by A. J. Cronin
‘It’s a full list,’ Manson said.
Llewellyn beamed. ‘We got to make ends meet, Doctor Manson. That little car you saw outside cost a little matter of twelve hundred pounds. As for – oh, well, never mind. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t make a good livin’here. Say a round three to four hundred for yourself if you work hard and watch your p’s and q’s.’ He paused – confidential, humidly sincere. ‘ There’s just one thing I think I ought to put you up to. It’s been all settled and agreed amongst the assistant doctors that they each pay me a fifth of their incomes.’ He went on quickly, guilelessly. ‘That’s because I see their cases for them. When they get worried they have me in. It’s worked very well for them I may tell you.’
Andrew glanced up in some surprise. ‘Doesn’t that come under the Medical Aid Scheme?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ Llewellyn said, corrugating his brow. ‘It was all gone into and arranged by the doctors themselves a long time ago.’
‘But –’
‘Doctor Manson!’ Mrs Llewellyn was calling him sweetly from her end of the table. ‘I’m just telling your dear little wife we must see a lot of each other. She must come to tea sometime. You’ll spare her to me, won’t you, doctor. And sometimes she must run down to Cardiff with me in the car. That’ll be nice, won’t it, my de-ar?’
‘Of course,’ Llewellyn proceeded glossily, ‘where you’ll score – Leslie, that’s the feller that was here before you – was a slack devil. Oh, he was a rotten doctor, nearly as bad as old Edwards. He couldn’t give a decent anaesthetic anyhow! You’re a good anaesthetist, I hope, doctor? When I have a big case, you know, I positively must have a good anaesthetist. But, bless my soul! We’ll not talk about that at present. Why, you’ve hardly started, it isn’t fair to bother you.’
‘Idris!’ cried Mrs Llewellyn to her husband with a kind of delighted sensationalism. ‘They were only married this morning! Mrs Manson just told me. She’s a little bride! Why, would you believe it, the dear innocents.’
‘Well, well, well, now!’ beamed Llewellyn.
Mrs Llewellyn patted Christine’s hand. ‘My poor lamb! To think of the work you’ll have getting straight in that stupid Vale View. I must come sometime and give you a hand.’
Manson reddened slightly, collecting his scattered wits. He felt as though Christine and he had somehow become moulded into a soft little ball, played back and forwards, with deft ease between Doctor and Mrs Llewellyn. However, he judged the last remark propitious.
‘Doctor Llewellyn,’ he said with nervous resolution, ‘ it’s quite true what Mrs Llewellyn says. I was wondering – I hate asking it – but could I have a couple of days off to take my wife to London to see about furnishings for our house and – and one or two other things.’
He saw Christine’s eyes widen in surprise. But Llewellyn was graciously nodding his head.
‘Why not? Why not? Once you start it won’t be so easy to get off. You take tomorrow and the next day, Doctor Manson. You see! That’s where I’m useful to you. I can help the assistants a lot. I’ll speak to the Committee for you.’
Andrew would not have minded speaking to the Committee, to Owen, himself. But he let the matter pass.
They drank their coffee in the drawing-room from, as Mrs Llewellyn pointed out, ‘hand-painted’ cups. Llewellyn offered cigarettes from his gold cigarette case – ‘ Take a look at that, Doctor Manson. There’s a present for you! Grateful patient! Heavy, isn’t it? Worth twenty pounds if it’s worth a penny.’
Towards ten o’clock Doctor Llewellyn looked at his fine half-hunter watch – actually he beamed at the watch, for he could contemplate even inanimate objects, particularly when they belonged to him, with that bland cordiality which was especially his own. For a moment Manson thought he was going into intimate details about the watch. But instead he remarked:
‘I’ve got to go to the hospital. Gastro-duodenal I did this morning. How about runnin’ round with me in the car and taking a look at it?’
Andrew sat up eagerly. ‘Why, I’d love to, Doctor Llewellyn.’
Since Christine was included in the invitation also, they said good night to Mrs Llewellyn who waved them tender farewells from the front door, and stepped into the waiting car which moved with silent elegance along the main street then up the incline to the left.
‘Powerful headlights, aren’t they?’ Llewellyn remarked, switching on for their benefit. ‘Luxite! They’re an extra. I had them fitted specially.’
‘Luxite!’ said Christine suddenly, in a meek voice. ‘Surely they’re very expensive, doctor?’
‘You bet they were,’ Llewellyn nodded emphatically, appreciative of the question. ‘Cost me every penny of thirty pounds.’
Andrew, hugging himself, dared not meet his wife’s eye.
‘Here we are, then,’ said Llewellyn two minutes later. ‘ This is my spiritual home.’
The hospital was a red-brick building, well constructed and approached by a gravel drive flanked with laurel bushes. Immediately they entered Andrew’s eye lit up. Though small the place was modern, beautifully equipped. As Llewellyn showed them round the theatre, the X-ray room, the splint room, the two fine airy wards, Andrew kept thinking exultantly, this is perfect, perfect – what a difference from Drineffy! – God! I’ll get my cases well in here!
They picked up the matron on their travels, a tall, raw-boned woman who ignored Christine, greeted Andrew without enthusiasm, then melted into adoration before Llewellyn.
‘We get pretty well all we want here, don’t we, matron?’ Llewellyn said, ‘ We just speak to the Committee. Yes, yes, they’re not a bad lot, take them all in all. How’s my gastroenterostomy, matron?’
‘Very comfortable, Doctor Llewellyn,’ murmured the matron.
‘Good! I’ll see it in a minute!’ He escorted Christine and Andrew back to the vestibule.
‘Yes, I do admit, Manson, I’m rather proud of this place. I regard it as my own. Can’t blame me either. You’ll find your own way home, won’t you? And look here, when you get back on Wednesday ring me up. I might want you for an anaesthetic.’
Walking down the road together they kept silence for a while then Christine took Andrew’s arm.
‘Well?’ she inquired.
He could feel her smiling in the darkness.
‘I like him,’ he said quickly. ‘I like him a lot. Did you spot the matron too – as if she was going to kiss the hem of his garment. But by Jove! That’s a marvellous little hospital. It was a good dinner they gave us too. They’re not mean. Only – oh! I don’t know – why should we pay him a fifth of our salary? It doesn’t sound fair, or even ethical! And somehow – I feel as if I’d been smoothed and petted and told to be a good boy.’
‘You were a very good boy to ask for these two days. But really, darling – how can we do it? We’ve no money to buy furniture with – yet?’
‘You wait and see,’ he answered cryptically.
The lights of the town lay behind, and an odd silence fell between them as they approached Vale View. The touch of her hand upon his arm was precious to him. A great wave of love swept over him. He thought of her, married off hand in a mining village, dragged in a derelict lorry across the mountains, dumped into a half empty house where their wedding couch must be her own single bed – and sustaining these hardships and makeshifts with courage and a smiling tenderness. She loved him, trusted him, believed in him. A great determination swelled in him. He would repay it, he would show her, by his work, that her faith in him was justified.
They crossed the wooden bridge. The murmur of the stream, its littered banks hidden by the soft darkness of night, was sweet in their ears. He took the key from his pocket, the key of their house, and fitted it in the lock.
In the hall it was almost dark. When he had closed the door he turned to where she waited for him. Her face was faintly luminous, her slight figure expectant yet defenceless. He put his arm round her gently. He whispered, strangely:
‘What�
��s your name, darling?’
‘Christine,’ she answered wondering.
‘Christine what?’
‘Christine Manson.’ Her breath came quickly, quickly, and was warm upon his lips.
Chapter Three
The following afternoon their train drew into Paddington Station. Adventurously, yet conscious of their inexperience in the face of this great city which neither of them had seen before, Andrew and Christine descended to the platform.
‘Do you see him?’ Andrew asked anxiously.
‘Perhaps he’ll be at the barrier,’ Christine suggested.
They were looking for the Man with the Catalogue.
On the journey down Andrew had explained, in detail, the beauty, simplicity, and extraordinary foresight of his scheme, of how, realising their needs even before they left Drineffy, he had placed himself in touch with the Regency Plenishing Company and Depositories, of London, E. It wasn’t a colossal establishment, the Regency – none of your department store nonsense – but a decent, privately owned emporium which specialised in hire purchase. He had the recent letter from the proprietor in his pocket. Why, in point of fact –
‘Ah!’ he now exclaimed with satisfaction. ‘There he is!’
A seedy little man in a shiny blue suit and a bowler hat, holding a large green catalogue like a Sunday school prize, seemed, by some obscure feat of telepathy, to single them out from the crowd of travellers. He sidled towards them.
‘Doctor Manson, sir? And Mrs Manson?’ Deferentially raising his hat. ‘I represent the Regency. We had your telegram this morning, sir. I have the car waiting. May I offer you a cigar?’
As they drove through the strange, traffic-laden streets, Andrew betrayed perhaps the faintest glimmer of disquiet, the corner of one eye on the presentation cigar, still unlighted, in his hand. He grunted:
‘We’re doing a lot of driving about in cars these days. But this might be all right. They guarantee everything, including free transport to and from the station, also our railway fares.’
Yet, despite this assurance, their transit along bewilderingly complex and often mean thoroughfares was perceptibly anxious. At length, however, they were there. It was a showier establishment than either of them had expected, and there was a good deal of plate glass and shiny brass about the frontage. The door of the car was opened for them, they were bowed into the Regency Emporium.
Again they were expected, made royally welcome by an elderly salesman in a frock-coat and high collar, who with his striking air of probity bore some resemblance to the late Prince Albert.
‘This way, sir. This way, madam. Very happy to serve a medical gentleman, Doctor Manson. You’d be surprised the number of ’Arley Street specialists I’ve had the honour of attending to. The testimonials I’ve ’ad from them! And now, doctor, what would you be requiring?’
He began to show them furniture, padding up and down the aisles of the emporium with a stately head. He named prices that were inconveniently large. He used the words Tudor, Jacobean and Looez Sez. And what he showed them was fumed and varnished rubbish.
Christine bit her lip and her worried look increased. She willed with all her strength that Andrew would not be deceived, that he would not burden their home with this awful stuff.
‘Darling,’ she whispered swiftly, when Prince Albert’s back was turned, ‘no good – no good at all.’
A barely perceptible tightening of his lips was her answer. They inspected a few more pieces. Then quietly, but with surprising rudeness, Andrew addressed the salesman.
‘Look here, you! We’ve come a long way to buy furniture. I said furniture. Not this kind of junk.’ Violently with his thumb he pressed the front of an adjoining wardrobe which, being of plywood, caved in with an ominous cracking.
The salesman almost collapsed. This, his expression said, simply cannot be true.
‘But, doctor,’ he gulped, ‘I’ve been showing you and your lady the best in the ’ouse.’
‘Then show us the worst,’ Andrew raged. ‘Show us old second-hand stuff – so long as it’s real.’
A pause. Then, muttering under his breath: ‘The guv’ner’ll give me what for, if I don’t sell you!’ the salesman padded disconsolately away. He did not return. Four minutes later a short red-faced common man came bustling towards them. He shot out:
‘What do you want?’
‘Good second-hand furniture – cheap!’
The short man fired a hard glance at Andrew. Without further speech he spun round and led them to a trade lift at the back which, when manipulated, dropped them to a large chilly basement, crammed to the ceiling with second-hand goods.
For an hour Christine probed amongst the dust and cobwebs, finding a stout chest here, a good plain table there, a small upholstered easy-chair beneath a pile of sacking, while Andrew, following behind, wrangled long and stubbornly with the short man over prices.
Their list was complete at last and Christine, her face smudged but happy, pressed Andrew’s hand with a thrilling sense of triumph as they ascended in the lift.
‘Just what we wanted,’ she whispered.
The red-faced man took them to the office, where, laying down his order book on the proprietor’s desk with the air of a man who has laboured to do his best, he said: ‘That’s the lot then, Mr Isaacs.’
Mr Isaacs caressed his nose. His eyes, liquid against his sallow skin, were sorrowful as he studied the order book.
‘I’m afraid we can’t give you HP terms on this, Doctor Manson. You see, it’s all second-hand goods.’ A deprecating shrug. ‘ We don’t do our business like that.’
Christine turned pale. But Andrew, grimly insistent, sat down upon a chair like a man who meant to stay.
‘Oh, yes, you do, Mr Isaacs. At least it says so in your letter. Printed in black and white on the top of your note-paper. New and second-hand furniture supplied on easy terms.’
There was a pause. The red-faced man, bending over Mr Isaacs, made rapid mutterings accompanied by gesticulations in his ear. Christine plainly caught impolite words which testified to the toughness of her husband’s fibre, the power of his racial persistence.
‘Well, Doctor Manson,’ smiled Mr Isaacs, with an effort. ‘You shall have your way. Don’t say the Regency wasn’t good to you. And don’t forget to tell your patients. All about how well you were treated here. Smith! Make out that bill on the HP sheet and see that Doctor Manson has a copy posted to him first thing tomorrow morning!’
‘Thank you, Mr Isaacs.’
Another pause. Mr Isaacs said, by way of closing the interview, ‘That’s right, then, that’s right. The goods will reach you on Friday.’
Christine made to leave the office. But Andrew still remained fast to his chair. He said slowly: ‘And now, Mr Isaacs! What about our railway fares?’
It was as if a bomb had exploded into the office. Smith, the red-faced man, looked as though his veins would burst.
‘My God, Doctor Manson!’ exclaimed Isaacs. ‘What d’you mean. We can’t do business like that. Fair’s fair, but I ain’t a camel! Railway fares!’
Inexorably Andrew produced his pocket-book. His voice, though it wavered slightly, was measured.
‘I have a letter here, Mr Isaacs, in which you say in plain black and white that you will pay customers’ railway fares from England and Wales on orders over fifty pounds.’
‘But I tell you,’ Isaacs expostulated wildly, ‘you only bought fifty-five pounds worth of goods – and all second-hand stuff –’
‘In your letter, Mr Isaacs –’
‘Never mind my letter,’ Isaacs threw up his hands. ‘Never mind anything. The deal’s off. I never had a customer like you in all my life. We’re used to nice young married people which we can talk to. First you insult my Mr Clapp, then my Mr Smith can’t do nothing with you, then you come here breakin’ my heart with talk of railway fares. We can’t do business, Doctor Manson. You can go try if you can do better somewhere else!’
Christine, i
n a panic, glanced at Andrew, her eyes holding a desperate appeal. She felt that all was lost. This terrible husband of hers had thrown away all the benefits he had so hardly won. But Andrew, appearing not to see her even, was dourly folding up his pocket-book and placing it in his pocket.
‘Very well, then, Mr Isaacs. We’ll say good afternoon to you. But I’m telling you – this won’t make very good hearing to all my patients and their friends. I have a large practice. And this is bound to get round. How you brought us up to London, promising to pay our fares, and when we –’
‘Stop! Stop!’ Isaacs wailed in something like a frenzy. ‘How much was your fares? Pay them, Mr Smith! Pay them, pay them, pay them. Only don’t say the Regency didn’t ever do what it promised. There now! Are you satisfied?’
‘Thank you, Mr Isaacs. We’re very satisfied. We’ll expect delivery on Friday. Good afternoon, Mr Isaacs.’
Gravely, Manson shook him by the hand and taking Christine’s arm, hastened her to the door. Outside, the antique limousine which had brought them was waiting and, as though he had given the largest order in the history of the Regency, Andrew exclaimed:
‘Take us to the Museum Hotel, driver!’
They were off immediately, without interference, swinging out of the East End in the direction of Bloomsbury. And Christine, tensely clutching-Andrew’s arm, allowed herself gradually to relax.