The Long Corridor Page 5

  ‘Oh, I’m not a jump ahead, Paul, blind or otherwise. Oh, no. I know quite well, oh I know in ordinary circumstances you can’t sell your practice now. But this is the point: you do know that there’s only you and old B standing alone in this town, all the rest are working in twos and threes. Well, it’s my idea, and I think I’m right, that old B’s tactics are going to be in the form of a bluff. He’s not quite due for retirement yet, but it’s my guess he’s suddenly going to give up, ill-health. That’s why he has Rankin. There’s not enough doctors in the town, as you know, growing as it is, and the three new factories going up, so what will happen? He’ll propose Rankin and that, as I see it, will be that. So you’ll need all your wits to get over that old codger. You’ll have to keep on your toes, Paul. I’m just telling you. Thought I’d put you in the picture. And this isn’t all surmise or hearsay about Rankin, no; I may as well tell you I’m speaking from good authority.’

  There was a fury straining to burst from him. Parkins talking to him with that damned superior air as if he was giving advice to a sixth-former going out into the world. He forced himself to smile at him and say nonchalantly, ‘Oh, I’m not worried, I think I’ll manage. Beresford likes licking cubs; I consider I’m past that stage now.’

  As he walked away Parkins put his head round the wing of the chair and asked, ‘You off already?’

  ‘No, I’m just going to have another, but I must be on my way soon, I’ve some calls to make…And then there’s the night shift looming up.’ He laughed, and had the satisfaction of seeing a puzzled expression on Parkins’ face as it was slowly withdrawn behind the wing once more.

  Five minutes later he was in the car again. His anger now spilling over, he swore under his breath as he drove out of the club yard. ‘Damn and blast them, both Parkins and Beresford.’ He wouldn’t stand for it, he wouldn’t. He had worked for years towards this appointment, and he was damned if Beresford was going to get the better of him now by pushing a pup under his nose. Yet what could he do?

  The question was still with him when he drove round the perimeter of the market place, along by the park, past the foot of Brampton Hill, then up the long steep road that led to the cemetery, and beyond the slag heaps. He was now in the country, his headlights picking out the low stone walls, the hedges, the lone cottages. About two miles south of the town he turned the car into a narrow lane and brought his speed down to ten miles per hour, and when, after about half a mile of driving, the wheels went into the comparative softness of frost-covered turf, he drew the car to a stop. Before getting out he switched off the lights, then went towards the bungalow.

  There was a light on over the porch and another in a window to the left of it, and as he entered the gate the front door opened and a young woman stepped into the light and greeted him.

  She looked about thirty, of medium height and plump build. Her hair was brown and wavy and fell down each side of her round face on to her shoulders. Her face was pleasant, rather than pretty, and her smile wide and warm. Her voice too was warm, although thick with the northern inflection when she said, ‘I thought you weren’t going to make it.’

  ‘I didn’t get out until rather late; I was held up.’

  As he went to put his arms around her she stepped back from him into the porch, and as he followed he looked down at her, his face crinkling with enquiry. But as soon as she closed the door she lay back against it and held her arms wide, and he went into them and pressed her to him, kissing her with a hard dry kiss. When it was finished and she rested her head back against his arm, he looked at her closely. ‘Why did you do that…I mean move away just then?’

  ‘Oh.’ She wagged her head. ‘It just struck me the other night that anyone behind the far hedge could see us.’

  ‘Out here?’

  ‘You never know. Arthur Wheatley, you know him who farms at yon side of the road…well, he comes over here shooting.’

  ‘But he’s no right; they’re your fields.’

  ‘Well, they’re let to him for grazing.’

  ‘But he shouldn’t come into the paddock, that’s not let.’

  ‘Aw.’ She took his hands and drew him further into the room. ‘You can’t stop these fellows wandering round. Farmers are like Peeping Toms; you find them in all odd places, and they always seem to have a right to be there.’ She turned swiftly to him again and once more they kissed. Then as he moved his hands down her back he drew his lips from hers and said quietly, ‘You’ve got nothing on underneath, you’ll catch your death. It’s freezing out.’

  ‘I’ve just had a bath and you know I never catch cold. I’m as strong as a horse.’ Her round blue eyes twinkled up at him. ‘But if you like, I’ll go and put some clothes on, Doctor.’ She pursed her lips on the word doctor, and he jerked her to him and muttered, ‘Oh, Ivy, Ivy.’ When he buried his face deep in her hair she said softly, ‘In a minute, in a minute, but look…’ She pressed herself from him and pulled him to the couch that was drawn up before the red-stone fireplace, and pulling off his overcoat she said, ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘I had a bite around seven.’

  ‘I’ve got some casserole steak in the oven. I just did it on spec. Do you fancy a bite?’

  He looked up at her, then said meaningly, ‘There’s not much time.’

  ‘There’s time for everything.’ She rubbed her finger gently across his lips, and he caught at her hand and put his lips to her broad, hard palm and muttered into it, ‘Aw, Ivy, you’re a life-saver.’

  ‘Here, give me your shoes.’ She bent down and undid his shoes, then swung his legs up onto the couch. Her hands were strong, her arms thick and as he fell back and she bent over him to undo his tie the lapels of her dressing gown fell apart and exposed her firm full breasts, and before she tightened her girdle he laid his fingers gently on her warm flesh. At his action they both smiled and, their hands gripping, they held fast to each other for a moment.

  When she left him to go into the kitchen he lay still, letting out one deep breath after another until he had the feeling he was sinking through the bottom of the couch. This was peace, peace. What would he do without Ivy? Go mad. Stark staring mad.

  ‘Were you very busy last night?’ Her voice came to him from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, up till ten, and then I had a call at half-past three this morning.’

  ‘No! You must be feeling dead.’

  ‘I was, but not now…Oh, what do you think, Ivy. Jinny turned up today.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ Ivy’s voice was high. ‘Oh, I’m glad; she’s an oiler of wheels is Jenny.’

  ‘You’ll never guess what. She’s married.’ He twisted his head round the side of the couch as he heard her come to the kitchen door, and he looked at her from an almost upside-down position as she exclaimed. ‘Jenny married!’

  ‘Yes. It surprised me, but I was glad.’

  ‘So am I. I always thought that when you got past her face she had everything. Mind…I’m not meaning that nasty like, about her face, you know I’m not, ’cos after a time you didn’t notice her nose or how she looked, you just liked her. I don’t think anybody could help likin’ her.’

  ‘That’s what I think.’ He lifted his head back on to the couch and Ivy returned to the kitchen. After a moment he called to her, ‘And she’s rich. Well, comparatively so. Anyway, I wish I had what she has, stacked behind me, with no calls on it. It would be goodbye National Health, thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘Did you say she’s rich?’ Ivy was at the door again.

  ‘Yes, forty-seven thousand. I suppose you’d call that rich.’

  ‘He’s given it to her?’

  ‘No, he died and left it to her.’

  ‘Well! Well!’ She came walking slowly towards the couch, and when she looked down on him she said, ‘It’s romantic, isn’t it? And fancy all that happening to Jenny. MISS Jenny.’

  Paul raised his eyebrows and nodded. Then he spoke of the woman whose image had been evoked by the word ‘Miss�
��. ‘She’s not pleased at Jinny’s news. Oh, she pretended to be, but she’s as green as grass. And she had another disappointment. She thought she was in for some free labour, but Jinny’s off to London in the morning on some business and she won’t tell her what it is. She didn’t tell me either. But apparently her husband wanted her to do something and she’s going up to town to do it and we’ll know about it when she comes back. It’s all very mysterious…and nice for Jinny.’

  ‘Good luck to her.’ Ivy screwed up her face as she smiled at him; then added, ‘Come on, sit up and have this, it’s ready. I’m bringing it in.’

  She brought the tray into the room and placed it on a low table before the couch, and she sat close beside him as he ate, and every now and again he would turn his big head towards her and nuzzle her or butt her forehead with his own. At one point he stopped eating, and with his voice devoid of all rancour he stated calmly, ‘Old Beresford’s all out to do me down over that hospital appointment, so I’ve just heard.’

  ‘No! Oh, no! But what can he do?’

  ‘Oh, he can do a lot. And Parkins is with him…You know.’ He stopped eating and wagged his fork at her. ‘I often wondered why I didn’t like Parkins, and the reason came to me tonight as he was talking: it’s because he doesn’t like me. Simple, isn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘Yet I liked his father; he was a nice old fellow, witty; should have been a barrister. His turn of phrase was lost on the locals. But his son is a different kettle of fish; there’s a mean streak in him.’ He was looking towards the fire now, the fork still poised in his hand, and he seemed to be talking to himself rather than to her. ‘It’s funny how often, when like meets up with like, whether they are good, bad, or indifferent; there’s always a greater chance of harmony between them than if they team up with their opposites. People yammer on about the success of opposites, but they are only going by externals. It’s the traits and characteristics that tell in the long run. That’s why Parkins and Beresford hit it, and they’ll queer my pitch if they can.’

  ‘But what can they do?’

  ‘Oh.’ He brought his attention back to her. ‘Oh, old Beresford has an assistant, a bright boy I understand. He’s got him lined up for the post. Beresford’s a vindictive old swine. He never liked my father, they were poles apart in every way…Liking again, you see.’ He nodded at her. ‘And he likes me less, but he’s never been able to do much about it until this opportunity came up. He must be congratulating himself. I can see him in church on a Sunday thanking God for giving him another chance to act as His deputy.’

  He laughed, expecting her to join him, but her face straight, she said, ‘But you’ve got the qualifications. Look how hard you’ve worked. I don’t know much about how these things are settled, but surely they can see you’re the right man for the job. Everybody wants to be on your books.’

  He laid down his knife and fork and, cupping her chin in his hands, said, ‘If they were all like you, Ivy, they would. But the ones who want to be on my books never get on committees. You know, it’s one chance in a hundred when the right man for any job gets it, Ivy, and in this town it’s you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. But even then you’ve got to be…my kind of fellow, you understand, before I’ll scratch you.’ He squeezed her chin, then picked up his knife and fork again and went on talking as he ate. ‘This, they would have you believe, is the age of the classless society. Ha! ha! ha! God, people are more class-conscious than they were in my father’s day, and more conscious of being class-conscious, if you follow me. I pity any fellow in this town who wants to get in one of the professions unless he’s a member of the right church…or the reigning body of councillors—thank God they can’t stay put forever—or a member of the Conservative Club…of which I am a member.’ He bowed his head ironically to her. ‘I know it’s no use griping, the same kind of thing goes on in every town, but oh, they’re so pi in this place, so holier than thou…Aw, old men who have forgotten they were ever young make me want to throw up.’

  When he stopped speaking she made no response, and after a moment he pushed the table to one side. Then turning to her, he put his arms about her and looking into her face asked, ‘What is it? What’s the matter, you’re quiet all of a sudden.’

  ‘Nothing.’ She was smiling broadly. ‘What could be the matter?’

  ‘You’re not going to start worrying about what I’ve just told you.’

  ‘Of course not, why should I?’

  ‘Oh, I know you.’ He took his hands from her and turned his body round and sat on the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped between them. ‘I shouldn’t tell you things, it only starts you worrying. I tell myself I won’t…’

  ‘Oh, darlin’, give over, you can tell me anything. If not me, who else?’ She was in front of him now, pulling him to his feet. ‘Come on.’ Her voice was tender and her smile warm as she led him to the bedroom, and there, her actions appearing natural and unembarrassed, she took off her dressing gown and got into the big double bed. Within a minute he was beside her, holding her full, firm body to him. After a moment of relishing the feel of her he looked down into her open face and said, ‘I mean it, Ivy. Every time I say I’d go round the bend without you, it’s true.’

  ‘And Doctor, dear.’ She was laughing at him. ‘I always say to that, there’s another road round the bend, don’t I?’

  ‘You won’t get tired of me, Ivy?’

  ‘Tired of you?’ She strained her face away from his. ‘Aw, don’t be silly. Me get tired of you!’

  ‘But I feel I’m taking your life, your young life; you could marry. Any day in the week you could marry…What’s his name?’

  ‘I know that.’ She wagged her head mischievously. ‘That makes me think I’m giving you something worthwhile.’

  ‘Oh, I-eevy.’

  ‘Aw; I love to hear you say, I-eevy, like that. You know you’ve got a beautiful voice. That’s what I fell in love with first, your voice.’

  ‘You trying to…? Aw, we’re wasting time.’ He pulled her to him fiercely…And fiercely she responded to him…

  When, later, he lay with his head between her breasts, they were past talking, and as she had done so many times before she heard his breathing become deeper, and when he gave a gentle snort she knew he had gone to sleep, and as she had done before, she would let him sleep, for perhaps ten minutes.

  She lay gazing over the top of his big rumpled head towards the orange glow of the table lamp. Her body was relaxed and at peace, but not so her mind. She had heard him say many times that the body was what the mind made it. But so often, as she had lain as she was doing now, her being satisfied, her mind would start at its niggling worrying, and it was never worry for herself but worry about and for him. And in this connection her worries were many and varied. She had no doubt that her body could hold him for many a long day, but she often wondered if the day came when a man wanted something more than a body, say a woman with a mind, one who could talk about things…But then, he had got a woman with a mind. My God and how. And look what they had done to each other. Although she loved this man as she had never imagined loving anybody in her life, she did not exonerate him from all the blame for the situation that existed in Romfield House. He had never told her the beginning of it, the real cause of it, but there were times when, before she had come to mean something to him, she had blamed him for the separate rooms, for the body hunger in Bett Higgins’ eyes. She had noticed the body hunger the first day she had started working there. It was odd how that had come about, her starting to work there. She had only been married three years when George had taken ill. It had started with pneumonia, brought on by working in all weathers, getting wet and the clothes drying on him, all in an endeavour to make a market garden out of four acres of poor land. And he was just beginning to see daylight when he went down with that cold; and that was the beginning of the end. He was dead within a year. All the time he was ill the doctor had attended him; not just when he should officially, but at all o
dd times when he thought he might be of help. And it wasn’t because of her then; she wasn’t in the picture, he didn’t even see her. His one concern was to ease the pain of a man who had worked himself literally to death. He had said since, it had saddened him to the heart to see an effort like George’s go for nothing. And then when the funeral was over he had come back and said, ‘How are you fixed? What are you going to do, Mrs Tate?’ And she had told him that the bungalow was hers, for George had taken it through an insurance, so she had a roof over her head, but no money. She had told him that she couldn’t run the smallholding herself, and anyway she wasn’t inclined to gardening of any sort, so she was letting the two cultivated fields to a man who had a smallholding half a mile away. The other two fields she had let for grazing. One of the farmers had been to see her about them already, and the paddock she meant to hold on to, to keep the bungalow a bit private like. As for the rest, she would get a job. It was then he had asked her tentatively if she liked housework, and she had said she didn’t know about liking it but she was used to it, as she had done it all her life. So it was on her twenty-sixth birthday that she had seen the inside of Romfield House for the first time, and the doctor’s wife and that look in her eyes, which she recognised because its cause was also in her own body. She had also summed her up as being a bit of an upstart, and she guessed that her ah-la voice wasn’t her natural one. And this was proved before very long when, off her guard or really annoyed, her mistress’ vowels took their natural bent and her Tyneside upbringing came over in her inflection.

  Ivy’s duties had consisted of doing the housework—and there was quite a bit of it in that twelve-roomed, rambling old place—and occasionally waiting on table. In her very first week she learned a great deal about the members of that small household. She learned it from the condition of their beds. Some mornings the doctor’s bedclothes were thrown neatly back; at other times the bedclothes were rumpled and spoke of a disturbed night. In the child’s room the bed was merely untidy, but the wife’s bed always appeared as if it had been at the centre of a whirlwind.