Cold Pastoral (37 page)

“Get going, Dave. The police are making the hospital arrangements. Go as fast as you can.”

It was difficult, but at last they were isolated, leaving the mess of cars behind to wait for the removal of the other case. For a while there was no sound until the uneasy silence was broken by a young bitter laugh exploding over sobbing breath.

“God, the Fitz Henrys! What a joke! One of those ironical stories the French write.”

The personal equation had been scuppered from Philip. His voice was at its most fever-reducing pitch.

“Take it easy, Vincent. You can choose your doctor as soon as you get to town. I'll pass you right over. Just at present try to conserve your strength.”

There was a conceding sigh and a reply drained of rebellion.

“No, patch me up if you can. She says you're swell.”

“Very well,” said Philip tersely.

More black silence writhing with raw emotions.

“Am I done in, sir ?” He was showing the deference of youth to an older man, although his voice held defiance.

“Not if you show sense, Vincent. You're using yourself up.”

“It doesn't matter any more,” said Tim with another sobbing breath. “God!” he continued restlessly as if tortured with one thought, “that it should be you, after tonight! Her doctor—”

“And, my dear chap,” said Philip soothingly, “you're her husband. Isn't that worth living for ?”

David's feet nearly jittered on the pedals. The reserves that people can pull up! The angel and devil in man! Out of this mess Philip was being the perfect doctor, soothing, encouraging and pointing the way to a future. “You're her husband, Vincent,” he said again, as if he might have forgotten it. “We know about it, and we'll help all we can. Don't worry.”

Tim's weak voice was despairing.

“She doesn't think so, sir! Tin-whistle side, that's what it was.” He seemed to slump, then gather his forces for a final effort. “Sorry I was a cad, not to speak up when I saw what old witchface meant. Witches' disenchantment—no, no, she can't do that to Gretel and me—”

“No, she can't,” said Philip firmly. “Vincent, nothing can undo what I did tonight. Help me to repair it by saving your own body.”

It was an appeal to intelligence rather than emotion. The boy went very silent, thinking perhaps over Philip's Gethsemane. With the egotism of youth he needed to be shown other sorrows than his own. David seemed to follow him, even through a resurgence of defiance.

“Damn you, sir,” he exploded, “why should I apologize when you thought such things ? If you can't see she's as clean as God, why should I tell you?”

“Why, indeed?” said Philip with weary bitterness.

“You never knew her,” accused the boy, determined to spend himself for his idol. “Gretel never threw her sex in a fellow's face. She's not a bitchy girl. You took her, and stuck her up like your own damn family. Who are you, anyway?”

Philip's voice was very patient and courteous.

“Just people who make mistakes.”

Apparently it was an effective reply. Tim gave a bitter, heartbroken sob. “Sure, mistakes! We don't know what we're doing. Did anyone telephone my mother ?”

“Yes, they did. She'll be at the hospital.”

The boy was beyond thought of his own state. The gigantic muddle of the evening had shattered his last reserve. He cried hard young tears. “Poor Mother! In her own way she's been swell. Now I'm giving her this. God, I should care, but can only think of the mess I've made for Gretel. I don't care who knows it. She's all I care about because she is my life.”

“Vincent,” said Philip with slow emphasis, “you're doing everything to kill yourself. Mary will be there for you when you get well. Now can't you trust us and relax?”

The lights of the town were in sight, cool in their shine on dark roads. Windows blinked as if opening eyes under black lids. The town slept, oblivious of violence. Only the trees and grass shivered with the emotions of the night.

The boy was either resting or unconscious. Once, looking back for a brief second, David saw his brother holding him. The fair head had slumped towards the black one. Philip had blood-spatters on his cuffs, and a dried smear on his forehead.

On through the sleeping town towards the dimmed bulk of a building, and up a dark avenue. Tim spoke once more, mumbling from thought jerking him back from coma. “Did I kill anything, sir? Couldn't live and kill—”

“A man injured like yourself, Vincent. The sloven had no lights. You couldn't be to blame. We'll do our utmost, and let you know how he is. Don't worry, there's a good fellow.”

Tim had given himself up. Philip had him to work on, regardless of issues. He was as mute and white as death when they carried him in. Watching the shattered retreat, David went back through the years, seeing prone bodies and the ghosts of his own brothers.

David had a long vigil. Telephoning Felice, she reported Mary Immaculate brushing her faint aside and prowling round like a tormented creature. He told all he knew, saying he would ring again when Tim had been stitched and ligatured. Hesitating on telling them to be ready to come to town, he hung up. Why anticipate Tim's black sails? What would be worse? Tim taking his opportunity to die or facing a trial for manslaughter? His culpability was bound to come out. Supposing the girl had to be a witness of his wild flight up the Shore? What notoriety! It was unbelievable, unthinkable, so many consequences from a single night! No, thought David, that was not the start, it was the result of a child's romantic secret. In that raw drive David had divined the fabric of Tim. His voice was charming, and in health he must have a dreamy, unusual face. Above all he was Mary's contemporary, the boon companion of her youth. And now they had been hounded out of their gentle places. Lines tripped across David's mind as he walked gloomily up and down.

Oh, why in all a world of sweet
Bird-song and dew and light and heat
Comes this malignity of death ...

Was the boy predestined? In telling of his life the girl had portrayed him born with music, rendered frustrate. He had spirit, and had spent himself in tearing down Philip's ivory tower. Tin-whistle side? There, he was wounded, being too young to understand a virginal flight from gun-shot marriage.

A long wait brought long thought, until David's vision was compelled to objective survey. He saw the other case brought in, a prostrate mass on a stretcher, with doctors and nurses swarming round. One brief glance at an underprivileged face made David resigned to the man's passing. There was no stamina where stamina would be needed. Conviction for manslaughter was certain, with a boy driving a car under the influence of three bottles of beer. Then he saw people who were undeniably the relations so graphically described by the girl. The mother was identified by her likeness to the boy. She walked down the corridor in passive calm, emotion hidden under her eyelids. By right of her maternity she disappeared to more intimate contact with her son, while the others waited. These must be Uncle and Auntie Minnie.

Uncle was large, dominant, with convex eyes. His stomach was the same shape, neatly buttoned into a summer overcoat. He would have been inspiring as a policeman. David could imagine the stomach shaking with laughter over slapstick comedy, and the eyes dozing through all the things Tim liked to see and hear. Auntie Minnie carried her bag. Evidently the type who never wasted a moment! Even as she waited in the corridor, she sank to a seat, knitting some coloured wool. It was impossible not to notice her stabbing eyes. It was the restless gaze of a woman resenting closed doors, and people entering where she was denied. When her eyes found David, she half rose from her chair. Without conscious discourtesy he became rapt before a picture of some starched nurses. Even when his right flank was exposed he decided it was beyond his capacity to cope with Auntie Minnie tonight. He was relieved beyond words when they passed down the corridor, with the obvious intention of being nearer the scene of operations. Alone for an unconscionable time, he must have dozed in a chair, when he awoke suddenly to see Philip standing above him. The ghastly whiteness of his brother's face foreshadowed the worst.

“Phil, for God's sake, he's not…?”

“No, not yet, but he's going to, and he had a chance. God, some people should not be allowed to have children!—I'd like to start a school for parents, and be the first pupil myself. I thought Mary was showing the usual rebellion to authority when she described that boy's life. Now I've seen for myself….”

Philip sat down, supporting his head in his hands. He seemed to rock with the misery he contained. Independent of emotion went bitter anger, the mortification of a doctor frustrated in a vital conflict.

“Phil, what happened? For God's sake tell me.”

His brother looked up. “We got on very well. He was quiet and co-operative and I managed to soothe him down—”

“You were splendid, Phil—”

“After being the complete fool! We'll skip that for the time being. There was enough shock to be worrying, but he's a clean boy with resilience. His nerves are too keyed, but I thought he would get on. Then, before I could stop it, that galumphing uncle burst in, and at the very sound of his voice the boy faded. I asked him to go, and what did he do before he went?”

“Can I guess, Phil? I saw the type. He told the boy the man's case was hopeless—”

“That's just what he did,” said Philip without surprise. “The mother tried to stop him…. Then he said not to worry—he would bear the expenses of the trial, get the best lawyer—”

“God, it's not credible!”

“The pulse died,”said Philip savagely. “We've stimulated as much as we dare—but I'm sure he's going out. When he rallied a little his mother asked if he wouldn't like to see Mary. He looked at me, and I promised to get her. I can't go, Dave—”

“I'll go at once,” said David, rising to his feet. “I'll telephone first and tell Felice to drive my car. Then I'll meet them half-way.”

“Do you think she can take it, Dave?” asked his brother, as anxious for his patient as for the girl.

“Positive,” said David reassuringly. “She's tough. Look how she was with Mater.”

“Rather different, isn't it?” suggested his brother bitterly.

“Yes, it is,” agreed David; “but I think we can leave it to her. She'll know what to say and do. Is the other case hopeless?”

“Quite,” said Philip briefly. “Weak lungs, an impossible case for anaesthetic.”

To go and see Tim die, Mary Immaculate got her second wind. She achieved an inspired naturalness that gave him a baby's death. No one who saw her enter doubted her capacity. They had always been alone. Now it was the same as if they were in the beech tree, the shade of the privet hedge, or lolling on the river bank. When he saw her, his face became tormented, and weak tears oozed from his eyes.

“Don't want to die, Gretel—sickening to be always sorry for myself.”

“Timmy-Tim, you never were,” she said, bending over him, and wiping the tears away. “I've come to be with you, to tell you I only ran away because I was frightened, but not of you, Tim…. Tell me, please tell Gretel, that it's not tin-whistle side you remember.”

“No,” he whispered, “Hansel and Gretel.”

“Then it's O.K., Tim,” she said, kissing his lips.

“O.K., Gretel.”

In front of their eyes she lay down on the bed beside him, easing her arm under his shoulders. Lying on her side, there was ample room on the narrow bed. When he turned into her shoulder it was apparent he was used to her touch.

“I feel queer, Gretel,” he sighed. “It's queer, dying—”

She made no attempt to deceive him, as she talked into his hair.

“Timmy-Tim, I was like it once when I was dying in the woods. I know just how you feel. Don't hold yourself back. When it gets floaty go with it and don't be afraid. It won't hurt you. Don't even think. I'm here beside you. Remember the rose-bush and the vine that intertwined! Remember how you made me be the vine, and how we drank the love-potion and our hearts became fettered together. Think of white sails, and setting out in our little ship. And the music, Tim, gorgeous, heavenly music, the swelling kind that makes your scalp shrink on your head. If you leave me, Tim, I'll never hear a note without thinking of you—”

“Must leave, Gretel—so tired—we've had an awful lot of one day.”

“Yes, Timmy-Tim, we've had an awful lot of one day, and this morning we were just as we used to be....”

It was too much for Philip. For once in his life he failed to be the doctor. He turned his face to a wall, neglecting his patient. It was impossible to get out of the sound of her voice. Felice could have howled like an anguished dog. The beauty of their isolation, and their selfishness. Tim's mother was in the room and she did not get a glance or a word. Life was crowding Tim, and his last breath was dedicated to the secret that he loved. The mother sat with her head down, silent and motionless. She looked as if she might be as unobtrusive in his death as she had been in his life. Effects were not bothering Mary Immaculate, and at last she had come to a place where she had to give all of herself. The bed seemed to be in a circle which the others could not enter. When he asked her to talk to him until…she began a whispering monologue lasting through infinite minutes. To her, effort seemed negligible, and her whispers were freighted with associations, making bridges of fluency. When she began comforting him about the man he had so shockingly injured and who must surely be dead by now, Felice marvelled at the picture she drew of him, from the few facts contributed by David.

“Timmy-Tim, the poor fellow had weak lungs, and it was only a matter of time before he'd die after a dreadful long illness.” She drew up a dread picture of consumption, making it something a man would exchange for the most violent death. Perhaps she had seen many people, hollow-cheeked, sitting in doorways, and spitting blood in a rag.