by Ken McClure
Saracen had been beside himself with joy when Marion had agreed to marry him in the face of all the odds, for Marion captured the hearts of all the men who met her — and was loathed by just about as many women for the same reason. They had been married in the university chapel on the day after Saracen had graduated first in his year and Saracen had felt that there was nothing he could not do, no goal was beyond reach. With Marion at his side he could ride the wind, catch the stars, and talk to the angels.
True, money had been a consideration, especially when he had found out that Marion’s dress allowance from her father was actually more than twice what he would be earning as a houseman but Marion’s father, although never in favour of the marriage, had been prepared to indulge his daughter until such times, and it could only be sooner rather than later, that Saracen became a successful consultant. When Saracen suddenly found himself having to take any job that he could get, invariably junior posts in unpopular specialities in third rate hospitals, things began to change.
There had never been a big scene between Marion and himself. Instead, Marion had started seeing more of her old friends, taking advantage of the legion of admirers ever willing to wine and dine her while her husband worked all the hours that God sent. Being Marion she had always been quite open about it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do and, for her, it was. Saracen had been sad but, strangely, never angry. He had tried to keep a beautiful butterfly in a net and that had been against the laws of nature.
What bitterness and anger there was in the situation came between Saracen and his father-in-law and it was to prove final. Saracen stubbornly refused all offers of financial help to set himself up in private practice, having resolved to rehabilitate himself in ‘real’ medicine rather than pander to the, often imagined, ills of the rich. It was an attitude that Marion’s father could not accept and Saracen could never fully explain but what relationship they had, and it was never very good, foundered over it. Marion’s father had set out to break up the marriage and recover his daughter from the ‘failure’ she had wed.
Apart from being an inveterate snob Saracen’s father-in-law was a clever and devious man, as befitting his profession, and he had succeeded in distancing Marion from Saracen in a number of seemingly innocent but effective ways. Marion’s mother had died some two years before and her father’s need for a woman to play diplomatic hostess was used to the full. He managed to persuade Marion more and more to accompany him on trips abroad until finally she just wasn’t there at all.
In the interim, Saracen had moved three times, changing from one dingy little flat to another, the fate that his father-in-law had prophesied for him, as he took the only jobs in medicine that were left open to him. Accident and Emergency Units were rapidly becoming ‘his thing’ largely because working in them was so unpopular with his contemporaries. The hours were appalling, the work more often social than medical and the prospect of advancement practically nil. Consultancies in A amp;E were rarer than hen’s teeth.
In his own mind Saracen bitterly regretted having exposed the short-comings of John MacBryde, not because of what had happened to himself over it, but because the consequences for MacBryde had far outweighed the crime. All the good that the man had done had been wiped out and forgotten. He would only be remembered as a cheat. The man had been destroyed and he, James Saracen would have it on his conscience for the rest of his life.
It had been two years since Saracen had last seen Marion and he had come to terms with the fact that his marriage was over. The hurt and pain had even cleared enough for him to be able to see the faults in his wife that love had made him blind to for so long. Like many beautiful things she lacked substance, she was weak, fragile, ephemeral and now she was gone.
The loss of Marion and deep self criticism over the MacBryde affair had led to Saracen becoming something of an expert in human nature and his own personality had changed accordingly. He had become a loner, a spectator at the game rather than a participant. No longer fettered or driven by professional or social ambition he had discovered the practise of medicine for its own sake and, in that; he found a satisfaction beyond all expectation.
This fact seemed to communicate itself to colleagues and patients alike and he was universally regarded and respected for his genuineness. He said what he thought or nothing at all. He had no acquired bedside manner, no instant smile etched with insincerity, no eye to the future in whatever he said or did. Being a loner did confer on him a certain remoteness but it was not a hostile remoteness and the shutters only went up when anyone tried to get too close to him. But even that was done with elegance. He simply side-stepped anything he saw as an intrusion into his privacy with a, by now, practised ease and charm. He had a quiet intelligence that inspired confidence and an air of gentleness that the nurses in particular regarded more highly than any of his other qualities.
The staff in A amp;E at Skelmore General knew that Saracen was a far better doctor than Nigel Garten, the unit chief, and had even been known on occasion to voice that opinion within earshot of Saracen. But he would have none of it. He had never been known to say a word against Garten in public, something that only made the staff respect him more.
Nurses had been known to feel something more than respect for Saracen, for women found him attractive, not that he was overly handsome in the classical sense but his gentleness, his dark eyes and the enigma of his being a loner ensured that female company was always available should he desire it. And desire it he did, but only ever on a casual basis; that was always made clear from the start; friendship and fun was as far as the relationship was likely to go. It was for this reason Saracen tended to avoid involvement with young, impressionable student nurses who might conceivably see sex as a bargaining measure. Relationships with older woman were always more relaxed and satisfactory.
Saracen looked out of the window and wondered what he should do with his time off. He considered going up to the hospital in the morning and poking around the mortuary in search of some answers to the things that troubled him and then he considered just forgetting the whole thing. The whisky helped him see the attraction of the latter option. It seemed a shame to spend a precious day off at the hospital. Why not do something entirely different? Why not?…Saracen thought for a moment and then he had it. Sea air! That’s what he needed. A good brisk walk by the sea would clear away the remaining traces of poison from his lungs. He would drive down to Gerham-on-sea and walk along the beach. It was only a ten mile drive and he could have lunch at the Ship Inn. That’s what he would do.
Chapter Three
The fact that Gerham-on-sea was close to Skelmore was one of the few things that the job at Skelmore General had in its favour as far as Saracen was concerned. He had a soft spot for the English seaside resort, not knowing if this was a legacy from the happy holidays he had spent as a child with bucket and spade on British sand or whether it was something he had acquired after the obligatory period of outgrowing it. Whatever the reason, Saracen liked Gerham; for him it was the perfect example of the genre.
According to Saracen’s rules Gerham-on-sea had everything it should have, a long pier with a theatre at the end, a life boat station, rows of boarding houses with absolutely predictable names, indeed one of the joys of his first visit had been looking for ‘Seaview’ and finding it. He had followed up with ‘Bella Vista’ and had completed a successful hat trick by coming across ‘Dunromin’ at the end of Beach Road.
Many of the other houses were obvious amalgams of their owners’ names and it always brought a smile to Saracen’s face when he thought about them coming up with the names in the first place.
“I’ve got it Margaret! We’ll call it ‘Jimar’!”
“That’s a wonderful idea…Jim.”
There was no sneer involved. Saracen’s affection for the place was quite genuine.
On an April day Gerham-on-sea was almost completely deserted but then, as Saracen reasoned, it was really still in hibernation.
It would be another couple of months before hustle and bustle returned to the streets and blinds were raised, shutters flung back and baskets of coloured beach toys would tumble out on to the pavements. The Punch and Judy tent would be erected on the promenade at 3 pm precisely every day and ice cream vendors would parade slowly up and down. Menus of the day would be chalked up on black-boards outside cafes and deck chairs would be stacked at the head of the beach steps. Then the whole town would hold its breath as it waited to see if the value of sterling against the Spanish peseta and the fickle English weather would let them survive through one more season.
Several of the beach cafes and shops had already conceded the battle to Majorca and the Costas but Saracen, in spite of everything, was still optimistic that places like Gerham might still yet win the war and ‘Jimar’ might once again proudly display its ‘No vacancies’ sign in its front bay window.
Saracen pulled up the collar of his jerkin as he left the shelter of the narrow cobbled streets and crossed the promenade to negotiate the steps down to the beach. A cold wind, full of salt and the tang of sea weed was whipping along the shore but the sky was bright and a watery sunshine caught the tops of the waves as they dashed themselves against the sand. He crossed the soft sand and began to walk along the firm, wet plateau that the receding tide had created.
Saracen was glad that the tide was out for he liked the feeling of space and freedom that the wide beach gave him. To his right he could see half a mile of unbroken water line, to the left, the entire sea front of Gerham.
At intervals, Saracen would pick up a pebble and throw it into the water. Distance was the only relevant criterion, direction was unimportant. He had to keep reminding himself that 45 degrees was the correct angle for achieving maximum distance but, like a Wittgenstein example, it seemed wrong. He doggedly went for the satisfaction of a steeper trajectory.
Saracen left the sands when he drew level with Jacob’s ladder, a meandering path that traversed to and fro across the face of the cliffs which, at this point, rose some two hundred feet above the shore. He paused half way up to lean on the guard rail and look out to sea while he recovered his breath. The water turned a cold, grey colour as a cloud drifted across the sun.
The wind was much stronger at the top of the cliffs but Saracen did not mind for it was going to be behind him as he walked back to the town and lunch at the Ship Inn. Gulls screamed overhead as they caught the up-draught from the cliff face and wheeled to keep their motionless wings at the correct angle to the wind. They looked fat and well fed, the bully boys of the air, scavengers and thieves. Saracen wondered if they would be so kindly regarded if evolution had decreed them to be black instead of pristine white.
He suddenly became aware that he was no longer alone on the landscape, there was a man sitting in the Victorian gazebo rain shelter at the intersection where three paths merged. As he passed Saracen looked towards him and said, “Good morning.”
The man, who sat with arms resting on his knees, looked up and moved his lips slightly without saying anything.
In the brief glimpse that Saracen had got of the man he had taken in that he looked prosperous, neatly clipped hair, immaculate suit and a deep tan that said he had recently been abroad. But one thing had made a bigger impression than anything else; it was the look in his eyes. Saracen recognised it as despair. He slowed his pace as he wrestled with his conscience over whether or not he should interfere. The fact that the man was sitting near to the edge of a cliff decided the issue. He turned and started to walk back to the gazebo. As he walked he unfastened his wrist watch and slipped it into his pocket.
“Excuse me, I wonder if you can tell me the time?” said Saracen.
The man turned his wrist and replied, “It’s twelve thirty.”
“Thank you,” said Saracen, desperately trying to think of a way of continuing the conversation. “You didn’t get that tan in this country, I’ll bet,” he smiled.
The man looked up and seemed to pause for a long time before saying, “I’ve lived in Africa for twenty years.”
“Really? That is interesting,” said Saracen, taking the man’s reply as a cue to sit down. “So you are back here on holiday then?”
“My wife and I came back here to retire.”
“It’s a nice place,” said Saracen.
The man did not reply.
Saracen took the plunge. He said softly, “Something is troubling you. I know it’s none of my business but, for what it’s worth, I’m a doctor. Can I help?”
The man looked up sharply at the word Doctor and snorted, “Doctor! I need doctors like I need smallpox!”
Despite the sentiment Saracen was glad to see that he had kindled some spark in the man. “I’m sorry.” he said, “You’ve had some kind of bad experience?”
“Bad experience? Myra is dead for Christ’s sake!” The man broke down and started sobbing silently as he covered his face with his hands.
Saracen put his hand on the man’s shoulder but did not say anything and, in a few moments the man had recovered his composure. He blew his nose and said, “I’m sorry, that was unforgivable. Please accept my apologies.” He dabbed hurriedly at his eyes with a large handkerchief.
“There’s nothing to apologise for,” replied Saracen. “I’m going to have lunch down at the Ship Inn. Join me?”
The man hesitated then agreed. He stood up and held out his hand. “I’m Timothy Archer.”
“James Saracen.”
The two men walked down the winding cliff path making small talk about the weather until they reached the Inn that nestled at the foot of the cliff at the east end of the town. A model of a three-masted schooner was fixed to the wall above a doorway that was so low that they both had to duck their heads to enter. They stepped into the warm, calm air of the bar and immediately became aware of the wind burn on their faces.
“What’ll it be gentlemen?” asked the landlord.
Saracen ordered whisky and turned to his companion. “And…”
Archer looked along the gantry and asked, “Do you have Jack Daniels?”
“Should do.” The landlord ran his finger through the air from left to right. “Yes, there we go.” He kicked a small foot stool along the floor and stood on it to reach up to a very dusty bottle and bring it down with a grunt.
They picked up their drinks and Saracen picked up a menu from the bar counter and took it with them to a table where they could look out at the sea. After a few minutes a girl, summoned up by the landlord, came across to the table to take their order and wrote it down on her pad with a very blunt pencil.
Saracen waited until Archer had finished most of his drink before suggesting that he might like to talk about what was troubling him.
“Frankly, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“I’m in no hurry,” said Saracen. “How about you?”
Archer threw back what was left of his drink and looked to the landlord. He stabbed two fingers at the empty glasses on the table without saying anything.
Saracen noted the gesture. Archer had been in Africa a long time and it showed. The landlord brought over the drinks and Archer began to speak.
“Twenty years ago Myra, my wife, and I sold up here and went to live in Rhodesia…Zimbabwe as-it-now-is.”
Saracen noticed the edge in Archer’s voice.
“It was a big step for us. We had known each other since we were kids and neither of us had ever been abroad before, not even on holiday. We had both grown up here in Skelmore but we wanted more out of life than forty years in the mill and a two up two down in Station Road.
Africa was a big adventure but it worked out for us. We became successful and had everything we wanted except kids but that didn’t matter too much. We had each other and that was enough. Then, one night last year, I confessed to Myra that I still missed the old country. Would you believe it? I actually missed Skelmore. And do you know? Myra said that she felt exactly the same!” Archer smiled as he recalled the moment and too
k a sip of his drink before continuing. “Well, we laughed and we laughed then Myra said, why don’t we go back? We were both getting on a bit. We could sell the farm and retire, buy a little place back in Skelmore or down here in Gerham. We could visit all our old haunts and pretend that we were kids again.
At first I baulked at the idea, for selling the farm was not going to be easy and, with things being the way they were, there was no way that we were going to get what it was really worth. But Myra pointed out that that really didn’t matter as long as we got enough to buy our place back here and had enough to live on. So that is what we did. We wrote to an estate agent in Skelmore and asked him about houses in the area and, to our amazement, he wrote back saying that new houses and flats were springing up all over the place, something about a new Japanese company opening up here.”
Saracen nodded.
“He sent us some builder’s brochures and we decided on one of the new flats on Palmer’s Green. Myra came over two weeks ahead of me to get things ready and I stayed on to tidy up the loose ends.” Archer paused as if composing himself for what he had to say next. “When I got here last Tuesday a neighbour told me that Myra had been taken to hospital.”
“Which one?” asked Saracen.
“The neighbour said Skelmore General but when I got there they told me that she wasn’t there, she must have been taken to the County Hospital. I went immediately to the County but they said that Myra wasn’t there either. I was at my wits’ end; I didn’t know what to do.”
“I can imagine. What did you do?”
“I went back to the General and told them what the people at the County Hospital had said. Eventually they apologised for the mix up, as they called it, and admitted that Myra had been brought to the General. She had died shortly after admission.” Archer wrung his hands as he stared at the table in front of him.
“What did your wife die of Mr Archer?” asked Saracen softly.