever it is you’re giving him.”

  “Why?”

  “The shilling.”

  “That’s his lookout,” I said, anxious to escape from the spine-chilling atmosphere, and thrust the prescription into his hand. “Take two teaspoonfuls three times a day,” I said and, having done my duty, put away my pen. Pompey Lodwick wasn’t listening but was carefully rolling my prescription into a narrow spill.

  “For the gas,” Blondie explained.

  Mr Lodwick shuffled over to the mantelpiece in his threadbare carpet slippers and laid the spill down carefully. He looked at Blondie. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going upstairs for my spectacles,” he said. She winked at me and left the room.

  “I’ll be going, too,” I said, fastening my case.

  “Oh! no.” He gripped my arm and, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Blondie had gone, took something from his dressing-gown pocket.

  “Look,” he said, “here’s something that will interest you.”

  I looked, and he flicked through a most amazing collection of pornographic pictures, chuckling as he did so.

  I made for the door.
Outside, Blondie was waiting with the glasses, the sides of which were bound with sticking plaster.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but the old man called out:

  “Jessie! You come in here! The doctor can see himself out. You’re never so anxious when it’s Doctor Phoebe.”

  She shrugged her shoulders resignedly and blew me a kiss.

  Late that night I rang Doctor Miller to tell her about the patients I had seen for her.

  “That was a nasty old man you sent me to see,” I said; “Mr Lodwick.”

  She laughed. “Sorry about that. Has he still got the little blonde girl with him?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Just wondered. He changes them every time he changes his underwear, which isn’t very often. He has a greatly increased libido because of an enlarged prostate. Fortunately his bark is worse than his bite.” Phoebe guffawed in her hearty manner. “As a matter of fact, he hasn’t any bite at all, poor man. The last but one, a little ginger lady, told me.”

  “Is he really as hard up as he makes out?”

  This time Phoebe’s laugh nearly burst my eardrums. I held the receiver away until she had calmed down.

  “Pompey Lodwick,” she said, “poor? My dear young man, he practically owns the entire district.”

  “Well,” I said, “I hope he doesn’t get ill again on your day off.”

  Thirteen

  A few days later I was more than surprised to receive a letter from a firm of solicitors called Curly, Curly & Bright. Messrs Curly, Curly & Bright had been instructed to write to me by their client, Mr Pompey Lodwick, whose house, they said, I had visited in my professional capacity on the 15th inst. Even the thought of the mean old Mr Lodwick in his sunless old house made me remember my visit to him with the greatest distaste. What Messrs Curly, Curly & Bright had to say caused me to regard it with positive loathing. I could hardly believe that the letter was not intended as a joke, but then I remembered Mr Lodwick. I doubted if he had regarded my visit to his miserable old house as anything but funny. He was probably trying to get his own back for the unspeakable things he imagined I had done during my three and a half seconds alone with Blondie.