The Shadow (17 page)

“I don't know,” said the doctor doubtfully. “You think that if Ranald could be
actually
produced, then Nan would be reassured, would be helped, by knowing that she was not absolutely obsessed?”

“Don't you?”

“Supposing she hasn't seen him?”

“That will make all the difference. That's why I wish he would come. You would have thought his anxiety would have kept him at the door,” said Aunt Phemie in an angry rush.

“Wait a bit. We'll have to go easy. Why do you think it will make all the difference? Does an illusion, more or less, really matter now?”

“In this case, yes. It will make all the difference in the world.”

“How?”

“Oh, it's difficult to explain, but I know. I don't care what any authority may say about what happens inside the mind at such a time. If Nan did
not
see Ranald, then however real and solid he may have seemed to her, yet somewhere deep in her she will know that it may not actually have been him. But if she
did
see the real Ranald, then the effect on her mind will be quite different, especially if you were to prove to her that it was an illusion.”

The doctor regarded her unconsciously with his professional look. “I get your point,” he said. “It's a subtle one. I can see I don't need to tell you that I don't know a great deal about this. It's psychiatric. But I couldn't help seeing a lot of it in the Middle East. I'm not so very long demobbed, as you know. It's not just always an easy business. Above all it needs patience and time.”

“Time can run short,” said Aunt Phemie.

“You mean there is a critical phase? No doubt. But then more than ever all depends on how you are going to deal with it. A wrong treatment—a wrong step—can tip the balance the wrong way. You saw what happened when I blundered into the bedroom. By the way, I did go first to the kitchen door—quietly, because I thought we might have a few words.”

“I understand,” said Aunt Phemie without relaxing her expression.

The doctor glanced at her. “I think—perhaps—you are overemphasising the difficulty at the moment. We have got to be careful, I mean, that we don't shove our burden onto that young man's shoulders.”

“You're telling me,” said Aunt Phemie, with an impatient look at the fire.

The doctor smiled. “I suppose so,” he said. After a moment he went on. “All the same, when you mentioned how he came into sight and stood by the trees and then went away, I got the feeling of something happening in a dream.”

“You really think he wasn't there?” Aunt Phemie glanced at him quickly.

“Anyway, he isn't here yet! But I wasn't thinking of that. Supposing you had been up there, ill like Nan, and you saw a dream-like happening of that kind, would you be terribly distressed to find it hadn't been real?”

It was like a blow to Aunt Phemie. She momentarily lost grip and said in a distressed way, “Oh, I don't know. I just don't know.”

“I don't think you need worry about that. In any case, I shouldn't like to see you begin to worry.” He smiled quickly, giving her a flashing complimentary glance. “You have been pretty good.”

The compliment did not help her. She was suddenly terrified at the amount of emotion that wanted to burst through. She felt on the verge of crying out everything to the doctor, of letting her choked anxiety have its wild way.

“It's a very difficult thing to deal with,” the doctor was saying, as he shifted his stance and pulled down his waistcoat. His darkbrown suit was a perfect fit. He looked at once professional and elegant. “And the world is full of it. We just can't have wars and not expect this kind of reaction.”

“I know,” said Aunt Phemie automatically. She looked frozen.

“It's getting a bit too common for my taste. Even amongst children, neurotic school children. You would hardly believe it.” He glanced away through the kitchen window. Aunt Phemie turned her fixed gaze on the kettle. It was singing.

“You keep on as you're doing and Nan will come round all right. It's been unfortunate that this murder affair on the hill got under her skin, but she is fundamentally sound.” His voice, the movement of his feet, intimated that he was about to go. “I'll look in again to-morrow.”

Before Aunt Phemie could speak the door opened. She started violently and the blood drained from her face. It was Ranald.

“Hallo,” said the doctor, “we have been wondering where you were.” His manner was courteous.

Ranald glanced at Aunt Phemie and then, in his casual way, said, “I have been out about the farm—talking to some of the men. I saw your car.”

“There's been some trouble here over you,” said the doctor. “Miss Gordon rather imagines she saw you from the window.”

Ranald's face steadied. “Where?”

“Did you come into the drive, stand for a moment against the trees and look up at her window?”

“Yes,” said Ranald, watching the doctor.

“You did? Oh.” The doctor's brows gathered thoughtfully.

“Why? What happened?” asked Ranald.

“She fainted,” said Aunt Phemie in a flat laconic voice. It sounded at once tragic and indifferent. As she lifted the kettle off the fire, both men looked at her back. She began making a pot of tea.

“The problem is this,” said the doctor to Ranald in his professional manner. “Because of her condition—and too much excitement will be
very
bad for her—should we let her believe that she was deluded, which I fancy would do her no harm, or should you go up?”

“I have said all along,” remarked Ranald calmly, “that I should go up.”

The doctor suddenly looked nettled. “I hope you realise it's not just quite so simple as all that?”

“Well, I hope I'm not just a simpleton.” There was no sarcasm in his voice; there was even a certain dry humour in his eyes.

The doctor smiled. “I hope not.” But his voice did not sound as if he had been reassured. However, he had to go. “I'll have to leave it to yourself, Mrs. Robertson.” He glanced at his gold wrist-watch. “I have a hospital appointment and need my time.”

Aunt Phemie turned from the fire. “Very good, Doctor. And thank you for coming. I'll take up a cup of tea—and prepare her for Ranald's visit.” Her voice was clear but without warmth, almost without life.

The doctor's eyes searched her face for a moment. “You think so?”

“Yes. I agree with Ronald.”

“Very good,” said the doctor. “But you needn't hurry the process.”

“I won't,” she said.

“Right. Good morning.”

Aunt Phemie turned back from the door and began preparing a small tray. She did not look at Ranald, did not speak.

“How could she see me?” asked Ranald. “I thought she was in bed.”

“She got up to welcome the sun,” replied Aunt Phemie, “and saw you. Didn't you see her?”

“No. The light was on the window, blinding it.”

At last she had two cups of tea and the biscuit box on the tray. “I'll take this up and try to get her to take something. I'll tell her I wrote you and you arrived suddenly to-day. You were coming in by the front drive—when suddenly you changed your mind and came in by the back.”

“That's what happened,” said Ranald.

“That's fine.” She hesitated. But she didn't or couldn't say any more; she lifted the tray and went out. On the top landing she paused, out of breath. A twist of pain passed over her features. Then she went forward, opened the door quietly and entered the room. Nan was lying with her face to the wall. After the doctor had got her round, she had been bewildered and jumpy in a scrambling way, but soon, exhausted, had grown wearily composed and turned her face away from them. Her body had now turned away as well.

As Aunt Phemie was setting down the tray on the bedside table it quivered, slopping a little tea into the saucers. She stood looking at Nan, listening for her breathing. She couldn't hear it. For a moment she stood very still, then she bent over the bed and was putting a hand out when she saw the faint rise and fall of the bedclothes which Nan had pulled over her shoulder. Aunt Phemie withdrew her hand and sat down on the chair. She felt very tired. She wanted to go to sleep. Several minutes passed and her head drooped.

But at Nan's first movement Aunt Phemie's eyes were waiting. Nan stirred slowly, then with a small start, for she could see no-one standing in the room. So clearly she must have heard Aunt Phemie come in. When she saw Aunt Phemie in the chair by the head of the bed, her head dropped back.

“I have brought you a cup of tea, Nan,” said Aunt Phemie in kindly tones. She got up and drained the saucers into the cups. “I'm afraid it's getting cold. Wouldn't you like a cup?”

“No, thanks,” said Nan in a remote voice.

“Won't you let me coax you? Do,” pleaded Aunt Phemie.

Nan shook her head once.

“Nan,” said Aunt Phemie, “I have got some news for you. I have heard from Ranald.”

Nan's head turned slowly and her wide-open eyes settled on Aunt Phemie.

Aunt Phemie nodded, a restrained gladness infusing her manner. “He's coming to see you,” she said with some of the archness of a mysterious conjurer.

Nan began to breathe slow heavy breaths, her eyes on Aunt Phemie's face but not penetrating the face.

Aunt Phemie nodded again and smiled into Nan's eyes. “He's coming soon.”

“What?” said Nan, her breathing deepening. “When?” Her arms jerked out from under the bedclothes and she glanced away from Aunt Phemie in a wild bewildered way. But in an instant her eyes were back.

“Now don't grow excited,” said Aunt Phemie like a wise schoolmistress. “You've got to be good and sensible. I wrote him and whenever he got my letter he set out. Wasn't that noble of him?”

Nan's breathing, still deep, was quickening as though she couldn't get enough air. Her hands were knotting in the quilt, the scraping of her fingernails harsh on the satin.

“He's here!” she said suddenly, not to Aunt Phemie but to herself. Now her breathing became tumultuous, gulping fierce and fast; her body thrust and heaved, while her hands clawed like a dog's paws tearing at a hole; her eyes grew feverishly bright and terrified.

“Nan! Nan!” said Aunt Phemie, “control yourself now, take a hold!” She caught Nan's hands, which instantly gripped hers with remarkable strength. Then the hands were away, were wildly up at the chestnut hair, pushing it back, in a half-demented gesture of dressing, of preparing; but in an instant they were gone; she did not know what she was doing; she was half-rising in the bed, pushing herself up.

After a little, Aunt Phemie got her settled back, and the tumultuous breathing slackened, grew longer between breaths. “Where is he?” she asked little above a whisper.

“He's in the kitchen,” answered Aunt Phemie. “What a surprise I got! He started to come up the drive—then thought he had better come in quietly at the back door. He did not know how ill you might be.”

The breathing began to increase again, to quicken.

“He wants to see you, of course. But I just told him he wasn't going to be allowed up until you were quite ready for him! So there's no hurry.” Aunt Phemie had the cool cheerfulness of a nurse, giving out strength, with her subtle sympathy watching.

Nan's second bout was not so bad as the first, but it left her more exhausted. The great gulps of breath made her shiver from cold; her jaw continuously quivered. Aunt Phemie saw the internal fight reach its climax in a tremoring and writhing that for one awful moment seemed about to break body and mind into bits. She continued her small movements and gestures about the bed, capably, preparing for Ranald as a nurse might prepare for the operation that would presently put everything right. The internal fight broke—and Nan was not defeated, had not screamed out the final negation in flight and collapse. Aunt Phemie smiled at her as she lay panting and with a cold damp sponge wiped her forehead and cheeks. “Yes, yes,” she said, “you can,” though Nan had not spoken. She sponged the corners of the mouth. “You are a very good-looking girl, my dear.” She stood back regarding the face with satisfaction. “Now, I'll call Ranald, will I?” Nan's hands began to work, her head gave an indecisive nod, her breathing quickened again. Aunt Phemie went to the door and called in a loud cheerful voice, “Ranald!” Behind her there was a small suppressed cry, but she did not turn round. Ranald came up quickly. “Here he is!” said Aunt Phemie, taking him into the room.

Nan had pulled the clothes right up to her neck. She looked at Ranald, large-eyed with a strange wary brightness.

“Hallo, Nan!” said Ranald quietly, smiling from the end of the bed. “Not feeling too fit?” He might have been there yesterday and the day before.

Nan's eyes glanced away. She did not speak.

“Look now,” said Aunt Phemie, “I'll leave you for a minute. He's starving, Nan; hasn't had anything to eat since yesterday. So you're not going to keep him. There will be plenty of time for talking.” She went out.

Ranald sat on the bottom of the bed. “I'm sorry you've had another bout. Bad luck. But you're feeling all right again?”

She nodded.

“That's good. Though you
will
go on giving me frights!” His eyes warmed. “It's nice to see you again.”

“Thank you,” she said, with a breath of spirit.

“That's more like the old noise! I was beginning to miss it. Quite a few were, in fact. The idea has gone about that you were the life and soul of things.”

“How's Julie?”

“Julie? Oh—she's all right.”

Her eyes flashed upon his momentary hesitation, searched his face.

“Still worrying about Julie?” His mouth twisted in humour. “You did reform her—for a bit. But what could you expect?” He was teasing her. “I would much rather hear about yourself. Aren't you glad to see me, for example?”