He glared at her, with raging dignity.
‘You’re breaking the law! You can’t keep him here. If you do I’ll have to report you.’
A short silence followed. He could see her hand tighten on the chalk she held. That sign of her emotion added to his anger against her, yes, against himself. She said disdainfully:
‘Then you had better report me. Or have me arrested. I’ve no doubt it will give you immense satisfaction.’
Furious, he did not answer, feeling himself in an utterly false position. He tried to rally himself, raising his eyes, attempting to beat down hers, which now sparkled frostily towards him. For an instant they faced each other, so close he could see the soft beating in her neck, the gleam of her teeth between her parted lips. Then she said:
‘There’s nothing more, is there?’ She swung round tensely to the class. ‘Stand up, children, and say: “Good morning, Doctor Manson. Thank you for coming.”’
A clatter of chairs as the infants rose and chanted her ironic bidding. His ears were burning as she escorted him to the door. He had an exasperating sense of discomfiture and added to it the wretched suspicion that he had behaved badly in losing his temper while she had so admirably controlled hers. He sought for a crushing phrase, some final intimidating repartee. But before that came the door closed quietly in his face.
Chapter Six
Manson, after a furious evening during which he composed and tore up three vitriolic letters to the medical officer of health, tried to forget about the episode. His sense of humour, momentarily lost in the vicinity of Bank Street, made him impatient with himself because of his display of petty feeling. Following a sharp struggle with his stiff Scots pride, he decided he had been wrong, he could not dream of reporting the case, least of all to the ineffable Griffiths. Yet, though he made the attempt, he could not so easily dismiss Christine Barlow from his mind.
It was absurd that a juvenile school-mistress should so insistently occupy his thoughts or that he should be concerned by what she might think of him. He told himself it was a stupid case of injured pride. He knew that he was shy and awkward with women. Yet no amount of logic could alter the fact that he was now restless and a little irritable. At unguarded moments, as for example when he was falling off to sleep, the scene in the classroom would flash back to him with renewed vividness and he would find himself frowning in the darkness. He still saw her, crushing the chalk, her brown eyes warm with indignation. There were three small pearly buttons on the front of her blouse. Her figure was thin and agile, with a firm economy of line which spoke to him of much hard running and dauntless skipping in her childhood. He did not ask himself if she were pretty. It was enough that she stood, spare and living, before the screen of his sight. And his heart would turn unwillingly, with a kind of sweet oppression which he had never known before.
A fortnight later he was walking down Chapel Street in a fit of abstraction when he almost bumped into Mrs Bramwell at the corner of Station Road. He would have gone on without recognising her. She, however, stopped at once, and hailed him, dazzling him with a smile.
‘Why, Doctor Manson! The very man I’m looking for. I’m giving one of my little social evenings tonight. You’ll come, won’t you?’
Gladys Bramwell was a corn-haired lady of thirty-five, showily dressed, with a full figure, baby blue eyes and girlish ways. Gladys described herself romantically as a man’s woman. The gossips of Drineffy used another word. Doctor Bramwell doted upon her and it was rumoured that only his blind fondness prevented him from observing her more than skittish preoccupation with Doctor Gabell, the ‘coloured’ doctor from Toniglan.
As Andrew scanned her he sought hurriedly for an evasion.
‘I’m afraid, Mrs Bramwell, I can’t possibly get away tonight.’
‘But you must, silly. I’ve got such nice people coming. Mr and Mrs Watkins from the mine and,’ a conscious smile escaped her, ‘Doctor Gabell from Toniglan – oh, and I almost forgot, the little school-teacher Christine Barlow.’
A shiver passed over Manson.
He smiled foolishly.
‘Why, of course I’ll come, Mrs Bramwell. Thank you very much for asking me.’ He managed to sustain her conversation for a few moments until she departed. But for the remainder of the day he could think of nothing but the fact that he was going to see Christine Barlow again.
Mrs Bramwell’s ‘ evening’ began at nine o’clock, the late hour being chosen out of consideration for the medical gentlemen who might be detained at their surgeries. It was, in fact, a quarter past nine when Andrew finished his last consultation. Hurriedly, he splashed himself in the surgery sink, tugged back his hair with the broken comb, and hastened to The Retreat. He reached the house which, belying its idyllic name, was a small brick dwelling in the middle of the town, to find that he was the last arrival. Mrs Bramwell, chiding him brightly, led the way, followed by her five guests and her husband, into supper.
It was a cold meal, spread out on paper doyleys on the fumed oak table. Mrs Bramwell prided herself upon being a hostess, something of a leader in style in Drineffy, which permitted her to shock public opinion by ‘doing herself up,’ and her idea of ‘making things go’ was to talk and laugh a great deal. She always inferred that her background previous to her marriage to Doctor Bramwell had been one of excessive luxury. Tonight, as they sat down she glittered:
‘Now! Has everybody got what they want.’
Andrew, breathless from his haste, was at first deeply embarrassed. For a full ten minutes he dared not look at Christine. He kept his eyes lowered, overpoweringly conscious of her sitting at the far end of the table between Doctor Gabell, a dark complexioned dandy in spats, striped trousers and pearl pin, and Mr Watkins, the elderly scrubby-headed mine manager, who in his blunt fashion was making much of her. At last, driven by a laughing allusion from Watkins: ‘Are ye still my Yorkshire lass, Miss Christine?’ he lifted his head jealously, looked at her, found her so intimately there, in a soft grey dress with white at the neck and cuffs, that he was stricken and withdrew his eyes lest she should read them.
Defensively, scarcely knowing what he said, he began to devote himself to his neighbour, Mrs Watkins, a little wisp of a woman who had brought her knitting.
For the remainder of the meal he endured the anguish of talking to one person when he longed to talk to another. He could have sighed with relief when Doctor Bramwell, presiding at the top of the table, viewed the cleared plates benevolently and made a napoleonic gesture.
‘I think, my dear, we have all finished. Shall we adjourn to the drawing-room.’
In the drawing-room, when the guests were variously disposed – chiefly upon the three-piece suite – it was plain that music was expected in the order of the evening. Bramwell beamed fondly on his wife and led her to the piano.
‘What shall we oblige with first tonight, my love.’ Humming, he fingered amongst the music on the stand.
‘“Temple Bells”,’ Gabell suggested. ‘I never get tired of that one, Mrs Bramwell.’
Seating herself on the revolving music stool Mrs Bramwell played and sang while her husband, one hand behind his back, the other advanced as in the motion of snuff-taking, stood beside her and deftly turned the sheets. Gladys had a full contralto voice, bringing all her deep notes up from her bosom with a lifting motion of her chin. After the ‘ Love Lyrics’ she gave them ‘ Wandering By’, and ‘Just a Girl’.
There was generous applause. Bramwell murmured absently, in a pleased undertone: ‘ She’s in fine voice tonight.’
Doctor Gabell was then persuaded to his feet. Fiddling with his ring, smoothing his well-oiled but still traitorous hair, the olive skinned buck bowed affectedly towards his hostess, and, clasping his hands well in front of him, bellowed fruitily, ‘Love in Sweet Seville’. Then, as an encore, he gave, ‘ Toreador’.
‘You sing those songs about Spain with real go, Doctor Gabell,’ commented the kindly Mrs Watkins.
‘It’s my Spanish bloo
d, I suppose,’ laughed Gabell modestly, as he resumed his seat.
Andrew saw an impish glint in Watkins’s eye. The old mine manager, a true Welshman, knew music, had last winter helped his men to produce one of Verdi’s more obscure operas and now, dormant behind his pipe, was enjoying himself enigmatically. Andrew could not help thinking that it must afford Watkins deep amusement to observe these strangers to his native town affecting to dispense culture in the shape of worthless, sentimental ditties. When Christine smilingly refused to perform he turned to her with a twitch to his lips.
‘You’re like me, I reckon, my dear. Too fond of the piano to play it.’
Then the high light of the evening shone. Doctor Bramwell took the centre of the stage. Clearing his throat, he struck out one foot, threw back his head, placed his hand histrionically inside his coat. He announced: ‘Ladies and gentlemen. “ The Fallen Star”. A Musical Monologue.’ At the piano, Gladys started to vamp a sympathetic accompaniment and Bramwell began.
The recitation, which dealt with the pathetic vicissitudes of a once famous actress now come to dire poverty, was glutinous with sentiment and Bramwell gave it with soulful anguish. When the drama rose Gladys pressed bass chords. When the pathos oozed she tinkled on the treble. As the climax came, Bramwell drew himself up, his voice breaking on the final line, ‘ There she was …’ a pause, ‘starving in the gutter …’ a long pause, ‘ only a fallen star!’
Little Mrs Watkins, her knitting fallen to the floor, turned damp eyes towards him.
‘Poor thing, poor thing! Oh, Doctor Bramwell, you always do that most beautiful.’
The arrival of the claret-cup created a diversion. By this time it was after eleven o’clock and, on the tacit understanding that anything following Bramwell’s effort would be sheer anticlimax, the party prepared to break up. There were laughter, polite expressions of thanks and a movement towards the hall. As Andrew pulled on his coat, he reflected miserably that he had not exchanged a word with Christine all night.
Outside, he stood at the gate. He felt that he must speak to her. The thought of the long wasted evening, in which he had meant so easily, so pleasantly, to put things right between them, weighed on him like lead. Though she had not seemed to look at him, she had been there, near him in the same room and he had kept his eyes doltishly upon his boots. Oh, Lord! he thought wretchedly, I’m worse than the fallen star. I’d better get home and go to bed.
But he did not. He remained there, his pulse racing suddenly as she came down the steps and walked towards him, alone. He gathered all his strength and stammered:
‘Miss Barlow. May I see you home.’
‘I’m afraid,’ she paused, ‘I’ve promised to wait for Mr and Mrs Watkins.’
His heart sank. He felt like turning away, a beaten dog. Yet something still held him. His face was pale but his chin had a firm line. The words came tumbling one upon another with a rush.
‘I only want to say that I’m sorry about the Howells affair. I came round to give a cheap exhibition of authority. I ought to be kicked – hard. What you did about the kid was splendid. I admire you for it. After all it’s better to observe the spirit than the letter of the law. Sorry to bother you with all this but I had to say it. Good night!’
He could not see her face. Nor did he wait for her answer. He swung round and walked down the road. For the first time in many days he felt happy.
Chapter Seven
The half-yearly return of the practice had come in from the Company’s offices, giving Miss Page matter for serious reflection and another topic to discuss with Aneurin Rees, the bank manager. For the first time in eighteen months the figures showed an upward jump. There were over seventy more men on ‘Doctor Page’s list’ than there had been before Manson’s arrival.
Pleased with the increase in the cheque Blodwen nevertheless nursed a most disturbing thought. At mealtimes Andrew caught her unguardedly fixing him with a queer inquiring stare. On the Wednesday following Mrs Bramwell’s social evening Blodwen came into lunch with unusual vivacity.
‘I declare!’ she remarked. ‘I’ve just been thinking. It’s nearly four months since you been here, doctor. And you haven’t done too badly, either. I’m not complaining. Mind you, it isn’t like Doctor Page himself. Oh, dear, no! Mr Watkins was only saying the other day how they were all looking forward to Doctor Page coming back. Doctor Page is so clever. Mr Watkins told me they would never dream of having anybody in his place.’
She laid herself out to describe, in picturesque detail, the extraordinary skill and ability of her brother. ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ she exclaimed, nodding her head. ‘There’s nothing he can’t do or hasn’t done. Operations! You ought to have seen them. Let me tell you this, doctor, he’s the cleverest man that’s ever been in this valley.’
Andrew made no reply. Her purpose was plain to him and he thought it, in its tenacious loyalty, both tragic and kind.
Meanwhile she sat back in her chair and gazed at him, trying to read the effect of her words. Then she smiled confidently.
‘There’ll be great rejoicings in Drineffy when Doctor Page gets back to work. And it’ll be soon too. In the summer, I said to Mr Watkins, in the summer Doctor Page will be back.’
Returning from his afternoon round towards the end of the same week Andrew was shocked to find Edward seated in a chair by the front porch, fully dressed, a rug over his knees and a cap stuck upon his head. A sharp wind was blowing and the gleam of April sunshine which bathed the tragic figure was pale and cold.
‘There now,’ cried Miss Page, coming triumphantly towards Manson from the porch. ‘You see, don’t you. Doctor’s up! I’ve just telephoned Mr Watkins to tell him doctor’s better. He’ll soon be back at work, won’t you, dear?’
Andrew felt the blood rush to his brow.
‘Who got him down here?’
‘I did,’ said Blodwen quickly. ‘And why not? He’s my brother. And he’s better.’
‘He’s not fit to be up. Far from it.’ Andrew threw the words at her in a low tone. ‘Do as I tell you. Help me get him back to bed at once.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Edward said feebly. ‘Get me back to bed. I’m cold. I’m not right. I – I don’t feel well.’ And to Manson’s distress the sick man began to whimper.
Instantly Blodwen was in remorseful tears beside him. Down on her knees she dropped, her arms around him, contrite, exclaiming:
‘There now, dearest. You shall go back to bed, poor lamb. Blodwen made a mistake. Blodwen’ll take care of you. Blodwen loves you, Edward dear.’
She kissed his stiff cheek.
Half an hour later, with Edward upstairs and comfortable again, Andrew came to the kitchen, upset.
Annie was now a genuine friend, many a confidence they had exchanged in this same kitchen and many an apple and currant griddle cake the middle-aged woman had slipped out of the larder for him when he came in hungry. Sometimes, indeed, as a last resort she would run down to the town for a double fish supper and they would banquet sumptuously by candle-light at the scullery table. Annie had been at Page’s for nearly twenty years. She had many relations in Drineffy, all tidy folk, and her only reason for remaining so long in service was her devotion to Doctor Page.
‘Give me my tea in here, Annie,’ Andrew now declared. ‘Blodwen and I are out of tune at the moment.’
He was in the kitchen before he realised that Annie had visitors – her sister Olwen and Olwen’s husband, Emlyn Hughes. He had met them several times before. Emlyn was a shotfirer in the Drineffy High Levels, a solid good-natured man with pale, thickened features.
As Manson, seeing them, hesitated, Olwen, a spry dark-eyed young woman, took an impulsive breath.
‘Don’t mind us, doctor, if you want your tea. As a matter of fact we were just talkin’ about you when you came in.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, indeed!’ Olwen darted a glance at her sister. ‘It’s no use your lookin’ at me that way, Annie, I’ll speak what’s in my mind.
All the men are talkin’, Doctor Manson, about how they haven’t had such a good young doctor as you for years, about how you take trouble to examine them, and all. You can ask Emlyn if you don’t believe me. And they’re bothered about how Miss Page is runnin’ things. They say you ought to ’ave the practice by rights. Mind you, she fair worships the old boy. She actually believes he’ll get better too. Somebody ought to tell her he won’t!’
When he had finished his tea Andrew withdrew. Olwen’s downright speech made him feel ill at ease. Yet it was flattering to be told that the people of Drineffy liked him. And he took it as an especial tribute when, a few days later, Joe Morgan, a foreman driller at the hematite mine, came to see him with his wife.
The Morgans were a middle-aged couple, not well off, but highly thought of in the district, who had been married for nearly twenty years. Andrew had heard that they were leaving shortly for South Africa where Morgan had the promise of work in the Johannesburg mines. It was not unusual for good drillers to be tempted out to the gold mines on the Rand where the drill work was similar and the pay much better. Yet no one was more surprised than Andrew when Morgan, seated in the little surgery with his wife, self-consciously explained the purpose of their visit.
‘Well, sir, we have done it, at last, it seems. The missus here is goin’ to have a baby. After nineteen year, mark you. We are plain delighted, man. And we’ve decided to put off our leavin’ till after the event. For we’ve been thinkin’ about doctors like, and we come to the conclusion that you’re the one we must have to handle the case. It means a lot to us, doctor. It’ll be a hard job, too, I fancy. Missus here is forty-three. Yes, indeed. But here, now, we know you’ll give us every satisfaction.’
Andrew entered up the case with a warm sense of having been honoured. It was a strange emotion, clear and without material origin, which in his present state was doubly comforting. Lately he had felt lost, completely desolate. Extraordinary currents were moving within him, disturbing and painful. There were times when his heart held a strange dull ache which, as a mature Bachelor of Medicine, he had hitherto believed impossible.