‘I understand,’ explained the young woman, ‘only you see, I cannot really help you unless I know a few more facts. This is a very large hospital; the whole establishment is subdivided. You see, it’s very difficult–’
He leaned forward and spoke into her ear. His lips were touching her brown hair. ‘I suspect a venereal infection,’ said Major Eele. ‘What d’you say to that?’
The young woman said nothing immediately. She withdrew her head and handed him a blue card. She pointed to a row of chairs. ‘Come back on Wednesday afternoon,’ she said. ‘Sit there; a chap in a white coat will look after you.’
After a few more words Major Eele left. There was a number on the blue card. ‘That is your number,’ the woman had said, and he had queried this with her, saying he did not wish to have a number but would prefer to see his name on the card, arguing with her that his name would have been there before the Health Scheme. ‘Treatment is given under conditions of secrecy,’ said the young woman. ‘It has always been so in my time.’
Major Eele was on his feet again, approaching the bar, asking for more drinks. He fought against the moving room, determined that he should not fall down. He spoke to the barman clearly: he heard his own voice give the order, prompted by one of the men at the table behind him.
‘Hurrah!’ someone said when he returned to the table with the first couple of drinks. He was aware that he was spending money which he had set aside for other purposes. He sat down and raised his glass, smiling, since they were all doing that: raising their glasses and smiling. He drank some brandy, and the interior of St George’s Hospital was clear again in his mind. He recalled quite perfectly the West Indian doctor, a big man with curly black hair, and this time he remembered every word that had passed between them. The encounter took place and he could not stop it, as he swayed in his chair and was ignored by Mrs le Tor.
‘Are you married?’ asked the doctor.
‘Indeed.’
‘For how long?’
‘Twenty-one years. Well no, twenty-one years this February.’
‘Children?’
‘Children?’
‘Have you any children?’
‘Four. Three girls and a boy. The eldest, Monica, is now at Cambridge.’
‘Intercourse was extra-marital?’
‘With a woman of the streets. I am ashamed of this.’
‘When, sir?’
‘Many times. I do not know. I do not know the exact occasion. You understand me, Doctor; I am depraved. My name is Major Eele. I am an old soldier, I am shameful in this sin–’
Two minutes later the doctor said:
‘We will give you a blood-test, sir. But I would not worry: there is nothing the matter with you. Come back in a week for the result of this test.’
‘My name is Major Eele,’ he said to a young man in the queue for the blood-tests, but the young man did not seem inclined to exchange pleasantries.
He left St George’s Hospital and did not ever return, knowing the test would be negative.
‘Let’s get him home,’ the others said. ‘We’ve got a car.’
‘How sweet of you,’ said Mrs le Tor. ‘Poor old boy, he lives in a dreadful boarding-house, Jubilee Road.’
Mrs le Tor rang the bell at The Boarding-House and hammered with the knocker. Her vengeance was full; she felt sweet and warm. She rang and hammered again, and Nurse Clock, earlier disturbed by the high-pitched television sound and now by noise at the hall-door, appeared in her night attire.
‘One old sweat, the worse for wear,’ cried Mrs le Tor, standing back to reveal Major Eele supported by two men.
‘Mrs le Tor!’ said Nurse Clock.
‘Hi,’said Mrs le Tor.
‘Best get him up the stairs,’ said one of the men.
‘Beddy-byes,’ said Mrs le Tor, and giggled hysterically.
The men pulled Major Eele up to his room and laid him out on his bed. One of them loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.
‘What a frightful joint,’ said Mrs le Tor when Nurse Clock had closed the door. ‘You’d think they’d offer you a cup of tea.’
She had done her worst, yet she felt still a surge of bitterness against the man whose victim she imagined she had been. He had seen her and desired her in his ugly, unhealthy way, and had written her appalling letters. Well, he would not do that again. She walked away from The Boarding-House, refusing a lift from the people who had brought the man home, and felt glad that her escape had been so painless.
17
Studdy removed the pin from the point of his lapel and threw it away.
Nurse Clock said:
‘There will be a lot of work in this, straightening the place out. Will you be available, Mr Studdy? What work is it you do at present?’
‘I’m concerned with a religious organization.’ As he spoke he determined to write no more letters, nor to fritter away his time following people about. He resolved to become a new man, to turn his talents to the success of his newest and most promising venture. The old would go, thought Studdy, and leave behind them money for the home that had cared for their long last hours. The old died more than others: there would be wreaths and funerals often.
‘If Bishop Hode had had a place like we plan, Mr Studdy, he might have seen out further days in greater peace.’
‘And been duly grateful,’ he reminded her. But Nurse Clock pretended not to hear, knowing well what he meant.
‘You are the practical one,’ she suggested. ‘By the terms of Mr Bird’s will the house should remain a boarding-house as on his death, even though he left it in our keeping and would have welcomed our better idea. Still, we have people to think about. How shall we go about that, Mr Studdy? There are legal technicalities.’
‘Some will take money to go. We could object to others, as Mr Bird himself objected down the years. I think that’s the best way. To say a word or two on grounds of unsuitability, and in difficult cases, like the Major, to offer a small sum. The Major would argue the toss.’
‘We could get that back garden into trim, for the old folk to sit out in deck-chairs. What d’you say, Mr Studdy? There’s enough in the kitty. A man could come and do it. Mrs Trine mentioned someone to me the other evening. Unless you’d prefer to do it yourself. Are you a gardener, Mr Studdy?’
Studdy replied in the negative. He added:
‘Mr Scribbin should go on account of complaints received about noises at night.’
‘A useless man,’ declared Nurse Clock; and they fell to, making plans.
The season changed, and a misty, mellow autumn crept over all England. The damp leaves scattered, were swept and carted and lost their crinkle. In Gloucestershire the last of the plums already were stored, apples in lofts sat quietly in rows, none of them touching. The trees they came from looked naked in the wind, the backs of their leaves caught and exposed.
In London the air was sharp and pleasant, the evenings drew in, and in a month or so the clocks, put back an hour, would make it winter. In the district of SW17 the season made its mark, on the common land of the area, on the heath, and in front and back gardens where grass was brown now, where summer flowers gave way to wallflowers and michaelmas daisies. At St Dominic’s the brothers greased the garden tools and laid the bulk of them away for months to come. The blades of St Dominic’s lawn-mower were lifted from their place and carried, an annual thing, to Mr Evans, an ironmonger. He it was who would sharpen them when next he had a moment, or counsel a replacement which the brothers in conclave would discuss. In Jubilee Road the name of Mr Evans was mentioned also and in a similar context. ‘Spades we need,’ said Nurse Clock, ‘and forks and secateurs and all garden implements. Make up a big order, Mr Studdy, and see if Mr Evans will perhaps knock off a shilling or two. Mrs Trine’s man is coming on Wednesday: that garden shall bloom this spring.’ And she promised herself that in the summer months, in June and July and August, a year after Mr Bird’s death, old people would take their ease in canvas garden-chairs and be
happy to greet their ninetieth year.
In the centre of London on September 7th a small boy, idling on the streets near the office block where Miss Clerricot worked, was approached by a heavily-built man in a woollen overcoat and was asked to perform a simple chore. Five minutes later the boy handed the man an envelope marked M. Moran and received fourpence for his trouble. Studdy, who had watched from a convenient doorway, who had seen the boy enter the reception area that he had once entered himself and a moment later reappear with the envelope in his hand, took the envelope to another place and opened it He read:
Dear Mr Moran,
I fear I must bring you at once to task.
Your information re my recent visit to Leeds is gravely at fault, and I can only assume that I have been contacted in error. My secretary, Miss Clerricot of 2 Jubilee Road, SW17, who accompanied me on that little excursion, returned to London on the night of our arrival and will vouch for all I claim.
Through this information you will readily agree that the morals you fear for in your letter do not enter into it. In the circumstances I regret that I am unable to contribute to your organization the amount you suggest.
Yours truly,
H.B. Sellwood.
Studdy had met with reverses before and had not succumbed; nevertheless, he felt glad that The Boarding-House was soon to be turned into a source of greater profit. He crumpled the letter, typewritten on Mr Sellwood’s business paper, and made a small ball of it and threw it lightly towards the edge of the pavement. At least, he reflected, he had gleaned some useful information: Miss Clerricot had left Leeds unexpectedly, and in the middle of the night. She had said she would be away for a day or two. Had she and this Sellwood fallen out? Certainly, there was something there that looked fishy enough to be a lever in the eviction of Miss Clerricot from The Boarding-House.
Mr Sellwood had coughed and said it was best that she should move to another department, and she had apologized, saying she could not think what had come over her, saying she did not deserve the indulgence of the Company. ‘Tut, tut,’ said Mr Sellwood. He never again spoke to her of the Pearl Assurance Company, and often failed to recognize her when by chance they met.
The dead Mr Bird murmured in the mind of Miss Clerricot, some words of Pope that were a repetition of what he had murmured to her more than once in life. Hearing them. Miss Clerricot thought of death, because the words were to do with it. She thought of death and of her own in particular: the death of her body and the death of her face.
The first leaves of autumn floated down past the barred windows of The Boarding-House kitchen. The days were fine, but the sun, weaker than a summer sun, did not entirely illuminate the area of the room. It did not cause the jugs and cups, hanging in long rows on a green dresser, to glisten and glow with summer highlights. But at least it showed off the new season’s onions, purchased at the door from a man who came every year from Normandy. They hung on long strings from nails on the sides of the dresser, and they gave the kitchen a harvest look.
‘Summer is out,’ said Mrs Slape, preparing herrings.
Two other women, the daily women at The Boarding-House, who were now drinking tea at the kitchen table, nodded wisely, agreeing with the observations. Gallelty said:
‘It has been a good summer.’
The women nodded again. Mrs Slape glanced at Gallelty. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I am polishing this.’
The three women looked and saw her polishing a medal.
‘What is that?’ one asked.
‘A medal,’ said Gallelty. ‘A medal presented to Mr Bird.’
‘Never,’ said Mrs Slape, firmly, conclusively.
‘A medal presented in 1913.’
‘Mr Bird in the war?’ asked one of the women.
‘The war had not begun,’ corrected the other. ‘The war began in 1914.’
‘The medal then?’
‘What is the medal, Gallelty?’ asked Mrs Slape.
‘For the breast-stroke.’
’swimming!’
‘Mr Bird told me of this day, when he won the medal for the forty yards’ breast-stroke.’
‘Not Mr Bird?’
Gallelty looked at the three women, for all of them seemed to have said the name of Mr Bird in this questioning way.
‘Mr Bird showed me the medal,’ Gallelty said.
‘Mr Bird’s foot,’ one of the daily women reminded, a woman with an eye for detail.
‘He could never swim,’ said Mrs Slape. ‘How on earth could Mr Bird have swum?’
‘He won the race,’ Gallelty declared, disturbed at the doubt about the medal. ‘Forty yards of the breast-stroke.’
Mrs Slape put a herring half gutted on the draining-board. She wiped her fingers on her apron. ‘What for heaven’s sake is all this?’
‘Mr Bird’s medal,’ Gallelty repeated, ‘for proficiency at the breast-stroke.’ She read aloud the words on the medal: ‘R. I. Twining, second, 1919. He said it was the breast-stroke.’
‘Who is R. I. Twining?’ one of the daily women asked.
‘That is not Mr Bird’s medal,’ the other said. ‘Why do you think that is a medal won by Bird?’
‘He showed it to me. He talked about it’
The women laughed, all three of them, hearing Gallelty admit her lack of evidence.
‘You cannot believe what you hear,’ one of them said.
‘Not all you hear,’ the other added.
‘Put away that medal now,’ ordered Mrs Slape. ‘Tidy up, Gallelty, there are other things to do.’
‘I didn’t read the words,’ Gallelty explained. ‘I found the medal in a corner of a drawer and thought it was the same one. It must have been a different one, a different medal.’
The two women returned to the drinking of their tea and Mrs Slape to the gutting of the herrings. Gallelty put away the cleaning materials, and put the medal with them, since now it seemed to have no merit, being the medal of R. I. Twining, a figure whom no one knew. She thought of R. I. Twining swimming the breast-stroke in 1913, not winning but coming second, to cries of lesser adulation. Somewhere, she felt, there was a medal awarded to Mr Bird for a similar performance, or even for a greater one, in 1913 or thereabouts, before he had had a bad leg, or foot, or whatever it was he had suffered with.
The medal went into a cupboard box that once had contained six small bars of soap and was now the depository of cloths and a metal cleaner. Mrs Slape shook her head over the herrings, reflecting that Gallelty was romantic, thinking that you could not believe much of what she said. The daily women rose from the table and rinsed their tea-cups but did not wash the saucers they had stood on.
Afterwards one of the daily women was only a little sceptical, while the other was certain and adamant. Mrs Slape said that her eyes had not been raised from the herrings, but Gallelty, who was doing only an idle thing with half her mind on it, said that she had clearly seen what there was to be seen, although her story did not at all tally with that of the daily women. Gallelty announced news of the visitation calmly, with neither tears nor fuss. As soon as she had finished speaking, the daily woman, intrigued by the whole idea, chimed in with a version of her own:
‘He came into the kitchen and stood at the door, just inside the door, with his panama hat on, smiling about and leaning forward.’
‘He was at my elbow,’ said Gallelty, ‘contradicting about the medal. He said he had won a silver medal and pointed out that this one was only bronze. He laughed over R. I. Twining, saying he was never any good. He used a rude expression.’
Mrs Slape laughed then, using an expression that was not quite rude but was one not generally employed. She did not for a moment believe that Mr Bird had entered the kitchen and had stood with his hat on by the door and had whispered a message to Gallelty.
‘I do not believe in things like that,’ she said, but did not explain what things these were.
‘Fancy,’ said the second daily woman, the one who had been bent
over a tea-cup at the sink, who had had her back to all that now was claimed to have taken place.
‘As clear as day,’ the other woman said, and asked for brandy or other household alcohol. ‘Anything at all,’ she said. ‘I am come over faint.’
Gallelty sat down and looked ahead of her at the dresser, at the onions fresh from France and the great collection of bric-à-brac.
‘Gallelty is in a trance,’ said the daily woman who had not seen anything.
‘Gallelty!’ cried Mrs Slape.
‘He was here as clear as day. He was smiling and he gave a laugh. He was amused about the medal. He is far beyond medals now, poor Mr Bird. He is in the land of his fathers.’
‘Gallelty hardly knew him,’ said Mrs Slape, feeling jealous that she herself had received no visitation. She had known Mr Bird for eighteen years, she had served him well.
‘We are not psychic, dear,’ said the daily woman who had been at first only a little sceptical and was now not sceptical at all. ‘It seems he passed amongst us and we missed him. Think of that, it could be happening all the time.’
‘I don’t believe in that,’ said Mrs Slape again. ‘Neurotic.’
An argument ensued between Mrs Slape and the woman who claimed to have seen Mr Bird, the woman saying that she was certainly not neurotic. She threatened to give in her notice, to complain to Nurse Clock.
‘I was not frightened,’ Gallelty reported. ‘He stood beside me, a man of death, and I never turned a hair. I welcomed him in my heart and then he faded away, like a mark you put Dabitoff on. Mrs Slape, I have never enjoyed so rich an experience.’
‘Like Aladdin,’ said she who had shared this experience. ‘Gallelty, you were rubbing the medal like Aladdin rubbed his lamp and suddenly Mr Bird appeared, though we saw him different. I saw him by the door and you by your elbow. What a story to tell!’ Carried away by the drama, she had forgotten that a moment ago she had been offended by Mrs Slape. Then, seeing her, she remembered. ‘It will not do, Mrs Slape. If you are jealous that you have been left out, I cannot help. Neither Gallelty nor I can help it in any way at all. It is not our affair, but you must take back what you said. I do not come here to be called a nerve case.’
The Boarding-House Page 18