by Lynn Brock
Over his telephone the doctor arranged with a nursing-home, while the Whalleys, in a hurried undertone, strove to adjust their plans to the practical necessities of the moment. He hung up the receiver and turned to them again. ‘Yes, Mrs Whalley, Mr Hilton can operate at three o’clock. He is at the home now and would like to see you.’ They embraced in the hall of the nursing-home under the placid, interested eyes of the matron, and Whalley scurried back to Camphill to pack the two battered suitcases. When, towards five o’clock, he reached the home again, he was shown into the matron’s room. The placid, capable-looking woman looked up from her tea-tray and rose, brushing a crumb from her lower lip.
‘Well?’ he asked hurriedly. ‘Is the operation over?’
She laid a podgy hand on his sleeve.
‘Yes, Mr Whalley. Mr Hilton operated at three. But—you will be very brave, won’t you—Mr Hilton and Mr Carruthers decided at once that it would be necessary to amputate the arm.’
He stared at her speechlessly. Amputate—cut off Elsa’s arm … Elsa without an arm? Christ. What had this woman said? What had they done to her?
‘Sit down for a moment,’ the matron advised. ‘Perhaps you would like something? Naturally, it is a great shock for you. But it was absolutely necessary. The operation has been most satisfactory. Mrs Whalley was very plucky. She’s still asleep, of course. Oh, her things are in that suitcase, I suppose?’
Most satisfactory …
‘When can I see her?’ he asked at length.
‘Well, perhaps you will ring up in the morning. We shall be able to judge better then. Are you on the telephone, in case—? No? Very well, then, you’ll ring up in the morning. Good afternoon, Mr Whalley, I’m so very sorry.’
The matron went back to her tray. She was a kindly woman and she was sorry for the plucky little thing in No. 14—just as she was sorry for the cancer case in No. 13 and the tetanus case in No. 15. But, one way or another—as probationer, nurse, theatre sister, and matron—she had had thirty years of it now. And, really, if one allowed oneself to think of patients as anything else—a little to her annoyance, she discovered that her tea had grown too strong and that the hot water was tepid.
From the little hotel at which he had engaged a bedroom Whalley rang up Mr Loxton’s house. Mr Loxton, however, was in Belgium, on business, and was not expected to return for some days. The Canynges were in Scotland; he sent off a wire to Mrs Canynge and then rang up the nursing-home. ‘Mrs Whalley is going on quite satisfactorily,’ a cheerful voice informed him, and then changed its tone. ‘Oh, Nurse White, Matron wants clean sheets in number 4.’
At ten o’clock he rang up again and received the same reply. The dreary smoke-room of the hotel was lighted by a single whistling gas-jet and reeked with the cigars of two commercial travellers who eyed his restless silence with suspicion as they talked knowingly. A little after eleven he went out, and after some aimless wandering made his way to the nursing-home.
It was past midnight. The quiet street was already asleep, save for the lighted windows of the home. Outside it waited half a dozen big cars, whose chauffeurs dozed in their seats or read their evening newspapers by the light of a headlamp. ‘Say, Bill—what’s this yere gold standard they’re makin’ such a fuss about?’ one asked. Whalley stood, looking up at the windows, for a little time, wondering which was hers. Was she awake? Was she in pain? Was she safe? Had they finished with her? Her arm—Good God, what had become of it—her arm that had strained him to her—he caught at the railings to steady himself. The chauffeurs looked at him with a grin.
Two doctors came down the steps, laughing. ‘“Oh, no,” she said. “But it’s the first by my second husband.”’ Whalley went back to his hotel to lie awake all night, listening to the gurgling of the cistern in the lavatory next door.
The matron was grave next morning. Another operation had been necessary. Mrs Whalley was unconscious; but Mr Hilton hoped that everything would be all right. No. It was out of the question that he should see her. But would he leave the telephone number of the hotel?
He was lying on the still unmade bed towards midday when the boots came to summon him to the telephone. The matron’s placid, capable voice answered his curt ‘Whalley speaking.’
‘I’m afraid I have very terrible news for you, Mr Whalley. Your wife died a few minutes ago. She never recovered consciousness. She had no pain. I’m very sorry. Will you come?’
He heard someone’s voice say, ‘Yes. I’ll go.’
CHAPTER VI
1
MR KNAYLE heard the news that afternoon on his way to play bridge at the Grevilles’. As he passed the Canynges’ house, Mrs Canynge, emerging from them in a sporting two-seater, all but ran him down. She pulled up with screaming brakes and leaned out to him as he approached the car.
‘Have you heard, Harvey? Elsa is dead.’
‘Dead?’ he repeated, watching her dab her eyes with her handkerchief.
She blubbered for a little space while he patted her hand vaguely. There was no trace of sisterhood with Elsa in her full, rather heavy face; she was a Loxton. He had never liked her very much, and he knew that she and her husband had been jealous of Elsa before her marriage, frigid towards her after it. She looked very plain when she blubbered, he reflected. Blubbering was the only word for it. He could think of nothing to say, could feel nothing but impatience for further information. How long would she consider it necessary to go on blubbering? He wouldn’t say, ‘Good God,’ or ‘My God,’ or repeat ‘Dead?’ He mustn’t think of the shock to himself—of what he himself was thinking. He must think that she was dead and feel terribly sorry for her—because she was dead. ‘Good God!’ he said at length. ‘Dead?’
‘She died this morning in St Margaret’s nursing-home,’ sobbed Mrs Canynge. ‘I—I haven’t been kind to her—since her marriage, Harvey. I shall never forgive myself.’
Thinking of herself. ‘But what happened? A motoring accident?’
‘No. She got a thorn in her hand—out at that dreadful place. She must have neglected it. They took off her arm—but it was too late. Oh—’
‘Good God.’
Another ‘Good God.’ She was dead and he could only say ‘Good God.’ And now he was thinking about himself again and what he could say and couldn’t say.
Mrs Canynge blew her nose and dropped her handkerchief to the level of her nose, holding it ready, and looking at him over it. ‘Harold and I were in Scotland. We only got back an hour ago—we’ve heard practically nothing yet. I’m so stunned that I don’t know what I’m saying or doing. Poor darling. Unlucky thing. What an ending—no one with her—no one she loved—no one who loved her. They’ve taken her to the mortuary chapel at St Jude’s. Oh, it’s too perfectly ghastly. Well—now I have to go and get things—’
‘Where is Whalley? In Rockwood?’
‘Yes. I haven’t seen him. I don’t want to see him. He’s staying at an appalling little hotel—the something-or-other Arms, in one of those little side-streets off the Mall. Can you believe it, Harvey—he refused to see us when we went there. Refused point-blank to see us. When we sent up a message to ask when the funeral would be, he sent down a note saying that there would be no funeral—that she would be cremated and her ashes scattered out at that awful place he took her to at Camphill. Uncle Richard is perfectly furious. Harold got him on the ’phone. He’s coming back at once from Brussels by air. I needn’t tell you that we won’t hear of any ghastly mummery of that sort. I must go now. Good-bye, Harvey. You’ve been just sweet to me.’
Mr Knayle went on slowly towards the Grevilles’ house. The road was a very quiet one; the few big houses whose grounds bordered it were concealed from view by tall trees, already turning to gold and russet. There was no one in sight. He stopped, bowed his head, and covered his eyes with his hands.
‘My dear. My poor, lovely little dear—’
His hand dropped and he raised his eyes. It was a mild, yet crisp, afternoon, the shrubberies had a pungent, fa
intly musty smell; the first gentle melancholy of autumn was in the air. She had always been fond of trees, and she would never see the autumn tints again. No funeral. He was glad of that. She had been light as air. The air would bear her up for ever.
He went on to the Grevilles’ and won thirty shillings—he was very punctilious regarding the keeping of engagements. On his homeward journey he called at Whalley’s hotel to leave a card of sympathy. A portly, melancholy man, whom he recognised as Rockwood’s most select undertaker, saluted him in the fusty little hall. From him he learned that the ceremony at the crematorium would take place on the following morning. Then he went to a florist’s.
‘I want,’ he said, ‘all the jolliest, gayest, brightest flowers you have in the shop.’
He was on foot that afternoon, because his car had developed gear-box trouble and had gone into a garage for repair that morning. On his way to Downview Road he met a number of people to whom he told his news. They were horrified, shocked, grieved or interested for a moment or two and then, in most cases, had some other Rockwood calamity to tell him about, connected with themselves or their friends By the time he reached his flat his news was old for him and dulled by other peoples’ woes; she had been dead a long time. He didn’t want to tell anyone else about it. Chidgey was waiting at the flat with the report that the car would not available for three days; two pinions would have to be replaced. He was short with Chidgey about this.
When Hopgood brought him tea he told him about it. Hopgood said, ‘Dead, sir? Good God.’ And, after a moment, ‘Major Turill rang up to know if you’d play golf with him tomorrow morning at Dobury. Have you everything you require, sir?’
Hopgood told Chidgey, and Chidgey said, ‘Dead? Gawd.’ As Chidgey went away he found the Prossips’ maid emptying a bucket into one of the rubbish-bins and told her. She said, ‘Dead? Go on. You’re kiddin’.’ The Prossips were packing and Mr Prossip was busy nailing down a packing-case when she told him. He said, ‘Dead? Well, I’m damned.’ And sucked one of his thumbs which a nail had torn slightly a few minutes before. ‘Better put some iodine on that,’ he decided, frowning uneasily. ‘Bring me the bottle from my washstand, will you.’
After tea Mr Knayle went down and told Mr Ridgeway about it. Mr Ridgeway threw back his head and laughed with savage sharpness, and then sat down on his old sofa and said nothing for a long time.
‘I took the liberty of putting your name with mine on the card which will go with some flowers to the mortuary-chapel,’ Mr Knayle said at last. ‘I thought that perhaps you’d like to send some flowers.’
‘I’m sorry you did that, Knayle,’ said Mr Ridgeway unexpectedly. ‘It was kind of you to think of doing it. But I’m sorry you did it.’
‘Why?’ asked Mr Knayle reasonably.
‘Well—simply because my name isn’t Ridgeway.’
He pointed to the little table on which the dusty newspapers lay.
‘When you were alone here—that afternoon we went out to Camphill—you picked up one of those newspapers, didn’t you?’
‘I believe I did,’ Mr Knayle admitted, rather taken aback.
‘Perhaps you were a little surprised to find that it was a medical journal?’
‘I believe I was. Though—forgive me—are you a medical man?’
Mr Ridgeway nodded, then looked straight before him, producing phrases in little harsh, staccato chunks. ‘My real name is Winsley. I had a very large practice in Manchester. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Or, yes—I do know—though you wouldn’t understand in the least. You see—I always intended to tell her. I got into trouble—oh, it’s a long time ago now. Eleven years ago. A woman, of course—a woman I cared nothing about—a good, stupid poor creature. I lost my head—performed an operation—and she died. They struck me off the register, of course, and I went to gaol for two years. No. It was simply a rotten, silly, ugly business. All my own fault. You needn’t try to say anything polite. But I always meant to tell her. The first day I saw her—the day she and her husband came with you to look at the flat upstairs. I met you in the garden—but you don’t remember. She smiled at me—and I knew then that there was someone in the world I could tell about it and who could wipe it away—clean me of it—forgive me for it. I see you don’t understand. But I see you’re trying to understand. You were fond of her, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Knayle. ‘I was very fond of her.’
‘I always meant to tell her. I hated that she should speak to me and smile at me and not know. Well—that’s why I wish you hadn’t put Ridgeway on that card. However, it was very kind of you to think of it. There is to be no funeral, you say? Hell! I’m thinking that I should have had to buy a silk hat. Are you going away now?’
Mr Knayle was not even faintly surprised to find that he was not in the least shocked. He simply noted the fact: illegal operation—prison. Two months ago he would have been horrified to have found himself in the sitting-room of a man who had performed an illegal operation, talking to him intimately. But in that short space of time his whole outlook had altered—humbled itself. He was no longer a spectator, aloof and safe. Life had tapped him on the shoulder and told him that all kinds of queer things might, and probably would, happen to him. He had pictured himself scrambling for a place in a food-queue, for example—fighting for it with athletic young louts like those who had pushed him off the path that day. The things that happened in life had become imminent and acutely interesting. He was acutely interested in the fact that Mr Ridgeway’s hands had performed an illegal operation. He found himself looking at Mr Ridgeway with something that was almost respect, as a man who had passed through dangerous and desperate experiences. And this strange desire to confess to her—that was very interesting. So that was what he had been thinking about her, down there …
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay and smoke one of your cigarettes, if I may. Yes. I was very fond of her. I knew her when she was so high. Better still—let’s go along and change that card.’
2
The news had spread quickly through Rockwood and next morning the little mortuary chapel was smothered in flowers. A theatrical young curate declaimed some prayers; the undertaker’s men shouldered their burden. Whalley watched them put it into the motor-hearse and deck it carefully with the largest and most ornate wreaths and crosses. He got into the car which waited behind the hearse and, to the horror of the undertaker and his aides, lighted a cigarette. The two vehicles drove off into the morning mist, followed by the disapproving eyes of the curate, whose attempts at fraternal consolation had been received with a blank stare. Mr Knayle and Mr Ridgeway, too, lighted cigarettes and went home to breakfast.
The crematorium lay four miles away, at the further side of the city. As the little cortège descended from Rockwood it was swallowed up in a dense fog. The houses and streets disappeared; it moved on slowly, interminably, noiselessly, through a world of dirty cotton-wool. Glaring eyes appeared—hooted or clanged, angrily disappeared. The air in the big limousine smelt of countless deaths. Would it never end? Would she never have done with it?
They were stopping at last. A pillared façade looked out of the fog. The undertaker opened the door of the car commandingly and he got out, followed up the steps. The undertaker’s men had her—she was their business, their property. He followed, an unimportant detail of their solemn, high-class interment ritual. If he rushed at them and tried to wrest their burden from them, they would push him off for a madman—never dreaming that they were mad.
What was this cold, ugly, pitiless place? Half an imitation temple, half a Turkish bath, with a few shrubs in pots. They were putting her on a kind of little altar now, shaped like one of those high tombs one saw in old country graveyards. Now they were covering her with a purple cloth with a white cross—arranging it very carefully. They were going away from her now—they had finished their business with her.
The purple cloth was moving—it was going down, very slowly—terribly slowly—terribly
silently. It had stopped now—it lay flat. But she had gone on. Where? To what?
He sprang up from his knees with a strangled cry. They took him out into the fog and put him into the limousine and waited at its door until he lighted another cigarette. They left him then, silently.
The undertaker was at the door again, carrying something—exhibiting it. ‘The casket, sir. Where shall I say?’
‘To Camphill.’
‘Camphill? Very well, sir. I trust that everything has been to your satisfaction? Good morning.’
The fog had thickened and settled down for the day. Out at Camphill everything was lost in muffled blindness. He opened the gate and went in, undecided still, strayed forward, lost his bearings and stumbled into the incinerator. He strayed on, still undecided. Her garden? But no. The wire netting would shut her in. What did it matter where, so long as she was free?
The undertaker’s car had set him down at the head of the track and returned to Rockwood. When he had burnt the casket, he made his way to the hut, which his hasty packing of the suitcases had left in disorder. The clock had stopped; he wound it up and then attempted to sweep some clothes from a deck-chair. A gigantic hammer fell very softly upon his head and he pitched forward, pulling down the chair with him.
3
Next morning Mr Knayle called at the little hotel behind the Mall and, having learned that Whalley had not returned there since the preceding morning, decided to hire a taxi and drive out to Camphill. He found Whalley lying where he had fallen and brought him back to his flat.
For two days he lay in Mr Knayle’s bed, in a suit of Mr Knayle’s pyjamas, sometimes rambling, sometimes groping to the edge of consciousness, but slipping back always into a motionless stupor. There was not a great deal to be done. But Mr Knayle was curiously happy sitting hour after hour by his bed, interrupting his reading now and then to rearrange the bedclothes or stir the fire very softly. Sometimes, when the doctor had gone away, Mr Ridgeway came up, lifted one of the patient’s eyelids and felt his pulse, and then sat down by the fire with a newspaper for a little while.