Doctor's Wife (28 page)

    “Well,” she said, after he had kissed her. “Welcome
back, Sherlock Holmes. I was right, wasn’t I? It was a complete
wild-goose chase.”

    “Yes, in a way,” he said, for it was never wise to
contradict her. “But, on the whole, I think it was worthwhile.”

    “How’s that?”

    “Well, I’ll tell you, dear,” he said and, taking her
arm, led her out of the building. It was raining, and so cold it
was hard to believe this was summer. “Actually,” he said, “I found
out quite a bit. She’s not in America at all. She’s probably still
in France.”

    This was to have been his bombshell, but he might as
well have said it was a rainy day for all the notice Agnes took.
She found the car-park ticket and he put up the umbrella she had
brought. Under its shelter they went out toward the car. “Remember
the letter the boy friend sent in care of Peg? Well, there was an
American address on the envelope. So I took the bull by the horns
and rang up, asking for her. She wasn’t there. Then I asked for
him, and got him. He was very hostile, as a matter of fact, but I
had a definite impression that he doesn’t know any more than we do
about where she is. In fact, I think there’s a good chance she’s
still in France. I’ll tell you why.”

    “You rang up America? How much did that cost?”

    “Oh, it wasn’t bad. Peg wouldn’t let me pay but I
forced a few pounds on her.”

    “Why didn’t you open the letter?”

    “Ah, no, I couldn’t do that. I have it with me,
though. I thought I’d send it on to Sheila when I hear where she
wants her money sent. Don’t you think that’s the best idea?”

    “You forgot to fasten your seat belt,” Agnes
said.

    “So I did. Thanks, dear.” He buckled up, and they
drove out of the car park. “Yesterday,” he said, “I went to see
that priest.”

    “The French priest?”

    “Yes, the one she wrote me to send the money to. A
nice man. He hears confessions in English. Anyway, I played the
innocent with him, didn’t say a word about her mental state. I just
said that I was worried I might have trouble getting the money to
her in America because of foreign-exchange regulations. So he said,
‘Your sister is
not
in America.’

    “ ‘So, where is she?’ said I. He said he couldn’t
say, but that there wouldn’t be any necessity to send the money to
her in dollars. So I asked him, ‘Where should I send it and in what
currency?’ He said he didn’t know yet, but that he would let me
know as soon as he could. Of course, that worried me, do you see? I
mean, if he hasn’t heard from Sheila yet. You see what I mean,
dear? I hope she’s all right.”

    “Don’t you worry your head,” Agnes said, and
laughed. “Sherlock Holmes. Going to Paris and ringing up New York.
And do you know all you had to do? Sit tight at home at 54 Dundrum
Road.”

    “What are you talking about, dear?”

    “I’m talking about Sheila. She rang you up this
morning. She’s going to call back at nine o’clock tonight.”

    “Where did she ring from? Did she tell you where she
is?”

    “She didn’t tell
me
anything, she didn’t
even have the manners to ask for me. She spoke to Imelda, and when
the child asked if she wanted to speak to me, she said no, she’d
call back.”

    “And did Imelda not say I was in Paris?”

    “Yes, she told her.”

    “And did Imelda say how she sounded?”

    “How would Imelda know?”

    “Yes, I suppose. Anyway, that’s great news, isn’t
it? I can’t tell you the terrible gloomy thoughts I had in Paris
last night. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her
now.”

    “Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to her.
Didn’t I tell you she’d be all right? Any woman who’ll walk out on
her husband and child after a three-week fling is not going to kill
herself. Didn’t I say that?”

    “So you did, dear,” Dr. Deane said. “So you
did.”

    •

    His daughters were making supper when he and Agnes
got back to the house. He kissed them, gave them presents of silk
scarves from the Paris duty-free shop, and then went into the den,
shutting the door, saying he wanted to look over his post. What he
wanted was a large whiskey. He poured it and lit the fire. He
supposed he should phone Kevin Redden, but, honestly, he didn’t
feel up to it. He had barely been able to be civil to the man ever
since Redden let sb’p that he had showed Sheila that letter. And,
in his most recent conversation, Redden said that he’d made a full
report to the American Embassy in Dublin and that, furthermore, he
was suing for divorce on the grounds of desertion. So why phone him
to tell him the news? What does he care?

    Instead of phoning, therefore, Dr. Deane downed a
second whiskey. As he finished it, the girls came to the door and
said supper was on the dining-room table. Food was the last thing
he wanted, but there was still an hour to kill before Sheila’s
phone call was due and so he went in and managed a few bites of the
ham and cauliflower. Imelda had made a chocolate cake with a cream
filling and Agnes was very pleased with it and praised it and so
nothing would do them but that he try it. “That piece is far too
big for me,” he protested, and as he did, the telephone rang. He
stood up precipitately and hurried into the den, shutting the door
behind him before he picked up the receiver. But he was too late.
Agnes had already run to the hall and picked up the phone out
there.

    “It’s Agnes, Sheila,” he heard her say.

    “Hello, Agnes. Is Owen back yet?”

    “Yes. How are you? Where are you?”

    “Hello,” he said, cutting in. “Sheila?”

    “Yes.”

    “Agnes, I’d like to speak to Sheila alone, if you
don’t mind.”

    He’d pay for that later, no doubt, but still, it had
to be done. “All right, I’ll hang up,” Agnes said and clicked the
receiver, but he was not deceived. He knew she was still on the
line. At least, now she would be quiet.

    “Hello, Sheila?” he said. “Did you know I was over
there in Paris looking for you? I’ve been terribly worried. How are
you?”

    “I’m all right.”

    “And where are you?”

    “Owen, I’m ringing you about those shares. Did you
get my letter?”

    “Yes, I did. And I’ve sold the lot and there’s about
sixteen hundred pounds out of it.”

    He heard Agnes’s intake of breath on the other line.
She had had no idea it was that much.

    “It could have been more,” he said. “But the
market’s down just now. How do you want it paid? Into a bank would
be best, I suppose?”

    “Can you pay it into a post-office savings
account?”

    “I suppose so, yes. Do they have that sort of thing
in France?”

    “I don’t want it paid in France. I want it paid in
London.”

    “Then you’re in London, are you?”

    She did not answer. “Can you pay it into a post
office in London? I can open an account at the Belsize Park post
office on Haverstock Hill.”

    “That’s in Hampstead,” he said. “I know that part.
John Devaney used to live near there. On Parkhill Road, I
believe.”

    “How long will it take for the money to get to
London?”

    “Oh, I don’t know. A few days, a week, I’m not
sure.”

    “Well, there’s some of it I want paid out at once,”
she said. “I owe it. It’s whatever the equivalent is of four
hundred and fifteen dollars. I wonder if you could send that
directly to someone in the United States.”

    “Of course I could. Who will I send it to?”

    “Have you got a pencil?”

    “Yes, fire away.”

    “It’s to go to a Mr. Tom Lowry, Pine Lodge, Rutland,
Vermont.”

    “Yes, I spoke to him the other day.”

    “Where?” Her voice faltered.

    “I rang him up in Vermont. He wrote you a letter in
care of Peg in Paris. It gave his address. I rang him, hoping to
get some news of you.”

    “How is he?” Her voice was now a whisper.

    “He seems all right. I have his letter here, I can
send it on. But, Sheila, I think you did the right thing, not going
with him. The only thing. By the way, what are you living on
now?”

    “I’m all right.”

    “I feel bloody terrible about Kevin showing you that
letter I wrote him. I shouldn’t have written it, and he shouldn’t
have shown it. I only wanted to help you. Will you believe
that?”

    “It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “And thanks for
cashing in my shares.”

    “Listen, Sheila, I’d love to see you. What if I flew
over and put the money in your hand? I have this letter for you,
too. Just let me talk to you for half an hour. And I promise
there’ll be no preaching.”

    She hesitated. “You’d bring the money, and the
letter?”

    “Yes, I’ll go to my bank first thing in the morning.
Just tell me where.”

    “Could you come tomorrow? Say late tomorrow
afternoon.”

    “Come where?”

    “London,” she said. “Meet me at six o’clock at the
Primrose Hill Park gate opposite Regent’s Park zoo on Prince Albert
Road. Do you know where that is?”

    “I’m writing it down. I can find it. At six, you
said?”

    “Yes. And we’ll only talk for half an hour. You can
be back home tomorrow night. Is that all right?”

    “Yes. All right.”

    “See you at six, then. And thanks, Owen.”

    “Take care of yourself,” he said. He heard her hang
up, then Agnes hung up. He sat down in the den and stared at the
fire, waiting for her.

    “Well, aren’t you the soft one,” she said, coming
in. “Did you hear the way she ordered you around? Just like a
messenger boy. And sixteen hundred pounds you’re going to hand over
to her.”

    “It’s her own money, dear.”

    “And the letter. It was the minute you mentioned you
had a letter from her boy friend that her ladyship changed her mind
about seeing you. If you go, Owen, you’re making a real fool of
yourself.”

    “I want to see her,” he said. “I thought I told you
to get off the phone.”

    “Oh, I’m glad you brought
that
up. You were
so rude, I couldn’t believe my ears. I felt as if I was going to
cry. You and that family of yours, I declare you’re married to
them, not to me. I mean, here’s your own wife in her own house
being told to get off the phone as if she’s some outsider.”

    Anne and Imelda were in the doorway. They had heard
her.

    “Was that Aunt Sheila, Daddy?”

    “Yes,” he said.

    “And where is she?”

    “London. Did you make any tea or coffee?”

    “Coffee,” Anne said. “Do you want it in here?”

    “Yes, thanks.”

    “So you’re going, then?” Agnes began. “Cupid, love’s
messenger, bringing her the boy friend’s letter. Well, I never
heard the like.”

    “Agnes,” he said. “Please?”

    “What’s the matter? I just asked you a question. I
just want to know how many more fares you’re going to pay, running
after her. Why don’t you ask her at least to pay your expenses, out
of her sixteen hundred quid?”

    “Mummy,” Anne said. She took her mother’s arm. “Come
on, Mum,” Imelda said, taking the other arm. And somehow they did
what he never could do. Got her out. Got him some peace.

    Chapter 22

    • The manageress in charge of all of the Hampstead
branches of Fastkleen Laundries was a stout, awkward person in her
fifties, with a face empty as an actor’s after the curtain comes
down. Every customer, irrespective of age or sex, was addressed as
“Dear.” She worried about mistakes in making change and counted
everything twice; yet, in a crisis, when a customer’s laundry had
been mislaid, she was a model of patience, turning over docket
after docket and almost always coming up with the missing item. On
the first day of Mrs. Redden’s employment, the manageress spent the
morning with her, then left her on her own for the afternoon,
returning just before closing to collect the day’s takings. “All
right, dear? Everything all right? Good. Tomorrow, you can run the
shop yourself.”

    On the afternoon of the third day, the manageress
came in about four and saw that Mrs. Redden had been weeping.
“Anything wrong, dear? Customers making a fuss?” Mrs. Redden said,
no, she was all right, it was all going very well, really. “That’s
good, dear,” the manageress said and reached under the counter for
a sign which read BACK IN 15 MINS. She put the sign in the window.
“Let’s go across the street for a minute.”

    “Been in England long, dear?” the manageress asked,
when, settled in the back of the pub, they had ordered a ruby port
and a dry sherry.

    “No, just about a week.”

    “Got a place to stay?”

    “I have a bed-sitter. It’s off Haverstock Hill.”

    “Bit pricey, I’ll bet?”

    “Yes.”

    “Have any friends in London, dear?”

    “No, not really.”

    “You want to join one of these social clubs. There’s
an Irish club over in Camden Town. We have some Irish girls working
for us up in Hampstead Village branch, they took me there last
week. We had a nice time. I like the Irish songs. You’re not going
to keep this job, are you?”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I should imagine you could do better, dear. You’ve
been to the university, haven’t you? I saw it on your application
form. You’ll get a better-paying job soon, I should think.”

    “Oh, but this job suits me. I mean, for now. I don’t
want a job I can’t do, you see.”

    “Yes, you get your bearings. Yes, that’s right. You
married, dear?”

    “I was, yes.”

    “Well, here’s to us that was. By the way, dear, if
you ever have to leave the shop, better give me a ring first, so
that I can cover for you. We have inspectors, you know. I know
sometimes the girls like a little time off to nip out to shop or
something. It’s hard getting settled, especially when you’re new,
like.”