contribute more to our effort in this war ill."
"I have no doubt that you are a young woman of many parts. Miss. Gray, but you are not suited to being a doctor's receptionist. I think we would both be happier if you looked for some other employment."
When Charlotte understood that Wolf was dismissing her, she was so surprised that she began to laugh. It was preposterous: she was only doing the job out of a willingness to help; it was not as if she couldn't have found something more interesting to do; and then apparently not to be up to the task of answering the telephone or writing a few letters ...
She stood up.
"You're right. You ought to have a proper receptionist and I ought to do something else. I hope you don't feel I've wasted your time. Of course I'll stay till you find a replacement."
Charlotte was aware of an incoherent excitement starting to seethe inside her. It was edged by the cool clarity of relief: only by solving the problem had she finally brought it into full view.
Depression though that seemed a limp word for the storm of black panic and half-demented malfunction had over the years worked itself out in Charlotte's life in a curious pattern. Its onset was often imperceptible: like an assiduous housekeeper locking up a rambling mansion, it noiselessly went about and turned off, one by one, the mind's thousand small accesses to pleasure. So gradual was its beginning, so quick her mind's ability to adjust, that she never saw what was happening: an unwillingness to admit that anything was wrong compounded the stealth of the disease. Sometimes the first moment she admitted to herself that she was suffering was when it started to get better. For several weeks the effort of speech had made her jaw ache; the tricks and self-delusions by which people avoided confronting the tragic lineaments of the world were an unforgivable frivolity: the air about her limbs felt solid.
Then suddenly, one morning, she heard the post fall on to the mat and felt a minute shock of anticipation. She heard a song on the wireless and felt a stir of response. What was this strange, unknown throb? Ah yes, she remembered now: it was what you felt a thousand times a day; it was what impelled you and made living bearable. It was what she had not felt in her sealed darkness since ... since ... She would then weep with bitterness at how long the world had been withheld from her. The process by which the problem was fully revealed only when its lessening became apparent seemed parallel to what had happened with Gregory and Dr. Wolf. As soon as she had left the consulting rooms, her anguish over Gregory seemed less. But this was only a beginning: in her bag was a bill for dinner on the train, and on the back was a telephone number in Ormonde Gate.
They met again at the Ritz, where Cannerley talked a virile code of numbers and initials. The chaps in Nine might be interested, though he had a hunch that G section was the answer.
He slid an olive off its toothpick between his front teeth and twirled the little stick in the viscous surface of his pale Martini. He was wearing, Charlotte had to admit, a beautiful charcoal suit, which shimmered and dripped from his folded body in the little gilt chair. One leg was crossed over the other and the trousers rode up just far enough to show the fine black woollen socks, the bench-made shoes and a slit of pale leg.
Although Cannerley attempted his usual playful languor. Charlotte had the impression that he was nervous.
"Who are all these people?" she said. She wondered if they really existed or whether Cannerley was playing some game of his own devising.
Perhaps he was not the glad-handing boulevardier he affected to be; perhaps he too was trapped or limited in his manoeuvre.
Cannerley laughed, but his eyes remained still.
"Leave it to me, dear girl. I'm having lunch with Bobby at his club next week. I'll drop a word in that great big ear of his. Now can I perhaps tempt you to a bite of
"I have no doubt that you are a young woman of many parts. Miss. Gray, but you are not suited to being a doctor's receptionist. I think we would both be happier if you looked for some other employment."
When Charlotte understood that Wolf was dismissing her, she was so surprised that she began to laugh. It was preposterous: she was only doing the job out of a willingness to help; it was not as if she couldn't have found something more interesting to do; and then apparently not to be up to the task of answering the telephone or writing a few letters ...
She stood up.
"You're right. You ought to have a proper receptionist and I ought to do something else. I hope you don't feel I've wasted your time. Of course I'll stay till you find a replacement."
Charlotte was aware of an incoherent excitement starting to seethe inside her. It was edged by the cool clarity of relief: only by solving the problem had she finally brought it into full view.
Depression though that seemed a limp word for the storm of black panic and half-demented malfunction had over the years worked itself out in Charlotte's life in a curious pattern. Its onset was often imperceptible: like an assiduous housekeeper locking up a rambling mansion, it noiselessly went about and turned off, one by one, the mind's thousand small accesses to pleasure. So gradual was its beginning, so quick her mind's ability to adjust, that she never saw what was happening: an unwillingness to admit that anything was wrong compounded the stealth of the disease. Sometimes the first moment she admitted to herself that she was suffering was when it started to get better. For several weeks the effort of speech had made her jaw ache; the tricks and self-delusions by which people avoided confronting the tragic lineaments of the world were an unforgivable frivolity: the air about her limbs felt solid.
Then suddenly, one morning, she heard the post fall on to the mat and felt a minute shock of anticipation. She heard a song on the wireless and felt a stir of response. What was this strange, unknown throb? Ah yes, she remembered now: it was what you felt a thousand times a day; it was what impelled you and made living bearable. It was what she had not felt in her sealed darkness since ... since ... She would then weep with bitterness at how long the world had been withheld from her. The process by which the problem was fully revealed only when its lessening became apparent seemed parallel to what had happened with Gregory and Dr. Wolf. As soon as she had left the consulting rooms, her anguish over Gregory seemed less. But this was only a beginning: in her bag was a bill for dinner on the train, and on the back was a telephone number in Ormonde Gate.
They met again at the Ritz, where Cannerley talked a virile code of numbers and initials. The chaps in Nine might be interested, though he had a hunch that G section was the answer.
He slid an olive off its toothpick between his front teeth and twirled the little stick in the viscous surface of his pale Martini. He was wearing, Charlotte had to admit, a beautiful charcoal suit, which shimmered and dripped from his folded body in the little gilt chair. One leg was crossed over the other and the trousers rode up just far enough to show the fine black woollen socks, the bench-made shoes and a slit of pale leg.
Although Cannerley attempted his usual playful languor. Charlotte had the impression that he was nervous.
"Who are all these people?" she said. She wondered if they really existed or whether Cannerley was playing some game of his own devising.
Perhaps he was not the glad-handing boulevardier he affected to be; perhaps he too was trapped or limited in his manoeuvre.
Cannerley laughed, but his eyes remained still.
"Leave it to me, dear girl. I'm having lunch with Bobby at his club next week. I'll drop a word in that great big ear of his. Now can I perhaps tempt you to a bite of
Similar Books
