The Long Corridor

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Don’t worry?’ There it was again, that useless, ineffective phrase. He turned his face full towards John and there came the sound of a laugh from his throat while his features remained as stiff as if they had been set in cement. Only his lips seemed to have the power of movement. ‘Don’t worry, you say. Would it surprise you to know that’s all I’ve done since we married? From the very beginning our nerves have screamed at each other. And just tonight, a few hours ago, I decided that it was the finish, and tomorrow either she or I put in for a divorce. Although I know I stand very little chance of getting it against her, for I won’t use the proof I’ve got, for that concerns Lorna, she has enough on me to knock me flat, finish me.’

  ‘What do you mean? A divorce isn’t the end.’

  ‘It will be for me; but at the moment I don’t give a damn.’ He lay back against the couch and closed his eyes. ‘I’ve had a mistress for the last two years and she’s found out about it.’

  After concentrating his gaze on Paul’s mouth, John Price lowered his lids and said with a laugh, ‘Well, it won’t be the first time a doctor has done that. She can’t hang you for it.’

  ‘She can in this case, she’s a patient.’

  ‘Aw, Paul! You above all people.’

  ‘Aye, me above all people.’

  ‘Has she absolute proof?’

  ‘Pretty near. But in any case the mud would stick.’

  ‘And the Board next week, and you on the shortlist. Aw, Paul.’

  ‘It’ll be short all right, if Beresford has anything to do with it.’

  ‘But how? Why him?’

  ‘He knows all there is to know. He received a letter to the effect that I was having an affair with Mrs Tate, Ivy Tate, who used to work here. Do you remember?’

  Paul watched the effect of this last piece of news on his friend. He didn’t know why he was telling him all this except that in some way it eased the shock of the disclosure concerning Bett. It was as if in exposing himself he was lessening the disgrace attached to her. Yet he couldn’t explain to himself that, feeling as he did towards her, why he should do this.

  John Price rose from the couch and walked to the fire, where he stood looking down at it before saying, ‘This is awful. You should have told me. Look.’ He swung round now. ‘We’ll have to go in to this. You’re not going to lose everything because of something that happens every damn day of the week to other men. You know this has always incensed me about our job…Mustn’t have anything to do with a patient. God! You see them stripped, you examine them, and you’re supposed to view them as a skeleton in the lecture room. The damned stupid thing about it is, that if the woman concerned is not your patient she’s somebody else’s. It has always annoyed me that…Ethics, unprofessional conduct. Taking advantage of someone under your care…taking advantage. That’s funny. Talk about raising a laugh…when they sit at the other side of the table and rape you with their eyes, and go out disappointed if you don’t ask them to strip off for an examination. Look, Paul.’ He bent over him. ‘Fight this. Anyway, Bett hasn’t got a leg to stand on now…’

  Paul made no response, he knew why John was letting off steam like this. In the ordinary way Doctor John Price would have supported every maxim in the professional book because he was a good doctor, a good husband, a good father, and a moral man. He was talking as he did to make him feel that what had happened was really of no account; as he had said, this kind of thing happened every day, it was part of the usual routine. But it wasn’t true and he knew it. The women who raped you with their eyes were few and far between, and except for the odd one here and there they disliked stripping off. And the odd one would have stripped off for anybody; doctors weren’t exceptions in this case.

  He said now under his breath. ‘How long is it since you gave her the chloral?’

  John Price looked at his watch. ‘Just over an hour; it should have taken effect by now.’

  He pulled himself up from the couch, and slowly they went from the room. He let John precede him up the stairs and along the corridor to the door at the end, and as he entered his wife’s room he clenched his jaws and felt the cords of his neck and the muscles of his stomach tighten against the final evidence.

  Five

  It wasn’t until Paul saw the side of the Salvation Army Hall with ‘The Citadel’ painted in large letters upon it, that he realised it was morning and the dawn was coming up. He remained standing at the window until the pale grey light turned to pink and the sun, visible somewhere beyond the roofs, sent its rays like spilt paint into the sky; then he turned and looked about the room. His bed had not been disturbed; his coat lay across the foot of it. On the table to the side of the bed the standard lamp was still alight and looked conspicuously alone in that there was no bottle and glass standing near it. He hadn’t touched a drink since John had given him that glass last night. Somehow he hadn’t the taste for it; not that he didn’t need fortifying, but what he needed more was the power to think clearly, to get this thing sorted out. Except for one instance his feelings had remained at the same shock level of last night. The instance had been when they were standing in the hall after they had come downstairs, and John had said, ‘Have you any idea who it is?’ and he had answered, ‘Yes, I’ve an idea.’ At that moment he’d had the desire to rush out of the house, burst into Knowles’ flat, take him by the throat, and worry him like a bull terrier does another dog.

  But later, when he began to think somewhat rationally, he had to admit that Knowles was not all to blame. Knowles could have got nowhere without encouragement, without sanction. Yet this fact did not resurrect his hatred of Bett. It was an odd thing, but not once since he had confirmed without a doubt that Bett had the disease had he felt his rage rise against her. His main reaction still was the feeling of nausea following a shock.

  As the night wore on and he had alternately paced the room and sat with his head in his hands, he began to question why there was still no condemnation in him towards Bett. Yesterday, when to him she was, besides being the woman who had tricked him into marrying her, a vicious, unbalanced creature, his hate of her had been something consuming and mighty. Yet now, when he had more reason for hate, it had not increased by one jot. It slowly became apparent that what had happened to Bett was having a cathartic effect.

  So, by the first light he faced the unpleasant truth that most of the responsibility was his. He realised that had he tackled her with Lorna’s parentage years ago things might have straightened themselves out, her confession might have brought from him forgiveness and pity. The excuse that, being the kind of man he was, he couldn’t bear the slur her deception placed on his manhood seemed thin. The fact that he had withheld himself from her, even while sharing the same room; and when his mother had died he had unhesitatingly put the length of the corridor between them, filled him with a deep shame now.

  He knew this morning that he had reached the hill of decision; he was on the summit. Whether he was to fall from it in his own estimation depended on what action he was going to take.

  Somewhere along the line he knew he had to do something right. He, the supposedly moral man—and he had been a moral man until he took Ivy, for the bottle had been his mistress during the previous years—had to act morally. Bett was frivolous, petty, vain. She had a mania for young fellows, but only, he imagined, to give vent to her skittishness. She would never, he felt sure, have gone with Knowles if it hadn’t been for the long corridor. Whatever Bett was fundamentally, she had been, and was still, his wife, and, his conscience continued to tell him loudly, she hadn’t deserved the loneliness he had thrust on her. Years ago she had made a mistake, and as a frightened girl had grabbed at him to hide that mistake. Had he not sympathised with a thousand women in his time because they were frightened of having made that same mistake, of the disgrace it entailed? He had been kind to them, even tender in his commiseration, but when the disgrace touched himself he had seen it as a different kettle of fish.

  Anyway, he knew now what
he would have to do. Bett was still his concern. She had tried to break him because she thought there was no humanity in him towards herself. Well, he would have to show her she was wrong. He would have to show to her the consideration he gave even to the least worthy of his patients. It wouldn’t be easy but he must try. He must think about life with her as something to be lived a day at a time, and no more. Looking at time as the future which meant months and years ahead would get him down. Life as he saw it with Bett could only be taken in small doses.

  And there was another thing he must do. As he went to a chest of drawers and took out a clean shirt his stomach muscles knotted on the thought that he must contact Knowles. This in a way would be even harder than facing Bett. But as a doctor he must do this. He stood with the shirt in his hand. Why must he? Could he count on this calmness of mind lasting when confronted by Mr Knowles? Wouldn’t it be better to ask John to deal with it? No. No. This was his concern, and his alone.

  After a bath and changing into a different suit, he went quietly downstairs, and there to his surprise he found Maggie with the kettle boiling and the teapot standing ready to hand. She turned at his entry, saying, ‘You’re early.’

  He stood looking at her. ‘Why have you come at this hour?’

  ‘Aw, I couldn’t rest. I thought I might as well be doing something.’

  ‘You should have waited for me last night.’ He peered at her. The permanent bags under her eyes were swollen still further; her old face looked drawn.

  She made no mention about having spent the night in the breakfast room, but said, ‘Do you feel like something to eat?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Just make the tea strong.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  Some time later they sat at the table facing each other and drank the hot tea in silence.

  ‘Maggie.’ He rubbed his hand across his eyes, then pressed the eyeballs with his first finger and thumb. ‘I’ll have to have help in the house. Do you know anyone, anyone decent, to be housemaid?’

  Maggie looked down into her cup. ‘They’re like gold dust. If they can get three and nine to four shillings an hour in the factory they’re not doing housework for two and six to three shillin’s, it stands to reason.’

  ‘But I’ll pay anything.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be different, for they never got more than half-a-crown.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter about the wage, Maggie. Do you know anyone, some woman with a husband out of work? There’s a few of those knocking about now.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know one or two meself, but as I said, they’re all for the factories an’ the bigger money. But there’s Alice Fenwick. She doesn’t like the factory; she’d sooner do housework if it pays. Now I think there might be a chance of gettin’ her.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘In Kibble Street.’

  ‘That’s quite near. Do you think you could see her before she goes to work?’

  ‘I’ll have a try.’

  ‘Thanks, Maggie.’

  As she rose from the table she looked up at him and said, ‘Things goin’ on as before then?’ Her tone was apprehensive.

  His head was turned from her when he replied, ‘Yes, Maggie, I’m afraid so.’ As he walked towards the door he paused and added, quietly, ‘Can I ask you to take a tray up later on, Maggie?’

  ‘You can ask.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He went out into the hall, through the waiting room, and into his surgery, and sitting at his desk he picked up the telephone directory and found James Knowles’ number.

  It was just turned eight o’clock when the front doorbell rang and Paul went to open it. On the sight of the pale, smiling, self-assured face all the reasonableness, born of the self-analysis during the night, fled and he had an almost uncontrollable urge to answer Knowles’ greeting by bashing his fist between his eyes.

  ‘Hello there.’ Knowles had stepped into the hall. ‘You want to see me? I didn’t know Bett was ill.’ His voice had no trace of nervousness, yet there was a wary look in his eyes as if he knew that this visit was not going to be classed under the heading of social.

  ‘Come this way.’

  There was a deep indent between Knowles’ brows as he followed Paul across the waiting room and into the surgery, and as he closed the door he said, ‘Is it serious? I didn’t even know she was bad.’ With a slight movement of his hand Paul indicated the patient’s chair, then slowly made his way behind the desk to his seat, from which point of vantage he hoped he would be able to deal with the situation in a professional way. But immediately he answered Knowles it was evident that the professional attitude in this case was beyond his power, for he found himself spacing his words in a deadly cold, ominous tone.

  ‘Yes…I…suppose…you could…call it serious.’

  Knowles was puzzled. He screwed up his eyes as he asked, ‘What is it? Why take this attitude with me? What have I done?’

  What should be a man’s answer to this, a man’s, not a doctor’s? His whole frame began to shake; it was most noticeable in his hands. There was a pile of bulky correspondence lying on the table, the majority of which, he knew, was from drug firms. He pulled it all towards him as he said, ‘I think it’s got a lot to do with you.’

  ‘Oh. So there’s more in this than meets the eye, is there? Well, come on, come on, spit it out. I don’t know what it’s all about but I’m willing to listen.’ Knowles’ voice sounded brittle, cocksure.

  The nerve of the bloody swine! But he would have nerve; his type always had; the ladykillers were well equipped. The fury was rising in him. Like a red tide it flooded up to his eyes. With a sweep of his hand the mail went sprawling all over the desk, and bending halfway across it, his anger causing him to splutter, he growled below his breath, ‘Would it surprise you to know that she has contracted syphilis?’

  Still leaning over the desk, his body rigid, he watched the colour rise into the pale face. He watched the eyes blink, then stretch, as if the man had just woken up. Then what followed took him definitely by surprise, for Knowles, springing up from his chair, thrust his face almost into his own as he barked, ‘And you think I gave her that? Me?’ He gripped the lapel of his coat. ‘By Christ! As big as you are I’ll ram that down your throat. Who the hell are you to sit there like some bloated god and say that to me?…Me give Bett syphilis! Let me tell you, I haven’t got syphilis; nor have I ever had it. As for me giving Bett anything—’ He drew his head back and screwed up his whole face as if the sight of Paul was distasteful to him, as he went on, in a bitter low tone, ‘I suppose it’s news to you what I’m going to say, but the fact is I’ve never been with Bett ever…Now what do you make of that? Because we’ve had a laugh together, a bit of a joke, and yes, a bit of slap and tickle, you have to see something else in it. But let me tell you this.’ His face was thrust forward again. ‘Whatever has happened to Bett there’s one person to blame for it, and it’s not the one who’s passed it on to her, but you…Oh, she’s told me some things about you, big fellow, and nothing that’s good. And I’m telling you this: I’m sorry for Bett, always have been, for the simple reason she’s had to live with you. She could talk to me and she has, we’re pals. Always have been, but nothing else.’ He now wagged his fingers about an inch from Paul’s face, and Paul, unable to stand any more, took his hand and gave him a push that sent him reeling.

  When Knowles regained his balance, he stood glaring across the room as Paul said, ‘All right, all right, I’ve made a mistake, and you’ve had your say. You don’t like me and I don’t like you, and I believe you when you say you’ve never been with Bett, but speaking as a doctor I think that you’ve found more satisfaction in spewing your filthy stories into her ears than you would have if you had been with her.’

  Knowles, his face a dark purple red now, adjusted his perfectly knotted tie and sneeringly he replied slowly, ‘Bett always said you
were a sanctimonious, big-headed swine, and by God, she was right! But YOU weren’t so sanctimonious that you couldn’t do a bit of homework on the side. Your kind make me sick.’

  Paul swallowed deeply. ‘I think we make each other sick, Mr Knowles.’

  ‘Ivy Tate! And in this house, under Bett’s nose.’

  The urge to use his fists was rising again and he had to give himself time before he could say, ‘Just to put you right, Knowles, I will tell you that nothing went on in this house under Bett’s nose. Also I would advise you to guard your tongue in case you might have to substantiate what you say, not only to my solicitor but to Farmer Wheatley.’

  As Knowles narrowed his eyes Paul went on, ‘Mrs Tate is being married shortly; the wedding has been in the offing some time…Now I’ll let you out.’

  When they reached the front door he said, ‘I won’t expect to see you here again,’ and Knowles, turning on the step and looking at him, replied, ‘You got me here, sure in your own mind it was me who had passed it on to her, and if you had been right, tell me, what would you have done then?’

  ‘I would have advised you to have treatment.’

  ‘Oh. Oh God! It’s as Bett once said, you’re as cold as a dead jellyfish. Advise me to have treatment!…I can’t believe it. You know what a man, a real man would have done? He’d have wiped the floor with me, bashed my face in, not just give me a push. No matter what he thought of his wife, he’d have wiped the floor with me. So you would have advised treatment, and now you’ve got to find out who to advise, haven’t you? Well, I can see you’ll have to do some detective work…Doctor; but I’ll give you a clue, not in order to help you, but in the hope that it’ll worry your guts out. How about starting in the Mayor’s parlour, eh? Goodbye and I wish you luck.’