Again there came a pause in which, plainly, the same unspoken thought was uppermost in the minds of us three who were the sole witnesses of this near tragedy. And indeed, almost of one accord, we voiced our thought – our desire to give the youth, whose defenceless nature rather than any vicious tendencies had brought him to this extremity, a fresh start and a second chance. The sergeant of police, at considerable risk to his job, resolved to make no report upon the case, so that no court proceedings would result. The landlady, who seemed attached to her lodger offered a month’s free board until he should get upon his feet again. While I, making the last, and perhaps the least, contribution, came forward with seven pounds ten shillings for him to put back in the office safe.
Twenty years later, in the summer of 1949, I was crossing the Atlantic, returning from America to England, and, on the second day out from New York, while making the round of the promenade deck, I suddenly became aware of the scrutiny to which one of the other passengers was subjecting me. There could be no doubt about it. He was watching me, following me with his gaze every time I passed, his eyes filled with a troubled, almost pathetic intensity.
He was around forty, I judged – out of the corner of my eye – rather short in build, with a fair complexion, a good forehead from which his thin hair had begun to recede, and clear though rather shortsighted blue eyes. His appearance was certainly not that of a man who strikes up an acquaintance with strangers, and his dark suit, sober tie, and rimless spectacles, in fact everything about him, gave evidence of a serious and reserved disposition.
At this point the bugle sounded for lunch and I went below. The rest of the day I spent in my cabin. But on the following forenoon, as I came up for exercise at the same hour, I again observed my fellow voyager watching me, with that identical earnestness, from his deck chair.
And now I perceived that a lady was with him, obviously his wife. She was about his own age, very quiet and restrained, with brown eyes and slightly faded brown hair, dressed in a grey skirt and grey woollen cardigan. And she too was looking towards me with an interest that matched her husband’s, her expression holding also the same hint of diffident hesitation, even of distress, which marked his gaze.
The situation by this time had begun to intrigue me, and from the passenger list, supplied by my steward, I discovered that they were a Mr and Mrs John Quilter, of Ealing. Yet when another day passed without event, I began to feel that my curiosity must remain unssatisfied – Mr Quilter, I decided, was too shy to carry out his obvious desire to approach me. However, women are the braver sex, and on our final evening at sea it was Mrs Quilter who, with a firm pressure on his arm and a whispered word in his ear, urged her husband towards me as I passed along the deck.
‘Excuse me, Doctor. I wonder if I might introduce myself.’ He spoke almost breathlessly, offering me the visiting card which he held ready in his hand and studying my face to see if the name meant anything to me. Then, as it plainly did not, he went on with the same awkwardness. ‘If you could spare a few minutes… my wife and I would so like to have a word with you…”
I let him take me over and introduce me to his wife. A moment later I was occupying the vacant chair beside them. At first the conversation went haltingly, but when I asked him whether they had been spending a holiday in America he was quick to respond. Yes, he told me, it was their first visit, and after the years of austerity at home the experience had proved particularly pleasant. Yet it was not entirely a holiday trip. They had been making a tour of the north-eastern states, inspecting many of the summer recreational camps provided for young people there. Afterwards, they had attended centres in New York and a number of the larger cities to study the methods employed in dealing with youth groups, especially in respect of backward, maladjusted, and delinquent cases.
There was in his voice and manner, indeed in his whole personality, a genuine enthusiasm which was most disarming. Despite the peculiarities which had prefaced our meeting. I found myself liking him instinctively, drawn, as it were, by a bond of natural sympathy. Questioning him further, I learned that he and his wife had been active for the past fifteen years in the field of youth welfare. He was, by profession, a solicitor, but, in addition to his practice at the courts, found time to act as director of a charitable organisation devoted to the care of boys and girls, mostly from the depressed areas and city slums, who had been so unfortunate as to fall under the ban of the law.
As he spoke with real feeling, his wife joining in with an occasional restrained word, his grave eyes remaining all the time upon my face, I got a vivid picture of the work which they were doing – how they took these derelict adolescents, many of whom were physically unfit, delinquent and reformatory cases, ‘first offenders’ on probation, or under suspended sentence from the juvenile court, and, placing them in a healthy environment, restored and re-educated them, healed them in mind and body, sent them back into the world, trained in a useful handicraft, no longer potential criminals, castaways of society, but fit to take their place as worthy members of the community.
It was a work of rehabilitation and redemption which stirred the heart, and after a momentary silence, I asked him, with interest, what had directed his life into this particular channel.
The question had a strange effect upon him, for immediately, without giving himself time to pause, he took a sharp breath and exclaimed:
‘So you still do not remember me?’
Surprised and puzzled, I shook my head: to the best of my belief I had never seen him in my life before.
‘I’ve wanted to get in touch with you for many years,’ he went on; under increasing stress, ‘ but I was never able to bring myself to do so.’ Then, bending near, he spoke a few words, tensely, in my ear. At that, slowly, the veils parted, my thoughts sped back almost a quarter of a century, and with a start, I remembered the sole occasion when I had seen this man before. He was my little clerk, the boy who had tried to gas himself.
The ship moved on through the still darkness of the night. There was no need of speech. With a quiet gesture, almost unobserved, Mrs Quilter had taken her husband’s hand. And as we sat in silence, hearing the sounding of the sea, and the sighing of the breeze, soft as the beat of wings, a singular emotion overcame me. I could not but reflect that, against all the bad investments I had made throughout the years, those foolish speculations for material gain, producing only anxiety, disappointment, and frustration, here at last was one I need not regret, one that had paid no dividends in worldly goods, yet which might stand, nevertheless, on the profit side, in the final reckoning.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Doctor, I can’t… I won’t have a child.’
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, the hour of my ‘best’ consultations, and the woman who spoke so vehemently was tall, distinguished, and handsome, fashionably dressed in a dark grey costume, with an expensive diamond clip in her smart black hat.
I had just examined her, and now, having dried my hands methodically, I put away the towel and turned towards her. ‘It’s a little late to make that decision now. You should have thought of it two months ago. You are exactly nine weeks pregnant. Your baby will be born towards the middle of July.’
‘I won’t have it… You’ve got to help me, Doctor. You simply must.’
How often had I heard these words before. I had heard them from frightened little shop-girls in trouble; from a shamed spinster, aged thirty-five, who told me in a trembling voice, exactly like the heroine of old-time melodrama, that she had been ‘betrayed’; from a famous film actress defiantly resolved that her career should not be ruined; above all had I heard them from selfish and neurotic wives, afraid of the pangs of childbirth, afraid of losing their figure, their health, their life, afraid – most specious pretext of all – of ‘losing their husband’s love.’
This case was somewhat different. I knew my patient, Beatrice Glendenning, socially; knew also her husband, Henry, and her two grown-up sons. They were wealthy people, with a t
own house in Knightsbridge and a large estate in Hampshire, where the pheasant shooting was excellent and where, indeed, I had spent several pleasant week-ends.
‘You understand … it isn’t just money, Doctor … I must get out of this business, and to do so I’ll give anything.’ She looked me full in the face.
There was no mistaking her meaning. Indeed, that same offer, indescribable in its implications, had been made to me before, though perhaps never so blatantly. It had been made by a young French modiste, estranged from her husband, who had compromised herself with another man and who, slim, elegant, and bewitching, with affected tears in her beautiful eyes, leaned forward and tried to take my hands in hers.
Doctors are only human, they have the same difficulty in repressing their instincts as other men. Yet, if not for moral reasons, from motives of sheer common sense, I had never lost my head. Once a doctor embarks upon a career as abortionist he is irretrievably lost.
There were, however, many such illicit practitioners in the vicinity, both men and women, plying their perilous undercover trade at exorbitant rates, until one day, inevitably, the death of some wretched girl brought them exposure, ruin, and a long term of imprisonment. Perhaps desperation blinded such patients as came to me, yet it always struck me as amazing how few of them were conscious of the infinite danger involved in illegal abortion. Under the best hospital conditions the operation holds a definite risk. Performed hastily in some backstairs room with a septic instrument by some brutal or unskilled practitioner, the result almost inevitably is severe haemorrhage, followed by infection and acute peritonitis.
There were others, too, among these women who believed it was within my power to relieve them of their incubus by such a simple expedient as an ergot pill or a mixture of jalap and senna. Others, too, confessed to having tried the weirdest expedients, from boiling-hot baths to such eccentric gymnastics as descending the stairs backward, in a crouching position. Poor creatures, some were almost comic in their distress, and there were among them many who needed sympathy and comfort. This they got from me, with much good advice, but nothing more.
Beatrice Glendenning, however, was neither comic nor ignorant, but a strong-minded, intelligent woman of the world who moved with considerable éclat in the best society.
My only possible attitude was not to take her seriously. So I reasoned mildly:
‘I dare say it’s rather inconvenient … with these two grown-up sons of yours. And it’ll spoil your London season. But Henry will be pleased.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Doctor. Henry isn’t the father.’
Although I had half expected this, it silenced me.
During these country week-ends I had met the inevitable family intimate, a close friend of Henry’s, who went fishing and shooting with him, a sporting type, one of these ‘ good fellows’, whom I had disliked on sight and who obviously was on confidential terms with Henry’s wife.
‘Well,’ I said at last, ‘it’s a bad business. But there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘You won’t help me?’
‘I can’t.’
There was a pause. The blood had risen to her cheeks and her eyes flashed fire at me. She drew on her gloves, took up her bag. A rejected woman is an enemy for life.
‘Very well, Doctor, there’s no more to be said.’
‘Just one thing before you go … Don’t put yourself in the hands of a quack. You may regret it.’
She gave no sign of having heard, but swept out of the room without another word.
The interview left me not only with a bad taste in my mouth, but in a thoroughly bad mood. I felt that I had lost an excellent patient, an agreeable hostess, and the half-dozen brace of admirable pheasants which I had come to regard as my annual autumnal perquisite. I never expected to see Mrs Glendenning again. How wrong I was – how little I knew of that invincible woman’s character!
About ten days later the telephone rang. It was Henry Glendenning himself. Beatrice, he told me, had a frightful cold, an attack of influenza, in fact. Would I be a dear good chap and pop round to Knightsbridge as soon as convenient? Pleased by this rapprochement, I arrived within the hour at the Glendenning town house and was shown directly to Beatrice’s room.
Attended by a nurse, a heavily built, middle-aged woman with a face like a trap, the patient was in bed. She appeared, at first sight, rather more ill than I had expected – fearfully blanched, with bloodless lips and every indication of a raging fever. Puzzled, I drew back the sheet … and then the truth burst upon me. The thing had been done – botched and bungled – she was thoroughly septic and had been haemorrhaging for at least twelve hours.
‘I have everything ready for you, Doctor.’ The nurse was addressing me in a toneless voice, proffering a container of swabs and gauze.
I drew back in a cold fury. I wanted, there and then, to walk out of the room. But how could I? She was in extremis. I must do something for this damned woman, and at once. I was fairly trapped.
I began to work on her. My methods, I fear, were not especially merciful, but she offered no protest, suffered the severest pangs without a word. At last the bleeding was under control. I prepared to go.
All this time, as she lay there, Mrs Glendenning’s eyes had never left my face. And now, with an effort, she spoke:
‘It’s influenza, Doctor. Henry knows It’s influenza. I shall expect you this evening.’
Downstairs, in the library, Henry had a glass of sherry ready for me, concerned, naturally, about his wife, whom he adored, yet hospitable, as always. He was in stature quite a small man, shy and rather ineffectual in manner, who had inherited a fortune from his father and spent much of it in making others happy. As I gazed at his open, kindly face, all that I had meant to say died upon my tongue. I could not tell him. I could not.
‘Nasty thing, this influenza, Doctor.’
I took a quick breath.
‘Yes, Henry.’
‘Quite a severe attack she has, too.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You’ll see her through, Doctor.’
A pause.
‘Yes, Henry. I’ll see her through.’
I called again that evening. I called twice a day for the next ten days. It was a thoroughly unpleasant case, demanding constant surgical attention. I suppose I did my part in maintaining the deception. But the real miracles of strategy were performed by Beatrice and the nurse. For Henry Glendenning, who lived all that time in the same house, who slept every night in the bedroom adjoining the sickroom, never for a moment suspected the true state of affairs. The thing sounds incredible, but it is true.
At the end of that month I made my final visit. Mrs Glendenning was up, reclining on the drawing-room sofa, looking ethereal and soulful in a rose-coloured tea gown with pure white lace at cuff and collar. Flowers were everywhere. Henry, delighted, still adoring, was dancing attendance. Tea was brought, served by a trim maid – the grim-visaged nurse had long since departed.
Toying with a slice of teacake, Beatrice gazed at me with wide and wistful eyes.
‘Henry is taking me to Madeira next week, Doctor. He feels I need the change.’
‘You do indeed, darling.’
‘Thank you, sweetheart.’
Oh God, the duplicity, the perfidy of woman … the calm, deep, premeditated, and infernal cunning!
‘We’ll be alone together for the first week,’ she concluded, sweetly. ‘A second honeymoon. Then we expect George to join us. We’re both very fond of George.’
Her eye sought mine, held it, and did not for an instant falter.
‘More tea, Doctor, dear? You must come and shoot with us when we get back.’
When I rose to go, Henry saw me to the door, shook my hand warmly.
‘Thank you for all you’ve done, Doctor.’ And he added, ‘Confoundedly nasty thing, that influenza.’
I walked all the way home across Kensington Gardens, gritting my teeth and muttering, ‘That creature, oh that damned, that m
ost damnable creature!’
But in November I got my half-dozen brace of pheasants. They were nice, tender birds!
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Unquestionably, in a great city, the doctor sees much of the seamy side of marriage. Previously, when I practised in the northern countryside and in the mining villages of Wales, I found the institution of the family regarded with infinitely more respect. In these remote districts, where its members worked together to extract a livelihood from the land or from the mine, the family was the essential unit of the community, existing and surviving through its own indispensability. In Tannochbrae, particularly, parents and children alike arose early and set about their appointed tasks: tending the stock; milking the cows; ploughing and harrowing the fields; baking, cooking, and canning; scrubbing and rinsing through the steamy rigours of the weekly wash-day. There was a sense of duty in this hard and simple life, and a strong religious feeling too, manifested in the evening gathering for family prayers. Pleasures were infrequent, though none the less enjoyed, and, despite its obvious austerities, the family had its own rewards and satisfactions, was closely united, almost indestructible.
But in London the picture was completely changed. Here all the conveniences, pleasures, distractions, and excitements provided by this vast metropolitan concentration of so-called civilisation exerted a strong disruptive influence upon the home. That innate cohesion which, in more primitive communities, holds the family group together, was sadly lacking, in consequence of which, in many instances that I met with, the family simply fell apart.
With the metropolitan divorce courts in active operation, many heartbreaking examples of broken marriages came under my observation. When one considered the misery, the bewildered, disillusioned children, the bitter rancours and resentments, the chaotic mess which so often resulted, the situation seemed so calamitous I used often to ask myself, how, under high heaven, sane persons ever permitted it to come about.