The Citadel

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘I thought possibly you were taking another twelve months to make up your mind.’ Her eyes held that high affectionate amusement. ‘And now, don’t you think we should go, doctor. These night airs – aren’t they rather treacherous to the puritanical mind.’

  He helped her to her feet and she retained his hand, holding it lightly as they walked to the car. He flung a shilling to the baroque retainer, started the engine for London. As he drove her silence was eloquently happy.

  But he was not happy. He felt himself a hound and a fool. Hating himself, disappointed in his own reactions, he still dreaded the return to his sultry room, his restless solitary bed. His heart was cold, his brain a mass of tormenting thoughts. The recollection swept before him of the agonising sweetness of his first love for Christine, the beating ecstasy of those early days at Drineffy. He pushed it away from him furiously.

  They were at her house and his mind still struggled with the problem. He got out of the car and opened the door for her. They stood together on the pavement while she opened her bag and took out her latchkey.

  ‘You’ll come up, won’t you? I’m afraid the servants are in bed.’

  He hesitated, stammered.

  ‘It’s very late, isn’t it?’

  She did not seem to hear him but went up the few flagstone steps with her key in her hand. As he followed, sneaking after her, he had a fading vision of Christine’s figure walking down the market, carrying her old string bag.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three days later Andrew sat in his Welbeck Street consulting-room. It was a hot afternoon and through the screen of his open window, there came the pestering drone of traffic, borne upon the exhausted air. He was tired, over-worked, fearful of Christine’s return at the end of the week, expectant yet nervous of every telephone ring, sweating under the task of coping with six three-guinea patients in the space of one hour, and the knowledge that he must rush his surgery to take Frances out to supper. He glanced up impatiently as Nurse Sharp entered, more than usual acrimony on her patchy features.

  ‘There’s a man called to see you, a dreadful person. He’s not a patient and he says he’s not a traveller. He’s got no card. His name’s Boland.’

  ‘Boland!’ Andrew echoed blankly; then his face cleared suddenly. ‘Not Con Boland? Let him in, nurse! Straight away.’

  ‘But you have a patient waiting. And in ten minutes Mrs Roberts –’

  ‘Oh! never mind Mrs Roberts!’ he threw out irritably. ‘Do as I say.’

  Nurse Sharp flushed at his tone. It was on her tongue to tell him she was not used to being spoken to like that. She sniffed and went out with her head in the air. The next minute she showed Boland in.

  ‘Why, Con!’ said Andrew jumping up.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ shouted Con, as he bounded forward with a broad and genial grin. It was the red-headed dentist himself, no different, as real and untidy in his oversize shiny blue suit and large brown boots as if he had that moment walked out of his wooden garage, a shade older perhaps, but with no less violence in the beaded brush of his red moustache, still undaunted, wild-haired, exclamatory. He pounded Andrew vehemently on the back. ‘In the name of God, Manson! It’s great to see ye again. Ye’re lookin’ marvellous, marvellous. I’d have known ye in a million. Well! Well! To think of this now. It’s a high-class place you have here and all.’ He turned his beaming gaze upon the acidulous Sharp who stood watching scornfully. ‘This lady nurse of yours wasn’t for lettin’ me in till I told her I was a professional man, myself. It’s the God’s truth, nurse. This swanky-lookin’ fella ye work for was in the same wan horse medical scheme as myself not so long ago. Up in Aberalaw. If ever ye’re passin’ that way drop in on the missus and me and we’ll give ye a cup of tea. Any friend of my old friend Manson is welcome as the day!’

  Nurse Sharp gave him one look and walked out of the room. But it was wasted on Con who gushed and bubbled with a pure and natural joy. Swinging round to Andrew irrepressibly:

  ‘No beauty, eh, Manson, my boy? But a decent woman, I’ll be bound. Well, well, well! How are ye, now? How are ye?’

  He refused to relinquish Andrew’s hand, but pumped it up and down, grinning away in sheer delight.

  It was a rare tonic to see Con again on this devitalising day. When Andrew at last freed himself, he flung himself into his swing chair, feeling himself human again, shoving over the cigarettes to Con. Then Con, with one grubby thumb in an armhole, the other pressing the wet end of a freshly lit cigarette, sketched the reason for his coming.

  ‘I had a bit of a holiday due to me, Manson, my boy, and a couple of matters to attend to, so the wife just told me to pack off and hit it. Ye see, I’ve been workin’ on a sort of a spring invention for tighten’ up slack brakes. Off and on I’ve been devotin’ the full candlepower of the old grey mather to th’ idee. But devil take them, there’s nobody’ll look at the gadget! But never mind, never mind, we’ll let it go. It’s not important besides the other thing.’ Con cast his cigarette ash upon the carpet and his face took a more serious turn. ‘ Listen, Manson, my boy! It’s Mary – you’ll remember Mary surely, for I can tell you she remembers you! She’s been poorly lately – not up to the mark at all. We’ve had her to Llewellyn and devil the bit of good he’s doin’ her.’ Con grew heated suddenly, his voice was thick. ‘Damn it all, Manson, he’s got the sauce to say she’s got a touch of TB – as if that wasn’t all finished and done with in the Boland family when her Uncle Dan went to the sanatorium fifteen years ago. Now look here, Manson, will ye do something for old friendship’s sake? We know ye’re a big man now, sure ye’re the talk of Aberalaw. Will ye take a look at Mary for us? Ye can’t tell what confidence that girl has in you, we’ve got it ourselves – Mrs B. and me – for that matter. That’s why she says to me she says, “ You go to Doctor Manson when you’re in the way of meetin’ him. And if he’ll see the daughter sure we’ll send her up any time that’s likely to be convenient.” Now what do you say, Manson? If you’re too busy ye’ve only got to say so and I can easy sling my hook.’

  Andrew’s expression had turned concerned.

  ‘Don’t talk that way, Con. Can’t you see how delighted I am to see you. And Mary, poor kid – you know I’ll do everything I can for her, everything.’

  Unmindful of Nurse Sharp’s significant inthrustings he squandered his precious time in conversation with Con until at last she could bear it no longer.

  ‘You have five patients waiting now, Doctor Manson. And you’re more than an hour behind your appointment times. I can’t make any more excuses to them, I’m not used to treating patients this way.’

  Even then, he still clutched at Con, and accompanied him to the front door, pressing hospitality upon him.

  ‘I’m not going to let you rush back home, Con. How long are you up for? Three or four days – that’s fine! Where are you staying? The Westland – out Bayswater way! That’s no good! Why don’t you come and stop with me instead, you’re near us already. And we’ve bag loads of room. Christine’ll be back on Friday. She’ll be delighted to see you, Con, delighted. We can talk over old times together.’

  On the following day Con brought his bag round to Chesborough Terrace. After the evening surgery they went together to the second house of the Palladium music-hall. It was amazing how good every turn seemed in Con’s company. The dentist’s ready laugh rang out, dismaying at first, then infecting the immediate vicinity. People twisted round to smile at Con in sympathy.

  ‘In the name of God!’ Con rolled in his seat. ‘ D’ye see that fella with the bicycle! D’ye mind the time, Manson –’

  In the interval they stood in the bar, Con with his hat on the back of his head, froth on his moustache, brown boots happily planted.

  ‘I can’t tell ye, Manson, my boy, what a treat this is for me. Sure you’re kindness itself!’

  In the face of Con’s genial gratitude Andrew somehow felt himself a tarnished hypocrite.

  Afterwards they had a steak an
d beer at the Cadero; then they returned, stirred up the fire in the front room and sat down to talk. They talked and smoked and drank further bottles of beer. Momentarily Andrew forgot the complexities of super-civilised existence. The straining tension of his practice, the prospect of his adoption by le Roy, the chance of promotion at the Victoria, the state of his investments, the soft textured nicety of Frances Lawrence, the dread of an accusation in Christine’s distant eyes – these all faded as Con bellowed:

  ‘D’you mind the time we fought Llewellyn. And Urquhart and the rest drew back on us – Urquhart’s still goin’ strong by the same token, sends his best regards – and then we set to, the both of us, and finished the beer.’

  But the next day came. And it brought, inexorably, the moment of reunion with Christine. Andrew dragged the unsuspecting Con to the end of the platform, irritably aware of the inadequacy of his self-possession, realising that Boland was his salvation. His heart was beating in painful expectation as the train steamed in. He knew one shattering moment of anguish and remorse at the sight of Christine’s small familiar face advancing amongst the crowd of strangers, straining in expectation towards his own. Then he lost everything in the effort to achieve cordial unconcern.

  ‘Hello, Chris! Thought you were never coming! Yes, you may well look at him. It’s Con all right! Himself and no other! And not a day older. He’s staying with us, Chris – we’ll tell you all about it in the car. I’ve got it outside. Did you have a good time? Oh, look here – why are you carrying your case?’

  Swept away by the unexpectedness of this platform reception – when she had feared she might not be met at all – Christine lost her wan expression, and colour flowed back nervously into her cheeks. She also had been apprehensive, nervously keyed, longing for a new beginning. She felt almost hopeful now. Ensconced in the back of the car with Con she talked eagerly, stealing glances at Andrew’s profile in the driving seat.

  ‘Oh, it is good to be home.’ She took a long breath inside the front door of the house; then, quickly, wistfully, ‘You have missed me, Andrew?’

  ‘I should think I have. We all have. Eh, Mrs Bennett? Eh, Florrie? Con! What the devil are you doing with that luggage?’

  He was out in a second, giving Con a hand, performing unnecessarily with suitcases. Then, before anything more could be done or said, he had to leave on his rounds. He insisted that they could expect him for tea. As he slumped into the seat of his car he groaned:

  ‘Thank God that’s over! She doesn’t look a lot the better of the holiday. Oh, hell! – I’m sure she didn’t notice. And that’s the main thing at present.’

  Though he was late in returning, his briskness, his cheerfulness were excessive. Con was enraptured with such spirits.

  ‘In the name of God! Ye’ve more go in ye than ever ye had in the old days, Manson, my boy.’

  Once or twice he felt Christine’s eye upon him, half pleading for a sign, a look of understanding. He perceived that Mary’s illness was distracting her – a conflicting anxiety. She explained, in an interval of conversation, that she had asked Con to wire Mary to come through at once, tomorrow if possible. She was worried about Mary. She hoped that something, or rather everything, would be done without delay.

  It fell out better than Andrew had expected. Mary wired back that she would arrive on the following day before lunch, and Christine was fully occupied in preparing for her. The stir and excitement in the house masked even his hollow heartiness.

  But when Mary appeared he suddenly became himself again. It was evident at first sight that she was not well. Grown in these intervening years to a lanky girl of twenty, with a slight droop to her shoulders, she had that almost unnatural beauty of complexion which spoke an immediate warning to Andrew.

  She was tired out by her journey and though she wished, in her pleasure at seeing them again, to sit up and continue talking, she was persuaded to bed about six o’clock. It was then that Andrew went up to auscultate her chest.

  He remained upstairs for only fifteen minutes but when he came down to Con and Christine in the drawing-room his expression was, for once, genuinely disturbed.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. The left apex. Llewellyn was perfectly right, Con. But don’t worry. It’s in the primary stage. We can do something with it!’

  ‘You mean,’ said Con, gloomily apprehensive. ‘You mean it can be cured?’

  ‘Yes. I’d go as far as to say that. It means keeping an eye on her, constant observation, every care.’ He reflected, frowning deeply. ‘It seems to me, Con, that Aberalaw’s about the worst place for her – always bad for early TB at home – why don’t you let me get her into the Victoria? I’ve got a pull with Doctor Thoroughgood. I’d get her into his ward for a certainty. I’d keep my eye on her.’

  ‘Manson!’ Con exclaimed impressively. ‘ That’s one true act of friendship. If ye only knew the trust that girl of mine has in ye! If any man’ll get her right it’s yourself.’

  Andrew went immediately to telephone Thoroughgood. He returned in five minutes with the information that Mary could be admitted to the Victoria at the end of the week. Con brightened visibly and, his bounding optimism responding to the idea of the Chest Hospital, of Andrew’s attention and Thoroughgood’s supervision, Mary was, for him, as good as cured.

  The next two days were fully occupied. By Saturday afternoon when Mary was admitted and Con had boarded his train at Paddington, Andrew’s self possession was at last equal to the occasion. He was able to press Christine’s arm, and exclaim lightly on his way to the surgery:

  ‘Nice to be together again, Chris! Lord! What a week it has been.’

  It sounded perfectly in key. But it was as well he did not see the look upon her face. She sat down in the room, alone, her head bent slightly, her hands in her lap, very still. She had been so hopeful when first she came back. But now, within her, was the dreadful foreboding: Dear God! When and how is this going to end?

  Chapter Fifteen

  On and on rushed the spate of his success, a bursting dam sweeping him irresistibly forward in an ever-sounding, ever-swelling flood.

  His association with Hamson and Ivory was now closer and more profitable than ever. Moreover, Deedman had asked him to deputise for him at the Plaza, while he flew to Le Touquet for seven days’ golf, and by way of acknowledgment, to split the fees. Usually it was Hamson who acted as Deedman’s locum, but lately Andrew suspected a rift between these two.

  How flattering for Andrew to discover that he could walk straight into the bedroom of a paroxysmal film star, sit on her satin sheets, palpate her sexless anatomy with sure hands, perhaps smoke a cigarette with her if he had time!

  But even more flattering was the patronage of Joseph le Roy. Twice in the last month he had lunched with le Roy. He knew there were important ideas working in the other man’s mind. At their last meeting le Roy had tentatively remarked:

  ‘You know, doc, I’ve been feeling my way with you. It’s a pretty large thing I’m going on to and I’ll need a lot of clever medical advice. I don’t want any more double-handed big hats – Old Rumbold isn’t worth his own calories, we’re going to pin the crape on him right away! – and I don’t want a lot of so-called experts goin’ into a huddle and pulling me round in circles. I want one level-headed medical adviser and I’m beginning to think you’re about it. You see, we’ve reached a wide section of the public with our products on a popular basis. But I honestly believe the time has come to expand our interests and go in for more scientific derivatives. Split up the milk components, electrify them, irradiate them, tabloid them. Cremo with vitamin B, Cremofax and lethecin for malnutrition, rickets, deficiency insomnia – you get me, doc. And further, I believe if we tackle this on more orthodox professional lines we can enlist the help and sympathy of the whole medical profession, make every doctor, so to speak, a potential salesman. Now this means scientific advertising, doc, scientific approach and that’s where I believe a young scientific doctor on the inside
could help us all along the road. Now I want you to get me straight, this is all perfectly open and scientific. We are actually raising our own status. And when you consider the worthless extracts that doctors do recommend – like Marrobin C and Vegatog and Bonebran – why, I consider in elevating the general standard of health we are doing a great public service to the nation.’

  Andrew did not pause to consider that there was probably more vitamin in one fresh green pea than in several tins of Cremofax. He was excited, not by the fee he would receive for acting on the board, but at the thought of le Roy’s interest.

  It was Frances who told him how he might profit by le Roy’s spectacular market operations. Ah! it was pleasant to drop in to tea with her, to feel that this charming sophisticated woman had a special glance for him, a swift provoking smile of intimacy! Association with her gave him sophistication too, added assurance, a harder polish. Unconsciously he absorbed her philosophy. Under her guidance he was learning to cultivate the superficial niceties and let the deeper things go hang.

  It was no longer an embarrassment to face Christine, he could come into his house quite naturally, following an hour spent with Frances. He did not stop to wonder at this astounding change. If he thought of it at all it was to argue that he did not love Mrs Lawrence, that Christine knew nothing of it, that every man came to this particular impasse some time in his life. Why should he set himself up to be different?

  By way of recompense he went out of his way to be nice to Christine, spoke to her with consideration, even discussed his plans with her. She was aware that he proposed to buy the Welbeck Street house next spring, that they would be leaving Chesborough Terrace whenever the arrangements were complete. She never argued with him now, never threw recriminations at his head and if she had moods he never saw them. She seemed altogether passive. Life moved too swiftly for him to pause long for reflection. The pace exhilarated him. He had a false sensation of strength. He felt vital, increasing in consequence, master of himself and of his destiny.