She laughed; for she was back again to her old happiness. Though the fight had been formidable she had at last subdued the house. Sometimes it would attempt to rear its head and strike at her but in the main it lay clean, furbished, obedient to her eye. She had her new gas cooker, new shades for the lamps, had the loose chair covers freshly cleaned. And her stair rods shone like a guardsman’s buttons. After weeks of worry with servants who, in this district, preferred to work in the boarding-houses because of the tips they earned there, Christine had chanced on Mrs Bennett, a widow of forty, clean and hard-working, who because of her daughter, a child of seven, had found it almost impossible to secure a ‘living-in’ position. Together Mrs Bennett and Christine had attacked the basement. Now the former railway tunnel was a comfortable bed-sitting-room, with a highly floral wallpaper, furniture brought from ‘ the barrows’ and painted cream by Christine, where Mrs Bennett and little Florrie – now departing regularly with her satchel to Paddington School – felt themselves secure. In return for this security and comfort – after months of straitened uncertainty – Mrs Bennett could not do enough to prove her worth.
The early spring flowers which made the waiting-room so bright reflected the happiness of Christine’s house. She bought them at the street market for a few pence, as she went on her round of morning shopping. Many of the hawkers in Mussleburgh Road knew her. It was possible to buy fruit and fish and vegetables cheaply there. She ought to have been more conscious of her standing as the wife of a professional man, but alas! she was not, and she often brought her purchases back in her neat string bag, stopping at Frau Schmidt’s on the way back for a few minutes’ conversation and a wedge of the Liptauer cheese which Andrew liked so well.
Frequently, in the afternoons, she walked round the Serpentine. The chestnut trees were breaking into green and the waterfowl went scurrying across the wind-ruffled water. It was a good substitute for the open countryside which she had always loved so much.
Sometimes in the evening Andrew would glance at her in that oddly jealous manner which meant that he was cross because the day had gone past without him noticing her.
‘What have you been up to all day? – while I’ve been busy? If ever I do get a car you’ll have to drive the damn thing. That’ll keep you close to me.’
He was still waiting for those ‘good’ patients who did not come, longing to hear from Abbey about the appointment, fretful because their evening at Queen Anne Street had produced no subsequent opportunity. Secretly he was cut that he had seen nothing of Hamson or his friends since then.
In this condition he sat in his surgery one evening towards the end of April. It was nearly nine o’clock and he was about to close up when a young woman entered. She gazed at him uncertainly:
‘I didn’t know whether to come this way – or by the front door.’
‘It’s exactly the same,’ he smiled sourly. ‘Except that it’s half price this end. Come along. What is it?’
‘I don’t mind paying the full fee.’ She came forward with a peculiar earnestness and sat down on the Rexine covered chair. She was about twenty-eight, he judged, stockily built, dressed in dark olive green, with bunchy legs and a large plain serious face. To look at her was to have the instinctive thought: No nonsense here!
He relented, saying: ‘Don’t let’s talk about the fee! Tell me your trouble.’
‘Well, doctor!’ – she still seemed to wish, gravely, to establish herself. ‘It was Mrs Smith – in the little provision shop – who recommended me to come to you. I’ve known her a long time. I work at Laurier’s, quite near. My name is Cramb. But I must tell you I’ve been to a good many doctors round here.’ She pulled off her gloves. ‘It’s my hands.’
He looked at her hands, the palms of which were covered by a reddish dermatitis, rather like psoriasis. But it was not psoriasis, the edges were not serpiginous. With sudden interest he took up a magnifying-glass and peered more closely. Meanwhile she went on talking in her earnest, convincing voice.
‘I can’t tell you what a disadvantage this is to me in my work. I’d give anything to get rid of it. I’ve tried every kind of ointment under the sun. But none of them seem to be the slightest use.’
‘No! They wouldn’t.’ He put down the glass, feeling all the thrill of an obscure yet positive diagnosis. ‘This is rather an uncommon skin condition, Miss Cramb. It’s no good treating it locally. It’s due to a blood condition and the only way to get rid of it is by dieting.’
‘No medicine?’ Her earnestness gave way to doubt. ‘ No one ever told me that before.’
‘I’m telling you now.’ He laughed and, taking his pad, drew out a diet for her, adding also a list of foods which she must absolutely avoid.
She accepted it hesitatingly. ‘Well! Of course I’ll try it, doctor. I’d try anything.’ Meticulously she paid him his fee, lingered as though still dubious, then went away. He immediately forgot her.
Ten days later she returned, coming this time by the front door, and entering the consulting-room with such an expression of suppressed fervour that he could barely keep from smiling.
‘Would you like to see my hands, doctor?’
‘Yes.’ Now he did smile. ‘I hope you don’t regret the diet.’
‘Regret it!’ She surrendered her hands to him in a passion of gratitude. ‘Look! Completely cured. Not a single spot on them. You don’t know how much it means to me – I can’t tell you – such cleverness –’
‘That’s all right,’ he said lightly. ‘It’s my job to know these things. You run away and don’t worry. Keep off those foods I told you about and you’ll never have it again.’
She rose.
‘And now let me pay you, doctor?’
‘You’ve already paid me.’ He was conscious of a mild aesthetic thrill. Right gladly would he have taken another three and six, or even seven and six from her, but the temptation to dramatise the triumph of his skill proved irresistible.
‘But, doctor –’ Unwillingly she allowed herself to be escorted to the door where she paused for the final earnestness. ‘Perhaps I’ll be able to show my gratitude some other way.’
Gazing at her upturned moon face a ribald thought crossed his mind. But he merely nodded and closed the door upon her. Again he forgot about her. He was tired, already half regretful at refusing the fee, and, in any case, he had little thought of what any shopgirl might do for him. But here at least he did not know Miss Cramb. Moreover, he quite overlooked a possibility, emphasised by Aesop, which as a bad philosopher, he ought to have remembered.
Chapter Four
Martha Cramb was known as the Half-Back to the ‘juniors’ at Laurier’s. Sturdy, unattractive, sexless, she seemed a strange person to be one of the senior assistants in this unique shop which dealt luxuriously in smart gowns, exquisite undergarments and furs so rich their prices mounted to hundreds of pounds. Yet the Half-Back was an admirable saleswoman, highly valued by her clients. The fact was that Laurier’s, in its pride, employed a special system, each ‘senior’ collecting her own especial clients, a little group of the Laurier customers whom she served exclusively, studied, ‘ dressed’ and for whom she ‘laid aside’ things when the new models came in. The relationship was intimate, often existed over many years, and one to which the Half-Back in her earnest sincerity was particularly suited.
She was the daughter of a Kettering solicitor. Many of the Laurier girls were daughters of small professional men in the provinces and outer suburbs. It was esteemed an honour to be allowed to enter Laurier’s, to wear the dark green dress which was the uniform of the establishment. Sweated employment and the bad ‘living-in’ conditions which ordinary shop assistants were sometimes made to endure simply did not exist at Laurier’s, where the girls were admirably fed and housed and chaperoned. Mr Winch, the only male buyer in the shop, especially saw to it that they were chaperoned. He particularly esteemed the Half-Back and often held sedate conference with her. He was a pink, motherly old gentleman who had been i
n millinery for forty years. His thumb was worn flat from appraising material, his back – permanently cricked in deferential greetings. Maternal though he might be, Mr Winch, to the stranger entering Laurier’s, exhibited the only trousers in a vast and frothy sea of femininity. He had an unsympathetic eye for those husbands who came with their wives to inspect the mannequins. He knew Royalty. He was almost as great an institution as Laurier’s.
The incident of Miss Cramb’s cure caused a mild sensation amongst the staff at Laurier’s. And the immediate result was that from sheer curiosity a number of the juniors dropped in to Andrew’s surgery with mild complaints. Giggling, they told each other that they wanted to see ‘what the Half-Back’s doctor was like!’
Gradually, however, more and more of the Laurier girls began to come to the surgery at Chesborough Terrace. All the girls were insurance patients. They were compelled by law to be ‘on the panel’, but with true Laurier arrogance they repudiated the scheme. By the end of May it was not uncommon for half a dozen of them to be waiting in the surgery – very smart, modelled upon their customers, lip-sticked, young. The result was a marked improvement in the surgery receipts. Also a laughing remark by Christine:
‘What are you doing with that beauty chorus, darling? Sure they haven’t mistaken this for the stage door.’
But Miss Cramb’s throbbing gratitude – oh, the ecstasy of those healed hands! – was only beginning to express itself. Hitherto, Doctor McLean, safe and elderly, of Royal Crescent, had been regarded as the semi-official doctor of Laurier’s, called upon when emergency demanded – as, for instance, when Miss Twigg of the tailoring burned herself badly with a hot iron. But Doctor McLean was on the verge of retiring and his partner and immediate successor, Doctor Benton, was neither safe nor elderly. Indeed, more than once, Doctor Benton’s ankle-roving eye and too tender solicitude for the prettier juniors had caused Mr Winch pinkly to frown. Miss Cramb and Mr Winch discussed these matters at their little conferences together, Mr Winch nodding gravely with hands clasped behind his back, as Miss Cramb dwelt upon Benton’s inadequacy and the presence of another professional man at Chesborough Terrace, strict and ungaudy, who achieved brilliance without sacrifice to Thaïs. Nothing was settled, Mr Winch always took his time, but there was a portentous gleam in his eye as he swam away to greet a duchess.
In the first week of June, when Andrew had already come to feel shame for his earlier contempt of her, still another manifestation of Miss Cramb’s good offices fell in burning fire upon his head.
He received a letter, very neat and precise – no such informality as a phone call, he afterwards learned, would have befitted the writer – asking him to call on Tuesday, the following forenoon, as near eleven o’clock as possible, at 9 Park Gardens, to see Miss Winifred Everett.
Closing his surgery early, he left with a rising sense of anticipation, to make this visit. It was the first time he had been called out of the drab neighbourhood which had, up till now, contained his practice. Park Gardens was a handsome block of flats, not altogether modern, but large and substantial, with a fine view of Hyde Park. He rang the bell of 9, expectant and tense, with the odd conviction that this was his chance at last.
An elderly servant showed him in. The room was spacious, with old furniture, books and flowers reminding him of Mrs Vaughan’s drawing-room. The moment he entered it he felt that his premonition was correct. He swung round as Miss Everett appeared, finding her glance, level and composed, fixed appraisingly upon him.
She was a well-made woman of about fifty, dark haired and sallow skinned, severely dressed, with an air of complete assurance. She began immediately, in a measured tone:
‘I have lost my doctor – unfortunately – for I had great faith in him. My Miss Cramb recommended you. She’s a very faithful creature and I trust her. I’ve looked you up. You’re well qualified.’ She paused, quite openly inspecting him, weighing him up. She had the look of a woman, well fed, well taken care of, who would not allow a finger near her without due inspection of the cuticle. Then guardedly, ‘ I think perhaps you might suit. I usually have a course of injections at this time of year. I’m subject to hay fever. You know all about hey fever, I presume?’
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Which injections do you have?’
She mentioned the name of a well-known preparation. ‘My old doctor put me to that. I have great faith in it.’
‘Oh, that!’ Nettled at her manner, he was on the point of telling her that the faithful remedy of her faithful doctor was worthless, that it had achieved its popularity through skilful advertising on the part of the firm who produced it and the absence of pollen in most English summers. But with an effort he restrained himself. There was a struggle between all that he believed and all he wished to have. He thought defiantly, if I let this chance slip, after all these months, I’m a fool. He said, ‘I think I can give you the injection as well as anyone.’
‘Very well. And now about your fees. I never paid Doctor Sinclair more than one guinea a visit. May I take it that you will continue this arrangement.’
A guinea a visit – it was three times the largest fee he had ever earned! And more important still, it represented his first step into the superior class of practice he had coveted all these months. Again he stifled the quick protests of his convictions. What did it matter if the injections were useless? – that was her lookout, not his. He was sick of failure, tired of being a three-and-sixpenny hack. He wanted to get on, succeed. And he would succeed at all costs.
He came again the following day at eleven o’clock sharp. She had warned him, in her severe way, against being late. She did not wish her forenoon walk interfered with. He gave her the first injection. And thereafter he called twice a week, continuing the treatment.
He was punctual, precise as she, and he never presumed. It was almost amusing the way in which she gradually thawed to him. She was a queer person, Winifred Everett, and a most decided personality. Though she was rich – her father had been a large manufacturer of cutlery in Sheffield and all the money that she had inherited from him was safely invested in the Funds – she set herself out to get the utmost value from every penny. It was not meanness but rather an odd kind of egoism. She made herself the centre of her universe, took the utmost care of her body, which was still white and fine, went in for all sorts of treatments which she felt would benefit her. She must have everything of the best. She ate sparingly, but only the finest food. When on his sixth visit she unbent to offer him a glass of sherry he observed that it was Amontillado of the year 1819. Her clothes came from Laurier’s. Her bed linen was the finest he had ever seen. And yet, with all this, she never, according to her lights, wasted a farthing. Not for the life of him could he imagine Miss Everett flinging a half-crown to a taximan without first carefully looking at the meter.
He ought to have loathed her yet strangely he did not. She had developed her selfishness to the point of philosophy. And she was so eminently sensible. She exactly reminded him of a woman in an old Dutch picture, a Terborch, which Christine and he had once seen. She had the same large body, the same smooth-textured skin, the same forbidding yet pleasure-loving mouth.
When she saw that he was, in her own phrase, really going to suit her, she became much less reserved. It was an unwritten law with her that the doctor’s visit should last twenty minutes, otherwise she felt she had not had the value of it. But by the end of a month he was extending this to half an hour. They talked together. He told her of his desire for success. She approved it. Her range of conversation was limited. But the range of her relations was unlimited and it was of them, mostly, that she talked. She spoke to him frequently of her niece, named Catharine Sutton, who lived in Derbyshire and who often came to town since her husband, Captain Sutton, was MP for Barnwell.
‘Doctor Sinclair used to look after them,’ she remarked in a non-committal voice. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t now.’
On his last visit she gave him another glass of her Amontillado and,
very pleasantly, she said:
‘I hate bills coming in. Please let me settle up now.’ She handed him a folded cheque for twelve guineas. ‘ Of course, I shall have you in again soon. I usually have an anticoryza vaccine in the winter.’
She actually accompanied him to the door of the flat and there she stood for a moment, her face drily illumined, the nearest approach to a smile he had ever seen there. But it passed quickly and, gazing at him forbiddingly, she said:
‘Will you take the advice of a woman old enough to be your mother. Go to a good tailor. Go to Captain Sutton’s tailor – Rogers, in Conduit Street. You’ve told me how much you wish to succeed. You never will in that suit.’
He strode down the road cursing her, the hot indignity still burning on his brow, cursing her in his old impassioned style. Interfering old bitch! What business was it of hers! What right had she to tell him how he should dress? Did she take him for a lapdog? That was the worst of compromise, of truckling to convention. His Paddington patients paid him only three and six yet they did not ask him to be a tailor’s dummy. In future he would confine himself to them and call his soul his own!
But somehow that mood passed. It was perfectly true that he had never taken the slightest interest in his clothes, a suit off the peg had always served him excellently, covered him, kept him warm without elegance. Christine, too, though she was always so neat, never bothered about clothes. She was happiest in a tweed skirt and a woollen jumper she had knitted herself.
Surreptitiously he took stock of himself, his nondescript worsted, uncreased trousers, mud-splattered at the selvedge. Hang it all, he thought testily, she’s perfectly right. How can I attract first-class patients if I look like this? Why didn’t Christine tell me? It was her job; not old lady Winnie’s. What was that name she gave me – Rogers of Conduit Street. Hell! I’m likely to go there!
He had recovered his spirits when he reached home. He flourished the cheque under Christine’s nose.