“It’s my husband,” said Patty, sitting nervously on the edge of her chair.
“Yes?” said the physician. He wasn’t her usual doctor; the latter was on holiday and Patty was seeing his locum, a stranger: young, sharp, clever-looking; intimidating.
“You see,” said Patty, “my husband—he—”
“You know, Mrs.—er—Williams, please tell me about your husband by all means, but it would be much the best thing if he came himself, there’s really nothing much I can do for him otherwise.”
“Yes, well,” said Patty desperately, “that’s the thing, you see, he can’t come, because he isn’t here. He’s gone away.”
“I think you’d better explain,” said the physician.
“Well, he went away just a week ago. I don’t know where he’s gone. He didn’t tell me. But I’m worried about his job. I told them he was sick this week but they’ll expect him back next week so I don’t know what to tell them. I don’t know what to do.”
She began to cry. The physician sat and watched her.
“It doesn’t sound like a situation which can go on indefinitely,” he said. “Has he ever done this sort of thing before?”
“Oh no,” sobbed Patty. “I don’t know what came over him.”
“Have you told the police?” asked the physician.
“Yes, they said lots of people do it. They said most of them come back. I filled in a form, just tonight. Just in case he has an accident or something. I don’t know. But I have to tell them something at his work if he doesn’t come back next week.”
“I do see the difficulty,” said the physician drily. “But I can hardly give you a medical certificate for a patient I haven’t so much as seen; I’m sure you realise that.”
Then his humanity suddenly got the better of his principles and he almost smiled at the tearful creature confronting him.
“Tell you what!” he said. “How about this? If he hasn’t returned by the New Year, telephone his boss, say the doctor—don’t use my name—thinks he’s got shingles. That should do it. Have you heard of shingles? No? Well, shingles are the ticket. You see, no one knows where they come from or why, and no one can say how long they’ll hang around. The only thing anyone knows about shingles is that they’re bloody painful and a person who’s got them certainly isn’t fit for work. If, I mean when, your husband returns he’ll have to come for a consultation to get a medical certificate for the leave he’s had, that is if he wants one, and we’ll have to work out something more or less truthful. But tell them the doctor thinks it’s shingles for the time being. Can’t tell how long it’ll last. How’s that?”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Patty woefully. “I’ll tell them. Shingles.”
“What about you now, Mrs. Williams? You look a bit peaky; understandable in the circumstances, of course, must take care of ourselves. Family, relations to look after you? Need moral support at a time like this. Try not to take it too hard. He’ll come back, why not. Men do these things, don’t know why—bottled up, poor at expressing their feelings, stupid really. Eating normally, sleeping? That’s right. Come and see me again if there’s anything you think I can do. Take it easy. All right, Mrs. Williams. Goodnight.”
Patty was still feeling that tired, she could have gone straight to bed although it was only eight-thirty when she got home from the surgery. She watched television for a while and then she gave up the struggle and climbed into bed. In the darkness she suddenly remembered a song she had heard long, long ago—had they sung it at school, or what?
Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home.
Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home.
She cried for some time and then she fell asleep.