The Wind Off the Sea

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘But suppose my husband’s suffering from a heart attack, doctor?’

  ‘If he was, believe you me you’d soon know about it, Mrs Tate.’

  Eventually, after a long morning alternating between anxiety over Hugh and anxiety over her exhibition, Loopy heard Gwen letting Dr Farnsworth into the house. She finally stopped her measured pacing of the carpet when he had finished his examination of her husband.

  ‘Well?’ Loopy asked at once, as Dr Farnsworth ambled into the room, black Gladstone bag in one hand, his other hand searching his pocket for his packet of cigarettes.

  ‘That coffee still hot?’ he wondered, nodding at the pot on a tray by the window. Loopy shook her head in return and lit one of her own cigarettes. ‘Then I wouldn’t say no to a sherry. It’s been one of those mornings.’

  Loopy eyed the untidy bear of a man who was now lighting an untipped cigarette with a cheap nickel lighter, and with an inward sigh poured a small glass of Dry Fly from the decanter.

  ‘So how is my husband?’ she asked, handing over the drink. ‘Is it his heart?’

  ‘Hard to say really,’ Dr Farnsworth replied, sinking into an armchair. ‘I mean I don’t think for one moment it is – but then I can’t be sure without a fuller examination.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t you perhaps be arranging that?’

  ‘If the patient shows any sign of worsening, I certainly shall, Mrs Tate. Fear not. Fear thee not.’

  The doctor drank half the glass of sherry in one, and tapped his ash into the fireplace.

  ‘Yes, it really has been one of those mornings. Two strangulated hernias – not one but two, mind you – and a prolapsed womb. Not the ideal end to a busy week. As for this flu bug—’

  ‘What do you suggest we do about my husband?’ Loopy interrupted. ‘He said he thought it was just indigestion.’

  ‘You know, sometimes I wonder why I bothered to study medicine, Mrs Tate. I take it you know how many years it takes to become a doctor? Yet the number of patients one has who think they can diagnose what’s wrong with them.’ Doctor Farnsworth shook his head and finished his sherry. ‘It could well be indigestion – but then I would rather be the one who decided that, not the patient. I’ll look in again on Monday.’

  He rose to his feet, brushed off some ash he had carelessly spilt down the front of his grubby yellow waistcoat and picked up his bag.

  ‘In the meantime?’ Loopy stopped him by the door. ‘What am I supposed to do in the meantime, please?’

  ‘What any good wife should do, I imagine, Mrs Tate,’ Dr Farnsworth replied with ill concealed irritation. ‘Keep a weather eye on him and see to his needs. And give me a call if your husband worsens. I’ll see myself out.’

  ‘Oh!’ Loopy cried in exasperation after the doctor had departed. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’

  To her amazement she found herself actually stamping her foot, and her amazement was entirely genuine since Loopy Tate most certainly was not a foot-stamper. But then as far as she was concerned, the man in the room immediately above her head was most certainly not suffering from any heart problems, at least not ones that could be solved by either medicine or surgery. Out of her frustration she was just about to pour herself a glass of sherry when on the floor above her she heard the banging of the stick she had left by her husband’s bed for emergency calling.

  ‘What is it? Darling?’ she enquired, after hurrying upstairs to find Hugh propped up against his pillows reading a newspaper which he at once put down with a sigh, just in time to assume his best sickly smile.

  ‘A little broth, I think, Loopy dear,’ he said weakly. ‘A little thin chicken broth with some pearl barley in it, and some toast, would be very welcome. Oh – and a lightly boiled egg perhaps.’

  ‘Did the doctor say you could eat?’

  ‘He said I must eat to keep up my strength.’

  ‘I’ll see what Gwen can rustle up.’

  ‘I’d rather you yourself did any rustling up that had to be done, Loopy darling. Gwen always overboils my eggs. And burns the toast.’

  ‘I have things to do—’

  ‘I’m really very sorry about this,’ Hugh said, his fingers playing at the edges of the newspaper’s pages. ‘It couldn’t have happened at a worse time; and I’m really so sorry.’

  ‘For yourself? Or what, Hugh? I don’t understand what you’re sorry about, really I don’t. No-one can help being ill, after all. No-one designs when they are ill, do they?’

  ‘I’m sorry about your exhibition, of course, darling.’ He looked at her with clear, strong and very bright eyes. ‘You having to miss the opening and all that, because of me. That was the last thing I would have wanted, to be ill just before your opening.’

  ‘I don’t remember anyone saying I was going to miss the opening, Hugh.’

  ‘I know,’ Hugh continued, staring sadly out of the window with a faraway look in his eyes, not having heard, ‘I know just how much this exhibition means to you.’

  ‘No, you don’t, Hugh. You couldn’t possibly know how much this exhibition means to me. No-one could know that. Not even I know it, yet.’

  ‘I think I do,’ Hugh clasped his hands together now, like a cleric. ‘And I’m just so sorry.’

  ‘Tell you what, let’s take it day by day, shall we, Hugh? See how you are tomorrow, and so on, yes? And if you’re feeling better Sunday night or Monday morning – always provided you are on the mend – then I’ll take myself up to town for the opening and then come right back down again. How does that sound to you?’

  ‘Absolutely fine. Provided I’m all right, of course. But honestly, Loopy, the way I’m feeling now – the pains keep coming and going, you know – the way I’m feeling now I doubt very much if I’m going to be much better by Monday.’

  ‘I sort of doubt that too, Hugh. But we’ll see, won’t we? We’ll just wait and see.’

  As Loopy was overseeing Hugh’s precious egg and toast, Waldo arrived. Refusing Loopy’s offer of some refreshment, Waldo asked her to stay out of the way while he took himself upstairs to see Hugh. Loopy protested weakly that her husband really shouldn’t have visitors, but Waldo took no notice because he didn’t believe it and neither did Loopy. With a small smile she took herself off back to the kitchen while Waldo vaulted up the stairs two at a time and bounded into Hugh’s room, catching him by surprise in the middle of the act of lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Very bad for your ticker, old boy,’ Waldo said as he took the freshly lit Senior Service and tossed it out of the open window. ‘And what’s more, you’re very bad for mine.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, Waldo? I thought you were in Berlin.’

  ‘I postponed Berlin till next week, old bean.’

  ‘No, Waldo. You can’t just postpone things like the Berlin trip to suit you.’

  ‘I just have, old man. And I will continue to do so if and when I feel like it. I’m not working for you, you know – I’m working with you, remember? And there’s nothing that can’t wait for a day or two in Berlin.’

  ‘As I just said, no can do.’

  ‘Yes can do, and you’re a rogue, Hugh, and a spoilsport. Besides being a spoilt brat.’

  ‘You can’t just burst into my bedroom and talk to me like that!’ Hugh protested.

  ‘Really?’ Waldo smiled. ‘Didn’t you see me just do it? Want me to do it all over again?’

  ‘I am not very well, Waldo. I have had these pains in my chest—’

  ‘Sure you have – and I’m growing a tail. Now I have orders for you—’

  ‘I do not take orders from you, Waldo. Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘In this instance you’re going to. I don’t expect you to get better this instant – but in about five minutes, that will be fine. OK?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Hugh protested. ‘I can’t just get better when I feel like it.’

  ‘There’s to be a distinct improvement by tonight, so much so that by tomorrow morning you’re going to be amazed how well you are,’ Wa
ldo continued. ‘And by evening – why, you are going to be just as right as rain.’

  ‘You’ve taken leave of your senses.’

  ‘No, no, you’re the one who’s done that – because if you don’t do what I say, I am going to spill the famous beans.’

  ‘I do not have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m going to tell your wife all about you and Miss Meggie Gore-Stewart.’

  Hugh stared at him intently, his hands gripping the top of his crisp linen bed sheet.

  ‘There is nothing to tell about Meggie and me, and you damn well know it.’

  ‘Is there something wrong with you? Are you ill, well, or faking it? While we’re playing truth dare and promise—’

  ‘There is nothing whatsoever between Meggie and me and you know it, Waldo.’

  ‘Who’s your wife going to believe, Hugh? You or me? At the moment I am considerably more in her favour than you are, old bean.’

  ‘There is nothing whatsoever between Meggie— and do stop saying old bean.’

  ‘You keep saying there’s nothing between you and Meggie – and as I keep asking, who is going to believe you? Old boy? If you don’t pull yourself together, old sport, and allow your beautiful wife to enjoy one of the most exciting things that has happened to her, not only shall I refuse to go to Germany on behalf of your government and do what only I can do there – I’ll tell you what else I’m going to do.’

  ‘I’m all ears, Astley,’ Hugh said tightly. ‘But I can tell you this in advance – no deal.’

  ‘You’ll change your mind when you’ve listened to this,’ Waldo assured him. ‘If you don’t play ball – well, since you are too ill to move from your bed, and since you demand absolute first rate nursing care and attention during the next few days while they find out what exactly is wrong with you, at my expense I shall have you transported to the very best of nursing homes on the south coast, where not only will you receive much better care and attention than you would at home, they will also run exhaustive – and possibly some rather painful – tests to establish exactly what is causing these sudden pains in your chest.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’ Hugh stared up at him in undisguised horror.

  Waldo smiled and picked up the telephone by Hugh’s bed, dialling for the operator. Having given her the required number he held the receiver to Hugh’s ear.

  ‘The Pines Nursing Home and Clinic,’ a voice said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Hello,’ Waldo said, taking the phone away from Hugh and placing it to his own ear. ‘The Pines Nursing Home? This is Mr Waldo Astley speaking. I telephoned you earlier today about a friend of mine who needs nursing and examination – that’s right – Captain Hugh Tate, Shelborne, Bexham on Sea – absolutely correct. I just want to make sure you still have a bed for him? Good. Thank you so much – I shall call you back in about an hour to confirm or cancel. Good day to you.’

  Waldo smiled at Hugh who glowered back at him. ‘Feeling better yet?’

  ‘I feel worse by the minute,’ Hugh growled.

  ‘Excellent. And conscience doth make cowards of us all. Thanks to you I now have to make the return trip to London in order that the show will go on – which I assure you it most certainly will, Captain Tate. And so I bid you good day – and get well soon. Real soon.’

  Hugh’s recovery was purely remarkable. That evening he was well enough to take a double whisky and a good helping of fish pie followed by rhubarb and custard, and the following day he was well enough to be up and dressed and down for a roast lunch. Having left him in the tender care of Judy while she went back up to London to put the finishing touches to the hanging of her pictures and give interviews to two less than half interested art critics, Loopy returned to Bexham in time to witness her husband’s return to full and glorious health.

  ‘I wonder what it might have been,’ she mused over lunch.

  ‘What I first thought, I imagine,’ Hugh replied. ‘A bad attack of indigestion.’

  ‘Oh, of course!’ Loopy said. ‘Acid indigestion. Of course!’

  Chapter Twelve

  No-one was looking at the paintings, no-one at all. It had been bad enough at first when it had seemed that no-one was going to show up at all, and after over half an hour of surveying a room empty of all but Waldo, the two gallery assistants and herself Loopy was all for calling it a day and a very bad one at that. Then suddenly as if on cue the place filled up with a crowd of chattering people, many of whom seemed to know each other, and those that didn’t being soon introduced. As they helped themselves liberally to the drink on offer a cocktail party quickly developed, and within another quarter of an hour it was barely possible to see any of the hung paintings due to a fog of cigarette smoke from the gathered assembly.

  ‘Going very well, I would say,’ one of the gallery assistants remarked en passant. She was a pretty blonde woman of great style, typical of the kind hired by galleries for very little money, only too glad to leave their equally chic homes, and possibly their boring husbands, to go out to work for free in smart places in which they might get snapped for The Tatler.

  Since by now even fewer people were paying any attention to the paintings Loopy was utterly amazed by the young woman’s remark, so much so that she grabbed Waldo’s arm as he ambled by, and dragged him to one side.

  ‘No-one has looked at the paintings at all!’ she hissed out of the side of her mouth. ‘No-one – but no-one!’

  ‘I keep telling you, Loopy – this is the way it is at openings.’

  ‘People go to the opening of an exhibition and don’t look at the work? You’re kidding me!’

  ‘We all do it.’

  ‘Never! Never once in my life!’

  ‘Never once? Not even when you were young?’

  ‘Well yes – I suppose I might have done when I was young, yes – but that’s different.’

  ‘A lot of these people are young, Loopy.’

  ‘So, there are some bright young things here. But there are also some not so young and not so bright older things – and they’re all carrying on as if it’s a cocktail party!’

  ‘The way of the world – or rather the way of the art world. Now come on, try to relax. I know this is probably one of the worst moments of your life – but try to enjoy it.’

  ‘One of the worst? It is the worst! I never for one moment imagined I would feel so – so exposed! Having a lot of total strangers arrive up here, to not stare at your work!’

  ‘If you’re that nervous, you should be happy that’s what they’re doing. You should be rejoicing that they all have their backs to your paintings. If you’re feeling that exposed, they’re doing the right thing, surely?’

  ‘You’re incorrigible, Waldo.’ Loopy laughed, at last. ‘You really are. I feel as if I have nothing on, actually.’

  ‘OK, a fellow can dream.’ Waldo gave a little cough, and then smiled. ‘Now I am going to leave you in the very capable hands of Adam Forster here, who is already a fan and has been dying to talk to you all evening, while I go off and try to find out what the word on the street is.’

  Before she could protest, Loopy found herself engaged in conversation with a tall, lanky, bespectacled young man with a shock of frizzy hair, half of which seemed to fall across his eyes so that he spent most of the time tossing his head back. In her highly nervous state the motion started to mesmerise Loopy even as she pretended to listen to his opinions on everything from politics to Art.

  ‘Good news!’ Waldo exclaimed happily on his return some half an hour later. ‘You seen how many red dots there are?’

  Loopy looked around, and then eased her way through the throng to the nearest wall to discover that four out of the eight paintings hanging on it had small red dots fixed to them to show they were sold. Hardly able to contain her delight, she proceeded to do a tour of the gallery as best she could, coming to the happy conclusion that over fifty per cent of the paintings on show had already been accounted for. Hardly able to belie
ve her good fortune she threaded her way back through the buzzing guests to find Waldo.

  ‘I have another surprise for you, Mrs Tate – turn round slowly, and try not to drop down dead from shock.’

  Loopy did as asked, to find Hugh standing in front of her dressed in his best and bearing a bunch of flowers cut from their garden.

  ‘Hugh! Oh, Hugh – what a lovely surprise!’

  Loopy flung her arms round her husband. Taken quite aback, he was forced to hold his bouquet to one side, and laughed as Loopy hugged him, almost desperately.

  ‘Oh, Hugh! Hugh darling!’ Tears were welling in Loopy’s eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what this means! I really can’t!’

  ‘Really?’ Hugh smiled. ‘I say.’ He cleared his throat

  ‘This is wonderful, Hugh! I can’t tell you!’ She stood back. ‘And guess what? I even seem to have sold some paintings. There must be a lot of people here with more money than taste.’

  Hugh chuckled. ‘That’s terrific, Loopy,’ he said. ‘How many do you think you might have sold?’

  ‘Might have? Have have! I’ve sold nearly half!’

  ‘I say. Nearly half? I say!’

  Hugh laughed aloud, obviously delighted, beaming at Loopy as she took him by the hand to lead him past some of her red-dotted paintings.

  ‘Well, I do say,’ Hugh said, smiling with pleasure. ‘You must be quite good after all.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I can’t be all bad,’ Loopy concluded dreamily, staring yet again at a picture with a red dot on it.

  ‘Sorry – excuse me – but are you the artist?’ a young man asked, having overheard. ‘You’re more than not bad, if I may say so – in fact you are extremely talented. And even prettier than some of your pictures.’

  ‘But much more expensive,’ Hugh said with a proprietary smile, pulling Loopy slightly to him. ‘You couldn’t possibly afford her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Loopy said to the young man. ‘You’re most kind.’