The Obsession

by Catherine Cookson

  That had happened on the day she had come back. But now this was another day: Beatrice’s wedding day, and John’s wedding day.

  John stood facing Doctor Cornwallis. They were each dressed in a dark suit with a carnation in the buttonhole. It was Doctor Cornwallis who spoke, saying, ‘Well! day of execution,’ and he took two steps towards John and, putting his hand on his shoulder, he said, ‘How d’you feel?’

  ‘Oh, fine.’

  ‘I don’t mean physically, I mean mentally; how d’you feel about all this? It was a surprise to me, you know, that you were going to take her on, because I’ve always found her a bit of a madam.’

  ‘Everyone has two sides, sir.’

  ‘And you’ve seen the good side?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, I’ve seen the good side.’

  ‘And you’re quite happy about all this?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ A stiff note had entered John’s voice now.

  ‘Well, that’s something to know. And, you know, you’re doing yourself well. I know the place is up to its neck in debt, but nevertheless, it’s a very fine house; it’ll be worth your paying off that debt, boy. It’s the best house around here for miles except perhaps for The Hall, and that place is about as warm as a beer cellar. But one thing I would ask you: why didn’t you have a church wedding?’

  ‘She didn’t want a church wedding, sir; she wanted it done quietly.’ He did not add, ‘And quickly.’ She had seemed so anxious to get it over and done with. And he had wondered if it was because she sensed the doubt in him. However, he had pushed this thought aside; she was a nice girl, a good girl, and he was very, very fond of her. And he had to marry sometime, for he wanted a family. Yes, he wanted a family. And that house was made for a family. He could see it swarming with children. Yes, he wanted a family, and she wanted children. Oh, yes, she had stated that quite openly: she would love children and she didn’t care how many.

  ‘Well, time’s pressing, so let’s away.’ Doctor Cornwallis thrust out his hand, saying, ‘I wish you all the best in the world, John. We have known each other long enough for me to be able to say two things I like about you: you’re straight and you’re a damn good doctor. And’ – he poked his head forward – ‘an uncomplaining one when Betsy Ann’ – he pointed to his leg – ‘decides she wants a rest; and so, thanks for that.’

  ‘Well, sir, I’ve . . . I’ve been very happy here and hope to go on being so and working with you for a long time with Betsy Ann.’ They both laughed as the older man pushed him in the shoulder, saying, ‘Go on. Get yourself away to a lifetime of worry, frustration and regret.’

  As John led the way, he repeated the words to himself, ‘A lifetime of worry, frustration and regret.’ Oh, no! he hoped not. It would be a happy house, and what was more, his mother was settled for good and delighted about the arrangements, for she had taken to Beatrice and Beatrice to her. Yes, that was one of the main advantages, they had taken to each other . . .

  As Rosie looked at and listened to the man behind the desk uttering the words that were marrying her sister to John Falconer, the lovely doctor, as she thought of him, she could not take it in that this was a marriage: everywhere was so bare, so stingy looking and all without God. It was a queer thing to think, but it jumped into her mind: there was nothing religious or holy happening that was tying these two people together for life. It seemed to be over in a few minutes, and then she was kissing Beatrice and then John. And John put his arms about her and again she thought, He’s such a lovely man. She did not at that moment add, ‘What does he see in our Beatrice?’ but the thought was wavering somewhere in the back of her mind.

  The dining table was beautifully set, but there were only ten people seated around it. Yet, the talk was loud and merry, dictated mostly by Doctor Cornwallis. Then, at three o’clock the coach was at the door and they were waved off to spend their honeymoon at St Leonards, which was a part of Hastings, so well known to John, and which had been suggested by his mother. Apparently Beatrice had no preference for where they spent their honeymoon: as she had laughingly said to his mother, ‘It wouldn’t matter where it was spent, even in Bog’s End, as long as I was with John.’ This had caused a great laugh between them as Bog’s End was known as the lowest part of Fellburn and ruled by the riff-raff.

  Nine

  It was half-past seven in the evening. John came through the communicating door from the annexe to meet his wife in the hall. Her face was straight, her tone tart. ‘Why must you always go next door before you come home?’ she demanded.

  ‘I thought it was all my home.’ His voice was weary.

  ‘Don’t be silly. You know what I mean, the meal’s been waiting since half-past six.’

  ‘And don’t you be silly, either, Beatrice,’ he said in a sharp tone. ‘You know I’ve told you again and again that I can’t walk out and leave a full surgery if the old man is not able to do it.’

  ‘You have an assistant.’

  ‘Well, the assistant’s surgery was full, too. And what’s more, I had a call.’

  Saying, ‘Calls. Calls,’ she led the way now to the dining room. He did not follow her, but said, ‘Would you allow me to go into the cloakroom first?’

  After washing his hands he gazed at his reflection in the mirror. His face had changed over the past eighteen months, he told himself. Had he been married for only eighteen months? It seemed like eighteen years; at least, the last year had. The first six months had been enjoyable . . . well, up to a point. He had thought he knew it all; at least about sex and marriage. He dealt with the effects of it every day. But he hadn’t experienced his own. During the first few months, he had to admit, he had been flattered by her constant desire of him; then it had become a little wearing, finally wearisome; sometimes he would describe her as ravenous. He knew now that she had certainly inherited her father’s trait: the one that had led to his death.

  Finally, he had turned on her and said, ‘No more. No more tonight. I’m . . . I’m a tired man. I do a twelve-hour day, and I can’t keep this up.’

  He could see her now, her face a beetroot red, and she had jumped out of the bed and walked the floor until he had got up and calmed her down, imploring, ‘Try to understand there’s moderation in everything,’ while at the same time thinking how awful it was having to say this to a woman, and she his wife. But she was eating him up and now blaming him because he hadn’t given her a child. He had often thought, rakishly, that her antics should have produced litters, not just one or two. He daren’t tell her that he hadn’t come straight from work that night, but had called in next door to see Annie who, like his mother, was having trouble with arthritis; although not in her state, not to that extent. But Annie had found of late that she had great pain in her left arm from her shoulder downwards and it had put a stop to some of her hard labour. Luckily, Rosie was proving a marvellous helper. He had never seen Rosie looking so happy; well, not exactly happy, that girl would never really feel happy again unless she were to realise how Robbie felt about her. But she loved being in that house. Sometimes he did not see her for a week or more because when she came in she generally went straight up to her room, and he was either in his office working, or with his mother . . . and Beatrice. That was another thing, Beatrice hardly ever allowed him to be alone with his mother. And what was also beginning to trouble him now was the fact that his mother was seeing another side to her daughter-in-law. Only yesterday she had said to him, ‘Things aren’t right, are they?’ and he had answered, ‘Oh, just the usual marriage pains,’ to which she had replied, ‘She’s changed . . . changed in all ways. I’ve never seen her like this.’

  ‘No, of course you haven’t, Mother, because you didn’t know her before you came here.’ He could have enlarged on this by adding, ‘You first met her just when she was setting her trap,’ for he knew now from his inner knowledge of his wife that she had worked up to that prop
osal. Oh, yes, it was quite clear to him now. Still, it was done and the thing to do was to make the best of a bad job. Life must go on.

  At this moment he was asking himself, ‘But how was it to go on like this?’ for he was feeling angry inside . . .

  They were halfway through the meal when he looked across at her and said, ‘Why couldn’t you tell me that Helen had moved back here?’

  He watched her gulp on her food before she answered, ‘Because I didn’t think it would be of any interest to you.’

  ‘Not that your sister had come to live here again, and could call?’

  ‘She won’t call.’

  ‘No, I suppose not, knowing the welcome she would get.’

  ‘May I ask how you’ve just found out? You must have been over to the piggeries and talked with Rosie.’

  ‘Yes, I called in to see my friends . . . and Rosie, whom I haven’t seen for over a week, informed me that she had told you about Mrs Sylvia Davison selling Col Mount and that Helen and Leonard were buying it.’

  ‘Then can you tell me why she has bought it when he was ordered to Switzerland, from which one could have assumed that he had consumption or some such, and surely this end of the country is no help to a consumptive? Answer me that: why did she buy it?’

  ‘You had better ask her when you see her, or at least I will.’

  ‘You won’t!’ She had half risen from her chair. ‘You won’t go and visit them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He’d really had no intention of visiting them; the thought of seeing Helen again would be too much. But he had said, ‘She is my sister-in-law, and I liked Leonard very much. Out of courtesy we should visit them; we could go together.’

  She banged down her knife and fork on the table and her lips hardly moved as the words came through, ‘You know how I feel about Helen, so don’t you dare suggest that I . . . that we visit them.’

  He was on his feet now, his anger showing, as he cried at her, ‘Don’t you dare tell me what I can or cannot do. I intend to visit them, so get that into your head, and anyone else I wish to see, when and where I like. I’ve had enough of your niggling. I think that the less we see of each other for the time being, the better. So from now on I’ll make it my business to sleep in the guest room . . .’

  Before he could finish she was round the table, crying at him, ‘Oh no! No, you won’t! You won’t show me up in front of the staff.’ But then her commanding voice changed to a plea as she said, ‘Please John, don’t do that. Don’t do that to me. I promise you, I . . . I won’t be . . .’ She drooped her head; she could not put a word to the demands she made on him, that feeling that consumed her, that made her want to bury herself in him, possess him, make him hers alone. Oh yes, hers alone. Even his feelings for his mother were intruding into her emotions now; he spent too much time with his mother. If she wasn’t careful she would come to dislike her.

  He put out his hand and touched her shoulder, saying, ‘All right, all right. Don’t get upset. We’ll see. Just leave it. I’m . . . I’m going into the office; I’ve got some work to do now.’

  ‘Please! Please finish your dinner.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I’m not really hungry. Ask Frances to bring a cup of coffee in to me.’

  She bowed her head again and stood still, and he walked past her and out of the room.

  In his office he sat staring down at the neat array of pads, papers, pencils, pens and ink, everything in its place and a place for everything. He closed his eyes, put his elbow on the table and leant his head on his hand. Helen in Col Mount, not twenty minutes away.

  His elbow seemed to slide away from him and his head came up with a jerk as he asked himself, What difference does it make? She’s married, I’m married, and don’t forget she’s married to . . . a lovely man. He could hear her voice saying it. And who was he married to? A termagant, and an obsessive one, and an enigma: she was two or more persons – the housewife at which she acted the madam; and at times the talkative, pleasant young companion, a facet of her character which had disappeared long ago into the hungry, passionate, even indecent creature of the night, ravenous at times.

  He wanted love, he wanted bodily satisfaction, but there was a limit. He couldn’t imagine that this feeling had been inspired in her just by marriage; and yet, she’d had no man before himself. He’d heard of such women, but had never thought to experience the effects of one. He wished he could talk to someone about it. But he couldn’t imagine himself bringing up the subject with Cornwallis. It must surely be an inherited trait, one which led back to her father.

  But Helen was back and into his mind, too, and he could see himself sitting with her on the top of Craig Tor, and her pointing across the valley to her friend’s house. And the sad thing about it then was that they had both been aware they had met too late, just a little too late.

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling when he heard muted footsteps going across the floor. She was in the bedroom. He rose quickly and went quietly out, through the hall, down the long corridor and into the annexe.

  His mother was in bed. He tapped on the bedroom door, calling, ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes, all right, dear. Come in.’

  Catherine looked at her son and said, ‘Been getting it in the neck again?’

  He pulled up a chair to the side of the bed as he said, ‘Sort of.’

  She stared at him and watched his head droop, and then she said softly, ‘Would you like to talk about it? There’s something happening and I can’t get to the bottom of it.’

  He lifted his head quickly and looked at her, Yes. Yes, he’d like to talk about it. And he could talk to her: she was a wise woman was his mother. He asked quietly, ‘Have you heard of or had any experience of knowing women who are . . . well, very highly sexed?’

  He watched her eyes become hooded, and then she said, ‘I was right, then.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I guessed it was something like that. Oh yes, lad, I’ve heard of women who can eat a man alive. Yet, when you see them during the day they are so pi that you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. It’s only when someone speaks about it that you learn of these things. It’s natural with some men; but when it’s a woman I understand it’s worse. You might not believe it, but your Aunt Ada’s sister-in-law was one such. He had to leave her. I suppose you could say it’s not really their fault, it’s the way they’re made.’

  There was a long pause before he nodded.

  ‘And it’s odd’ – her head was wagging now – ‘it’s generally the quiet ones, the demure ones that turn out like that. Under other circumstances they would likely be on the streets . . . as prostitutes.’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’

  ‘Now don’t say it like that, son, but it’s true. D’you remember Farmer Braithwaite, and how everybody condemned him because he walked out and left his poor little wife with the farm and three children? Well, he had something on his side as well, he told your father all about it. His work and everything else had suffered because of her.’

  ‘Mrs Braithwaite?’ His eyes were wide.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Braithwaite.’

  He looked to the side. She had been a smallish woman, not unlike Beatrice in figure and ways; a housewife, bossy. The things you knew and the things you didn’t know.

  ‘I would sleep in another room for a time.’

  ‘I told her that, but she got into a state.’

  ‘Well, it might calm her down. She should be taking a sedative, you know, one to knock her asleep.’

  ‘I can’t see that ever happening.’

  ‘No, nor can I with her.’

  ‘You know, I thought the world of her at first. But, there you are, you don’t know people until you live with them closely.’

  She put her hand out. ‘I’m
sorry, son.’

  He stood up and went to the window and looked out into the twilight as he said, ‘Helen has come to live at Col Mount, and she knew it and never told me. I got it from Rosie.’

  ‘So did I.’

  He swung round and looked at her. ‘You knew?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I knew, and I also know other things, so I thought the less you knew, the better for your peace of mind.’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’ He sat down again. And as he muttered something, she repeated it, ‘Yes, it’s a hell of a life, but it’s got to be lived, and you’ve got to put your foot down. Move to that other room.’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘I can’t do that yet. She was in a state.’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you. But looking at you now, I think what you need most is sleep. So, give me a kiss and get yourself away.’

  He kissed her and they held on to each other for a moment. Then he turned and went out and back into his office.

  It was after twelve when he went upstairs. She was lying on her side and she appeared to be asleep. And when he lay down beside her she did not turn towards him. And he sighed a deep sigh, but it was some time before sleep overtook him and gave him enough rest to face another day.

  Ten

  For the past two days John had been attending a course of lectures at a London hospital, and he had just left Trafalgar Square and was walking towards Regent Street when a figure he had noticed darting between two cabs came to a breathless stop in front of him and gasped, ‘I . . . I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure.’

  John saw a tall, well-dressed, tanned young man, and for a moment he did not recall who he was, until the young man added, ‘You’re a long way from Fellburn. I never expected to see anyone from there down here, and . . . and it’s my last day. Well, I leave tomorrow.’