by MARY HOCKING
‘Preying on her mind? What nonsense! We were all so delighted about it, and so was she.’
Timothy said rather sulkily, ‘Well, she wasn’t delighted when she was with me.’
There was a pause. Mrs. Routh seemed to be holding her breath and her hands were clenched on the sides of her chair. I felt, looking at her, the intolerable pressures her family put on her. At this moment, I think she would like to have been very, very angry, but she controlled herself. She flicked a few crumbs from the arm of the chair with quick, impatient movements of her fingers and said, ‘This is quite incomprehensible.’
Mr. Routh said gently, ‘All that matters at present is how Margaret is.’
‘It is not all that matters!’ She took him up sharply, but he replied with surprising firmness:
‘The inquest can come later. There is nothing that we can or should do at this moment except to wait and pray.’
A flush of colour whipped across her cheekbones; she stared at him and then bowed her head, pressing her lips into a single blanched line. After a moment, Timothy went into the hall and came back to report that he could still hear Margaret talking.
‘Surely he can put her out?’ he said angrily. ‘What use is a doctor if he can’t do that?’
‘I wouldn’t want to take the responsibility of forcing anything on her as she is now,’ Dr. Ahmed said. He sat with his hands clenched on his knees, his face the colour of bad liver.
Timothy turned away. ‘You want a top man for something like this, not a country G.P. who hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s doing. That’s the real trouble.’
Constance turned on him with surprising ferocity. ‘If you can’t think of anything sensible to contribute, keep quiet.’
After that, everyone kept quiet. Every so often, one or other of us would tiptoe half-way up the stairs and listen to that thin murmur which seemed to go on and on with such terrifying resilience. Then, at three o’clock, Constance came slowly into the sitting-room after one such vigil. ‘It’s quiet.’ She leant against the door post and closed her eyes. We all sat listening to the quietness in the house, letting it fold about us. After a while, Mr. Routh said, ‘Oh, God of love … Oh, God of love … make us wiser… .’ There was too much anguish in his voice for it to be embarrassing. I wondered why people who were so good, who had been so devoted to their children, should be punished in this terrible way.
Constance put her arm round her mother’s shoulders. ‘I think we might be allowed to show some interest now, Mummy.’
‘I don’t know, darling. I begin to feel that I must ask permission to be in the same house as my daughter.’
‘Darling, Owen doesn’t mean you to take it that way. It’s simply the old, old story of patients always behaving better when their nearest and dearest are not around. Come along.’ She led her mother into the hall and they went quietly up the stairs.
I said, ‘I’ll make more tea.’
In the kitchen, Saul was sitting up in his box, shaking from nose to tail. He had made a mess by the back door. I was moved to pity for him and gave him a bowl of water and some dog biscuits. He took a frantic lap at the water and then sat up, shaking again. I patted the grizzled head and he was excessively grateful.
When I came out of the kitchen, Timothy and Mr. Routh had gone upstairs, too. The family were gathered round Dr. Lander at the head of the stairs. I heard him say, ‘I’ve given her a sedative. She should sleep now.’
Mr. Routh said tentatively, ‘I will sit with her … if that would be wise?’
‘Yes, I think it might be an idea, although she should sleep until morning. I’ll call before surgery to see how she is.’
I poured tea for the family and Dr. Ahmed took it up to them; we did not see them again that night, no doubt they had things to talk about among themselves. I went into the hall and caught Dr. Lander on his way out; he was moving wearily, and there was in his whole aspect something of the bleakness of the man who goes home to an empty house. I said:
‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go?’
‘I would indeed!’
He followed me into the sitting-room and eased himself into a chair. He did not sit back, but crouched, his eyes half-closed, the fingers of one hand pressing against his forehead, just the tips of the fingers pressing very tenderly. His breath was shallow as though he dared not relax or had forgotten how to do so; the only colour in his face was that reflected by the green sweater. Some feeling that I did not understand constricted my throat as I looked at him.
‘You look ghastly!’ I said.
‘It’s been a long night.’
‘But it still shouldn’t have knocked the stuffing out of you like that. You look anaemic to me, maybe you should have a blood test. At any rate, you ought to look after yourself better.’
This seemed to restore him and he laughed, ‘I need someone to care for me.’ I put a cup of tea in his hands and he said, ‘Thank you. Flora.’
‘It was wonderful what you did up there,’ I told him.
‘I’m a doctor,’ he said impatiently.
‘Maybe, but it’s still wonderful to be able to heal someone’s mind like that.’
‘Her mind is not healed.’ He reacted tetchily to this verbal inaccuracy.
‘She’s quiet, isn’t she? Don’t underestimate yourself. That was something worth doing, something good, something positive.’
I like positive people; perhaps it showed in my face. He looked rather surprised. ‘I’m glad you’re so pleased.’ The remark was meant to be delivered lightly, but it did not quite come off and there was some embarrassment between us. We were both tired.
Dr. Ahmed came in carrying the empty tray.
‘May I have a word with you, Owen?’
I poured another cup of tea for each of them and then I went into the kitchen to heat more water and to comfort Saul.
Chapter Five
I did not sleep well and for once I was glad of the Rouths’ habit of early rising. It was Constance who woke me. She was out in the garden just below my window and I could hear her laughing softly. Later, as she went about her household duties, she sang, not so softly, and heaved furniture about with all the energy of an Amazon. I was up before seven.
By the time I came downstairs the dining-room was empty. Mrs. Routh was in the hall making one of her early morning calls. She told me that Mr. Routh had to attend an important meeting in London in connection with the race relations issue and that Constance had taken him into Lewes. Timothy had not yet appeared.
Dr. Lander came at half-past eight. Margaret was quiet, but it was early to tell whether this represented an improvement or was merely the result of exhaustion. He said he would come back soon after eleven by which time it would be easier to judge her condition. Mrs. Routh went upstairs to read papers for a meeting of the Hospital Management Committee.
I did the washing up; there was rather a lot of it as no inroads had been made since yesterday lunchtime. Constance appeared to have little help with the housework. I also noticed a pile of clean clothes, tablecloths and sheets on a chair and when I had finished the washing up, I occupied myself with ironing these. Constance did not return. When I had finished the ironing, I felt that I could slip away for a walk without too guilty a conscience; the desire to get out of the house was very strong. There was a right of way which skirted the fields and led through the valley to the next village, a distance of about five miles: a pleasant walk that I remembered well. It was a surprisingly remote area, with few houses once one had left Stanford behind. The fields stretched away to the Downs in the far distance, a gentle, unremarkable landscape which, while it made no great impact at first sight, never subsequently disappointed. At first I walked jerkily, all my muscles knotted and tense; it took time to relax and accept the fact that for the next hour at least no demands would be made on me. Not that I could complain about the demands which had so far been made. The fact of the matter was that I was never at my best as a member of a group, my social r
esources being limited and soon exhausted. I was ashamed of this lack of stamina and tried half¬heartedly to lecture myself on my anti-social instincts; nevertheless, it was with considerable regret that I eventually abandoned my solitary walk and turned again towards Stanford and social responsibility. I made slow going of the return.
On my way through the orchard I met Timothy. He was wearing a fisherman’s jersey and old, paint-grimed slacks and this casual attire greatly enhanced the fragility and grace of his features. I greeted him delightedly and he responded with equal delight. He warmed to affection more immediately than anyone I have ever known; for some reason he needed to be reassured about himself and could only find this reassurance in another’s eyes.
‘Pug!’ He folded his arms about me and lifted me off the ground. ‘That was a terrible greeting I gave you yesterday!’ He made amends with a long, very practised kiss. Then he took my hand in his and we strolled beneath the trees.
‘Yesterday was a terrible day altogether,’ he said. ‘I managed it very badly, didn’t I?’
I looked at him in surprise. He really seemed to be worried about this; a tick had developed in his cheek and in trying to control it he had screwed up his mouth so that little creases of anxiety were lightly scored across his face.
‘I didn’t notice your managing or mismanaging,’ I said. ‘There was so much else going on.’
He gave a perfunctory laugh. ‘Bless you, my dear; you haven’t lost your gift for bringing people down to earth with a bump.’
‘I hadn’t realized you were airborne.’
‘In fact, I haven’t made any great impression on you.’
‘Did you want to?’
He looked down at me provocatively. His fair hair, which he wore long now, flopped across his forehead almost meeting the one quizzically raised eyebrow. He was aware of his charm and had learnt how to dispose his features to the best advantage. But he was preoccupied with some worry of his own and did not greatly exert himself. His tone was slightly bored when he replied, ‘Very much, dear, very much. I always want to impress. It’s my besetting weakness.’
We had come out of the orchard and we walked towards the house and sat on the old wooden bench beneath the study window. The morning sun was bright and seemed momentarily to rouse Timothy from his depression. He put the tip of his finger beneath my chin and turned my face to his. It was not a gesture that I much liked.
‘Pug! How you have changed.’ He gazed at me as though by some miracle the structure of my face had been redesigned, removing for ever the unfortunate nose and the too-wide mouth.
‘On the contrary, I have developed most predictably in every respect.’
‘But you’ve become so clear. So wonderfully clear! It’s a revelation, like watching a cartoonist at work—at first one sees only a few unrelated lines and then, all of a sudden, a face is there!’
‘It was always there.’
‘You know, you should learn to take a compliment,’ he said irritably. ‘A man doesn’t like to have to work quite so hard. And as it happens I’m perfectly sincere. You make quite an impact now. Although, when I come to think of it, I suppose you were always more clearly defined than the rest of us. I remember Mother used to say, “There’s a very resolute little being in the making there!” ’
‘What nonsense! You were all formidably resolute and knew exactly where you were going.’
‘In our dream world, perhaps, we knew our way around.’
The gaiety momentarily petered out, leaving his face becalmed.
As I looked at the still features, I could see that the cartoonist had been at work on him, too, adding a line here, a pucker there, a slight drawing down of the mouth, a pinching of the nostrils. An uneasy face.
We were sitting side by side, Timothy brooding on his problems and me brooding on Timothy, when a door inside the house opened and Mrs. Routh’s voice rang out.
‘Certainly not!’
The voice coming unheralded, the remark out of any known context, had a strange effect on me. I felt that I had always expected to hear her speak like this, in the way that one waits for a singer to produce a note that one feels sure is within her range although never attempted. Mrs. Routh struck her note plumb in the centre. Scorn, dislike, impatience, arrogance—yes, actual arrogance, rang proud and true in that ‘certainly not!’ and in her subsequent, ‘I would never do such a thing to my daughter.’
‘Such a thing as what?’ Dr. Lander was not daunted, he was not even impressed.
‘To send her away, as though we had finished with her, exhausted our stock of love and patience! What kind of people can you think we are?’
Timothy and I looked at each other and he made a wry face. Mrs. Routh and Dr. Lander were in the study; if we got up now they would see us. We stayed huddled together like naughty children and Timothy took my hand as though seeking protection. Dr. Lander was saying:
‘It is not uncommon for patients to go away for treatment.’ He spoke quietly, apparently determined to take the heat out of the discussion. ‘It does not mean that their relatives have abandoned them. In fact, it often involves a sacrifice on the part of the relatives themselves.’ The point was a shrewd one and Mrs. Routh took it up immediately.
‘I and my husband would make any sacrifice for Margaret that we considered necessary. I will not take that kind of innuendo, Doctor. We have put her in your care and we are prepared to be guided by you in most respects. I don’t think you can complain that your advice is ignored. Apart from this one issue.’
‘Which I regard as important. I’m sorry …’ he raised his voice slightly as though she had been about to interrupt him, ‘I must say this. The decision is, of course, one for you to take. If you prefer your daughter to stay here, we won’t speak of it again. But I must tell you that I think you are making a considerable mistake.’
‘Dr. Lander, I would remind you that the troubles which have overtaken my daughter occurred when she was away from home; I am convinced, I may be wrong but as a mother I surely have the right to an opinion… .’ Her voice was blurred by temper. Timothy’s fingers tightened on my hand. ‘I must remind you, I am sorry to be so forthright, but I think that it is time someone said this to you—you have no children and your experience of personal relationships is limited and not entirely fortunate. You must not put yourself up as an authority on these matters.’ There was a pause, perhaps something in his expression checked her. She said, ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry; but you really will have to learn …’
He interrupted tonelessly, ‘You were about to say that you were convinced …’
‘Convinced?’ She had put herself off by her outburst. ‘Yes, well … I am convinced that this trouble started at Oxford. I have told you that before. Margaret is a very serious person, she would not take her studies lightly, and as she has a very active mind …’
‘Your daughter has not got a very active mind, Mrs. Routh.’
‘Really, my dear young man, this is almost beyond bearing! I have spoken to her tutor, he was most impressed with the quality of her mind, he said that she thought more deeply than …’
‘She may think deeply, she certainly worries deeply, but by academic standards she has not got a very active mind. What did she get—a second? I would think that she pushed herself to the limit to obtain that result; and that she had, for years, been pushing herself to the limit.’
‘That, of course, is nonsense. You don’t understand about these things. She should have got a first. Her intellectual stature was recognized by the committee who appointed her to that job—it was a brilliant success… .’
‘Mrs. Routh, your daughter is not brilliant. It would help her a great deal if you would realize this.’
There was another pause. Beside me, Timothy sweated in the sun, as though it was he and not Dr. Lander who was involved in this altercation with his mother. When Mrs. Routh spoke her voice was quiet and controlled as a school mistress trying to get down to the level of a retarded child. ‘Dr. Lande
r, we have been over and over this and we never seem to get anywhere, do we? I appreciate that as an outsider, and one who is a trained observer, you may see more than my husband and I. But in spite of repeated attempts on our part, you have never been persuaded to give us any concrete suggestions as to what may be wrong with Margaret or how we could help her.’
‘I have told you before that your daughter has been ill for a long time.’ Dr. Lander sounded as though he was talking and holding his breath at the same time.
‘And I have said over and over again, that I accept the fact that this did not happen suddenly, that it started while she was at Oxford mixing with people with whom she was not compatible. How often do I have to repeat this before you take note of it?’
‘It started long before she went to Oxford, Mrs. Routh, probably when …’
‘But you never produce any information which is of any relevance to her condition! If you can’t take us into your confidence, I suppose we must agree to leave it at that.’
‘Yes, I think we should.’ There was a movement inside the room and one of them opened a door.
Timothy grabbed my arm. ‘Quick! In case they come back… .’ We scurried round the side of the house and went into the kitchen where Timothy was greeted effusively by Saul. Dr. Lander and Mrs. Routh had moved into the hall. Mrs. Routh was trying to restore conversation to a normal level. She addressed Dr. Lander with weary, half-amused indulgence.
‘Now, how do we proceed for the next few days? We are quite in your hands. You know better than anyone else how long she will take to recover from this setback.’
‘I should try to get her up this afternoon, even if she only sits in her bedroom for an hour. Don’t make much of what has happened.’
‘Of course not. I’m not in the habit of creating drama around me. But there are one or two new factors to be taken into account, aren’t there?’
‘Timothy, for example?’
‘Yes. Normally, he would stay here with us. But if there is any possibility that Margaret is going to be agitated by his presence . . .’