Another world, p.8
Another World, page 8
‘I’m glad you’re here, Jones. Nobody else would have stayed in this miserable little place, its not a hotel really, just a small boarding-house. When I came here I had hoped for the best.’
‘Never stop hoping,’ he said, ‘never. I don’t.’
‘Please,’ she said, holding out the glass, and he gave her another drink.
He was stroking her knee again, smiling, leaning close. ‘Don’t be sad, Mrs Gandell. After all we did get some good news, didn’t we?’
She nodded her head, made as if to smile, but didn’t, and he noticed her hand was shaking.
‘You’re not ill, Mrs Gandell?’
‘I’m not ill.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘I can’t even explain, not even to you, Jones, how I feel this very moment. I feel empty.’
He turned from her, stared into the fire. She had changed, all in a flash. But why? ‘And when my boat docked in her harbour this afternoon, why, she was as happy as the day is long.’
‘It’s been a lousy winter, Mrs Gandell, a long worrying time for you, and who knows it better than I do. But it’s not the end, never is, really.’
She reached out and took his hand. ‘You have your kind moments, Jones.’
She wanted to shriek when he said quietly, ‘Thank you for that, Mrs Gandell.’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget this winter, Jones,’ she said.
But Jones said nothing, but picked up the poker and rudely disturbed the fire, sending up the flames. This return to what he called ‘her winter theory’ positively irritated him, and he continued poking at the fire, until she finally pulled the poker from his hand.
‘There’ll be no fire left if you go on,’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ and he felt her hand on his shoulder.
‘I once felt empty, Mrs Gandell, really empty, just like you do now, awful feeling, like everything seems to stop suddenly, you’re kind of locked in, can’t even take one single step outside yourself. Ah,’ he said, ‘ah,’ stroking her cheek, willing her to smile, and he was right back in the afternoon, hearing her laugh, and then the words in her ear, velvet soft.
‘But you won’t give up, will you?’
She shook her head.
‘Sure?’
She smiled an answer, and it cheered him up.
‘What you feel, I feel, what you know, I know,’ Jones said, and then followed up with an extra warmth. ‘That Tegid Hughes at The Lion always asks after you when I call there. He’s very obliging, I must say. Only place that is in this potty little town. You must never feel empty, Mrs Gandell, ever feel outside, ignored, left. Please don’t. I hate you being sad,’ he paused for a moment, and then said, ‘Mind if I have another,’ and she didn’t, and he got himself another drink. ‘How about you?’ he asked.
‘No more,’ Mrs Gandell said.
Her sudden change of mood still intrigued him, and he wondered about it, and, deep down he was afraid of it, remembering the early morning, the broad hints. Surely she wouldn’t break her promise, sell up, go? He wanted to get close again, to probe, to find out.
‘That bloody morning mood, that worrying about the bank again,’ and he wanted to shout, ‘God Almighty, the winter won’t last forever.’ Jones was like that, and always aware that the compass points of his world were the four walls of the Decent Hotel. Their near regular guest, Mr Prothero, had once christened it that, and Jones had signed and sealed it. But Mrs Gandell preferred its original name, Cartref.
‘How quiet it is,’ he said, breaking the silence, but Mrs Gandell appeared not to hear, and sat very still, and stared into the fire. And Jones thought of the order of his days, and was content. Unlike Mrs Gandell he accepted it all. Monotony was merciful to Jones.
‘Shall we go to bed, Mrs Gandell?’
But there was no answer.
‘I could read to you if you like,’ he said.
The Gandellian thoughts were miles and miles away. He leaned over her. ‘Come along, Mrs Gandell. Let’s go to bed, get close, get warm.’
He waited for a move, a sign, but she seemed gone off on a journey, and he would not restrain her.
He got up. ‘Going to bed now,’ he said, and began to undress.
He sat on the bed, removed his shoes, all the time watching her. When at last she rose and came towards him, he gave a sudden sigh that did not escape her. The country of the flesh beckoned.
‘Good,’ Jones said, ‘Good.’
5
Back at Ty Newdd Mervyn Thomas had brooded half the night, tossed and turned in his bed, and thought about Miss Vaughan. If only she would smile, if only she would speak to him. He lay in the darkness, oblivious of the time, of the noisy activity in the kitchen below. ‘Am I bad? Am I too good? Why can’t I make her happy? What is wrong with me?’ But the questions remained unanswered, and when his sister shouted up the stairs, ‘Breakfast,’ he sat up and switched on the light. ‘She is lonely, I know it, I feel it in me. I .…’
‘You coming,’ and then the rapping on his door.
‘All right, all right, Margiad, I am not deaf,’ and he got up and dressed. ‘Strange,’ he said, looking at the clock. ‘So early for Margiad.’ When he went downstairs his breakfast was already laid out for him. And she was there, waiting, sphinx-like, and seeming to look in every direction except his. And, unusual for her, she did not say good morning, and served him in silence. He sat down.
‘Anything wrong, sister?’
She did not answer.
‘I hope you slept well, Margiad,’ he said.
‘Well enough.’
‘Good. I’m glad of that.’
‘And you?’
‘I had a very good night.’
‘You must be off to Llys this morning, Mervyn. Twice now you’ve forgotten to see old Miss Pugh, you must do your duty. And she expects you to do it.’
‘I will do that, Margiad.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘I’m sorry that you were so upset last night, Margiad,’ he said.
She did not answer, but finished her tea, and got up, and went straight up to her room. He continued his breakfast, and had already forgotten a lady by the name of Pugh. When she came down again he was surprised to see her dressed and ready to go out.
‘You’re going out very early, sister,’ he said.
‘I shan’t be long.’
He half rose as if to see her to the door, but instantly sat down again.
‘And you will not forget Miss Pugh,’ she said, turning on her heel at the door.
‘I will not forget.’
She flung her reply across the room. ‘You forget too many things.’
‘I wish to heaven, Margiad, that you would not upset yourself in this silly way. And how much better if you tried to understand.’
‘The town understands.’
‘Paper come?’
‘I didn’t look,’ she said.
‘Any post?’
‘None,’ and she went out, slamming the door behind her.
‘Very unusual for her,’ and he suddenly remembered their conversation of the previous evening. ‘Good heavens, no. She can’t have gone off to see that Dr Hughes? I won’t see him, I won’t. Stupid woman.’
But Margiad Thomas was already bent in that direction, a crusading light in her eye, resolute of purpose, determined. And at this very moment was sitting in the waiting-room, among the coughs and colds, the pains and aches, and just long enough there to find her neighbour’s severely asthmatic breathing something of a trial. It was the very first time she had even been in a doctor’s waiting-room, for Margiad Thomas would have beamed had you told her that she was as full of good health as she was of sense.
‘Miss Thomas?’
She looked up, and there was the smiling receptionist. She got up and followed her across the corridor. ‘This way,’ and paused at the door and knocked. ‘A Miss Thomas, doctor.’
‘Show her in.’
Another smile, and Miss Thomas was suddenly facing the doctor, already studying her over his pincenez. ‘Do sit down, Miss Thomas.’
‘Thank you,’ and he was quick to note her stiffness of manner.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘It’s about my brother, Doctor.’
‘I - - - see,’ dragging the reply. ‘Have we met before?’
‘Some years ago, really,’ Margiad said, and would have liked to have been proud, and added, ‘of course my brother Mervyn, is also very healthy.’
‘You’re not ill?’
‘Oh no, Doctor.’
‘Good. Now about your brother, Miss Thomas?’ and he sat forward and looked closely at her.
A matron with a prim look, well dressed, wholly at ease save for the continually twitching fingers in her lap.
‘Tell me about him? Is it urgent?’
Miss Thomas leaned to him. ‘My brother has become a changed man, Doctor. In these last weeks his whole character has changed. He is really not himself, and I’m worried about him. There’s something wrong, he’s not well.’
‘Continue.’
She leaned even closer, dropped her voice, and continued: ‘Ever since a certain woman came to this town, Doctor, to work for that Mr Blair, the solicitor, he has been a changed man. He forgets things, neglects the parish, and is hardly ever in the house.’ The loud chatter from the waiting-room penetrated Dr Hughes’s ears.
‘Could you be more explicit, Miss Thomas, there are others waiting?’
It was a whisper that followed. ‘He doesn’t sleep well at all, some nights I look into his room, and there he is, sat in his chair facing the window, still dressed, and often in the darkness .…’
‘How old is your brother?’
‘Fifty this year.’
He respected the anxiety all too visible in her face. ‘Thomas, Thomas,’ he thought, ‘surely not on my list.’
‘If I could have some pills for him, doctor .…’
‘Is he on my list, Miss Thomas?’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
He got up and began running through the files in the cabinet.
‘Some rheumatic trouble, five years ago, correct?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I’ll give you something that will help him to sleep at night,’ he said, and thought to himself: ‘Following a woman, what woman?’ He wrote out a prescription and handed it to her. ‘There!’
‘Oh! Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry to have bothered you, never wished to, really .…’
He waved it all away, and asked, ‘Following what woman, Miss Thomas?’
‘A Miss Vaughan, she’s staying at that little hotel, Cartref, at present….’
Laughing, he said rather boisterously, ‘Never heard of her,’ and he rose when she rose and showed her slowly to the door, suddenly put a hand on her arm. ‘Miss Thomas!’
‘Yes, Doctor?’
‘You’re not imagining all this, are you?’
‘Oh no,’ she replied indignantly, ‘No, Doctor. I wish you’d see my brother, I really do.’
‘There are such things as rumours,’ he said, smiling. ‘Very well, I’ll arrange to have a talk with him. By the way, isn’t he the Minister at Penuel. I have heard about some very good sermons there.’
Margiad positively beamed. ‘That’s it. Knew you’d remember, Doctor.’
‘Don’t worry’ he said, opening the door, ‘it never helped anyone.’
‘No, Doctor, thank you.’
The smiling receptionist led her to the front door. ‘Good morning.’
The receptionist put her head in just as the doctor called, ‘Next, please,’ and as she went out, asked, ‘Do you know Miss Thomas?’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Or a Miss Vaughan staying at Cartref in Prince’s Road?’
‘Never heard of her,’ the receptionist said, and went out again, and he heard her call out, ‘Miss Davies?’
‘Miss Thomas should take some pills, too,’ he thought, as he rose to receive his next patient.
Miss Thomas was still standing outside the door, looking anxiously up and down, as though not quite certain as to the direction she should take. She felt disappointed, she had expected more, and got less, she did not like Dr Hughes’s manner, he had seemed to dismiss the whole thing with a mere toss of the head. He had seemed indifferent, not caring.
‘He is a very busy man, I know.’
‘Ah well,’ and she felt a sense of relief at having done her duty by her brother, and she looked forward to his calling. Mervyn would be angry, but then he had been angry, and moody, and totally incomprehensible these past weeks. Something had to be done. People passed by on their way to the town, there was the occasional ‘Good morning’ in her ear, and ‘Out early this morning.’ The town had sharp eyes, and missed nothing.
‘Morning,’ Margiad would reply, staring at the pavement.
She felt imprisoned in this street, and then a hand touched her arm, and she turned violently to find her friend, Mari Richards, smiling in her face.
‘Nicer morning than yesterday, Margiad, awful, wasn’t it?’
And Margiad stuttered, ‘Yes, it was, wasn’t it?’ and walked quickly away, to the astonishment of her friend, who, going her way, stoked the fire of her own imagination.
‘Very odd indeed, at that time of the morning,’ she thought, staring after the rapidly distancing form of Miss Thomas.
‘Of course, it’s that brother of hers, that’s it,’ visualising the morning when a man wearing a white coat would call and take Mervyn away. ‘Well, well!’
Miss Thomas was glad to slip into the first cafe she came to, to sit down, to order herself a cup of coffee, and even more glad to find the place empty. Even the girl coming forward to serve her was a relief. She looked up at her. A total stranger.
‘Yes, Madam?’
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Certainly.’
And she accepted the coffee, and the mercenary smile that accompanied it. ‘Anything else, Madam?’
‘No, thank you.’
And watched the girl suddenly vanish behind the blue curtains at the end of the room. She sat over her cup, slowly stirring, wondering, asking herself questions, answering them. Had she done the right thing? And what on earth did that doctor think he was doing, asking if she had imagined it all. Of course she’d done the right thing, and she sipped quietly, and looked out of the window at the people passing by.
She put down the cup, thinking, ‘Perhaps I could go and see this Vaughan woman myself,’ but instantly dismissed it from her mind, her pride stiffening. No. But there was this Mr Blair, the solicitor, for whom she worked. Perhaps she could talk to him. When she turned away from the window she saw the girl’s face between a chink in the curtains. It made her call at once.
‘Another cup, please.’
‘Thank you.’
If only she had never arrived in the town. Yes, she would see Mr Blair. But how to avoid that woman? In a sudden desperation she even thought of seeing Mrs Gandell herself, thought even of Jones. ‘I wish I knew what best to do?’ Saw her brother mad, heard the laughing town, and her hand trembled as she put the cup to her lips.
When she looked up the girl had gone, she was alone again. And even as she sat there, the cafe seemed to have grown suddenly larger, and the blue curtains more distant, the silent, invisible assistant even more silent. She longed for the feel of a hand, longed for the words that might come, reassuring as open arms, and she stared around the empty room, and listened to the tick of a little blue clock on the shelf above her head. Eleven o’clock. ‘I’ve been out two hours, and nothing has happened, nothing,’ and suddenly she was lost and drowning in her own dilemma. She did not hear the ring of the bell, nor see the door opening, nor the tall man that entered and sat down at a nearby table. And there was the assistant hovering over him in an instant, with a fresh smile.
‘Morning, Mr Blair.’
‘Good morning, Nancy. Usual, please.’
‘Certainly, Mr Blair.’
Margiad Thomas jerked upright, stared at the man. ‘Blair. Blair. Of course, yes, the solicitor, him.’ The small miracle over the horizon in a moment, and again her hand shook, and she spilt some coffee, and she continued to stare at this tall, well-dressed man.
‘He could tell me everything,’ she thought.
‘Good morning,’ she blurted out, and the head turned, there was a momentary pause, then the man smiled, and said casually, ‘Ah, good morning, Miss Thomas. And how are you today?’
Margiad sat bolt upright. ‘I am very well, Mr Blair, thank you.’
‘Good,’ he said, and settled himself to his Horlicks and his biscuits.
Should she ask him? Shouldn’t she? She watched the girl disappear behind the curtains.
‘D’you think the weather will improve, Miss Thomas?’
‘I hope so. Terrible its been lately.’
And cup at his lips, Mr Blair, replied, ‘Yes, first time I’ve seen you at the Blue Bird,’ he said.
She dropped her voice, stuttered, ‘Yes, I had to see Dr Hughes today.’
‘You’re not ill, I hope.’
The words gave her strength, a sudden way in, and she smiled, but said nothing, too surprised as she was, then got up and walked slowly to him. She bent across his table, and in a whisper, asked, ‘Could I speak to you for a moment, Mr Blair?’
He looked up. ‘Of course,’ and he motioned her to the opposite chair.
‘Thank you.’
She sat with her back to the blue curtains, again dropped her voice, and said, ‘If I could talk to you in confidence, Mr Blair, I would be most grateful.’
He sat back, studied her. ‘Is something wrong?’
And again the conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’m worried in my mind, Mr Blair.’
‘How is your brother?’
‘Not well at all,’ she said, and the reply leapt out.
‘Oh! Dear, dear! I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Thomas.’
‘Ever since a certain woman came to work in your office, my brother has become a changed man.’
‘Indeed!’
‘You have heard the rumours no doubt, Mr Blair. I will spare you my own feelings. You’ve met Mervyn, you know him, but you would not do so now,’ and her sudden sigh seemed to fill the room.
