The Gentle Surgeon

by Hilda Pressley

  Christine sat silent. Rob could be right. What if they had discovered these “traits” in each other after marriage? Would they still love each other? Did they love each other now? That was what they had to find out. As a general rule couples fell in love and married while their love was still a burning passion. Then later, when some of the passion had faded, they discovered hidden faults, sometimes of a nature that turned them against each other completely.

  Was it then a good thing to let passion die—as she and Robert had done? At least, for a while. Then discover each other afresh and, if they really loved each other, fall in love, all over again? For where did love begin and passion end? Could one separate the two? It was no new question, but it was one that was new to everyone facing it for the first time.

  She found herself wishing she and Robert had married while they had still been madly in love instead of waiting. They would doubtless have weathered any adverse revelations of each other.

  But she knew in her heart that this was inferior thinking. If they weathered it now their marriage would be on a much surer foundation. Either they loved each other or they didn’t. It was as simple as that.

  Robert’s last remark came to her again. She answered, “What would you say, then, Rob?”

  “Hm?” He had been deep in thought, too, apparently. “I don’t know, really. How long do you think it takes to get to know a person? Maybe it’s something that goes on for years—for life even. It’s quite a thought.” He paused as though the thought was weighing heavily upon him. Then his shoulders lifted as if he would shake off the problem. “Look, Chris, let’s just forget all this for a while, shall we? Come for a run with me.”

  He gave her a smiling glance and she felt herself responding. Perhaps they were on the verge of a new understanding, after all. Her heart lifted and she was smiling again.

  “All right, Rob. But take me home first and I’ll get out of my uniform.”

  When he drew up in the drive of Christine’s home Rob got out of the car with the same air of a welcome guest he used when they were engaged. Christine wondered whether her father was at home and what sort of reception he would give to Robert. He would be polite, of course. But friendly and welcoming?

  Hearing the car, Mrs. Townsend appeared from the garden at the side of the house.

  “I’ll wait for you out in the garden,” Robert said, solving, for Christine, the question of whether to ask him into the house.

  With a brief explanation to her mother Christine went indoors, leaving her to talk to Robert.

  Mr. Townsend was on the porch. “Hello, Chris. Is that John you have with you?” And when she told him no, “Huh! You young people. Can’t make your minds up, can you?”

  Christine smiled ruefully as she dashed upstairs. If only it were as easy as that. Perhaps it was for some people, for the majority. They met, fell in love, married, and that’s all there was to it. Sometimes they lived happily ever after, sometimes they just grubbed along, tolerating each other. Was she too much of an idealist herself? Christine wondered. For she wanted to remain in love with the man she married for the rest of her life. Was it too much to hope for?

  Obviously Robert was delighted with his new car. He drove out into the country making various remarks on the running qualities, the gear changes and how easy it was to drive compared with his old one.

  “You know, you should learn to drive, Chris. I’ll teach you.”

  “Would you, Rob? I think I’d like that. I wanted to learn to drive Father’s car some years ago, but he was against the idea.”

  “Probably thought once you could drive you’d always be borrowing it just when he needed it himself.”

  “Could be.”

  Christine marveled that they could be so easy and natural with each other again. It was difficult to realize that they had gone (to the extreme of breaking off their engagement. Perhaps their quarrels and moods had been merely a phase they had been passing through, and should never have been taken so seriously.

  As though thinking on similar lines himself, Robert put out his hand and patted her knee.

  “Like old times, isn’t it?”

  She gave him a smile and leaned her head against his shoulder as she had done so often before.

  “That’s right,” he said, a hint of pleasant amusement on his face. “Make yourself at home.”

  For a while Christine was content to idly watch the passing scenery. The limestone crags, typical of Yorkshire, which rose sheer before plunging down again, the stunted, rugged trees showing timidly their first green tips, and here and there the distant shaft of a coal mine.

  But presently she grew chilly in the open car and pulled the collar of her suede coat more closely around her neck.

  “Cold, darling?” Robert said at once. “I’ll stop as soon as there’s a clear stretch of road and pull up the hood.”

  His words, indicative of caring, brought a warm glow to her heart and she basked in it happily.

  The pale spring sun had disappeared over the horizon almost an hour ago and there Was little of the twilight left. By the time Robert had manipulated the hood it was quite dark inside the car. “There,” he said, settling in his seat again. “That better?”

  She looked at him and smiled. “Yes, thanks, Rob.”

  He gave her a tender glance and slipped his arms about her shoulders.

  “Chris, I’ve missed you,” he said softly.

  He leaned toward her and suddenly she felt his lips soft and warm on hers.

  “Rob—oh, Rob!” she whispered brokenly, clinging to him in a flood of emotion.

  They kissed with the fierce, passionate hunger of two people in love who have been separated for a long time and thought they had lost each other.

  A car hooting behind them and missing the car by only a few inches as it flew past brought Robert up with a jerk.

  “Heck, it’s time I had my lights on.”

  He switched them on, then sought for Christine’s hand.

  “I think you’d better drive on, Rob, don’t you?” she said in a half whisper, the blood racing in her veins with joy.

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “We’d better get off the main road, at any rate,” he murmured.

  He started up the car again and drove until they came to a signpost, where he turned off.

  “If we turn off again at the next one, we’ll be pointing in the direction of home,” he said.

  Christine sat in rather a bemused state. This was entirely unexpected. She never dreamed this would happen tonight. Rob loved her, after all. Everything was all right again.

  Now they were on a less frequented road. Presently, Robert pulled the car up on to a grass verge and switched off the engine. “Cigarette, Chris?” he asked.

  “No, thanks, Rob.”

  His hand, which had been reaching in his pocket, halted. “On second thoughts I don’t think I will either.” His arm slid around her shoulders. “Come to think of it, I’d much rather make love to you.” He began kissing her. “Darling, I love you. You’re so warm, and I’ve missed you: Say you love me.”

  He spoke quickly, his hands caressing her throat. With all her heart Christine felt herself responding to him.

  “Rob, I do love you.”

  His hand felt the bulky suede coat. “This damned coat, can’t get my arms around you properly—can’t get near you—” He unfastened it and put his arms around her underneath the coat, feeling her soft and warm. “Darling, I love you—please—I want you so.”

  Her mind, which had been dulled and bemused, suddenly became clear. Something was wrong. She couldn’t explain it. She loved him, but any vague thought of holding him by any means other than the strength of their love was banished in a split second of time.

  “Start up the car again, Rob. It’s time I was getting home.”

  He froze momentarily. “Home? Oh, come on, Chris. What’s the matter with you? You’re not a child. I thought you said you loved me?”

  “You and I appear t
o have different ideas about what love means, Rob,” she said in a hollow voice.

  “I suppose what you really mean is that I’ve got the wrong idea. Well, I think you have. You say you love me, but when it comes to the point you act as though I’m a stranger to you, as though you don’t trust me or something. If that’s your idea of love, it isn’t mine, and we’re back precisely where we were.”

  He started up the car. Christine huddled in her seat, feeling sick and miserable. Her disappointment in him was beyond belief. Was this the man she had fallen in love with so completely?

  She wanted to weep that this evening, which had begun with so much promise, was ending like this, and some of her confused thinking returned. Perhaps it was she who was in the wrong. Ought she to have been willing to show him just how much she loved him? That is, in the way he wanted? The desire to please him and to be loved by him was strong.

  “Rob, I’m sorry,” she said impulsively.

  He didn’t answer for a moment. His face was set in tense, angry lines.

  “So am I,” he said curtly. “Sorry I forced my attentions on you. You—you egg me on, then ... I don’t want to talk about it. You made me feel like I was something the cat brought in.”

  “But, Rob, that’s ridiculous!”

  He didn’t answer. He drove on in silence and did not speak until he turned his car into Christine’s drive.

  “Well, here’s where you wanted to be. Home.”

  “Rob, I wish I could make you understand. I feel the same as you do ... honestly. It’s just that I feel it’s better to wait.”

  He made a gesture of impatience and leaned on the steering wheel.

  “But don’t you see? That’s getting married for the wrong reason. That way, people get married before they’re properly prepared for it.”

  Christine found his logic hard to follow. “I think you’ve got it all wrong, Rob. I don’t know what’s come over you. You never used to have these odd ideas. Surely there’s only one reason why people marry. Because they’re in love and can’t face living apart from each other any longer. I don’t rightly know what you mean by being “prepared” for marriage. Either you want to or you don’t.”

  He reached out suddenly for the controls. “All right. Let’s say I don’t. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  He let in the clutch and put the car into bottom gear. There was nothing for Christine to do but say good night and get out. The car was roaring up the lane before she had reached the front door. All right. Let’s say I don’t. Let’s just leave it at that. Robert’s words hammered themselves mercilessly into her heart and blazoned in her mind like the flashing lights of a neon sign. She stood perfectly still in the porch, unable to think, aware of nothing except the pain in her heart and a sense of utter hopelessness.

  How long she remained there she didn’t know, but suddenly the door opened and her mother stood there.

  “Oh, it’s you, Chris. I heard a car and—” she broke off and looked at Christine more closely. “Is anything the matter, darling?”

  With conscious effort Christine moved, stepping inside the house.

  “It’s—all right, Mother. Nothing’s the matter.”

  “Oh? Well, you look rather peaky. Go along into the sitting room and I’ll bring you some supper.”

  “I don’t really want anything, Mother.”

  “Nonsense. Go along in there.”

  Too unhappy to protest any more, Christine did as her mother said. She was glad that her father was not there. The warmth of the fire drew her toward the hearth and she sat in front of it on the thick nylon rug.

  She stared into its red and orange depths, the yellow dancing flames, and, as though some of the warmth melted the ice around her heart, tears filled her eyes.

  It was all over. Finished. She knew it now. Everything Rob and she had ever planned, had ever dreamed about. None of it would ever come about. And Rob? She felt a disappointment in him as a person that left her completely desolated.

  She was glad when her mother came in. She didn’t want to dwell on some of the things Rob had said and all that had happened.

  “Here you are, darling. Now you just stay there by the fire and eat.”

  She put down the tray of coffee and sandwiches on a low table and busied herself pouring out, fussing a little. Christine smiled a little and looked up at her. “Thanks, Mother.”

  Mrs. Townsend took the armchair opposite. “Did I tell you, dear, I saw your Dr. Taylor the other day and I mentioned the idea of our little dinner party to him. It seemed the natural thing to do. And, of course, he said he’d be delighted.”

  “Yes, Mother, he said he’d seen you. I think it will be rather nice having him over, actually.”

  A look of relief crossed her mother’s face. “Oh, my dear, I’m so glad to hear you say that. I was beginning to wonder if, after all—I mean with Rob coming again...”

  “I’ve just got to try to put Rob out of my mind, Mother,” Christine said quietly.

  Her mother was silent for a moment, sympathy and understanding lining her face.

  “My dear, you will, I’m sure. It will take time, of course, because you’ve meant such a lot to each other and have made so many plans. But if you’ve made your mind up, then it’s best to put that part of your life behind you and begin to make other friends.”

  Christine put down, her cup. “Mother, I don’t want you to get any wrong ideas about Dr. Taylor and me. He has nothing whatever to do with Rob and me parting company. He and I are only friends—and not very firm friends at that. I haven’t known him very long and I think he has interests elsewhere.”

  “I know what you mean exactly. So don’t worry, Chris. I’m not anxious for you to marry. I just want you to be happy.”

  Christine didn’t realize until the following day that she had still not asked Robert why he had phoned her. But she shrugged the question off. What did it matter now, anyway? There was no point whatever in trying to find out. In any case, she did not see him for quite a few days, and when she did there was no opportunity for conversation.

  John came and went in theater as usual, and Christine fixed a suitable time for him to come to her house for dinner.

  He arrived about seven, looking even more distinguished in a dark gray lounge suit and a white shirt. Christine went outside to greet him, conscious that, somehow, all the unhappiness, the restlessness of spirit, had dropped from her like a cloak. “John, how nice of you to come,” she said warmly.

  He looked a little surprised. “It’s nice to be here, Christine.” She led him into the house where her father was waiting in the hall to welcome him.

  “Good to see you again, John. Come and have a drink.” They went into the sitting room, and Mrs. Townsend joined them for a glass of sherry.

  But before very long she went back into the kitchen to attend to the dinner.

  “You stay and talk to John,” she told Christine. “I can manage myself now.”

  Christine sipped her drink and watched John’s face as he talked to her father, aware again of the sense of peace and contentment she invariably felt in John’s presence. Now and then he gave her a half-smiling glance, as if to let her know that he was aware of her, too.

  Then after a while Mrs. Townsend called her husband into the kitchen and John and Christine were alone together.

  “Christine,” John said, “this is a happy house. It sets me longing for a place of my own—if only as a retreat from the busy world of hospital life.”

  “John, you bring your own peace with you,” she told him. “And you’ll always be welcome here.”

  His expression softened. “That’s really incredibly sweet of you. And your parents have been more than generous in their hospitality. I can’t tell you how much at home I feel here.” Then his eyes clouded a little. “All the same, you must agree that a place of one’s own is rather different.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  A place of one’s own usually meant sharing it with someone
to whom one really belonged. A husband or wife. Christine stared out of the window, suddenly feeling an outsider in her own home. The ultimate in happiness was to share a home with the man or woman you loved. But that, it seemed, was going to be denied her. “Christine...”

  John’s voice came gently to her ears. But before she could answer him, her mother came in to tell them that dinner was ready.

  She led the way into the dining room where conversation naturally became more general, from the weather and gardening to world affairs, the Common Market and death on the roads—and inevitably to coal-mining.

  “Do you ever take parties down into the mine, Mr. Townsend?” asked John.

  “Well, no, not very often. But I can take you down some Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning if you want to. Is that what you meant?”

  “Why, yes, I’d like to see what it’s like. Thank you very much, Mr. Townsend. I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  “Good. Let me know when you’re free and I’ll arrange it. Maybe Christine would like to come too, though, of course, she’s already been down.”

  They had coffee on the terrace at the back of the house, and after a while Christine found herself alone again with John. Neither spoke for a minute or two, then John asked:

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Christine—how are things between you and Dr. Marston these days? I have seen you together once or twice, and I wondered...”

  She shook her head. “We shan’t be seeing each other again. We’ve grown so far apart it seems we no longer speak the same language.”

  “Christine, I’m sorry.”

  Christine was silent for a while and ordinarily would have ended the conversation, but somehow she could talk to John as to no one else. Pride and pretence simply had no place.

  “How is it possible, John, for a person to be in love, yet not want to marry?”

  His eyes widened a little. “Speaking for myself, I’d say it’s quite impossible. I find it hard to understand such an attitude at all—especially where you’re concerned. But perhaps love means a different thing to different people. There may even be a kind of virtue in a man who shrinks from the responsibility of marriage. It means he doesn’t view the matter lightly.”