‘She won’t let me touch them, Mr Oldroyd,’ said the woman, vexed.
Susie was sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor, a look of blank despair on her face. Linda lay in front of her, half clothed, kicking and screaming, and Amanda sat cross-legged at a distance, quietly discouraged. It appeared that Susie could not coax Linda’s left arm through the sleeve of any dress. A variety of small garments, wool or nylon, lay about, with which she had made her vain attempts. Jonathan picked up the child, inserted the angrily waving little hand, and carried Linda about the room for a while against his shoulder, soothing her. When calm was restored he handed the children to the domestic, who carried them off to be fed.
‘I can’t do it, Jonathan. I’m so useless. I’m such a drag on you,’ said Susie, gazing up at him in despair.
‘It’s because there are two babies,’ said Jonathan, raising her to a chair. ‘One woman can’t cope with two children at a time.’
‘Some women do. I did try.’
‘I know. Never mind, my darling,’ said Jonathan, caressing her. ‘I can’t have you left alone without help like this. We must get another nurse.’
Their first nurse was, also, becoming somewhat restless at being retained so long for patients who in her opinion no longer ought to need her; her skill would deteriorate, nurses were in short supply, and so on. Jonathan after many enquiries found a nurse slightly less skilled, but experienced, a widow anxious for a permanent job, who demanded less of life. It was at this point that Jonathan remarked to himself on the good fortune of possessing their share of the Morcar money.
‘Still, it’s what Uncle Harry would have wished after all, to make Susie happy,’ he told himself.
Now she was thus cushioned against demands too difficult for her, Susie seemed calmly happy. Jonathan bought a Mini for her, enlarging the barn, which harboured the family car, to hold it, and she drove slowly about the country lanes with the twins beside her, smiling. Her smile was radiant, and it was partly this which made her so welcome, Jonathan thought, at University gatherings. She said little, but stood quietly in a corner, looking lovely—her taste in clothes was really exquisite—wearing this smile full of love and responding with wide-eyed sympathy to her neighbours’ accounts of their doings and difficulties. It was true that she seemed reluctant now to entertain guests in her own home, shrinking with a look of fear when Jonathan suggested it; but his colleagues received his excuses of her ill-health kindly on this matter, and he hoped that time would heal her timidity.
The twins flourished, and Jonathan, thus domestically at peace, was able for a time to look out at the world and his function at the University.
4
Youth Stirs
Not that there was much peace to be perceived in either of these spheres.
There was a terrible war of intervention, with all modern weapons except the nuclear, in Vietnam; a fearful civil war in Nigeria, a brutal disregard of human rights in South Africa and Rhodesia; an ever-looming conflict, embittered by humiliation and fear, between Israeli and Arab; violence raging and revolt preparing in the United States; oppression in Czechoslovakia; hateful, because unreasoning, propaganda in China; unease and hostility in Europe, starvation in other continents; selfishness, irresponsibility, prejudice, stupidity, everywhere.
Nor were Universities any longer places of calm learning, where the accumulated treasures of the human spirit were handed down to the coming generation. Some national authorities postulated that the training of minds had to be tailored to the national industrial need; some among students regarded a degree merely as a necessary stepping-stone to a lucrative career. Some of the most idealistic students seethed with revolt. In Germany students demonstrated their dissatisfactions with paving-stone barricades, broken windows, burnings and sackings, to which the police replied with tear-gas and water cannons. In France similar demonstrations almost brought down the De Gaulle government and forced it at least to introduce much-needed university reforms. In England, students everywhere began similar activities.
In Lorimer, these were quiet at first. A member of the Government, attending to receive an honorary degree, was treated with disapproval by students on the ground that the Cabinet of which he was a member supported the United States war in Vietnam. As he came out from the hall of the ceremony he was greeted by a group of young people of both sexes, carrying banners—homemade of poor paper, execrably printed in large uneven letters—urging the Americans to go home, to leave Vietnam alone, and so on. The sleet of an English spring was driving viciously across the draughty avenue, wilting the paper of the banners and streaming down the exposed heads and faces of the students, who stood silent and motionless, rapidly becoming soaked to the skin. Jonathan, emerging from the ceremony, grieved at this sorry spectacle at the same time as he respected its motives, and seeing a student he knew at the edge of the group, he approached him and murmured:
‘Why not move about a little, to keep warm?’
To his relief, this suggestion seemed to be adopted, for in a few minutes the students began to move round, slowly and solemnly, in a small circle. Meanwhile the minister, disregarding or perhaps not even seeing his student critics, entered an official car and was driven away to lunch.
At the next meeting of the University Council—to which Jonathan, to his surprise, had recently been elected as one of the representatives of his Faculty—an elderly member brought up this business of the demonstration, complaining about the students’ discourtesy to a guest, and alleging that a member of the staff, unmistakable as such because he was wearing hood and gown, had been seen instructing the demonstrating students.
‘It was I who spoke to the students, sir,’ said Jonathan, rising at once to address the Vice-Chancellor, who was in the chair: ‘But the only suggestion I made to them was that they should move about. Their movement, I submit, was perfectly decorous, and they had a right to express their opinion decorously.’
‘Their movement made the demonstration much more noticeable and provocative,’ said the elderly member (who represented a town council of that district) disapprovingly.
‘Why did you urge them to move, Mr Oldroyd?’ enquired the Vice-Chancellor.
‘I thought that if, in that very chilly sleet, they did not keep their circulation in brisk action, they might all develop pneumonia,’ replied Jonathan seriously.
At this there was a general titter, and even the Vice-Chancellor smiled.
No more was said about the demonstration in public, but various repercussions arose from this slight incident.
A colleague whom Jonathan disliked for his illiberal views said to him with a laugh which only half disguised a sneer:
‘Be careful, Oldroyd, or your appointment won’t be confirmed.’
‘I think better of Lorimer than that,’ replied Jonathan stiffly.
In the event, his three years’ probation being then almost at an end, not only was he privately assured by his professor that his appointment would be confirmed, but he was also nominated to a committee appointed by the Council to consider modes of greater participation by students in University administration. This nomination he accepted very gladly.
Another, unexpected, consequence was that two or three students came up to him separately and asked whether he had thought of joining such and such a (usually left-wing political) student society. Or, sometimes they said their society had no formal membership, the meetings were open to all, they would be glad to see him there. These meetings, he noted, though usually held in the Union, sometimes took place in the students’ flats and sometimes even in local pubs. This discovery pointed out to him how little he knew of students’ doings other than official. He longed to attend some of these meetings, for he wanted to know the size of the various groups, the identity of the members, what they thought and said. He wanted, in a word, to see more nearly the contents of the minds he was supposed to guide and nourish.
Particularly did he yearn for this after one of his students, a rather d
ull but earnest and well-meaning lad, threw himself off the roof of one of the incomplete new buildings to meet a suicide’s death below. His friends said he had been taking tranquillisers for weeks, as he was terribly troubled by the approach of examinations.
‘Tranquillisers!’ exclaimed Jonathan, horrified.
The students looked at him pityingly; taking tranquillisers was obviously a familiar ploy to them. Jonathan had not, fortunately for his peace of mind, been guilty of snubbing or severely criticising the unhappy lad, but still he sorrowed.
‘If only he had come to me! But what could I have said to him, after all? If only I knew them better! There are too many!’
The boy’s blank, discouraged face, fair and flaccid, scarred with the blemishes of adolescence, haunted him.
But he did not feel able to leave Susie two or three nights every week; he could not withdraw so often the support she required. He had observed all too clearly how much more cheerful she was in the holidays, when he was with her all the time.
‘I’m afraid I can’t come at present,’ he replied mildly to the enquiring students. ‘I can’t undertake any further evening outgoings, at present.’
At this, students who had seen the beautiful Susie about and by chance knew her identity, leered; the others wore a look of disappointment and contempt. It could not be helped.
5
Susie Defeated
One morning as Jonathan was lecturing he was interrupted by the secretary of the Department, who entered the room in a hurry with a look of trouble. It was Jonathan’s firm intention to show discourtesy to no human being, but he could not help a look of some vexation; he cherished his lecture periods and disliked having one spoiled. Advancing swiftly to him the girl said in a low voice in his ear that the Lorimer police had rung the department. It seemed that Mr Oldroyd’s wife had been involved in a motoring irregularity and they would be grateful if he would go at once to the central police station.
Jonathan with a look of horror stammered a few words of excuse to his audience and rushed away.
He sprang up the steps of the police station, seized upon the uniformed man at the reception desk, and was ushered into a small empty room, where presently a tall solid handsome man in uniform, whom from his insignia Jonathan vaguely recognised as possibly the Chief Constable, came in and greeted him.
‘Mr Oldroyd? We were sorry to disturb you during University hours, but thought it wise to summon you.’
‘What has happened? Is my wife hurt?’ cried Jonathan, wild with anxiety.
‘No. She is physically quite unharmed.’
The word physically struck a knell on Jonathan’s ear. Inwardly he trembled, but controlled himself to say more soberly:
‘I have no idea what has happened. Is it a car accident?’
‘Not exactly an accident’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ burst out Jonathan: ‘Tell me what is wrong.’
‘We were summoned by the branch manager,’ said the Chief Constable, naming a large multiple firm. ‘At the side of the store there is a narrow passage-way expanding into a small courtyard with an unloading bay used by their vans. Drivers found their way blocked by a small private car. They approached to ask for it to be moved, and found at the wheel Mrs Oldroyd, weeping and distracted.’
‘Ah,’ breathed Jonathan.
‘She was quite incapable of handling her car.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘The manager telephoned us and an inspector and a woman police constable went to the store and brought the car and Mrs Oldroyd here to the station. She made no resistance but declined to drive the car herself.’
‘Since nobody was hurt and no damage was done, I presume I am at liberty to take her home at once. No doubt there will be a fine, which I will, of course, pay at once.’
‘We took a breathalyser test,’ said the Chief Constable quietly.
‘My wife and I do not drink, sir,’ said Jonathan, furious.
‘Mr Oldroyd, our police doctor assures us that your wife is not in a fit state to drive a car.’
‘I will take further advisement on that.’
‘If we could have your assurance that she will not drive at present,’ began the Chief Constable. ‘Otherwise it will mean an endorsement of her licence, perhaps even a long suspension, a ban, in Court.’
Jonathan stared at him.
‘Mr Oldroyd,’ continued the older man in a grave but kindly tone: ‘To speak unofficially: with the greatest respect, your wife is in need of care and attention.’
‘I give her all possible care and attention,’ blurted Jonathan, his face contorting.
There was a pause.
‘Take me to her,’
He followed the Chief Constable along dreary stone passages and up stone stairways to a comfortable carpeted little room warmed by a gas-fire, which he guessed to be the Chief Constable’s own apartment. There sat Susie crouched in a chair, a woman constable beside her. A half-drunk cup of tea stood cold on a corner of the desk. Susie’s face was white, her lips quivered, large tears stood in her starry eyes, she stared blankly. But as usual she looked exquisitely, touchingly beautiful, and there was a look of affectionate pity on the policewoman’s face.
‘Here’s your husband, Mrs Oldroyd,’ she said brightly.
Susie looked up, intelligence lighted her eyes and she cried: ‘Jonathan! Jonathan!’
Jonathan knelt beside her and took her in his arms.
‘I can’t do it, Jonathan. I can’t do it! I can’t!’ cried Susie, burying her face in his shoulder and sobbing wildly.
‘What can’t you do, my darling?’
‘I can’t drive in the town. It’s too difficult. All those signs, and double yellow lines, and cars rushing about, coming out suddenly, and traffic policemen and one-way streets, and so many rules, I can’t remember them. I can’t do it. I was frightened. I went down that lane to be safe, to be out of it all.’
‘Well, never mind. There’s no need for you to drive a car if you don’t want to,’ said Jonathan consolingly.
‘But how shall we manage? We have to shop. I can’t do it. I dream about it,’ wept Susie.
‘Goodness me! We can’t have you upsetting yourself like that. I can do the shopping. I’ll think it out. I’ll plan it. Don’t you worry any more.’
‘You’re so good to me, Jonathan,’ said Susie, gazing up at him gratefully.
He kissed the tears from her pale cheeks, and the policewoman, smiling with relief, brought two more cups of tea.
On their way home from the police station, Susie murmured: ‘You won’t tell Chuff about this, will you?’
Jonathan gave his promise.
A doctor, of course, had to be consulted. Summoned on the following day, when Susie had grown calmer, he put in a strong plea for the services of a psychiatrist.
‘What’s the use of psycho-analysis in this case?’ said Jonathan. ‘We already know the trauma which caused her mental disturbance.’
He explained about the murder of Susie’s parents.
“They were killed in some kind of race disturbance, in South Africa,’ he said. ‘I don’t know the exact details. The bodies were—mangled—and Susie unfortunately saw them.’
‘Ah,’ said the doctor: A severe shock.’
‘She’s just not equal to the stress of modern life. Heaven knows it is almost unbearable,’ he said.
‘Nevertheless,’ began the doctor, a youngish man of modern ideas.
‘I shall guard her most carefully from all troubles and worries.’
‘It’s not enough. She needs treatment.’
‘She clings to me. If you separate us the result may be disastrous.’
‘I should like to put the suggestion of treatment to her, all the same,’ said the doctor obstinately.
‘If you feel it is essential, of course I cannot refuse, but I dread the effect on my wife.’
They returned to the bedroom where Susie lay looking fragile against her pillows.
&
nbsp; ‘We have been discussing the idea of treatment for you, Mrs Oldroyd, to help you feel more confident,’ said the doctor in a soothing professional tone.
Susie shrank, and looked up in appeal at Jonathan.
‘If you think I must,’ she said faintly.
‘Good. And you’ll be willing to go away from home for a little while to receive it, won’t you?’
‘No, no!’ cried Susie, her cheek blanching and her eyes dilating with fear. ‘Jonathan! Don’t let me go!’ She seized her husband’s arm and clung to it with all her might.
‘Of course you shan’t go if you don’t want to,’ said Jonathan cheerfully. ‘That is so, isn’t it, Doctor?’
‘Of course, of course,’ agreed the doctor. ‘It was just a suggestion. Good morning, Mrs Oldroyd. Stay in bed and rest, and I will call again and see how you are, tomorrow.’
Outside the room he said to Jonathan: ‘I apologise. You know your wife better than I do, of course. But she may change her mind. It she doesn’t improve she may come to wish for treatment. If she does, we must take advantage of it at once.’
There followed a twelvemonth when Susie’s mental health continually deteriorated. This sad progress was intermittent. Sometimes it went slowly, with periods of recovery, sometimes by leaps and bounds. She looked at her daughters, for instance, sometimes with conscious love, sometimes with a sweet but unrecognising smile. The days when she had driven a car and gone out to parties began to seem far away and long ago. The doctor continued to urge electrical and other treatment. Jonathan shrank from it.
‘You know, Mr Oldroyd,’ said the doctor to him one day: ‘This may be very painful to you, but the truth is—or rather, the truth may be—that your wife is beginning to feel guilty and ineffective towards you too.’
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