‘Kate, darling,’ he had pleaded, holding her hands tightly against his breast, ‘you know it’s no good, don’t you? We have both fought for so long. It’s useless…Oh, Kate, my dear…’
‘Please!’ she had protested.
But he had gone on, in low, urgent tones: ‘You know I am sorry about Pat. There was no-one more eager than I that you should marry him; for I was afraid of this very thing happening…I love you, my dear…I worship you. Can’t you see that? You can…you’ve always known it. Oh, Kate, I need you so…Don’t be afraid.’
She strained away from him, and turned her face to one side: ‘Mrs Prince!’ The words had seemed wrenched from her.
‘Kate, I can explain…Look at me! I must explain all that; when can I see you? You need not worry about…Mrs Prince…She…we…I can’t explain here, there’s so much to say. When can I see you, Kate?’
‘Doctor, I can’t…I mustn’t! Don’t ask me.’
‘Don’t say doctor; Rodney, Kate.’
Kate had shaken her head desperately: ‘It can’t be!’
‘You love me, Kate. Look at me…You do, don’t you?’
She had remained silent as he forced her to meet his eyes. ‘Even if you won’t say it, I know you do; nothing can alter that.’ They had stood tense, their eyes holding, hers dark with misery.
On hearing the drawing-room door open he had released her hands and whispered urgently, ‘I will write you.’ Then, with as much calmness as he could command, he had gone on and told her about her mother, while she had stood looking blankly down at the table.
He had written to her, making an appointment, but she had neither answered the letter nor kept the appointment. Desperate, he had written again and yet again, with the same result. It had been Sarah who had provided the opportunity for seeing her alone, for he had had to send her into hospital; he had taken the task on himself of informing Kate and taking her, by car, to the workhouse. Her genuine anxiety for her mother had silenced any appeal he had intended making. He had driven her and Annie back to the Tolmaches that night, after having met them near the docks; Kate had protested strongly when he had proposed coming to the house to collect them. Annie’s delight in being near him and riding in the car again had been touching.
During the following weeks he had seen quite a lot of Kate, but never alone; there had always been Annie or the Tolmaches.
Sarah came out of the hospital and Annie had returned reluctantly home, and things took up their normal course again, at least on the surface. It was when he had decided that he could wait no longer, and that he must see her to explain his case, that he received the letter. He had opened it at breakfast, with Stella sitting opposite him…It had started, ‘Dear Doctor,’ and had ended abruptly, ‘Kate Hannigan’. It had told him in concise terms that he had a wife and a career to think about, she had her mother and Annie; her mother was still ill and, she knew, was worried about her; she must give her no cause for worry; finally, she loved the Tolmaches, and it would distress her greatly if she had to leave them entirely; but this she would have to do and seek work elsewhere unless he could see her point of view.
No word of love, just an ultimatum; yet he was sure that she was his, as if every line had proclaimed it. Why was it, he had asked himself at that moment, that he, a man of strong passions, as he knew himself to be, should be incapable of having but one woman in his life?…First, and from boyhood, it had been Stella. He had married Stella when the torch of his passion was at its height, and she had quenched it swiftly and surely. He had been unable to do anything about it, for as long as he had loved Stella he had been incapable of taking from another woman what she had withheld. Now Stella was like the remains of a burn; the scar she had left would always be visible to him, but it didn’t hurt any more…And Kate, this was something different, something higher than any feeling he had had for his wife, which, he knew now, had been all physical. But Kate had bound him as surely as ever Stella had, and he couldn’t seek relief from her either. Nor did he want to, in spite of her ultimatum.
He had looked across the table at Stella, so beautifully calm and insolently sure of herself. Divorce had crossed his mind…non-consummation of conjugal rights…Yes, he could get it on those grounds; but would he? No, he knew he would never do it…But she could divorce him…Would she, if he gave her cause? Not unless it would suit her purpose; and she would have to want it very much, for she was as vain as a peacock, and the very fact of his wanting another woman would make her fight. The whole position had seemed impossible.
An easing, at least, of the situation had pointed itself out after days of mental strife. True, there were feelings of patriotism in the gesture, but it was more as a means of escape that he had enlisted.
Rodney got out of the bath, and was towelling himself vigorously when Mary’s voice, following a knock, came through the bathroom door: ‘Doctor Swinburn’s downstairs, sir; would you like to see him?’
‘Why, yes!’ Rodney called back. ‘Tell him to wait a second; I’ll be right down.’
Swinburn had been his locum at one time, then, under pressure of work, he had taken him on as assistant. Now he was in charge and, thought Rodney, thinking himself no end of a fellow, I bet. He had found traits in Swinburn’s character which had become evident only through time, and which he did not like; a certain meanness and lack of sympathy and an eye to the main chance were among them. Getting into a dressing-gown he went downstairs and found him in the study.
Doctor Swinburn, a lean young man of middle height, with dark-brown eyes and fair, crinkly hair, a sensual mouth, and a nose that could only be described as pinched, greeted Rodney effusively. They shook hands, and he offered Rodney a cigarette, and lit it for him. ‘You’re looking fit,’ he said, ‘although seeing you without your beard is a bit of a shock.’
‘It was a bit of a shock to me at first,’ laughed Rodney. ‘I’m used to it now. Only it’s this continual shaving that gets me down.’
‘You’ll have to let it grow before you come back on the job, or the ladies won’t like it,’ chuckled Swinburn.
Rodney frowned inwardly. That was the kind of chat that made him annoyed with Swinburn. ‘How’s everything?’ he asked.
‘Up to the eyes,’ said Swinburn. ‘Half the calls are damned unnecessary…such as Lady Cuthbert-Harris. I had a time with her after you left; she wouldn’t believe you had gone, wouldn’t have me near her; she demanded to know where you were every time I saw her, and said that you must come as you were the only one who understood her. Still I persevered, as one call on her equals a day’s work around the docks. But it is hard going. I spend my visits answering questions about you, and tell her you send enquiries about her by every letter…’
‘You’ve no right to say that!’ broke in Rodney, somewhat sharply. ‘That woman’s got enough ideas in her head already.’
‘Well, what can I say? We don’t want to lose her.’
‘We certainly shall if it depends on me visiting her, for I’ve intended passing her on to you for some time. I never could stand the woman.’
‘What will you do when you get the socks? She’s knitting some for you,’ laughed Swinburn.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Rodney.
‘Still, it’s people like her who keep the practice going,’ said Swinburn smugly. ‘You know, your books are in a heck of a mess. Some of these dockites haven’t paid for as long as six years; I’ve been rounding them up.’
‘I don’t want them rounded up,’ said Rodney stiffly. ‘Some of them can’t eat, let alone pay doctor’s bills.’
Fool! thought Swinburn…Can’t eat, indeed! No, but they can drink…Still, keep on the right side of him…‘Well, just as you say,’ he said. ‘But it’s a devil of a lot of money you’re out. I was only thinking for your good.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but don’t press any of them.’
Swinburn looked at him with ill-concealed resentment…All right for him, with his damned private income; he can afford to
talk big. Wonder how much that Hannigan girl has to do with his kindness to the poor? he asked himself. There’s never smoke without fire; damn funny rumours going around about her kid.
‘You know about old Tolmache dying, I suppose?’ he asked Rodney, scrutinising his face for any confirmation of the rumours his words might evoke.
‘No,’ said Rodney. ‘Which one? And when did it happen?’ The very mention of the Tolmaches had brought a quickening of his pulse, but he showed nothing of it in his query, his tone implying professional interest only.
‘A fortnight ago; the elder one, Rex. And the other two seem to have gone all to pieces lately, since they lost their girl.’
‘Lost their girl?’
Swinburn noticed that although Prince’s face didn’t alter he pressed the cigarette he was holding to his mouth quite flat between his finger and thumb. ‘Yes, she went home to look after her mother. It was either that or the workhouse…I had to put it to her quite plainly. The mother couldn’t be left alone, with just neighbours popping in, she needs constant attention. I told her her mother couldn’t last long, and if she went into the workhouse it would be to die. So she left the Tolmaches and went home.’
Staring at Swinburn with an expressionless face, Rodney thought, God, I thought he meant she was dead! But Kate, back in the fifteen streets! All day, every day, living practically in that kitchen, cut off from the Tolmaches and all they stood for…For a moment he experienced the pain that the wrench must have been to her. Sarah might linger on for months…years even…with care and attention. And Kate getting older, living alone…For he knew the Tolmaches had spoiled her for ever for the fifteen streets and the companionship that community had to offer. Mentally she’d be alone, and he could do nothing. Gone even was the chance of seeing her on this leave; he couldn’t go to the fifteen streets, she would only be disconcerted, knowing that it would upset her mother.
He’s not giving much away, said Swinburn to himself, but he didn’t squash that cigarette for nothing. ‘Well,’ he remarked, getting up, ‘I must be on the move again. I just called in to see if I could do anything for Mrs Prince.’ His eyes flicked away and he turned towards the door; and Rodney thought, Good Lord, him too.
Rodney felt a sudden pity for Swinburn, for it seemed such a frightful waste for anyone to lavish affection on Stella; it was like falling in love with the statue of de Milo. ‘I’ll tell her you called,’ he said. ‘I’ll be seeing you again; I’ll look in at the surgery at the beginning of the week.’
‘You’ll see me tonight,’ said Swinburn, continuing towards the front door, ‘I’m coming to dinner…See you later, then, goodbye.’
Rodney returned upstairs. So there was a dinner tonight: Barrington; Tollyer, her publisher; that modern poet chap, with his hair on his shoulders; and Swinburn. For two pins he’d make a dash and get a train home…Then there’d be the question: Where was Stella? and ‘It’s just as I expected’ looks from Frank. There was nothing for it but to stick it out.
He found his room struck cold, after the warmth of his bath and the room downstairs. The fire was alight, but as yet giving off no heat. So he took a change of underwear and a suit out of the wardrobe and went into the room across the landing.
Stella’s room…her own, of which he had no part, the room she had made for herself after their final break. Funny, he thought, I haven’t been in this room half a dozen times in three years. As he dressed he looked around; it expressed her perfectly, everything ice-blue and gold, all except the old walnut bureau that stood in the deep shadow of the recess. The sight of that simple piece of furniture brought back to his mind the day they had bought it…that had been one of their happy days, when Stella had given way to the excitement and thrill of furnishing a house. The bureau was one of the few pieces left of those they had chosen together; all the others had been gradually replaced. He thought of the young man who had sold the bureau to them; he had sensed their excitement and added to it by betting them they would never find the secret drawer. Rodney had soon found the button which would release the spring, but he had kept the knowledge to himself, leaving to Stella the pleasure of discovery.
Looking down on the bureau now he felt a sudden sadness. Gone for ever was the wonder of life that had seemed to be opening for him when they had bought it. Gently pulling open the right-hand side drawer, he felt in the roof for the button. Pressing it, he watched the narrow top of the desk slowly rise, exposing two sets of two drawers, divided by a miniature cupboard, and he felt again the romance of the workmanship and ingenuity. He opened one of the tiny drawers and pressed another button. The door of the cupboard swung open, revealing an exquisitely panelled recess in satinwood…He could almost hear Stella’s squeal of delight on that bygone day…such a faraway day, for now she apparently used the desk only as a receptacle for broken pieces of jewellery…Inside the cupboard was a square box, filling most of the space. He took it out and idly examined it. The lid was in a beautiful mosaic pattern of mother-of-pearl. Just as idly he lifted the lid; then stood staring down at the collection of tubes within. Two were full, but the majority empty and tightly rolled up. After reading the writing on one of the tubes, which was in both French and English, he stood staring fixedly at the box for some time. Then he opened the cylindrical box which was partly covered by the tubes.
Slowly the blood drained from his face. Like one in a trance, he closed the secret drawer and, taking the mother-of-pearl box, he returned to his room.
His discovery had given him the biggest shock of his life, and, for the moment, he was quite incapable of thinking; he could only feel. As he stood looking down into the frozen garden, some atom of respect that he still retained for his wife cried out…Don’t let this be! She couldn’t have done it…But, then, she had done it, and with what success!
He stared again at the box, and all that it implied rushed into his mind, searing it as with a hot iron. Right from the beginning, from the night of their marriage she must have practised this. From where had she obtained such knowledge? she was barely twenty at the time. She had deliberately killed…yes, that was the word…she had killed every chance of giving him a child from the word go, and he had never for a second suspected it. How could he? So gentle, so fragile, so…virginal a creature. She had fooled him, oh, so easily! How she must have been laughing all these years!
He could see her now, with that pathetic air, when he had spoken of children. So hurt had she looked that at times it had wrung his heart, feeling that she suffered the miss as greatly as he…Explained now, also, was the freezing attitude which could leave him distraught and the rages which his spontaneous lovemaking would bring about…there were the times when she had been unprepared. And all these years he had been duped by that delicate, gentle creature! Of how many sons had she deprived him? Had she withheld herself after having given him one son, how different life would have been!…His son. His mind conjured up a boy of nearly fourteen, bursting with vitality, eyes bright with the eagerness of life. He would be home for the holidays now, turning the house upside down, thumping up the stairs calling…‘Father!…where are you, father?’
Rodney listened. The cry of ‘Father! father!’ reechoed from his mind through the stillness of the house. He shuddered violently and ground his teeth. Waves of hatred swept through him…Where was she? If he could only get his hands on her!
Recognising the strength of his emotion, a fear took its place and he realised he must not see her yet, but must get out of the house and try to walk this off, giving himself time to let the blow settle and rest among the many hurts she had dealt him. For he knew that, should he encounter her now, he would kill her as surely as she had killed his sons.
He locked the box in his suitcase, and put on his greatcoat and went downstairs. Mrs Summers hurried out of the kitchen: ‘It’s all ready, sir. I hope you enjoy…’ She stopped, taking in his outdoor apparel and, most of all, the change in him from half an hour ago. He looked ill, as if he had had a shock…But there’d bee
n nobody in the house except Doctor Swinburn. Ah! perhaps that was it! He had found out about him and the missis. Although, what with them separate rooms an’ all, you wouldn’t have thought he’d have minded like this. But there was nowt so funny as men; just look at her Sep.
‘I’m sorry, cook, I’ve got to go out.’ His hands fumbled with his hat.
‘That’s all right, sir, that’s all right,’ she said gently. ‘Perhaps you’ll feel like it when you come back.’
‘Yes. I may feel more like it when I return.’
She watched him leave. The straightness had gone out of his back, he seemed humped, somehow. She returned to her kitchen and sat down; and suddenly began to cry, without knowing the reason.
It had been three o’clock when Rodney had left the house. He had walked right through Shields to the sea. But there were soldiers everywhere, mostly near the sea, which he was wont to seek as a balm. He had walked back through the town, choosing the back streets and alleys like someone trying to escape, through Tyne Dock and East Jarrow, and on to the Davidsons. He had turned his mind from the fifteen streets as he passed them in the darkness of the early evening; Kate must not come into this pit of hate which no walking or reasonable thinking seemed to erase.
Peter and Peggy and the two children were having late tea when he walked in on them. In the enthusiasm of shaking hands and exclamations of delight at seeing him, they did not, for the moment, take in his weariness and the drawn, strained look about his eyes. He smiled on the children, but hardly spoke. Michael and Cathleen clambered about him, shouting, ‘Where’s your beard, Uncle Rodney?’ until Peggy ordered them to finish their tea.
Having packed them off to the kitchen to Anna, she turned to Rodney: ‘Sure you won’t have something to eat, Rodney?’ she asked looking hard at him.
Kate Hannigan Page 14