I and My True Love (10 page)

“You look very smooth as you are. Carry it as a gesture.” He smiled broadly, delighted and relieved. You could never tell with young women—ankle straps, veils, flowers, earrings, everything piled on at once. Older women were more dependable; by the time they were thirty they usually had worked all excess trimmings out of their system and avoided disaster. But with young women you could never tell: at dinner they might seem to be enchanting; by lunchtime next day they could appear as the freshman’s idea of a ballet dancer, or Lola Montez herself. “I’ve the car waiting outside. Where would you like to go?”

“Where would
you
like to go?”

“You’re showing me around. Remember?” He watched the smile on her face with real pleasure. At this moment he was admiring all young women who were still unspoiled and sweet-tempered, willing to listen to a man’s wishes. That was the trouble with older women: they might have picked up some ideas on clothes and conversation, but they had also learned how to elbow and grab.

“We’re going to get awfully lost,” she warned him.

“That sounds fun, too.” He hadn’t felt so young in years. He even stopped worrying about the extra two pounds his bathroom scales had measured up this morning after Sylvia’s excellent dinner last night. And as he put on his hat in front of the mirror which overhung the hall table, twisting it crisply to the correct angle, he decided that the few grey hairs which were beginning to show here and there were more distinguished than saddening.

Walter stood aside at the door to hold it open and slightly bow them out.

“Bit of a character, isn’t he?” Hallis asked as he helped Kate into the Buick.

“Walter?” She seemed to be amused. “Yes,” she said, “that’s exactly what he’s decided to be. And to think he gets paid for it, too.”

“Payton borrowed him from a friend in London, fifteen or sixteen years ago, when he was setting up his house in Georgetown. Payton was one of the first to come and live in this district, you know. It used to be very much of a slum.”

“And Walter never left?”

“No, surprisingly enough, he stayed on among the rude savages.”

“Even Walter had enough brains to know he’d found the softest job in Washington.”

“You don’t like the estimable Walter?”

“We’ve a private feud on, at the moment.”

He started the car. “You must tell me more,” he said, “but, first of all, where do we go from here?”

“Well, the Lincoln Memorial and the Mall and the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial and the White House and the Capitol.”

“You’ve been studying your guide-book. Unfair, unfair. And after all that?”

“Wouldn’t that be enough?”

“It will only take twenty minutes; they’re all very close together.”

So we are just driving around, she thought. Oh well, she could visit them tomorrow. “Would we have time to see the Berg Museum?” she asked with pretended casualness.

“You’ll see plenty of that in the weeks ahead. Don’t spoil today by being conscientious.” He laughed and she had to smile, if only to disprove her naïveté.

“What about lunch out at Mount Vernon?” he suggested. “And then we can drive farther out into the country.”

“I’ve promised to be back by four.”

“Oh, we’ll make that easily.” And judging by the way he could slip in and out of traffic there was no doubt that they would.

“Could we drive out by Whitecraigs? It isn’t so far, is it?” she asked.

“No, it’s on our way. But surely Sylvia will be taking you out to visit your relatives?”

“Yes. But I’d love to see it just as a stranger would see it. My father was born there, you know.”

“Of course! I keep thinking of California when you talk of him. Why did he leave Virginia?”

“To have a place of his own, I suppose. It isn’t much fun hanging around the elder brother’s house, is it?”

“And he likes the West?” Hallis was surprised.

“Why not? He arrived with nothing at all except his clothes, a bachelor’s degree, some books, forty-five dollars in his pocket, and his own two hands.”

“I judge they were important by the way you placed them in that very long sentence.”

“He says they were the most important of all.”

“And then he raised fruit trees and a very pretty daughter. He’s going to miss you, I think.”

“The only person he’d really miss would be Mother.”

“Ah—devoted?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice cool. Jan Brovic had used that word, too, but somehow she liked Stewart Hallis’s intonation much less.

“Isn’t that unusual? I thought California was—”

“Full of divorces? I think that’s part of the myth, like our perpetual sunshine.”

“I think I must see this California, some time.”

“You might find it dull,” she warned him. “It’s very domestic.”

He gave her a quick glance. “You think I’m a hard-boiled bachelor. All right, young lady, now I’ll give you a short lecture on that myth.”

And this he proceeded to do, wittily and well. He had her amused by the time they reached the Lincoln Memorial. By the time they reached the Capitol, she was interested. By the time they reached Mount Vernon, she was fascinated. (Older men, she had decided, might seem cynical but that was only the protective veneer they had had to adopt: they knew so much more than younger men, and that made them wary. It was touching to see Stewart’s guard slowly being lowered and catch a glimpse of the human being behind it. She wondered what woman had hurt him so badly, and how...) And by the time they had reached Whitecraigs’ wide green meadows she was even admiring.

“It’s been a lovely day,” she said quite honestly, as they returned to Georgetown at last.

“And I’ve enjoyed every minute of it,” he said. He meant it, too. He had found the picture of Stewart Hallis and his world—its hopes and ideals and disappointments—as touching as she had, and as believable. “You understand a great deal, don’t you?” His voice was completely earnest, the mischievous eyes were serious.

She looked away quickly.

“Keep Friday evening for me, will you? We’ll have dinner together and dance,” he said.

“That would be fun.”

“Yes,” he said, and held her hand for just an extra few moments as they made their goodbyes. She was late, she suddenly realised, as she pressed the front bell and glanced at her watch with amazement. It was now almost five o’clock.

7

At half-past three that afternoon, Sylvia Pleydell arrived at Dr. Formby’s office. The waiting-room wasn’t so crowded as usual, fortunately. Three men and a woman were the only other prospective patients. They looked up at her from the magazines they were pretending to read, as if they allowed themselves to speculate for a moment what illness brought her here. Then they lowered their serious faces again, hiding their own fears. She picked up a copy of the
National Geographic
and tried to concentrate on the marriage customs of Upper Nigeria. She felt a complete impostor. Her nervousness increased as the other patients were shepherded briskly in and out of the consulting room by a crisp white nurse. At last, and yet too soon, it was her turn.

Dr. Formby noticed her nervousness. “Well,” he said, “this is pleasant for me, at least.” He shook her hand warmly, and placed her in the chair that faced his desk. Then he sat down, pulled a sheet of paper in front of him and lifted his pencil. He waited with an encouraging smile, his careful eyes watching her from under his bushy eyebrows. His reddish-grey hair curled closely against his head. He looked, Sylvia thought, like a dependable Airedale keeping good guard. “How’s your husband?” he was saying now, as if to put her at her ease. “Overworking as usual? I haven’t seen him for quite a while, so I suppose he’s holding up all right.”

“Oh, Payton’s well. He never seems to fall ill at all, nowadays.”

“Then I certainly cured him last time. When was that? Four years ago?”

“Six.”

“As long ago as that? And how are you?” She looks well enough. More sleep needed, perhaps.

“Dr. Formby, I really don’t know why I’m taking up your time.” She tried to smile, and rose. “I’m here under false pretences.”

“Now, now. Your husband is worried about you—his secretary said you had to see me urgently.” And I made a special effort to fit her into the engagements for today, he thought as he watched Sylvia still more closely. “Let’s clear up your husband’s worry. Shall we?”

She sat down again. “But I’m not ill at all. I’m perfectly all right. All I wanted was to—to get away from Washington for a few weeks. That’s all. I told Payton last night that I—I needed a change. And he—he sent me here to see you.”

“I see.” Dr. Formby was far from seeing. There
is
something wrong here, he thought. “If you’ll step next door, Mrs. Pleydell, and take off your jacket, we’ll give you a brief check.”

“Really—”

He smiled again. “I’m sure you are all right, but I ought to make certain.”

But when they returned to the consulting room, he was more baffled than ever. Blood all right; blood pressure a little low; nose, throat and lungs all right; temperature normal; pulse fairly quick.

“Appetite?” he asked.

“Not very good today,” she admitted.

“Sleep?”

Her face coloured. “I didn’t sleep so much last night.”

“Before then, you felt completely normal?”

“Yes.”

She isn’t ill now but she’s going to be, he thought gloomily. “Why don’t you tell your husband, quite frankly, the reason you want to leave Washington?”

“He knows it.” He’s known about Jan for years, she thought wearily. She forced herself away from the discovery that had haunted her all day. “I beg your pardon?”

“Yet he doesn’t want you to go away from Washington?” Formby repeated.

“I think he feels that would be—would be a sign of weakness.”

“Oh.” So you’ve got to stay and face what you don’t want to face. “If you were ill, of course, he’d be the first to send you away, wouldn’t he?”

“Oh yes. He wouldn’t ask me to stay here if he thought I really needed a vacation. That’s why he sent me here.”

“I’m very sorry to say that you’re perfectly fit, Mrs. Pleydell, because I do think you’d feel much better if you could leave Washington.” He smiled wryly. “If only you weren’t so honest, you could fake an illness and then your husband would listen to you.”

“Fake an illness?” She was amused at the idea. “But no one gets away with that!”

“Don’t they?” His cheerful face became suddenly disapproving. “I’ve had a patient who came down with all the symptoms of a heart attack every time her son said he was going to get married.”

“But why—that’s criminal!”

“Yes, I think so. I began to get suspicious after the second illness. I was pretty sure after the third. So I advised the son to get married. He’s happy. The mother’s still alive and well.” He gave a wide grin. “But I’m not her doctor, now, of course. Oh yes, Mrs. Pleydell, there’s a small number of people who pretend illness, some to get sympathy, some to get their own way. It’s a kind of blackmail they use. Not very pleasant.”

Sylvia stared at him. “But,” she said slowly, “but can’t they be found out?”

“Eventually. If they repeat their illness. But at first, doctors have got to take all complaints seriously. You’ve got to believe people when they tell you their symptoms.”

“And, meanwhile, until you become suspicious, you’ve got to treat them as if they were ill?”

“Of course. Now, Mrs. Pleydell, my advice to you is—”

“But when can you be sure that they are only pretending?”

“When you find out what is at stake. Understand their purpose, and you’ve the reason for their behaviour. You’ve got to be very sure of that, however. There are plenty of real illnesses with sudden recoveries.”

She was silent for almost a minute by his watch. He kept his eyes on her, but she didn’t notice. He wondered what thoughts were following each other in quick succession behind her set face.

At last she said, “Supposing someone’s health had always been good, supposing he suddenly became dangerously ill— something that puzzled doctors and nurses—and then, after he had got what he wanted, supposing he became well again, and stayed well just because he had won so completely, then—” Her voice trailed away. She was watching him, wide-eyed. Her own words had frightened her.

Dr. Formby said nothing for a moment. He was disturbed: the conversation had slipped away from smooth generalities on to much more difficult ground. “Mrs. Pleydell, you’re worrying now about something you didn’t even imagine when you came to see me. Isn’t that right?... Well, I think we’d better set it all straight. There’s no good carrying away any false ideas.”

She bent her head. Her hands twisted her gloves.

“I’m your doctor, and a doctor cures more things than colds and fever. Why don’t you tell me what’s worrying you?”

“No. Not just now.” She stood up. “I’ve got to think about it, myself. Perhaps I am wrong. I could be wrong. Thank you, Dr. Formby.”

“Now,
I’m
worried,” he said, following her to the door.

“You mustn’t be. You’ve helped me so much. You see, it
is
important to me to know just exactly what happened in—in the case I told you about. Thank you,” she said again. And she looked more calm, more confident, than when she had just entered the consulting room.

He let her go, in silence. “Just a minute,” he told the nurse. “Tell the next patient to wait.” And with his quick, short step he went to the filing cabinet and picked out a folder. Pleydell, Payton. Here were all the details. Dr. Formby’s eye translated them briefly. First treated as a patient in 1935 for grippe. Previous medical records all excellent. After 1935, there had been yearly check-ups, all normal. In 1936—vaccination. 1940—sprained wrist. 1942—head cold. 1943—vaccination. 1945—illness unknown, possible breakdown, serious. And since then, nothing but one attack of grippe.

Dr. Formby studied the entry under 1945 more fully. Two specialists had been called in. No positive diagnosis from them, either. The patient had seemed seriously ill though. Great care had been taken. And then suddenly, he had made a splendid recovery. No bad effects, whatsoever.