The World in the Evening Read online

  ‘Pfui!’ Gerda exclaimed, making a face as though she were spitting out something filthy.

  ‘What’s the matter? That’s Nature.’

  ‘You call it Nature? A mouse sandwich! Even the Nazis would not invent such a thing … And what did Sarah say?’

  ‘I never told her. She’d have thought she was to blame. She takes those kind of things so seriously.’

  ‘Tell me, Stephen—when you were young, if you got ill, it was Sarah who looked after you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

  ‘Because this morning she said to me: “I do not think Stephen likes me to come into his bedroom.”’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous! However did she get that idea?’

  ‘I think you give it to her.’

  ‘Me? Are you kidding?’

  ‘When they brought you back from the Hospital, day before yesterday, and she wanted to help with the bed, you said: “No. Gerda shall do it.” I think you hurt her feeling.’

  ‘But it wasn’t that, at all. I was only thinking of Sarah. I mean, she’s not so strong any more; and there’s some things you have to do for me—’

  ‘Like lifting this?’ Gerda nodded ironically toward the bedpan. ‘You find me such a Hercules?’

  ‘No—but—’

  ‘No buts. I do not think you give the true reason.’

  ‘You don’t? Well, I guess you’re right … You see, Gerda—I don’t know if you’ll understand this—when Sarah starts being motherly—or auntly, I should say—I get so embarrassed I don’t know where to put myself. It brings back the time when I was a kid. Such a lot has happened since then, and—’

  ‘And yet,’ Gerda smiled, ‘some part of you is still a kid. You know this, but you do not like to be remembered of it. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes. More or less.’

  ‘Perhaps I begin to understand you. More than you think.’

  ‘I’m afraid you do, damn you.’

  ‘Oh, it is nothing to be afraid. This kid I can see in you I like, very much. Only, Stephen, you know, children can be cruel sometimes, by not thinking. You must not be cruel to Sarah. She loves you. You love her, too. But you must show her this.’

  ‘You think I ought to let her nurse me?’

  ‘No. That is not necessary. Beside, I want to nurse you myself.’

  ‘You do? Honestly?’

  ‘Yes. I am very content that I have this work. Just now, it is good for my mental condition—’ Gerda checked herself, as if she had been about to say more than she wished. Then she added: ‘But be very nice to Sarah.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Outside, there was a sound of footsteps, much heavier than Sarah’s, rapidly mounting the staircase and coming along the corridor.

  ‘Terrible!’ exclaimed Gerda, jumping to her feet. ‘That must already be Dr Kennedy—’ She whipped a towel from the rail and threw it over the bedpan. There was a very gentle tap on the door; so gentle that it was obviously meant to be comic. Then the door opened a little, and Charles Kennedy’s head appeared, thrust forward into the room and peeking around cautiously, like a conspirator.

  ‘Hello,’ he said to Gerda, in a hoarse stage-whisper. ‘Is he still breathing?’

  ‘Oh, very much!’

  ‘You’re quite certain?’

  ‘But of course I am certain!’ Gerda started to giggle. She loved being teased by Kennedy.

  ‘Just the same, I think I’ll take a look at him, myself. With the kind of patients I have, it’s very hard to tell.’

  Kennedy came into the room as he spoke. He was a huge man, powerfully built. He wore rimless glasses, which slightly magnified his dark lively eyes. His clothes were so severely plain that they looked like a uniform: a dark blue suit, a white shirt, black tie, shoes and socks. Though he was probably a few years younger than me, he was nearly bald; and the remains of his black hair were shaved so close that they gave the appearance of a mere shadow over the top of his skull. His baldness emphasized the tense, firmly modelled muscularity of his head; compact with nervous energy, it reminded you of a clenched fist. He was handsome, in a brooding, archaic way, like a face from early Asiatic temple sculpture. I supposed he might be Jewish.

  ‘Sleep all right?’ he asked me, in his rapid, nervous, staccato voice.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Any pain?’

  ‘No. Not now.’

  ‘How are the bowels?’

  ‘Ask Gerda. That’s her department.’

  ‘They are excellent,’ Gerda told him. She went out of the room with the bedpan, laughing.

  Kennedy brought a chair over and sat down by the bed, taking my wrist in his big hand. His eyes focussed intently on my face, with a delighted amusement, as though my broken thigh in its clumsy cast were a private joke between the two of us. I began to feel pleasantly passive and cosy and safe. His mere presence was almost hypnotically protective; it made you want to go to sleep. If there was any worrying to be done, I felt, he would take care of it all. I imagined him as a passionate worrier over everyone he met; but only with the upper surface of his mind. He thrived on it. Underneath, he was quite relaxed.

  ‘I’ve brought your second lot of X-ray pictures,’ he told me. ‘They’re downstairs in the car. Do you want to see them?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Then I don’t want to.’

  ‘Good. Most patients love them … Look, the point is, you were lucky. You got a spiral break; that’s as if you were to twist a piece of chalk. When the fracture’s reduced, the bone-ends fit together again. Much better than if the bones had been sheared off directly. When the cast is put on, there’s always a danger of angulation—that’s when the pull of the muscles gets the bone-ends out of alignment, so that they aren’t accurately opposed. That’s why we take more X-ray pictures, to see. Your alignment’s good.’

  ‘So everything’s all right?’

  ‘Yes—so far. We’ll take another X-ray at the end of six weeks, to see if it’s continuing to knit well. By that time, there ought to be callous formation around the site of the fracture. That’s what holds things together. Under the X-ray, it looks hazy at first; then there’s increasing density … Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘When’ll I get out of here?’

  ‘Oh, ten weeks.’

  ‘My God, that long!’

  ‘I can’t promise. But that’s average. We should be able to take the cast off, then. Make you a splint. Then you’ll be able to walk, with crutches.’

  ‘I see … But you don’t think—it won’t be anything permanent, will it?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ As if suddenly bored by the whole subject, Kennedy let go my hand and stood up, looking out of the window. Then he asked abruptly: ‘Do you want to tell me what really happened?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, just what do you think you were doing under that truck?’

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘But what is there to tell? I slipped.’

  ‘The girl who works at the drugstore saw it all through the window. She thought you must be drunk.’

  ‘I most certainly wasn’t.’

  ‘I know that. But she can’t understand why you didn’t get out of the way. She says you had plenty of time to.’

  ‘It didn’t seem so to me.’

  ‘Another thing—’ Kennedy smiled at me with the blandness of an inquisitor: ‘They just told me over at the Hospital that you signed some kind of a document for a representative of the trucking company. If I’d known, I’d have advised you not to do that. You ought to have talked to a lawyer first. I suppose you agreed to accept their offer of compensation? Don’t you realize they’ll usually offer the absolute minimum—much less than they expect to have to pay?’

  ‘If they did, they must have gotten a big surprise. I waived all claim to damages.’

  ‘You did
what?’

  Kennedy’s expression of horror, part genuine, part clowning, was so funny that I started to laugh. ‘I told them I didn’t want a single cent.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It was all my own fault.’

  ‘That’s no reason. Very often, it’s the pedestrian’s fault. He collects, just the same.’

  ‘But I don’t really need the money. And if I’d taken it, they’d be more likely to fire the driver … Besides, tins wasn’t an ordinary case of carelessness—’

  ‘Oh? You admit that?’

  ‘Sure, I do.’

  ‘You mean, you did it on purpose?’

  ‘Not exactly. It wasn’t a suicide attempt—if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Not even a subconscious one?’

  ‘No.’ I was even a little surprised at my own certainty about this. ‘I’m positive it wasn’t.’

  ‘I had a hunch it wasn’t, myself. That’s exactly why I’m interested in this business.’

  ‘But, honestly, Doctor—’

  ‘Charles,’ Kennedy corrected me, with a quick nervous frown.

  ‘Honestly, Charles—I can’t tell you any more than I have. I simply don’t know.’

  ‘You refuse to know, you mean.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  We grinned at each other, like poker players. ‘All right,’ said Charles. ‘I won’t ask any more questions. Only, some time, you must figure this out for yourself, you know. Thank God, I’m not a psychiatrist!’ He strode abruptly over to the door, opened it, and called: ‘Sarah! You can come up, now.’ Turning back toward my bed, he told me: ‘When you get to know me better, Stephen, you’ll find I’m the most inquisitive bastard you ever met in your life.’

  ‘That suits me,’ I said. ‘When people aren’t inquisitive, it usually only means they aren’t interested in you at all.’

  ‘Do you know, that’s absolutely right?’ (I’d already noticed, during our brief talks at the Hospital, that Charles had a way of pouncing on any idea, however trivial, with intense, exaggerated eagerness.) ‘Your friends ought to be inquisitive. That’s just what makes them different from other people. Other people are merely nosy.’

  At this point, Sarah came into the room, with Saul at her heels. They were followed by a young man wearing jeans and a leather jacket, who walked slouchingly, his hands in his pockets. I recognized him at once.

  ‘Well?’ Sarah asked Charles. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll live. But I’m afraid he’ll still be hopelessly insane.’

  ‘Why, Charles Kennedy! Is that the way you talk about your patients? I wonder you have any left!’

  ‘Stephen,’ said Charles, in his nervous staccato, ‘this is Bob Wood.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We met already. Only last Sunday—though my Goodness, it seems like weeks ago!’

  Bob Wood grinned at me. His hair was even more aggressively red than I’d remembered. He was really quite nice-looking, except for the swarming freckles which covered his finely drawn, sensitive features.

  ‘Bob came to Meeting,’ Sarah put in, smiling at him as though she was proud of him.

  ‘To Meeting?’ Charles regarded Bob with an air of astounded curiosity. He was smiling, too; but I didn’t think he was altogether pleased. ‘You never told me that.’

  Bob looked down at his shoes and said nothing. He had coloured noticeably.

  ‘You said you were going out to play tennis.’

  ‘Well, I changed my mind.’ Bob had an unexpectedly deep gruff voice which contradicted the delicacy of his face but went with his broad strong shoulders. They seemed over-heavy for his slim-hipped, skinny body.

  ‘We were so happy to have Bob with us again, after all this while,’ Sarah continued brightly. ‘Now, Bob, I hope this is going to become a regular practice?’

  Bob, who had squatted on his heels to pet Saul, muttered something inaudible.

  ‘Listen to him growling!’ Charles exclaimed delightedly. ‘What’s he saying, Saul? You know, Stephen, Bob’s one of the Dog People. Even when he talks English, he has a thick Airedale accent. Sometimes, he does nothing but growl for days on end.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Bob, grinning. ‘When Charles and I met, I bit him and he got rabies. He’s been crazy like this ever since.’

  ‘I’m sure I wish you’d bite me, Bob,’ said Sarah, ‘if only it would make me as clever as Charles … Oh, and that reminds me—though I really don’t quite know why it should—Dr Harper was speaking of your paintings, the other day. He said he was sure they meant something, but he couldn’t understand them at all. Let me see, what did he call you? An impressionist? Or a futurist? Or was it a surrealist? I’m afraid I’m dreadfully ignorant about these matters. There, Charles—you’re laughing at me! Have I said something very foolish?’

  ‘Of course not, Sarah. I’m only amused by Dr Harper’s ignorance. A surrealist, indeed! Doesn’t he know a primitive when he sees one? Bob’s a dog primitive.’

  ‘I paint with my paw,’ said Bob, ‘in various styles. I’m the canine Cézanne, the pooch Picasso, the mongrel Matisse—’

  ‘Sure, you are.’ Charles patted Bob’s shoulder, as though he were trying to soothe an hysterical patient. ‘And the tyke Toulouse-Lautrec … Don’t be scared of him, Stephen. He gets these attacks quite often, especially when he’s in company. I see I shall have to take him home now, and muzzle him. Then he’ll sleep it off in his kennel. He’s really perfectly harmless.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Steve.’ Bob had started to laugh idiotically. ‘Want to know something? My Braque’s worse than my bite.’

  Charles rolled his eyes upward in mock despair. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Sarah. I do apologize for this painful scene … Goodbye, Stephen. I’ll look in again, early next week.’ He put his hand on Bob’s shoulder as they moved toward the door.

  ‘So long, Steve,’ said Bob.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing your work,’ I told him. ‘As soon as I’m able to get around again.’

  ‘As your doctor,’ said Charles, ‘I forbid it, for at least a year. The emotional shock could easily be fatal.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Sarah exclaimed, when they had gone. ‘Those two boys! They’re so comical, when they’re together, I could laugh myself into a fit! Though, half the time, I really haven’t the least idea what they’re talking about … You know, Charles Kennedy was so wonderfully kind and helpful to us when I had poor dear old Anna Partland laid up here last winter, with her pleurisy and the three great-grandchildren. A regular tower of strength. But I wrote you all about that, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said hastily, ‘everything.’

  ‘He’s such a brilliant man. They think the world of him, at the Hospital. I’m sure you couldn’t be in more capable hands.’

  ‘And who’s this Bob Wood?’

  ‘Oh, he’s Luke and Esther Wood’s son, from over at New Faith. They were both birthright Friends, such splendid people. Esther was clerk of the Monthly Meeting for many years. They’ve both passed away, now … Oh, you’re just going to love Bob! Such a fine, clean boy. So thoroughly wholesome.’

  ‘Does he do anything else—I mean, as well as paint?’

  ‘Well—not exactly. Though he’s very useful about the house. He fixed the electric toaster for me, one time, when it kept giving me shocks. And he mended all the screens. He knows a lot about gardens, too. I think he’s sort of finding his feet. He was in the Navy, you know. That always seems to unsettle people. And I hear he may be called back again, before long. Oh, this terrible War! I’m sure I don’t know what Charles would do without him! Bob’s been like a younger brother to him.’

  ‘They live together?’

  ‘Yes—ever since Charles moved here from Baltimore, three years ago. You should see their house! They’ve made it so charming, in an informal, masculine way. I always think it’s so nice when two men get along together, like that. Men seem to manage it so much better than women, as a rule. Of course, your darling Mother and I�
��we were an exception—’

  Sarah had moved slowly across the room as she told me all this, pausing to set various objects in order and slightly alter the positions of the chairs. By now, she had reached my bed.

  ‘Stephen dearest,’ she exclaimed reproachfully, ‘you can’t be comfortable like that!’

  ‘But I am. It may look uncomfortable, but it isn’t, in the least.’ (The cast enclosed not only the whole of my left leg and the upper part of my right, but also the middle of my body as high as the ribs; so that it was impossible for me to sit upright.)

  ‘You need at least two more pillows.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Of course you do! Why didn’t Gerda notice it?’

  ‘Well, you know, Aunt Sarah, she isn’t accustomed to nursing. She quite admits that, herself.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with nursing. It’s a matter of common sense. Anyway, I don’t see why you should be used as a guinea-pig.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. She’ll soon learn.’ I tried to make this sound like the tone of a cheerful, smiling little martyr. ‘You see, it’s so good for Gerda to have something to occupy her. It takes her mind off worrying about Peter.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. Poor child—’

  ‘We’ve got to help her, Aunt Sarah. Both of us. Of course, I’d be a lot more comfortable if you were taking care of me. You know that. But it might hurt her. She’d feel excluded. I’m sure she’d appreciate it, though, if you’d give her a few hints. She’s so eager to learn. Only, be tactful about it, won’t you? Remember, she’s in a strange country, and she doesn’t know our ways—’