The Doctor's Wife, page 17
‘Yes. He rang me up about it in the middle of the night.’
‘He what?’
‘He rang me up here. In Paris.’
‘Danny did? How did he get the number?’
‘He said it was by the phone in the hall.’
He caught his breath, trying to control his anger. ‘Jesus, Sheila, have you any idea of what you’re doing to us?’
She did not answer.
‘Look, I’m coming to Paris. We’ve got to settle this.’
‘No, Kevin.’
‘I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. I have to operate at eight, but I’ll come right after.’
‘Kevin, it’s not going to help for you to come here. Not at all.’
‘I see. So you’re planning to run off to New York without even bothering to say goodbye to us, is that it?’
‘Who told you I was going to New York?’
‘Your pal Peg Conway told Owen the other night. Oh yes, and she said that this Yank is ten years younger than you are. That’s nice, ha ha. That’s very nice. Yes, I can just see it. When you’re fifty, this bucko will be thirty-nine. Five years younger than I am now. And can you see me in bed with a woman of fifty? Can you?’
She did not speak.
‘Sheila, are you listening? Does what I’m saying make any sense to you at all? Or is it dancing-in-the dark time again?’
She did not answer.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s try to talk like friends. I’ll tell you what. If you come to your senses and come home now, I’ll give you my word, nothing will be said by me. Nothing. Because I want you home. I want you for Danny’s sake. Do you hear me, Sheila? And I want you for my own sake, too. Please, Sheila?’
He listened. She was still there.
‘Point number two,’ he said. ‘If you come back now, nobody will be any the wiser. Only Owen and I, and poor wee Danny know about this. And Agnes knows something’s up, but not to worry, Owen will keep her quiet, ha ha. And if you’d rather have a couple more weeks there before you come home, that’s all right, too. Quite all right. We miss you, but it’s all right. Do you hear me, Sheila?’
‘Kevin, I’m very sorry about what’s happened. I am.’
‘Wait now, I’ve not finished. There’s something else. I thought we were happily married, but maybe I was wrong. I was happy, but maybe you weren’t. Maybe I haven’t paid as much attention to you as I should have. I know I shouldn’t have taken on this army job, because that annoyed you. I’m sorry about that. But these are bad times here, and people don’t always do the things they should do. Now I’m going to say something I’ve not said before. I’ve been sitting thinking about all this, do you see? And I’ve decided that, no matter what happens in Ulster now, things will never be any good here. Not any more. Not in our time. We’ll be paying for this mess as long as we live. Don’t you agree?’
She did not speak.
‘Now, do you remember, Shee, you talked about us emigrating? That was about two years ago, wasn’t it? And I said no. Well, I’ve changed my mind. I think we should emigrate. We’ll go to Canada, or Australia, whichever you like. With my qualifications I can get a job anywhere, and, abroad, I’ll make twice as much money as at home, ha ha. So just tell me where you fancy. Toronto, Sydney, or wherever, and I promise you we’ll be out of here by next spring. Or even by Christmas, if you want it. And don’t worry about Danny. He’ll just switch rugby for ice hockey, ha ha. He’ll be all right. What do you say, Shee?’
He waited.
‘No reaction at all? All right. You don’t have to make up your mind at once. I just mentioned it. Now, another thing. I’ve looked up the flight for Wednesday. I can drive down to Dublin, park at Colinstown airport, and catch a direct flight that gets into Paris at ten past twelve. We could have lunch together, just the two of us.’
‘No, Kevin.’
‘Just lunch. Just a talk?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll go back right after lunch and we won’t even discuss this other matter, if you don’t want to. I just want to see you. Just for an hour or two?’
‘I have to move tomorrow. I’m going to a hotel.’
‘I’m not talking about tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about Wednesday. You’ll be moved by then.’
‘No, Kevin. Please, don’t. If you come you won’t find me.’
It was his worst fear. He had one more card, and now he played it. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe I couldn’t have come, anyway. I didn’t want to tell you this, but Danny is not well. He has a temperature of a hundred and three. Unless the fever goes down, I suppose I’d better stay close to home.’
‘Oh, God, what’s wrong with him?’
‘He got sick last night. Listen, what did you say to him when he rang you up?’
‘Nothing. I told him I wouldn’t discuss it with him. I said I’d give him a ring in a day or two.’
‘Well, I think you’d better do that, then.’
‘All right. When will I ring?’
‘Tomorrow, around suppertime. All right?’
‘All right,’ she said.
‘And listen, Shee, do you have a number I could reach you at? In case of an emergency?’
‘Wait,’ she said. He heard her put down the phone. After a while she came back. ‘It’s Odéon eight-eight-oh-five.’
He wrote it down. ‘All right. Is that a hotel?’
‘Yes. What do you think he has? Could it be an infection?’
‘You know kids. It could be anything.’
‘So I’ll ring you at suppertime tomorrow,’ she said.
‘All right. Good night, Shee.’
‘Good night.’
He picked up the prescription pad, tore off the number, and went back into the den. He had forgotten to switch the television set off and now, mouthing soundlessly, some Protestant minister stared at him from the set, delivering the late-evening prayer. He sat down in the dark of the den, in front of the dying coals of the fire, staring at the minister’s image. Somebody has to stop her. Somebody has to protect her from herself. She’s mad. Yes, mad. I’ll say nothing to her when she rings up tomorrow. I’ll tell her Danny’s a lot better. Not to worry.
The minister, smiling, bowed his head. The screen went to blackness. Then the sign-off pattern appeared. The Queen. Kevin Redden stared at the Queen. He got up, shut off the set, and went out into the hall. He looked in the address book beside the telephone, then rang a number.
‘Dr. Deane speaking.’
‘Owen, this is Kevin. I know it’s late, but could I come over and see you for a minute? It’s urgent, I’m afraid.’
‘Of course, Kevin. I’ll be expecting you.’
Dr. Deane, waiting for his visitor, had been about to answer the front doorbell when he heard Agnes moving about in the bedroom. He went back in to look and found her at her dressing table, making up her face, wearing her good floral quilted robe over her nightgown. She turned and smiled at him. ‘I’ll just come down for a minute, just to say hello to him. It’s only polite.’
‘Please, dear, don’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice rose to a shout.
‘Shhh. You’ll wake the children. I just think it would be better if you didn’t come down, dear.’
He might have guessed when she heard that Redden had phoned she would not rest until she was in on it. Now she began to wheedle. ‘Listen, you go on down, and I’ll make a cup of tea and bring it in to you. He’d probably like a cup of tea.’
The doorbell rang again.
‘I’ll give him a whiskey.’
‘Do you not want me to hear, is that it?’ He could tell she was going to start a shouting match. Just this once he must stand his ground. ‘Stay here!’ he said and shut the bedroom door.
‘So that’s the way of it. I’m not allowed to go down and welcome a visitor in my own house!’ Her voice came through the shut door as he turned to find his younger daughter, Imelda, standing out on the landing in her nightdress. ‘Daddy, the doorbell.’
‘Yes, I know. Go back to bed, pet. It’s about a patient.’
She nodded, acquiescent, her plump features framed in the horrible hair curlers he hated so much. As he started downstairs, the doorbell rang a third time. Didn’t Redden realize how late it was? He looked up to be sure Imelda was back in her room before switching on the hall light and unlocking the front door. His visitor was hatless and coatless, although it was pouring rain out. He saw Redden’s big Humber parked in the driveway, saw that Redden had left the gate open to the road outside.
‘Come in, Kevin, come in,’ he said, and led the way into the sitting room, seeing it, suddenly as a stranger might, shabbily untidy, with the furniture hidden by those awful yellow chintz covers made from material Agnes had picked up at a Parish Sale of Work. There were records on the floor, scattered by the children and their friends. He went through to the dining room and opened the sideboard, coming back with a bottle of Paddy, two glasses, and a siphon of soda water. ‘You’ll take something, won’t you, Kevin?’
Redden nodded distractedly, going to stand at the fireplace, warming his rear at the embers, throwing his head up like a man about to make a public speech. ‘I’m sorry, barging in on you at this hour. You were probably off to bed, were you?’
‘Agnes was. But I’m a late stayer-upper,’ Dr. Deane lied. ‘She’s asleep, as a matter of fact.’ He held up the bottle. ‘Say when.’
Whiskey was poured. Redden asked for a splash of soda, then stared into his glass. ‘I talked to your sister again tonight,’ he began, using the words ‘your sister’ as though he were some sort of outside agent beginning a report.
‘And?’
‘I offered her anything she wanted. I even offered to emigrate. I wasn’t cross with her, I did everything I could to reason with her. But it’s hopeless. I think she’s going to fly the coop to America any day now.’
‘You do?’ Dr. Deane took a stiff peg at his drink. His stomach seared him. He had forgotten to take his Gelusil and now he felt in his jacket pocket for the little roll of pills.
‘It looks like it.’
‘That’s bad news.’
‘I’ve got to stop her,’ Redden said. ‘For her own sake, if not for Danny’s.’
‘How would you do that, Kevin?’
‘Well, I talked to the American Embassy in Dublin today. I have a patient who has a pal there. It seems the Americans have all sorts of regulations about who they let in. No Communists, no moral turpitude, no insanity in the family, and so on. This chap said she may have applied for a tourist visa in Paris. It’s something she can get without much difficulty. But if they find out she’s running away from her husband and child—and, in particular, if there’s any history of mental instability in her family—I think I can put a stop to it. That’s why I came around here tonight.’
‘Oh?’ Dr. Deane said. He sat in his old armchair and stared at the dying fire, the pain ebbing, as the Gelusil took effect.
‘She’ll be angry at me, of course,’ Redden said. ‘But I think she’ll thank me in the end. I’m trying to help her, you know.’
‘Mnn.’
‘You could help, too,’ Redden said.
‘Me?’
‘Well, on this question of her family history,’ Redden said, then stopped and looked toward the door. Dr. Deane turned in his armchair and, he knew it, she had come down after all. She stood in the opened doorway in her floral robe, her black hair all done up feigning total surprise. ‘Owen?’ she said, and then, pretending, ‘Oh, Kevin, is it you? I saw the light. I thought this man of mine had fallen asleep again over a book. Kevin, how are you? Owen told me your news, of course. I’m awfully sorry.’
‘Hello, Agnes,’ Redden said, standing up.
She smiled. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Oh, no,’ Redden said hurriedly. ‘We’re just having a nightcap.’
Dr. Deane knew he must do something, and at once. He got up, went to her, and kissed her on the cheek, for she set great store by public demonstrations of affection. ‘You go on up, dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll be up shortly.’
But she looked past him, toward Redden. ‘Any word from Sheila?’
Redden flushed, then shook his head. Dr. Deane, foreseeing more questions, touched her gently on the shoulder. It was the merest suggestion of easing her on her way, but it made her turn on him, her face a cartoon image of rage. ‘Good night, dear,’ he said gently.
‘Good night, Kevin,’ she said, turning to give Redden a strained smile.
‘Good night, Agnes,’ Redden said. Dr. Deane closed the door, shutting her out. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You were saying?’
‘Well, I could go over to Paris and talk to the American Embassy there. If I had a note from you outlining the family history, it would be a great help.’
‘Ah, damn it, Kevin, I’d rather not do that,’ Dr. Deane said. ‘My own sister. It just seems unethical.’
‘But I’d use it only as a last resort. Only if they insist on some corroborating evidence. I mean, if I tell my own story, it will probably be enough.’
Dr. Deane finished his whiskey in a gulp. ‘It probably will,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’ve no real evidence that there’s anything the matter with her.’
‘I don’t want you to say anything about her,’ Redden said. ‘I want you to give me a note about Ned and your mother.’
‘Honestly, I’d rather not. It’s something you don’t do.’
‘And what do you do?’ Redden asked loudly. ‘What do I do? Do I stand on principle and see my marriage destroyed and my wife risk a breakdown—if she’s not in that state already? Damn it Owen,’ Redden said, and Dr. Deane saw now how overwrought he was, his eyes glistening, his voice high in an emotional tremor. ‘I’m asking you to help all of us. I’m asking you to write a simple statement of fact which I promise I won’t use with the consul unless it’s absolutely the last card I can play. And I give you my word of honor it will stay between you and me. Sheila will never get wind of it. I promise you that.’
‘That’s not it,’ Dr. Deane said, his own voice now emotional.
‘I’m asking you to help me, because I’m at the end of my rope,’ Redden said, and now there was a terrible new sound in his voice, the faltering of a man who has never wept but is just about to begin. ‘Of course, it’s a last resort. Of course, I’m going over there to talk to her, to reason with her, to tell her I love her, to try to make her see sense. I’ll do all that before I try to block her, do you see? I mean, blocking her is the last thing I want to do, because she’ll not forgive me for it. I know that. But if our marriage and our son won’t bring her to her senses, then I have to do something. I thought of writing to this boy’s family in America, if I could find their address. I thought of killing the young bastard. I thought of everything, Owen. The last few days have been bloody hell.’
‘I know,’ Dr. Deane said. He rose and poured himself a very large drink.
Redden leaned forward, staring at the fire. He had begun to weep. He wiped his eyes with the knuckles of his hand. ‘As I say, I’m still hoping. I love her. I want her back.’
Dr. Deane stared at his whiskey, then drank it. Pain from his ulcer hit him in a wave. Kevin Redden was trying to use him. It was wrong, but what was right? She probably will have a breakdown if that boy throws her over later on. Imagine her sitting paralyzed, like Ned, in some room in New York.
‘All I’m asking you to do is write a note to me confirming what you told me in our conversation, about your brother and your mother. Not about her. As you say, we have no evidence of her being ill. But if you said in your note that you wonder if it’s wise, under the circumstances, for her to go to America at this time. Just a letter to me. That’s all.’
Just a letter to Kevin. Dr. Deane drank the rest of the whiskey. His head seemed to expand in a wave of intoxication. Just a letter to my brother-in-law, a letter that will probably never be needed. Just to give him a little help to face the American consul.
He rose, went to his desk, sat down a trifle unsteadily, and unscrewed his old-fashioned fountain pen. And, at that moment, saw the sepia-brown photograph of his father in academic robes which he had placed in an honored position on the mantelpiece. His father, the photograph, was stern, his mouth down at the corners, his hand clutching his sheepskin. His father’s eyes, grave, hooded, stared at him in familiar, hurt reproof. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, his father would have said. Do something. It’s for her own good, isn’t it? Well, is it, or isn’t it? Make up your mind.
He began to write:
Dr. Kevin Redden, M.B., F.R.C.S.
Merrymount
408 Somerton Road
Belfast
Dear Kevin,
This is to confirm the facts I outlined to you in our recent conversation in regard to my younger sister, Sheila. As I told you
He paused and raised his head. Pain came, the familiar ulcer pain. ‘Kevin,’ he said, ‘get yourself a refill, will you? And pour me a little, too, like a decent man.’
She was in the shower stall in Peg’s bathroom with an ugly plastic shower cap on her head when she heard him open the shower door behind her. ‘Oh, don’t come in,’ she called out, ashamed of his seeing her in the ugly cap. But he joined her under the water jet and, wet, embraced her from behind, then took the soap bar and began to lather her back, soaping her thighs, his hand caressing her bottom. Suds sliding over her skin, making her slippery to his touch, as smiling, she turned, the silly cap forgotten, and took the soap from him, soaping him all over until he was dripping with lather: she looked at his penis, which stood out throbbing, then soaped it and squeezed it so that it stood even more urgently. Laughing, they embraced under the jet, sluicing the soap off, until she stepped out of the shower, pulling her cap from her head. He came after her, drying Jier back and bottom and, half-dry, running, laughing like children, they went into the bedroom and there, at eight o’clock on a gray, rainy Paris morning, he fondled her breasts until, filled with an urgent intoxication, she felt his left hand touch her there, exciting her clitoris, and then his right hand guided his thick, stiff penis inside her. Only ten minutes earlier she had been standing in the shower, her mind gloomy with last night’s phone call from Kevin, thinking of Danny’s illness and how she must phone home tonight, knowing today was their last day in this flat because Peg had phoned to say she was moving back in; it was Tuesday, the date they had arranged. Peg had said they could stay on in the spare room, but Tom said they must move to a hotel for the rest of the week. And now, all of those gloomy responsibilities she had faced in the shower seemed insubstantial as a dream. They made love, then lay for a while, and made love again, and dozed. At last, he roused himself. ‘What time should we move to the hotel?’
