The Doctor Is Sick (11 page)

At eight o'clock he thought it was time to go. Traffic was increasing: shaven men with newspapers; lipsticked girls. Most had a brief incurious glance at his ringworm top. He wondered if it might not be better to disclose the mystery, to whip off the cap and show a healthy baldness. But he decided against it. Standing on the train he tried to look foreign and turn his whole strange outfit into a national dress. Going up in the lift he said to the ticket-collector:
‘Ashti vahrosch.'
He had always been good at improvising languages. Everybody looked at him. He bowed modestly, smiling in self-depreciation. Everybody looked away.

He had some difficulty in finding the Farnworth. It was in a street which specialised in private hotels, some of them squalid. From the doorways of the squalid ones uncombed sluts reached out for milk bottles, a man or two walked out looking ashamed and unshaven. But the Farnworth was not squalid. It was wanly respectable and had flowers in boxes. Edwin walked up and down outside, peering shyly into the breakfast room. Sheila was not yet there, but it was still early. He noticed a young man in a pullover make a sandwich of his fried egg; an Indian girl ate dry cornflakes with her fingers; there was a man who
looked Iranian wearing his hat at table. A typical cheap London hotel.

Breakfasters went and new ones took over their milk jugs. A grey-haired woman served – her spectacles blind, her mouth open, her soul withdrawn from her actions. Edwin waited. Soon a couple came down with a naughty child who would eat no breakfast. This child came to the window, pointed at Edwin's cap and began to cry for it. Edwin hurried down the street and inspected a wall of posters. An ersatz gravy shouted its virtues through the medium of a vast mixed grill, sausages three feet long, tomato slices like bicycle wheels, perpetually cooling in the London air. A model who looked not unlike that EEG bitch smoked a new cigarette called KOOLKAT. There was a sauce named MUSTAVIT, an imbecile husband spattering it on his plate, a rosy housewife telling the street: ‘My hubby says he
must
have it.'

Edwin went back to the breakfast-room window. That child was now, apparently, kicking on the floor. Among the eyes that looked down frankly or were decently averted, Sheila's were not to be seen. It was time to be bold and inquire. He went up the steps and rang the bell. After an interval a fierce old man with white locks drooping from a middle parting, dirty-aproned, a fish-slice in his hand, came and said with no warmth:

‘Ah?'

‘Excuse me, I've just come out of the hospital round the corner, that explains my curious get-up, is Mrs Spindrift in, please?'

‘Meesseess——?'

‘Spindrift. Rather a curious name, I know, but it is actually a name, believe me, it's my name too.'

‘Here is staying nobody of such name. There was staying, but not now no longer.'

‘Would you mind telling me when she left?'

‘Yesterday, day before, who knows? Here today, gone tomorrow is rule of hotels. Excuse, fish is burning.'

‘But did she leave no message, no address?'

There was a scream from the kitchen. ‘I tell you,' said the old man, ‘fish is burning. I go now, I know no more.' And he closed the door, nodding. Edwin stood on the steps, frightened, hesitating. This he had not expected. But the Farnworth Hotel had not yet finished with him. The grey-haired sleep-walking woman came, opened the door and said: ‘What name?' She was evidently English.

‘Spindrift.'

‘Yes. A good name for a washing-machine, I thought when she wrote it in the book.' There was nothing somnambulist about her voice: it was commercial and bitter. ‘But that's not the only reason why I'm not likely to forget it in a hurry. I wouldn't have her any longer, and you can tell her from me that it's no good her trying to come back under another name, because I shall know who she is. A man in the room with her, indeed, and her poor husband a sick man in hospital. And if you're another of these men after her, I'm very happy to tell you that she's gone and I don't know where you'll find her. The things that go on.' The fish in the kitchen hissed loudly. ‘So there.' And she closed the door.

Edwin stood for a short while in dismay. He would, of course, find her sooner or later, but it had been Sheila as a dispenser of cash or Sheila a hat-and-shirt-buyer that he had needed at once. And socks also. A bit of a
Daily Window
cartoon had worked its way out of his right shoe.
The frame showed a generic tashed and sideboarded gangster with a striped shirt which Edwin envied. He was leering knowingly and saying in small capitals: ‘I don't handle no dough, brother. You'll have to see the big boss for that.' ‘You rat, Louie,' began the next frame.

That was not only a good idea but the only idea. The International Council for University Development had large funds. Its London offices were in Mayfair and full of marble and svelte secretaries. It could afford a bob or two. It was a pity it was such a long walk, though.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The question was whether to buy a box of matches or a threepenny tube ticket. Edwin felt pretty sure that it was not nowadays possible to find matches that cost less than twopence a box. Three halfpence, he was absolutely sure, could buy nothing except perhaps a cube of meat extract. It was better to walk all the way and be one's own Prometheus: to stop strangers and ask them for a light would be embarrassing and smell of real vagrancy. At the tobacco kiosk at the end of the street Edwin drew out his threepence halfpenny, put twopence on to the counter, apologised for his appearance, and came away with a box of fire. One always felt better for having an element in one's pocket.

He was already tired by the time he got to Tottenham Court Road. The traffic confused him and made him sweat – as good as a pullover. Oxford Street, Bond Street, an anonymous right turn, Berkeley Square. Bandbox Mayfair was all about him. In pyjamas and nightcap through brightest Mayfair. He watched with envy a man entering Trumper's.

The London office of the International Council for University Development was in Queen Street. Edwin hesitated outside, adjusting his cap, tightening the knot of his tie, smoothing his pyjama collar. The portals, a naked sculptural group above them emblematic of the Tutorial System, were designed to intimidate. The doors were all glass and hence appeared to be ever-open; this again must
be emblematic of something. In the vestibule was a bronze bust on a marble pedestal: Sir George Marple, great University Developer, a Sandow of higher education. Marple: marble. A pity they weren't cognate. The face of Sir George was veined, hard and insensible. High up on the wall that faced the entrance was the motto of the organisation: SIC VOS NON VOBIS – subtly verbless, ambiguous, crafty, typical. A porter came up to Edwin. ‘Have you ever thought about what that means?' said Edwin.

‘What, sir? That, sir? No, sir.' He was a decent asthmatic old man.

‘It probably means: “thus you work, but not for yourselves”. I wonder who the “you” refers to.'

‘Who was it you wanted to see, sir?' The old man, Edwin knew, had taken his measure. They must get a lot like that here: walking advertisements of the virtues of the higher learning slovenly inarticulate pedants who had to be kept to the point. There were none about at the moment, Edwin noticed: the hall was warm with dark–skinned men flitting to and fro, high-voiced and able. Obviously able.

‘I rather wanted to see Mr Chasper.'

‘Mr Chasper, sir. And what name shall I say?'

‘Dr Spindrift.'

‘Oh, I see, sir.' The porter nodded and backed away slowly. ‘Very good, sir.' He smiled kindly, backing to his glass box. ‘I'll just give his secretary a ring, sir.' In his box he began, on the telephone, a longer speech than seemed necessary. Edwin wandered the hall, looking at recent publications of the Council – expensive free monographs and reviews of new architecture. They could certainly afford a hand-out of a couple of bob or so.

‘What was the name?' A patrician voice, a blonde secretary of frightening smartness – tailored in black, her legs a
Vogue
stocking advertisement.

‘The name is,' said Edwin, ‘Spindrift. Dr Edwin Spindrift.'

‘Oh. And what did you want to see Mr Chasper about?' Edwin prepared a lecture on the idiomatic uses of the preterite. Its title should be: ‘The Past Tense as a Lethal Weapon'.

‘I still want to see him, if that's possible. I've been allowed out of hospital for the purpose of seeing him. That explains,' said Edwin, ‘my rather curious get-up.'

‘Oh.' said the secretary. ‘I suppose you'd better come this way.' Which probably meant: ‘I can't afford to be seen here talking to you any longer.' She led him down corridors and finally to a door which Edwin well remembered. Outside the door was a hat-rack with the curly-brimmed coke of Mr Chasper. A big-headed man. ‘If you'd just wait here,' said the secretary. She went inside. After three minutes Chasper himself came to the door, loud-voiced and with a hearty handshake. ‘Spindrift,' he said, ‘Spindrift, Spindrift. The most poetical name in the whole department. Do come in, my dear fellow,' He was darkly handsome, as smart as his secretary, a Blue of some kind. Sitting at his desk, hands joined, he glowed muscularly at Edwin and said, with a falling intonation:

‘Yes.'

‘I've just come out of hospital, as you can see.' said Edwin. ‘I wanted to have a word with you about money.'

‘I take it the operation went off all right?' said Chasper.

‘I suppose we'll be getting the report through shortly. It'll be up to our man, Dr Chase, to give you the all-clear for going back, you know. And how,' said Chasper,‘ is Mrs Spindrift?'

‘She's all right, I think,' said Edwin. ‘What I really need at the moment is some money.'

‘Hm. You were paid, weren't you?' Chasper frowned humorously. ‘Two months' salary in advance. The bursar sent us a copy of the voucher. That means you're not due for any more salary until, let me see, yes, the end of November. That's quite some time off. I suppose,' he said mellifluously, ‘you've found it pretty expensive living here. Or your wife has.' He smiled, as to say: ‘Women
are
extravagant, aren't they? Mine too, old boy. I know.'

‘Well,' said Edwin, ‘to be honest, the whole trouble is that my wife has gone off for a little holiday and taken all the money with her, and I can't get in touch with her very easily. It's more a question of the odd quid or so, you see, to keep me going until she gets back.'

‘But they're looking after you in the hospital, aren't they?' said Chasper. ‘I mean, it's unusual to want extra messing and so forth, isn't it, in a hospital? And people bring you things, don't they? That reminds me,' said Chasper. ‘I haven't been in to see you, have I? I must come and bring you some grapes or something. You like grapes, I take it?' He scribbled on his memo pad.

‘If I could draw,' said Edwin, ‘a couple of quid to keep me going. If you could give me a chit for the treasurer. To be taken off November's salary. That's all. A couple of quid. Pounds,' he translated, so that Chasper would thoroughly understand.

‘I'll bring you some cigarettes as well,' said Chasper. ‘I'm glad to see you looking so much better.'

‘Better than what?' asked Edwin. ‘Look, about this couple of quid. Pounds. One pound——'

‘Oh, better than I expected you to look after all that probing about in the old grey matter. I suppose the hair doesn't take too long to grow?'

The secretary appeared. ‘Professor Hodges to see you, Mr Chasper. He's a bit early for his appointment.'

‘Show him in.' said Chasper. ‘It's been delightful to see you again, Spindrift. I'll drop in during visiting hours. I should have done it before, but you know how busy we get here. My regards to Mrs Spindrift.'

On the wall was a map. Edwin stared at it open-mouthed. ‘Zenobia,' he said. ‘There's no such place as Zenobia.' A keen-eyed natty man came in, Professor Hodges. ‘Look here,' said Edwin, ‘what's all this about Zenobia? Whose leg are you trying to pull?'

‘If you'd bring the file, Mrs Woolland,' said Chasper. The secretary went into an inner room. Edwin was left to see himself out. ‘Good-bye, Spindrift,' said Chasper. ‘Try and get plenty of rest.'

Outside Chasper's office there was now not only Chasper's hat but also Professor Hodges's. The professor's hat was very small. Chasper's hat was a little too big. It rested on Edwin's ears. The name on the band was of a reputable hatter. It could be returned, exchanged. That was the next job. Pawned? It wouldn't fetch much. Edwin went into the reading-room. Frowning Indians were reading
Punch
and the
New Statesman
. No
Brute Beauty
here. Edwin wrapped Chasper's coke in a copy of
The Times
. There was a rather handsome volume on Caribbean
birds on the mantelpiece. That would fetch a little, though not perhaps enough for a shirt. Pardon me,' said a sudden negro. ‘That book is mine.'

Edwin came to with a shock. Stealing, eh? Real degeneracy. But it was all Chasper's fault. The mean bastard. Still, he couldn't very well sell this hat or exchange it. He would borrow it, that was all. Give it back when he got some money.
The Times
? Edwin decided to use one double sheet only for wrapping paper. That would come to about a penny. He left three halfpence, which was really generous, he thought. Now he was (lovely word) skint.

‘Did you get what you wanted, sir?' asked the kind asthmatic porter, as Edwin walked out with his parcel. Edwin smiled.

The thing to do now was to walk back to the hospital region, to the Anchor perhaps, now – so a public clock told him – open. Sheila might possibly come in, though he somehow doubted it. His intuitions were working rather well these days, probably a consequence of his disease. But that was the best place to hang around. Somebody would know where she was; she might have given somebody a note to be taken into hospital to him.