Thrush Green (23 page)

She pulled out the battered case, which had caused so much trouble that afternoon, and began to count out notes, silver and coppers, licking a dusky thumb every now and again, and saying the amounts to herself aloud.

Mrs. Curdle needed no list to help her in her task. She had no account book, no notes, no jottings to confuse or help her calculations. Beneath the coils of black hair Mrs. Curdle's shrewd mind knew to a penny just what was due to each man, woman and child under her management. The piles were stacked methodically in lines on the table, little heaps weighted with neatly piled silver and copper, with Sam Curdle's final earnings in their accustomed place in the row.

Mrs. Curdle put the malefactor's dues ready with neither resentment nor pleasure. All her life she had, of necessity, been decisive and forward-looking. There had never been time in her busy life, nor had she ever had the inclination, to look back unnecessarily. What was done, was done; and remorse and regrets had never played much part in the old lady's life. Sam had failed her. He must go. It was as simple as that.

From time to time she looked across at Dr. Bailey's house. She had seen his young helper go in and later had caught a glimpse of him through the surgery window. With half her mind she welcomed his presence there, for it postponed her own going.

She put out the large brass bowl on the minute dresser. It stood, twinkling and flashing, as it caught the light from the hanging oil lamp above the table, awaiting the rustle and clatter of that evening's takings when the Curdles arrived later to tip in their contributions and collect their wages. Then she covered the laden table with a multicolored shawl of vivid brightness to keep the money safe from prying eyes and any drafts which might remove a stray note. Mrs. Curdle's business arrangements were completed once again and she turned to her personal preparations.

The surgery light still shone as Mrs. Curdle washed her massive arms and shoulders at the diminutive basin near the stove. She washed her face and neck and gazed at her reflection sadly as she dabbed herself dry with a small striped towel.

The little mirror, at which her husband had shaved so many years before, gave Mrs. Curdle a dim and distorted copy of her features, but she was comforted to see that she had some color in her cheeks, and that though black shadows lay like sooty smudges beneath her eyes, the eyes themselves were as bright as ever.

Her gold earrings looked as fine as the day on which her bridegroom had given them to her, and after combing and replaiting her hair, Mrs. Curdle donned her best black satin frock, a new black cardigan and her largest checked shawl, and looked again from her window.

The light vanished and Mrs. Curdle's throat constricted with sudden fear. Almost at once she saw young Dr. Lovell hasten down the path and emerge upon Thrush Green.

Mrs. Curdle took a last look at her caravan. All lay in readiness for her return, all was in order. The diminutive stove seemed to wink encouragement, the lamp swung as though nodding a kindly farewell, and all the small dear objects which had shared her tiny home and her long life seemed to return to their troubled mistress some of that love which she had given them.

With the bunch of flowers—the largest and most beautiful she had ever made—in one hand, and the ebony stick in the other, Mrs. Curdle descended the steps of her home, and with slow dignity approached the house of Dr. Bailey.

Mrs. Bailey came from the little back room, where she had been packing up the magazines, to answer the door. Mrs. Curdle, tall and imposing in her best black, stood on the doorstep with the bright lights of her fair behind her and the great bouquet before her.

"With my compliments, ma'am, as always," she said, graciously inclining her head, and handing in the dazzling blooms.

"They are more magnificent every year," said Mrs. Bailey truthfully, ushering in her guest. She looked with genuine admiration at the great mop-heads fashioned with such skill and patience. Scarlet, orange, pink and mauve, they flaunted their gaudy beauty like some tropical exotic blooms compared with the modest narcissuses that sent their gentle perfume from the hall table.

"Come and see how well last year's bunch has worn," said Mrs. Bailey. "The doctor's looking forward to seeing you."

She led the way into the sitting room and Mrs. Curdle followed, her dark eyes glancing around the hall as she went. Houses made Mrs. Curdle ill at ease. There was so much space, so many bare places on the walls, so far to walk. It seemed to the old lady that there was nothing homelike about such a place. Her own caravan, with everything within arm's reach, fitted her as snugly as a snail's shell. The sight of so much floor to sweep and so many walls to clean appalled her, and the lofty ceilings made her feel lost and unsafe.

Might as well live in a church, thought Mrs. Curdle to herself, as she picked her way gingerly over the unaccustomed carpet. 'Twould never do for me.

The doctor came forward to greet her, both hands outstretched and a welcoming smile on his lined old face.

"Come and sit down, Mrs. Curdle. We've been looking forward to seeing you all day. It wouldn't be May the first, you know, without a visit from you."

He drew forward a straight-backed armchair, and Mrs. Curdle seated herself regally. Mrs. Bailey brought forward last year's bouquet for the old lady's inspection.

"It do seem to have kep' very nice," agreed Mrs. Curdle, with satisfaction. "It pays to use a good dye, I always say. And you takes good care of them, I can see that," she added politely.

They talked of many things, the fortunes of the fair, the news of Lulling and Thrush Green friends, the death of one of the nurses who had attended her so long ago at Lulling Hospital, the floods which the overflowing river Pleshy had caused earlier in the year and other general matters.

"I hope that you are not thinking of giving up," said the doctor. "We've heard all sorts of rumors, you know."

Mrs. Curdle's face grew grave.

"There's times I think I must," she said slowly. "I been none too good lately. I was going to have a word with you about it all."

Mrs. Bailey rose quietly.

"I'll leave you to talk, and I'll go and cut some sandwiches."

Mrs. Curdle looked alarmed.

"None for me, ma'am, thanking you kindly. My stomach's been that queasy, I can't tell you, and I'll have a sup of something later on before I gets to bed."

"That doesn't sound too good," said Dr. Bailey, as his wife retreated to her magazine packing, closing the door firmly upon the tête-à-tête which she knew to be so important.

He hitched his chair nearer to Mrs. Curdle's and looked closely at her.

"Let's see your tongue," he said suddenly. Mrs. Curdle put it out obediently.

"Horrible!" said the doctor with professional relish. "Tell me all about this trouble and then I'll have a real look at you."

Mrs. Curdle gave a sigh, half of bewilderment and half of relief. Now that she was actually under the doctor's roof, with his reassuring presence so close at hand, her fears seemed suddenly less potent. She began to talk falteringly.

"It's been comin' on a long time now—best part of five years, I'd say. Catches me, sir, back and front." She gripped the small of her back bending forward and fixing anguished dark eyes upon the doctor. He nodded sympathetically.

"Makes me dizzy," went on Mrs. Curdle, warming to her theme. The relief of pouring out her long pent-up troubles gave her an unaccustomed eloquence.

"I has to sit down, my head gets that giddy. And today I had it that bad I fell right over—fainting, you might say. It's the pain, doctor, a burning kind of pain, that flares up in me middle."

She knotted a gnarled fist and pressed it fiercely against the jet buttons of her cardigan.

"And can you eat?" asked Dr. Bailey, remembering her prodigious appetite in earlier times.

"Scarce a morsel," asserted Mrs. Curdle, with mournful pride. "I takes no breakfast these days, though I cooks for young Ben regular. Just a drop of tea, and maybe a bit of bread if the pain ain't too nigglin'."

"What time did you faint today?" inquired the doctor. Mrs. Curdle wrinkled her brow with concentration.

"'Twould have been after dinner some time. I was taking a look round the show, I knows that."

"Ah!" said Dr. Bailey. "After your dinner, eh? And what did you have?"

"Pork chop and fried onions," said the old lady. "With a bit of good strong cheese to follow. Nothing rich or heavy like."

The doctor looked with an experienced eye at his patient's drawn face and the hint of yellow about the eyes that told of biliousness. He could guess the sort of diet that Mrs. Curdle's ancient stomach was called upon to digest day after day. The old lady had always been a great frying-pan cook, as of necessity were most of the tribe, and her tea, as the doctor remembered with an inward shudder, was of a strong Indian variety which was reckoned to be at its best after half an hour's stewing on the little hob. It was small wonder that her overtaxed digestive system had begun to rebel after more than seventy years of such treatment.

But there might be more to it than faulty diet, thought the old doctor, gazing speculatively at the earnest face before him. Mrs. Curdle had lost her sparkle. There were mental as well as physical troubles to be blamed for that pinched unhappy look about her mouth and eyes. The doctor determined to know all, and set about it with his customary guile and kindly delicacy.

"I think we'll have to give you a little help over your diet, my dear. I'm positive that that's all that's wrong and you've nothing to worry about at all. Less fat, very little tea—and that weak—less bread and fried foods, and you'll be fighting fit in no time."

Mrs. Curdle bridled slightly.

"I eats next to nothing—" she began in a hurt tone.

Dr. Bailey leaned forward and patted her knee.

"I know you do, I know you do. But it's probably the wrong sort of food for you now. I'll write it down for you and you need not worry any more about it."

Mrs. Curdle looked mollified, and the doctor continued gently.

"You see, we're both getting older, Mrs. Curdle, and our poor old bodies can't cope with the food—nor life itself—quite as bravely as they did when we first met. Why, for the last few weeks I've practically lived on milk."

"You looks peaky," agreed Mrs. Curdle sagely. "Maybe it's good food you needs."

The doctor began to feel that he was making little headway, but he brushed aside her comment, and approached nearer to his objective.

"And because our bodies are old and tired, we begin to worry about them and that makes them worse. So it goes on. And when any little troubles arise—money matters, say, or quarrels in the family, they all seem so much worse than they really are."

He noticed that a gleam had kindled in Mrs. Curdle's eye, and she nodded her dark head in agreement.

"That's very true, sir. I've been that way myself this year with our Ben—dear George's boy, you remember?" The doctor nodded, fearful of speaking and breaking the flow of words which would help his old friend far more than any of his bottled medicine could.

"He's fair broke my heart, these last few months," confessed the old lady. She settled her great bulk more comfortably against the back of the chair and told her sympathetic friend of all that she had endured. She told of Ben's moodiness, his sullen silences, his inexplicable neglect of the job which he had always taken such delight in, and the barrier which had grown up between them.

Out it all poured, the doctor listening intently to this simple but poignant tale. She told of her increasing depression, the more frequent attacks of pain, the silence which she kept, imposed upon her by her innate pride of spirit, which only aggravated the misery of both body and mind. She told of all her hopes of making young Ben a partner in the business which was the very essence of her being, and how those hopes had dwindled as the sad frustrating weeks had gone by.

Through it all, the doctor noticed, ran the strong double thread of her great love for Ben and the fair. They were both of her creating. They were as much part of her as the dusky right hand which smoothed the black satin to and fro, to and fro, over her massive knee as she spoke. If she lost either her life would be lopped of its vital force and purpose, and she would surely dwindle and die.

For want of breath Mrs. Curdle paused, and the doctor gave what advice he could.

"I'm afraid it's all part of getting old, Mrs. Curdle, this anxiety about keeping our affairs going well and wondering if the young ones will ever keep the boat afloat as well as we did. It's a right feeling, I suppose, but it does mean that we have to decide what is the right thing to do and the right time to do it. I've been having the same thing to face here."

"You have?" said Mrs. Curdle in surprise, projected momentarily from her inward-looking at her own troubles to those of her fellow, which was precisely what the wise doctor had wanted.

"You see," said Dr. Bailey, smiling, "I'm old, too—older than you are, my dear—and very much more tattered and torn I'm afraid. I've been clinging to the hope that this illness would pass and that I would be quite able to continue as I always have done with my doctoring, but nature has said no. It's been saying no for a long time," admitted the doctor ruefully, "but I've been too pigheaded to listen. But today I did listen, and I've made my decision."

"And what's it to be?" asked Mrs. Curdle.

"It's to be sensible. To face the fact that I'm growing old, that I must have help if I'm to be of any use to my patients. And another thing I've found out today. I am not indispensable. My young partner can do the job as well, and perhaps better, than I ever could do it."

There was a sadness in her old friend's face that moved Mrs. Curdle strangely although she had not fully understood all that the doctor had told her.

"You been the best doctor in the world," she said stoutly. "I never knew a better doctor—never!"

Dr. Bailey, knowing that he was the only one that had ever attended her, could not help being secretly amused, as well as touched, by her faith in him.