by MARY HOCKING
‘I should like to talk about Margaret,’ I said.
‘I expected that you would want to,’ she replied, rather ruefully. ‘What is it that you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know everything, Flora. In fact, I know very little.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me what it is that you don’t know, then.’
She acknowledged my determination with a wry smile. ‘I think you might do better if you went and bludgeoned Dr. Owen Lander for information. However … I’ll tell you what I know. Stop me if you want to ask questions.
‘I suppose I had better start by telling you what, to me, is the most tragic thing in this whole unhappy business. Margaret was to have started a job in October, It wasn’t just any job, it was something to which she was supremely well-suited. A committee has recently been set up to organize youth corps work in undeveloped countries. A lot of this sort of thing is done already, but this committee has very influential backing and its aim is to co-ordinate all the existing rather haphazard schemes. The trouble with so much that is done at present is that one is never sure who is supposed to be getting the benefit—the youngsters taking part or the undeveloped countries. This committee will create a force which can make a really significant contribution. Margaret was appointed as one of the senior field officers. It was a tremendous achievement. After an intensive preparatory course, she was to have gone to India next January. As you know, she has often talked of doing missionary work, and we were not very happy about this. The missions do some good work, of course, but they really have nothing to offer a person of Margaret’s calibre. This job would have satisfied her missionary zeal and it would also have provided the challenge to her intellect which is so necessary for her. She would in time have been organizing the work of the youth corps over half a continent, and she would have travelled extensively and done a certain amount of field work herself. The possibilities were enormous.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Is there no hope that she may still be able to do it?’
‘None at all. The committee would never consider her now, not even for a less exacting job. We don’t talk about it any more. It has been such a terrible disappointment. But it is necessary to mention it, because it was this that was responsible for her decision to go to Scandinavia. She was very tired when she came down from Oxford and it was most important that she should have a good rest before starting this very demanding job in October. Scandinavia seemed an ideal choice. She wanted to stay out of towns as much as possible and do a lot of walking and climbing, and the hostels in the Scandinavian countries are very good.
‘It was agreed that she would come back via Holland and stay with Timothy for a few days. We presume that she did this, because she had some Dutch money in her purse when she was found …’
‘But surely Timothy can confirm this?’
‘I’ll come to that later. Nothing is simple in this affair, I’m afraid. Let’s deal with Margaret first. The last time that we heard from her was a postcard from Oslo; she said that she had done a lot of walking. I’ve got it somewhere, I’ll show it to you later. Even the specialist couldn’t find anything sinister about it. She was supposed to have three days with Timothy and return on the Friday night. Constance was meeting her at Harwich. She did not arrive. As you know, this is most unlike Margaret who worries far too much about punctuality; if it had been Constance we should not have been so surprised. We made inquiries and there appeared to be no reason why she should have missed the boat, no train delays or anything of that kind. Of course, we tried to telephone Timothy, but we could not locate him either at his flat or at his office. However, Margaret is twenty-two and one can’t make an undue fuss about the non-arrival of a girl of that age. We thought that something unexpected had cropped up and she had decided to take a few extra days. In fact, I shouldn’t have been sorry had this been the case. Young people should be rash and impetuous, they should do thoughtless, unpremeditated things; after all, they have the rest of their lives for planning and sober judgements! But the fact remains that this is not Margaret’s style. She would have got in touch with us about any change of plan. After two days had elapsed we went to the police. They began by informing us that all young people behave like this nowadays. You know how ludicrously unbalanced policemen are about young people; obviously they had a vision of Margaret sleeping around on beaches. In the end my husband had to go to someone quite high up, which one doesn’t like to do. Then they complained that we had not told them soon enough! I must say that the fewer dealings I have with the police the better.
‘The outcome of all this, you already know; the papers recorded it faithfully, goodness alone knows! She was found in a railway carriage and taken to Charing Cross Hospital. And that, so far as factual information goes, is all that I know.’
‘You mean, she doesn’t remember anything?’
‘Nothing since she left this country.’
‘But Timothy?’
‘Yes. Well, that is another story. We have now discovered that Timothy has lost his job. That in itself is not unexpected, we never imagined that it would last. He was with a travel agency and not a very reputable one. He had always wanted to travel and they said that they had openings for bright young men who would have the chance to run a branch abroad. He was full of enthusiasm, and it seemed a pity to discourage him. It was better than his previous ambition which was to cross the Atlantic single-handed— you know how mad he is about sailing. So he went to this firm and was very soon transferred to their office in Rotterdam. We heard from him occasionally, but he is not a good letter-writer—I don’t think any young man of his age ought to be, do you? However, we gathered from occasional postcards that he was enjoying himself and doing a lot of sailing in his spare time. It seems, however, that this firm was not financially stable and it had to close down its Rotterdam office rather hurriedly. This happened only a short time ago and Timothy, so we have since gathered from a friend interviewed by the Dutch police, decided to take a holiday before returning home. The friend thinks that he left for Italy in mid-September which would be about the time that Margaret’s visit came to an end. Calls have been sent out for him, of course, and it can only be a matter of time before he turns up and then we shall know much more.’
‘It isn’t possible …’ It was hard to form the words, but she took my meaning and said with weary impatience: ‘That Margaret’s breakdown and Timothy’s disappearance are connected? Well, yes, it’s a fairly obvious supposition, isn’t it? And one that appeals greatly to the police, who have nice tidy minds. But I can’t see it that way myself. The doctors, no doubt, think that I am so close to my children that I don’t know anything at all about them. And this is a possibility, I admit it, any parent who doesn’t is very foolish. I just wish that they would allow the faint possibility that I might know something of value. Margaret was under strain when she left Oxford, that is quite certain. She had been working far too hard; and I don’t think that the life suited her, although she never said so. Some of her fellow students were very extreme and Margaret has always taken it rather hard if people don’t think as she does. Timothy and Constance have always managed to have principles and enjoy themselves as well, but Margaret hasn’t this happy knack. I’ve no doubt that some tension built up inside her and blew a mental fuse. That seems to me much more likely than some highly melodramatic adventure involving Timothy.’
‘But why Khatmandu?’
‘Oh that …’ She gave a little shudder, more repugnance than uneasiness. ‘That defeats me.’
‘I suppose she may have had some thought about her new job stored away in her mind?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What do the doctors says?’
‘Very little. We had a specialist of course; an excellent man, if a trifle ponderous. But nothing appears to have come out of his sessions with her, except the fact that she has lost her memory.’ Her hands clasped and unclasped on the arms of the chair. I could im
agine her sitting in the specialist’s room, trying to control her impatience as her quick mind raced ahead of his. Even now, I felt the force of her energy and found my own pulse beginning to respond to her frustration.
‘Does she still see the specialist?’
‘Occasional visits. Apart from that, she is under Dr. Lander’s care now. She seems to respond to him very well; I suppose that is something to be thankful for.’
‘You don’t like Dr. Lander?’
‘One doesn’t have to like a doctor, does one? As long as he knows what he’s doing, one can’t complain. I did talk about it to the specialist at one time, when we were a little … unhappy; but apparently he knows Dr. Lander and thinks very highly of him, he said that we should consider ourselves fortunate.’ A little flush of anger coloured her cheeks and she beat one fist on the arm of the chair. ‘You know, Flora, there is something quite frightening about being in the hands of doctors. What can the individual do against them when they close their ranks in this way? You can’t take a risk involving another person’s health unless you are very sure of yourself; and they see to it that you haven’t sufficient information in your possession to make a reasoned judgement.’ For a moment, the anger subsided, the clear lines of her face blurred in weariness.
‘And we have so little money. We can’t go from one specialist to another …’
‘If Dr. Lander is all that good, why is he in a practice in a small village like this?’ I asked, and added, remembering the impatient driver of that red car, ‘He’s not very old, is he?’
‘Early thirties, I suppose. But there are reasons, good ones; one can’t deny the man that. His wife drank, he could have had her put away, it was as bad as that, but he looked after her himself.’
‘But surely this kind of thing can be treated now?’
‘Oh, she went away for treatment from time to time. He did all he could have been expected to do.’
‘There was a woman in the surgery,’ I recalled. ‘She inferred that he was to blame.’
‘No.’ Mrs. Routh dismissed this idea firmly but without her usual enthusiasm for a cause, ‘That is quite unfair to him. She was very seriously ill; on occasions she attacked him, once with a broken bottle. It was rather dreadful; we had him in here afterwards for an hour or so and he was quite bad. However much people criticize him now, there were few who were prepared to offer him any practical help while she was alive. Undoubtedly her illness affected his career; it was because of her he took this practice.’
‘You don’t think her illness affected his judgement as well as his career?’
This was a sore temptation to her, she wrestled with it, head bent, lips tightly compressed. Eventually, she raised her head as though she had come clear of a dark cloud, and said, ‘I don’t think so. No, I think that if I really thought that I should have refused to allow him to treat Margaret. And to be fair,’ she was rallying her forces to his defence in a way which irritated me; this was almost too Christian an attitude, ‘to be fair, one cannot complain of his treatment of her. Whenever we have had to call him, at whatever time of the day or night, he has come at once; he appears to know how to deal with her—and sometimes she has been most hysterical, refusing to stay in bed, saying that she must get out in the open air in the middle of the night, fighting with us with quite surprising violence. He has always succeeded in calming her and there is nothing unorthodox about his methods, as far as I can see. It is simply that he is so abominably unpleasant to deal with! Anyone would think that my husband and I were children the way he speaks to us; we get nothing but orders from him, what we are to do and what not to do, but no actual information as to what is happening to our daughter.’
‘Does he know himself?’
‘He gives the impression that he does, but when you try to pin him down you get nothing of any value from him. He really is a very difficult man to talk to. Doctors are rather like teachers, they don’t know how to behave with other adults. It’s an occupational hazard, I suppose. But that is enough on the subject of Dr. Lander. It was wrong of me to have said so much about him.’
‘You said that he told you what to do and what not to do, oughtn’t I to know this?’
‘You had better go and see him,’ she said. ‘He will tell you much better himself. On this particular score he is extremely lucid.’
‘But I don’t want to go to him! I’d much prefer to talk to you about it. You asked me to come, you must have thought I could be of help.’
‘Oh, my dear child, that was his idea.’
‘His idea!’
‘That it might be better if she had a companion who was not so closely involved with her as her parents.’ She smiled, a consolation prize. ‘We thought of you at once.’
I was not deceived. They had no faith in me whatsoever, they were simply obeying the instructions of a man they neither liked nor trusted because they did not dare to leave any avenue unexplored. Nothing was expected of me in this house.
‘We were very grateful to you for coming, dear Pug,’ she said. ‘It showed what a good, staunch little friend you are.’
I knew now that I should be quite useless; I read the message clearly in her kind but candid eyes. But there was one thing I could do; I could go to Dr. Lander. After all, he had thought that an outsider might see more of the game, so he should be prepared to learn a little himself.
Chapter Three
I meant to tell him about the Routh family. From what I had gathered, he scarcely knew them and as he was obviously not in sympathy with them he would have found out very little about them. No doubt he was aware of Mr. Routh’s widely publicized activities, but this would give him little idea of how the family group behaved. Although my knowledge of mental illness was not great, the one thing that I did know was that doctors are happiest when they can trace the source of our troubles back to childhood. It seems to give them a sense of security if they can establish our parents’ guilt; they sit back in relief and say to themselves, ‘That’s the cause out of the way, at least’. Not, of course, that I intended to say anything of this kind to Dr. Lander; I merely wanted to fill in a few gaps in his knowledge. The Rouths had done so much for me that I felt I owed it to them to make some small effort on their behalf; and since they were so incomparably well-endowed to deal with most problems, this task of defining what was their unique achievement as a family seemed the only one that I could perform that they could not.
I went down to the surgery the next evening. I did not tell anyone where I was going, and no interest was evinced in my movements. I had waited until the evening because I thought that there would be fewer people than at the morning surgery. I was right. The waiting-room was empty. This presented me with an unpleasant problem at a time when I particularly wanted to be calm and unflurried. Was one expected to make one’s presence known, or did Dr. Lander poke his head round the door from time to time to see whether the odd patient had blown across his threshold like a withered autumn leaf? I looked at the inner door. Try as I might I could not summon the courage to open that door. There is a kind of holy ritual of surgery behaviour, an invisible line is drawn, across which one never moves without a summons from the doctor. To venture beyond that door would be like violating a sanctuary. I sat and looked at the door while it grew darker and my resolution faded. I began to feel rather ill. After what seemed a full hour, there were brisk footsteps and a nurse came in, a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face and bright, friendly eyes.
‘A patient!’ She had that Scots voice which more than any other suggests a nice balance of good sense and humour. ‘Have you been here long? I came out ten minutes ago, but there was no one here then.’
‘I think I must have come just after that.’
‘You’re not one of doctor’s patients, are you?’
‘No. I’m staying with the Rouths. I wondered if he could see me?’
‘I see. Yes, I’m sure he’ll see you.’ She gave me a reassuring smile, as though she sensed my nervousness. ‘What
is your name?’
‘Miss Brett. Flora Brett.’
‘Just a moment, Miss Brett.’ She left the room, taking her air of crisp reassurance with her. I waited, knowing that I should never have come. In all too short a time she returned and said, ‘Doctor will see you now,’ and ushered me without pause for reflection into a room on the near side of a dark hall. She shut the door firmly behind me.
He was standing by the desk studying a buff-coloured form; as I came forward he looked up and gave me that distant professional smile in which doctors specialize. ‘Won’t you sit down, Miss Brett.’ He was a shortish, slim man with dark auburn hair, neatly cut, but probably worn too long to please his more conservative patients; he was inconspicuously dressed in a navy suit. When I sat down, he said, returning to his study of the form, ‘And what can I do for you?’
‘I should like to talk to you about Margaret Routh.’
He raised one eyebrow at the piece of paper in his hand and said without looking up, ‘You want to talk to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well, Miss Brett.’ He put down the form. There was a swivel chair by his desk, but he did not sit on that; instead he sat on an upright chair by the window. Whether this was intended as an indication that this was not a professional consultation, I do not know, but it somewhat unnerved me. A better view of him did nothing to reassure me. His face was pale, not the natural pallor of a healthy person, and lines that had no place on a young man’s face were hammered hard into the flesh; he looked as though the end of the day usually found him desperately weary. But fatigue had not blunted the intelligence that lay behind the eyes, nor had it loosened the decisive line of the mouth; rather, it was as though a protective layer had been harrowed away exposing a weapon that was penetrating and formidably powerful. When speaking to this man one would need to be sure of one’s facts and attach a precise meaning to words; some of the nice-sounding phrases I had rehearsed in the waiting-room would not serve at all. Truth was under the microscope here.