he'd gone through with it, cut loose, come home, and married Gerda.
He'd got a plain secretary and he'd married a plain wife. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? He'd had enough of beauty, hadn't he? He'd seen what someone like Veronica could do with her beauty - seen the effect it had had on every male within range. After Veronica, he'd wanted safety. Safety and peace and devotion and the quiet enduring things of life. He'd wanted, in fact, Gerda! He'd wanted someone who'd take her ideas of life from him, who would accept his decisions and who wouldn't have, for one moment, any ideas of her own.
Who was it who had said that the real tragedy of life was that you got what you wanted?
Angrily he pressed the buzzer on his desk.
He'd deal with Mrs. Forrester.
It took him a quarter of an hour to deal with Mrs. Forrester. Once again it was easy money. Once again he listened, asked questions, reassured, sympathized, infused something of his own healing energy. Once more he wrote out a prescription for an expensive proprietary.
The sickly neurotic woman who had trailed into the room left it with a firmer step, with colour in her cheeks, with a feeling that life might possibly, after all, be worth while...
John Christow leant back in his chair. He was free now - free to go upstairs to join Gerda and the children - free from the preoccupations of illness and suffering for a whole weekend.
But he still felt that strange disinclination to move, that new queer lassitude of the will.
He was tired - tired - tired...
The Hollow
Chapter 4
In the dining room of the flat above the consulting room, Gerda Christow was staring at a joint of mutton.
Should she or should she not send it back to the kitchen to be kept warm?
If John was going to be much longer it would be cold - congealed, and that would be dreadful...
But, on the other hand, the last patient had gone, John would be up in a moment, if she sent it back there would be delay - John was so impatient. “But surely you knew I was just coming...” There would be that tone of suppressed exasperation in his voice that she knew and dreaded. Besides, it would get overcooked, dried up - John hated overcooked meat.
But on the other hand he disliked cold food very much indeed.
At any rate the dish was nice and hot...
Her mind oscillated to and fro and her sense of misery and anxiety deepened.
The whole world had shrunk to a leg of mutton getting cold on a dish.
On the other side of the table her son Terence, aged twelve, said:
“Boracic salts burn with a green flame, sodium salts are yellow.”
Gerda looked distractedly across the table at his square freckled face. She had no idea what he was talking about.
“Did you know that, Mother?”
“Know what, dear?”
“About salts.”
Gerda's eyes flew distractedly to the salt cellar. Yes, salt and pepper were on the table. That was all right. Last week Lewis had forgotten them and that had annoyed John. There was always something...
“It's one of the chemical tests,” said Terence in a dreamy voice. “Jolly interesting, I think.”
Zena, aged nine, with a pretty, vacuous face, whimpered:
“I want my dinner. Can't we start, Mother?”
“In a minute, dear; we must wait for Father.”
“We could start,” said Terence. “Father wouldn't mind. You know how fast he eats.”
Gerda shook her head.
Carve the mutton? But she never could remember which was the right side to plunge the knife in. Of course, perhaps Lewis had put it the right way on the dish - but sometimes she didn't - and John was always annoyed if it was done the wrong way. And, Gerda reflected desperately, it always was the wrong way when she did it. Oh, dear, how cold the gravy was getting - a skin was forming on the top of it - she must send it back - but then if John were just coming - and surely he would be coming now -
Her mind went round and round unhappily... like a trapped animal.
Sitting back in his consulting room chair, tapping with one
He'd got a plain secretary and he'd married a plain wife. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? He'd had enough of beauty, hadn't he? He'd seen what someone like Veronica could do with her beauty - seen the effect it had had on every male within range. After Veronica, he'd wanted safety. Safety and peace and devotion and the quiet enduring things of life. He'd wanted, in fact, Gerda! He'd wanted someone who'd take her ideas of life from him, who would accept his decisions and who wouldn't have, for one moment, any ideas of her own.
Who was it who had said that the real tragedy of life was that you got what you wanted?
Angrily he pressed the buzzer on his desk.
He'd deal with Mrs. Forrester.
It took him a quarter of an hour to deal with Mrs. Forrester. Once again it was easy money. Once again he listened, asked questions, reassured, sympathized, infused something of his own healing energy. Once more he wrote out a prescription for an expensive proprietary.
The sickly neurotic woman who had trailed into the room left it with a firmer step, with colour in her cheeks, with a feeling that life might possibly, after all, be worth while...
John Christow leant back in his chair. He was free now - free to go upstairs to join Gerda and the children - free from the preoccupations of illness and suffering for a whole weekend.
But he still felt that strange disinclination to move, that new queer lassitude of the will.
He was tired - tired - tired...
The Hollow
Chapter 4
In the dining room of the flat above the consulting room, Gerda Christow was staring at a joint of mutton.
Should she or should she not send it back to the kitchen to be kept warm?
If John was going to be much longer it would be cold - congealed, and that would be dreadful...
But, on the other hand, the last patient had gone, John would be up in a moment, if she sent it back there would be delay - John was so impatient. “But surely you knew I was just coming...” There would be that tone of suppressed exasperation in his voice that she knew and dreaded. Besides, it would get overcooked, dried up - John hated overcooked meat.
But on the other hand he disliked cold food very much indeed.
At any rate the dish was nice and hot...
Her mind oscillated to and fro and her sense of misery and anxiety deepened.
The whole world had shrunk to a leg of mutton getting cold on a dish.
On the other side of the table her son Terence, aged twelve, said:
“Boracic salts burn with a green flame, sodium salts are yellow.”
Gerda looked distractedly across the table at his square freckled face. She had no idea what he was talking about.
“Did you know that, Mother?”
“Know what, dear?”
“About salts.”
Gerda's eyes flew distractedly to the salt cellar. Yes, salt and pepper were on the table. That was all right. Last week Lewis had forgotten them and that had annoyed John. There was always something...
“It's one of the chemical tests,” said Terence in a dreamy voice. “Jolly interesting, I think.”
Zena, aged nine, with a pretty, vacuous face, whimpered:
“I want my dinner. Can't we start, Mother?”
“In a minute, dear; we must wait for Father.”
“We could start,” said Terence. “Father wouldn't mind. You know how fast he eats.”
Gerda shook her head.
Carve the mutton? But she never could remember which was the right side to plunge the knife in. Of course, perhaps Lewis had put it the right way on the dish - but sometimes she didn't - and John was always annoyed if it was done the wrong way. And, Gerda reflected desperately, it always was the wrong way when she did it. Oh, dear, how cold the gravy was getting - a skin was forming on the top of it - she must send it back - but then if John were just coming - and surely he would be coming now -
Her mind went round and round unhappily... like a trapped animal.
Sitting back in his consulting room chair, tapping with one
Similar Books
The Duke's Temptation
Addie Jo Ryleigh
The Orphans (Book 3): Strangers
Mike Evans
Catching Falling Stars
Karen McCombie
Survival Games
J.E. Taylor
Battle Fatigue
Mark Kurlansky
Now I See You
Nicole C. Kear
The Whipping Boy
Speer Morgan
Rippled
Erin Lark
The Story of Us
Deb Caletti