inconsiderate.â
He had known that she was speaking of him, and for quite twenty-four hours he had been annoyed about it.
Although Gerdaâs indiscriminate enthusiasm irritated him, Berylâs cool appraisal irritated him too. In fact, he thought, nearly everything irritates meâ¦.
Something wrong there. Overwork? Perhaps. No, that was the excuse. This growing impatience, this irritable tiredness, it had some deeper significance. He thought: âThis wonât do. I canât go on this way. Whatâs the matter with me? If I could get away â¦.â
There it was againâthe blind idea rushing up to meet the formulated idea of escape.
I want to go homeâ¦.
Damn it all, 404 Harley Street was his home!
And Mrs. Forrester was sitting in the waiting room. A tiresome woman, a woman with too much money and too much spare time to think about her ailments.
Someone had once said to him: âYou must get very tired of these rich patients always fancying themselves ill. It must be so satisfactory to get to the poor, who only come when there is something really the matter with them!â He had grinned. Funny the things people believed about the Poor with a capital P. They should have seen old Mrs. Pearstock, on five different clinics, up everyweek, taking away bottles of medicine, liniments for her back, linctus for her cough, aperients, digestive mixtures. âFourteen years Iâve âad the brown medicine, Doctor, and itâs the only thing does me any good. That young doctor last week writes me down a white medicine. No good at all! It stands to reason, doesnât it, Doctor? I mean, Iâve âad me brown medicine for fourteen years, and if I donât âave me liquid paraffin and them brown pillsâ¦.â
He could hear the whining voice nowâexcellent physique, sound as a bellâeven all the physic she took couldnât really do her any harm!
They were the same, sisters under the skin, Mrs. Pearstock from Tottenham and Mrs. Forrester of Park Lane Court. You listened and you wrote scratches with your pen on a piece of stiff expensive notepaper, or on a hospital card as the case might beâ¦.
God, he was tired of the whole businessâ¦.
Blue sea, the faint sweet smell of mimosa, hot dustâ¦.
Fifteen years ago. All that was over and done withâyes, done with, thank heaven. Heâd had the courage to break off the whole business.
Courage? said a little imp somewhere. Is that what you call it?
Well, heâd done the sensible thing, hadnât he? It had been a wrench. Damn it all, it had hurt like hell! But heâd gone through with it, cut loose, come home, and married Gerda.
Heâd got a plain secretary and heâd married a plain wife. That was what he wanted, wasnât it? Heâd had enough of beauty, hadnât he? Heâd seen what someone like Veronica could do with her beautyâseen the effect it had on every male within range. After Veronica, heâd wanted safety. Safety and peace and devotion and the quiet, enduring things of life. Heâd wanted, in fact, Gerda! Heâd wanted someone whoâd take her ideas of life from him, whowould accept his decisions and who wouldnât have, for one moment, any ideas of her ownâ¦.
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.
Heâd 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 worthwhile.
John Christow leant back in his chair. He was free nowâfree to go
He had known that she was speaking of him, and for quite twenty-four hours he had been annoyed about it.
Although Gerdaâs indiscriminate enthusiasm irritated him, Berylâs cool appraisal irritated him too. In fact, he thought, nearly everything irritates meâ¦.
Something wrong there. Overwork? Perhaps. No, that was the excuse. This growing impatience, this irritable tiredness, it had some deeper significance. He thought: âThis wonât do. I canât go on this way. Whatâs the matter with me? If I could get away â¦.â
There it was againâthe blind idea rushing up to meet the formulated idea of escape.
I want to go homeâ¦.
Damn it all, 404 Harley Street was his home!
And Mrs. Forrester was sitting in the waiting room. A tiresome woman, a woman with too much money and too much spare time to think about her ailments.
Someone had once said to him: âYou must get very tired of these rich patients always fancying themselves ill. It must be so satisfactory to get to the poor, who only come when there is something really the matter with them!â He had grinned. Funny the things people believed about the Poor with a capital P. They should have seen old Mrs. Pearstock, on five different clinics, up everyweek, taking away bottles of medicine, liniments for her back, linctus for her cough, aperients, digestive mixtures. âFourteen years Iâve âad the brown medicine, Doctor, and itâs the only thing does me any good. That young doctor last week writes me down a white medicine. No good at all! It stands to reason, doesnât it, Doctor? I mean, Iâve âad me brown medicine for fourteen years, and if I donât âave me liquid paraffin and them brown pillsâ¦.â
He could hear the whining voice nowâexcellent physique, sound as a bellâeven all the physic she took couldnât really do her any harm!
They were the same, sisters under the skin, Mrs. Pearstock from Tottenham and Mrs. Forrester of Park Lane Court. You listened and you wrote scratches with your pen on a piece of stiff expensive notepaper, or on a hospital card as the case might beâ¦.
God, he was tired of the whole businessâ¦.
Blue sea, the faint sweet smell of mimosa, hot dustâ¦.
Fifteen years ago. All that was over and done withâyes, done with, thank heaven. Heâd had the courage to break off the whole business.
Courage? said a little imp somewhere. Is that what you call it?
Well, heâd done the sensible thing, hadnât he? It had been a wrench. Damn it all, it had hurt like hell! But heâd gone through with it, cut loose, come home, and married Gerda.
Heâd got a plain secretary and heâd married a plain wife. That was what he wanted, wasnât it? Heâd had enough of beauty, hadnât he? Heâd seen what someone like Veronica could do with her beautyâseen the effect it had on every male within range. After Veronica, heâd wanted safety. Safety and peace and devotion and the quiet, enduring things of life. Heâd wanted, in fact, Gerda! Heâd wanted someone whoâd take her ideas of life from him, whowould accept his decisions and who wouldnât have, for one moment, any ideas of her ownâ¦.
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.
Heâd 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 worthwhile.
John Christow leant back in his chair. He was free nowâfree to go
Similar Books
Unknown
Unknown
The Eden Series: The Complete Collection
Janelle Stalder
Kilting Me Softly: 1
Persephone Jones
Darkness Under the Sun
Dean Koontz
Sybil
Flora Rheta Schreiber
The Pyramid
William Golding
Nothing is Forever
Grace Thompson
Series of Unfortunate Events: The Grim Grotto
Lemony Snicket
The Tiger's Wife
Tea Obreht