don’t mind admitting I’m hungry. Thrilling events always take me that way. . . . Too bad Father’s ill—we’d have had a party or something to celebrate.”
“I’m sorry he’s ill, but not for that reason, I assure you.”
“No? Well . . .” Chet came to the table with his plate, having deliberately delayed at the sideboard till he heard the voices of others approaching. Now he looked up as if in surprise. “Morning, George. . . . Morning, Bridget. . . .”
George, a nervous smile on his plump moustached face; Bridget, the youngest of the family, sweet and shy, always ready to smile if you looked at her or she thought you were likely to look at her. George’s wife Vera, and Julia’s husband . . . an introduction necessary here—“Charles, this is Dick Fontwell”—“Ahdedoo, ahdedoo”—a tall, long-nosed fellow who threw all his embarrassment into a fierce handshake.
Breakfast at Stourton was a hard meal at the best of times, only mitigated by ramparts of newspapers and unwritten permission to be as morose as one wished. But this morning they all felt that such normal behaviour must be reversed—everybody had to talk and go on talking. Charles guessed that they were all feeling as uncomfortable as he, with the additional drawback of having had less sleep. During the interchange of meaningless remarks about the weather, the news in the paper, Christmas, and so on, he meditated a little speech which he presently made to them when Wilson had left to bring in more coffee.
He began, clearing his throat to secure an audience: “Er . . . I really do feel I owe you all sorts of explanations, but the fact is, this whole business of coming back here is in many ways as big a mystery to me as it must be to you—I suppose loss of memory’s like that—but what I DO want to tell you is that in spite of all the mystery I’m a perfectly normal person so far as everyday things are concerned—I’m not ill, you don’t have to be afraid of me or treat me with any special consideration. . . . So just carry on here as usual—I’m anxious not to cause any additional upset at a moment when we’re all of us bound to be upset anyhow.”
He hoped that was a helpful thing to have said, but for a moment after he had finished speaking he caught some of their eyes and wondered if it had been wise to say anything at all. Then Bridget leaned over and touched his hand.
“That’s all right, Charles.”
Chet called out huskily from the far end of the table: “Quite
understand, old chap. We’re all more pleased than we can say, God
bless. Of course with the old man being ill we can’t exactly kill
the fatted calf, but—but—“
“I’ll consider it killed,” he interrupted, just as Wilson arrived with more coffee. They all smiled or laughed, and the situation seemed eased.
Dr. Sanderstead had been expected for lunch, but he arrived a good deal earlier, along with Dr. Astley. Sanderstead was a wordy, elderly, fairly efficient general practitioner who could still make a good living out of his private patients, leaving a more efficient junior partner to take care of the rest. He had been the Stourton doctor ever since the family were children. Accompanied by the London heart specialist, whose herringbone tweeds for a country visit were almost too formally informal, he spent over an hour in the sickroom, after which Astley left and gave him a chance to talk to Charles alone.
They shook hands gravely, then at the doctor’s suggestion began
walking in the garden. Five minutes were occupied by a see-saw
of congratulations, expressions of pleasure, thanks, and
acknowledgments. Charles became more and more silent as these
proceeded, eventually leading to a blank pause which Sanderstead
broke by exclaiming: “Don’t be afraid I’m going to ask you
questions—none of my business, anyhow. Sheldon told me all that
you told him—it’s a very peculiar case, and
“I’m sorry he’s ill, but not for that reason, I assure you.”
“No? Well . . .” Chet came to the table with his plate, having deliberately delayed at the sideboard till he heard the voices of others approaching. Now he looked up as if in surprise. “Morning, George. . . . Morning, Bridget. . . .”
George, a nervous smile on his plump moustached face; Bridget, the youngest of the family, sweet and shy, always ready to smile if you looked at her or she thought you were likely to look at her. George’s wife Vera, and Julia’s husband . . . an introduction necessary here—“Charles, this is Dick Fontwell”—“Ahdedoo, ahdedoo”—a tall, long-nosed fellow who threw all his embarrassment into a fierce handshake.
Breakfast at Stourton was a hard meal at the best of times, only mitigated by ramparts of newspapers and unwritten permission to be as morose as one wished. But this morning they all felt that such normal behaviour must be reversed—everybody had to talk and go on talking. Charles guessed that they were all feeling as uncomfortable as he, with the additional drawback of having had less sleep. During the interchange of meaningless remarks about the weather, the news in the paper, Christmas, and so on, he meditated a little speech which he presently made to them when Wilson had left to bring in more coffee.
He began, clearing his throat to secure an audience: “Er . . . I really do feel I owe you all sorts of explanations, but the fact is, this whole business of coming back here is in many ways as big a mystery to me as it must be to you—I suppose loss of memory’s like that—but what I DO want to tell you is that in spite of all the mystery I’m a perfectly normal person so far as everyday things are concerned—I’m not ill, you don’t have to be afraid of me or treat me with any special consideration. . . . So just carry on here as usual—I’m anxious not to cause any additional upset at a moment when we’re all of us bound to be upset anyhow.”
He hoped that was a helpful thing to have said, but for a moment after he had finished speaking he caught some of their eyes and wondered if it had been wise to say anything at all. Then Bridget leaned over and touched his hand.
“That’s all right, Charles.”
Chet called out huskily from the far end of the table: “Quite
understand, old chap. We’re all more pleased than we can say, God
bless. Of course with the old man being ill we can’t exactly kill
the fatted calf, but—but—“
“I’ll consider it killed,” he interrupted, just as Wilson arrived with more coffee. They all smiled or laughed, and the situation seemed eased.
Dr. Sanderstead had been expected for lunch, but he arrived a good deal earlier, along with Dr. Astley. Sanderstead was a wordy, elderly, fairly efficient general practitioner who could still make a good living out of his private patients, leaving a more efficient junior partner to take care of the rest. He had been the Stourton doctor ever since the family were children. Accompanied by the London heart specialist, whose herringbone tweeds for a country visit were almost too formally informal, he spent over an hour in the sickroom, after which Astley left and gave him a chance to talk to Charles alone.
They shook hands gravely, then at the doctor’s suggestion began
walking in the garden. Five minutes were occupied by a see-saw
of congratulations, expressions of pleasure, thanks, and
acknowledgments. Charles became more and more silent as these
proceeded, eventually leading to a blank pause which Sanderstead
broke by exclaiming: “Don’t be afraid I’m going to ask you
questions—none of my business, anyhow. Sheldon told me all that
you told him—it’s a very peculiar case, and
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