That had been three years ago. During that time Dr Adler had found out as much about Oscar as he cared to reveal. About Dr Adler Oscar knew nothing. Not for want of trying. He never saw anyone in the house except the two o’clock with the rimless glasses who flitted by like a shadow but never looked at him. Sometimes the couch was warm with the impression of her body. He often asked questions.
“Are you married?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“It’s perfectly reasonable. I think you are.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I see a woman’s hand, the flowers, the way everything is kept. Any children? If so you keep them remarkably quiet.”
“Do you think it good to keep children quiet?”
“You make me sick. Sitting there like God Almighty snooping into the deepest recesses of my life and not giving a bloody thing away about yours, if you have one, that is, apart from sitting in that bloody chair all day sucking Glacier mints. Do you have to be so uptight? Would it be so terrible if I knew a bit about you?”
“It wouldn’t help you in any way to know. When did you notice the Glacier mints?”
“When I first started to come.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned it before?”
“Not important.”
“You must bring everything. Everything is important.”
Dr Adler never changed his voice. There was no indication of anger, praise or surprise. On one occasion Oscar had determined to shock him. He recounted a dream using the filthiest terms at his disposal. When he had finished Dr Adler said: “What are your associations?” as calmly as if Oscar had been telling him about milk pudding.
There had been other ploys. Once during the session Dr Adler had made him so angry he had got up and left the room, slamming the door behind him. The next day there was no mention of his behaviour. He tried other ways to throw him off balance. He missed his session without telephoning and was annoyed that he was not asked why he had defaulted. He stayed away a whole week determining never to go back; wondering whether Dr Adler would contact him to see what was the matter.
“I might have been dead,” he said when he finally did return.
“You wanted to punish me, but you only punished yourself. Five wasted sessions to pay for. You wanted me to show that I cared.”
“Care? You? You’ve got ice running through your bloody veins.”
“Who was it that didn’t care for you?”
“I went on a binge. Mars bars; put on pounds. Couldn’t stop.”
“Filling yourself up with love; milky love. You stay away, acting out your hostile feelings towards your mother, then attempt to deal with your aggression by sucking Mars bars; biting them perhaps as you wanted to bite the breast.”
“Sometimes you say such stupid things I could get up off this bed and throttle you.”
“Why do you call it a bed?”
“It is a bed, isn’t it?”
“Is it? Who did you want to throttle when you were tucked up in bed as a child?”
He had learned to accept the fact that at ten to four, no matter how important the subject under discussion, Dr Adler would say “Well, we shall have to leave it…”
Oscar had mentioned it once. Surely two or three minutes more to allow him to finish what he was saying?
“You always bring the important things when your time is almost up.”
He realized this was true.
Sometimes he saw the patient who came after him. A man in dark glasses who arrived in a chauffeur-driven Rolls. He wondered what his (head-rest) colour was and if he got more attention because he was patently better off than either he or the girl in the rimless glasses.
The idea that he was gong to be the model patient, 100 per cent co-operative, had long ago been quashed. He repressed and rejected obstinately what really went on in his mind, and brought up either what he wanted or what he thought Dr Adler wanted to hear. He knew that he fooled no one, least of all himself. It wasn’t as easy as he had first thought. There were times he had wanted to go running to Dr Adler between sessions or at weekends with something he could not contain; a child dashing to Mummy and Daddy to ‘show’. On other occasions he entertained murderous thoughts in day or night dreams. He had never considered himself particularly aggressive but even he could now appreciate the violent part of himself.
Sometimes he did childish things: arriving late (no comment of course), lying there for fifty minutes without uttering a sound, sure that Dr Adler would break. He did, but only when the session was at an end: “Well, we shall have to leave it for another time.”
His ambivalent attitude to Dr Adler manisfested itself in many ways. On holidays he thought of sending him a postcard, but did not. In dreams he stuck knives into him. Often he felt so childishly grateful for some problem which Dr Adler had helped him resolve that he felt like buying him a present. He resented occupying the couch between rimless glasses and Rolls-Royce, wanting to be the only patient, to occupy all of his thoughts and time as he had wanted to occupy his mother’s. He had been going for so long now he felt the crazy paving to the front door must surely be worn with his steps. It had become a pattern, part of his day, his way of life.
On the day following the Beaumonts’ party he could hardly wait until three o’clock when he could divulge his new and disturbing thoughts to Dr Adler. He arrived too early and flicked through the New Statesman, hating the girl in the rimless glasses. He was part way through London Diary when it was his time.
He went into the room which never changed and carried out the ritual of lying on the couch, head on his yellow-and-white cover, and settling down, making himself comfortable. Sometimes he grimaced, knowing that Dr Adler could not see his face. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, realizing that the sign language of his body added to the importance of what he said. Sometimes he lay with his hands behind his head, sometimes they were at his side, sometimes folded, sometimes thumbs stuck into the waistband of his trousers.
This small busyness being over he opened the batting.
“I met a girl.”
Silence.
“Well, a woman really.” He often forgot how old he was.
Silence.
“At the Beaumonts. We were there for dinner.”
Unwrapping of Glacier mint.
“She’s a doctor. A woman doctor.” Stupid.
Sucking of the Glazier mint behind his head.
“I want to f— her.”
Pause in sucking.
“I keep thinking about her.”
More sucking.
“I try not to. The more I try the harder it becomes. I’m obsessed. Karen has asked her to look after Rosy and Daisy when they’re ill.”
Silence.
“I’ve never been unfaithful to Karen.”
Silence.
“Everyone I know does it. They think nothing of it.”
“How do you know?”
He ignored the question. “Her name’s Marie-Céleste. I made up a jingle.” He repeated it to Dr Adler. “She’s not even particularly pretty. Not a patch on Karen. Flat-chested. I love Karen. I want Marie-Céleste.”
“Another surrogate mother.”
“Another?”
“There have been others.”
“No.”
“Yes. You have repressed them.”
“There never were any.”
“The girl at Benthorpe’s who helped you with the editing.”
“A child.”
“You ‘fancied’ her at the time… The woman across the road.”
“Idle curiosity. This is different.”
“Rosy’s English teacher…”
“All right, all right. I can’t help it if women find me attractive.”
“Not really. Just testing. This is different. I love Karen.”
Silence.
“You know bloody well I do. It’s time you had your room painted. A different colour. Not margarine.”
“Make a fresh start?”
“Sure. Go wild, topaz or plum.”
“Suppose I didn’t like it when it was done?”
“Either repaint it margarine, or live with it.”
At the end of his session he walked home. Sometimes Karen took the car to Devonshire Place. He either walked or waited for a bus, depending on his mood and the weather. When he got home Rosy and Daisy were sitting on the front step. It was half an hour before they were due home from school.
“We were sent home,” Rosy said.
“We’ve got sore throats,” Daisy said. “I’m all sweating and my head aches.”
“So does mine,” Rosy said.
“Miss Longman said it might be measles. There’s a lot of them about.”
“Them?”
“Measles.”
“It’s an ‘it’. Singular despite the ‘s’. You can’t have one measle. Anyway you’ve both had it.”
“That was the German kind. To stop you getting pregnant or something. Daddy, open the door. We’ve been sitting here for ages and we want to go to bed.”
He took out his keys. He supposed it was a bit mean to stand there correcting their grammar when they were feeling ill.
By the time Karen arrived they were both in bed and he had been up to the top of the house with hot water bottles, books and Coca-Cola which they swore Mummy said they could have when they were feeling sick, a hundred times.
He was glad to see Karen, and lay on the sofa in the living- room listening to Schubert’s Trout to soothe his shattered nerves. They had dinner and Karen ran up and down with drinks of water and junior aspirin.
“They seem terribly hot,” she said when, having made them comfortable for the night, she finally sat down.
“If they aren’t better in the morning you will have to send for Dr Burns.”
“Dr Burns?” he parroted.
“Marie-Céleste. Her number’s in my book.”
He prayed, ashamed of himself, that they would not be better in the morning.
He heard Karen get up earlier than usual and go upstairs. If she comes down slowly, he said to himself, they are better. If she runs down anxiously we shall have to call the doctor. He listened to the sounds above. He heard Rosy cough. Karen ran down the stairs.
“103 temperature,” she said, “and coughing. Feeling sorry for themselves. Will you phone Dr Burns? About nine I should think.” She scrabbled in her handbag, turning compact and lipstick and string bag and scarf and keys and diary and tape measure and wine gums and Kleenex holder on to the bed as she did so. “I know I wrote the number down on a piece of paper.”
“You could always phone Laura,” Oscar said helpfully. “Or look in the book.”
“No, I have it somewhere. Here! Will you do it?”
“If you insist.”
“Well, it’s too early to ring now and I shall just be en route at nine.”
Lying in bed, watching her get ready, he thought as he often did that it should be he getting ready to go to work. This was followed by I can’t help it if writing is the only thing I’m good at. Anyway she didn’t need to, did it for her own satisfaction really. He watched her; brisk movements. Bath, five minutes later clean underwear, face with attendant grimaces in the mirror, hair, skirt, sweater, shoes. She sat on the edge of the bed.
“You won’t forget, will you?”
“What?”
“Marie-Céleste. I’ll ring you mid-morning to see what she says, if she’s called by then. They don’t want anything to eat, just drinks and sponging down occasionally. If you can’t cope I’ll come home. OK?”
“Ay-Ay Captain.”
“There’s ham and salad for your lunch. And you could put the potatoes in the top oven at four. They’re scrubbed and pricked, all ready.”
He smiled at the emotive phrase.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“All right. I’m off.” She kissed his forehead. “Get up, lazybones.”
It was 8.30 when she left. Half an hour before he could decently phone Marie-Céleste. He wondered what she was doing now. Bathing; he stretched his imagination – talking to ‘ink’, dressing. What would she be wearing? A camel coat, he thought, suitable for the visiting of patients.
He got out of the bed and called up to the girls. Rosy said she was hot and sweaty, Daisy’s eyes hurt. He told them he’d be up as soon as he was dressed. He went to the bathroom, then reached automatically for his working clothes flung over the chair from the night before. He picked them up – grey trousers which had once been part of a suit and black hairy shetland sweater. He flung them back on the chair again and looked in his wardrobe.
He found an arran his mother had knitted him. Pale cream flattered his tan. He took it and a clean pair of slacks. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to write in those clothes. He was used to the others. He shaved, not usually doing so until lunchtime. Brushed his hair and sprayed it with Karen’s hair lacquer, at least that’s what he thought it was. As he put it down he discovered it was deodorant. He wondered what it would do to his hair. He smothered his face with Tarzan aftershave which the girls had given him for Christmas. He flexed his muscles in the mirror; Tarzan-like.
In the kitchen he made coffee in the electric percolator and toast in the pop-up toaster. When she decided to take a job Karen had insisted they become fully mechanized to make the domestic chores easier. Apart from the toaster and percolator they had a cooker with various automatic timing devices, washing machine, dryer, dishwasher, electric fryer, food mixer, fruit juicer and infra-red grill. They had kept their old wooden table for, as Karen said, a table was a table and she hated the laminated plastic jobs in cruel colours which were the order of the day for most people. So it was that although the equipment itself was mechanized the kitchen remained the heart of the house and a homely one at that. She had put plants in pots the length of the window sill, there were oven gloves hanging on a hook and posters and calendars on the walls, and she had kept the old fashioned oak dresser that came with the house.
The Guardian was on the table. He settled to reading it while spreading his toast with butter and marmalade, of which he was the only one in the family who ate the ‘little bits’. He enjoyed his breakfast – slow, leisurely, putting off the moment when he would have to go up to his study. He liked the silence. Pythagoras had said: ‘In the morning, solitude.’ Smart fellow. He thought of his peers packed close as sardines on the Bakerloo, Metropolitan or District lines; swarming like a colony of ants over London Bridge; stuck in traffic jams unable to progress in either direction. Perhaps they had never heard of Pythagoras; but then again perhaps they had to repay their mortgages, keep their aged parents, honour their golf club subscriptions, send their children to smart schools. Was it worth it? Worth the struggle in the mornings and another to return at night? Worth the tedium and strain and stress of it all? Worth the slow march towards coronary thrombosis and cancer, which would pick them off one by one, the crowd never thinning? There must be some better way; must be.
Rosy appeared in her nightdress, her face flushed and damp.
“We’ve been calling and calling.”
“Sorry, I’m just coming up.”
“Daisy’s been sick. All over the bedclothes.”
He found a bowl and some clean sheets. At such moments London Bridge seemed not so bad.
Daisy was pale. “Sorry, Daddy. It just came.”
“That’s all right, old girl. Hop into Rosy’s bed while I change the sheets.”
“Those are Mummy’s best ones,” Rosy said, watching. “I don’t think she’ll be very pleased.”
“Never mind.”
It wasn’t exactly a hospital corners job. Daisy got back in.
“It’s freezing!”
“You’ll soon heat it up.”
“Perhaps she needs a hot water bottle,” Rosy said, giving the cold one to him.
“Do you?” He asked Daisy.
“I’m going to be sick again,” she said, and was, over the clean sheets.
“Couldn’t you wait a minute?” he said unreasonably, seeing his writing time diminish by the moment.
“I didn’t know.”
“All right. All right.”
The only sheets he could find now seemed to be double ones for their bed. With the help of Rosy he tucked the miles of spare sheet beneath the mattress.
“It’s too tight,” Daisy said. He had to admit she looked as if she were in a straitjacket. He made her comfortable.
Rosy coughed. “You’d better get into bed, too.”
“I haven’t had any breakfast. I’m hungry.”
“What do you want?”
“Not much. Some orange juice, toast with the crusts off, a boiled egg – a brown one, some cornflakes, lemon curd and some cocoa.”
“Are you sure you’re not well enough to come down?”
She looked hurt. “My temperature’s 103. Besides, I have to look after Daisy.” She looked towards the other bed for confirmation. Daisy was moaning and rolling her eyes. Oscar put the bowl on her chest. “Try not to miss, there’s a good girl. I’m going to phone the doctor.”
“Dr Powell? He’s got yellow fingers and he smells.”
“No, not Dr Powell, a new one. A lady.”
“I don’t think they know very much,” Rosy said doubtfully. “Not so much as a man.”
“At least she might smell better,” Oscar said.
Downstairs, sitting on the bed, he dialled the number Karen had given him and tried out various voices from a sultry, husky bass to a seductive alto. A brisk secretary took the message and seemed far too busy to appreciate his tonal variations.
“Dr Burns will be along during the morning,” she said. “There’s an epidemic of measles.”
“Can you give me an idea what time?”
“Sorry, she’s terribly busy.”
“Anything I can do meanwhile?”
“Dark room, tepid sponges to get the temperature down, plenty of fluids.”
When he replaced the receiver he remembered he had forgotten to ask about orange juice, boiled eggs, cornflakes, lemon curd and cocoa.
“Daddy!” Rosy called. “I’m starving!”
“Won’t be long.”
He splashed orange juice on his arran sweater. With all the aids to living there was not one which could cope with cornflakes, lemon curd and cocoa. He staggered up the two flights of stairs to find Rosy fast asleep. He had a look at Daisy; asleep too. He put the tray on the floor and crept out. Taking advantage of the peace he went into his study and tried to apply himself to Death on the Riviera. He was in the middle of a chapter, which was usually a good place to be. He read the preceding pages, correcting in ballpoint as he went along. There were always certain words he was unable to type correctly. Eryl for early, bad for bed, jelp for help. Dr Adler would have a field day if he knew.
He wondered how long she would be and what she would be wearing. In his mind he clothed her in various outfits like a Barbie-doll. She most likely did a morning surgery before her visits. He imagined between twelve and one would be about right. He was unable to keep his mind on Death on the Riviera. He wrote a sentence, then stopped to daydream. The sentences were fatuous. No 2000 words were going to get done today! He could not immerse himself in the story. He reached for the wine gums. There were only green ones left. Better than nothing. He would get more on his way home from Dr Adler. He pressed the ‘on’ button on his electric typewriter and listened, fascinated, to the soothing hum. When he’d first bought it he thought he would never get used to the noise; that it would interfere with his thoughts. The salesman had assured him that after a time one didn’t even notice. It was true. He wondered how he had managed with the fifty-year-old Heath Robinson of a machine he had happily used before. To operate it needed steel fingers and the strength of an ox. The electric one was Karen’s idea. He protested. The old one was lucky. The words would no longer come if he changed to a machine which he wasn’t used to. He was both superstitious and resistant to change. Thus the old writing trousers and sweater and the unsuitability of the arran.
Today he selected the ‘weather forecast’ and the ‘state of the roads’. He listened to the careful, BBC voices with as much attention as if he were planning a journey or an outdoor barbecue. That last green wine gum; a chat to his stockbroker whose advice he never took, gloomy fellow; the first few faltering, painful words, then he let himself be carried along on the tide.
When the doorbell pierced his subconscious he had to bring himself back to earth; a quick recount of the time, what day it was, what he was supposed to be doing and who might be at the door. He was halfway down the stairs when he remembered. He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at the arran sweater; he would have liked to have time to freshen up.
She stood on the step with her case. She wore a dark blue cape over a white dress with tight sleeves, bluish tights, shoes and bag to match the cape.
“I…er…the girls…they’re upstairs.” He felt weak at the knees.
“May I come in?”
He held the door wider. He was enveloped in a cloud of what he discovered later was Miss Dior.
They stood in the hall. “Do you want to… I mean…” He wasn’t sure if the cape was attached to the dress or if it came off.
“I’ll leave my cape, if I may. I like them but they’re terribly awkward in a way.”
“Terribly.” He took it from her and laid it over the banisters. He failed to see what was awkward about a cape.
The white dress flattered her. She was all arms and legs.
“Where are the invalids?”
“Invalids. Ah, yes. I’m afraid it’s two floors up.”
“I’m used to stairs. In some blocks I have to walk up five flights.”
For a moment he was torn. Should he lead the way or follow behind so that he could appreciate her bottom. She was already halfway up the first flight. Her rotating buttocks made his palms itch. He wondered if she was aware of his thoughts. No, of course not. His face was deadpan. She couldn’t possibly know.
“That’s the worst of these houses,” he said.
“I don’t know. Good for the figure. And the heart.”
He deliberately misinterpreted ‘heart’. His was thumping.
He woke Rosy and Daisy and told them the doctor had come to see them.
“Are you really the doctor?” Rosy said as Marie-Céleste sat on her bed. “You smell much too nice.”
“Really?” She opened her case. “How are you feeling?”
“I keep coughing. Daisy keeps coughing too, don’t you, Daisy? She’s been sick as well. Daddy had to change the sheets twice. She’s never managed to wait for a bowl ever since she was a baby.”
“We’ll have a look at you first, shall we? Since you’re the oldest.”
“Fifteen months, two days and forty-five minutes,” Rosy said proudly, “and you don’t have to stick one of those wooden things down my throat because it makes my eyes water and I can open my mouth like a rhinoceros.” She proceeded to do so.
“You do indeed. May I just have a look with my torch?” The rhinoceros nodded.
Marie-Céleste put the spatula gently into the sides of her mouth and pulled back the cheek. She listened to her chest and percussed her back.
“Why do doctors always do that? I think it’s silly. I shan’t do that when I’m a doctor.”
“Is that what you’re going to be?”
“If I can wear a beautiful white dress like yours and be a ministering angel. What do you do if people bleed on it? Shouldn’t you wear a pinny?”
“They don’t usually bleed on me. I’m going to have a look at your sister now.”
“Mind she’s not sick!”
Daisy gave her a withering glance and opened her mouth.
“I see we have two rhinoceroses.”
“Rhinoceri,” Oscar said.
Marie-Céleste, intent on her examination of Daisy, ignored him.
“At least I think it is.”
“Measles,” Marie-Céleste said. “Both of them. Coughing, sore eyes, temperatures and koplik spots. Nothing to do but keep them warm, plenty of fluids and keep an eye on them. If any complications develop they will have to have an antibiotic.”
“How long does it last?” Rosy said.
“A couple of weeks.”
“No school then?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Super.”
“Two weeks!” Oscar groaned. Death on the Riviera was going to get gummed up.
Marie-Céleste was putting away her things.
“You both look like your Mummy,” she said to the girls.
“Well, it’s better than looking like Daddy!”
Marie-Céleste turned to look at Oscar. The expression on his face made her blush. “I don’t know,” she said, “I think your Daddy’s very nice-looking.”
It was Oscar’s turn to blush. She said goodbye to the girls and he preceded her down the stairs. He helped her on with her cape.
“This is a nice…er…thing.” He had been wrong about the camel coat.
She laughed. “Ernest insists I don’t have special working clothes. I was worried at first about Valentino in Camden Town, but strangely enough they appreciated it; like a tonic.”
“I can understand.”
“He chooses all my clothes.”
She picked up her case. “He doesn’t like me being in general practice…”
He followed her to the door, not wanting her to go.
“I suppose all the men in your practice fall in love with you, Dr Burns?” Trite. If he’d written it he would have covered it with a line of little x’s.
“Not all. ‘Marie-Céleste’ will do.”
“I thought, this being a professional visit… Marie-Céleste… I like it.”
“Marie was my mother’s name. She came from Paris. She met my father when he was a first secretary at the embassy.”
“Was?”
“She died when I was eight. My father married again. I was brought up in France by my aunt.” She looked at her watch.
“I have to be going. There’s an epidemic.”
“It was nice of you to come.”
She looked at the floor. “I could have sent my assistant.”
“You knew I’d be here, then?”
“Your wife told me you worked at home.”
He felt suddenly happy.
“We don’t even visit every case of suspected measles. There are too many.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Me too. I like your children.”
“What about their father?”
“I have to go.”
“You’ll come again?”
“Don’t you think it would be wiser if my assistant…?”
“Not unless she’s 36 – 24 – 36 with copper hair…”
“He’s a Pakistani.”
She stepped towards the door but he barred her way. He put his arms round her and kissed her. She dropped her case.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” he said, “not with a Pakistani!”
She picked up the case again.
He opened the door. “Tomorrow then?”
“I don’t think I shall be able to keep away.”
He could hardly believe the last few moments. Wanted to wind it back, play it again. Her perfume stayed in the hall. He watched her get into the red Triumph Stag. She waved from the window…
Marie-Céleste got undressed…
“Daddy!” Rosy’s voice came. “I’ve been calling and calling.”
When Karen came home she rushed upstairs immediately to Rosy and Daisy. Oscar had telephoned her during the day to report progress. He stood in the doorway as Karen made them comfortable in the way that is the sole prerogative of mothers.
“Did you like the new doctor?” she asked Rosy.
“She smelled lovely. Not like Dr Powell.”
“He stinks,” Daisy said. “Pooh.”
“You didn’t ask her to look after us?” Oscar said, crossing his fingers behind his back. “I mean you and me?”
“I didn’t think you’d want me to. I can’t see you wanting to be examined by a woman.”
“I don’t,” Oscar said. “Of course I don’t. That’s why I asked.”