last look at his notes and bundling
them up and into his pocket. He seemed to me to be trying and failing to come
up with a hopeful but true remark that also meant something.
‘Bit of
luck, getting hold of that chap this time of the week,’ I said.
Nash
thought not, on the whole. ‘Saturday afternoon’s time and a half. Monday
morning’s when you won’t find them. All day Monday, in fact.’
‘Oh
yeah,’ I said. I could not have accounted for it, but this information
depressed me. ‘Could you have put him in, put my son in if he’d gone on refusing
to budge?’
‘Oh
yes. Yes. But it’s not easy with a patient who isn’t grossly mad, mad on
inspection so to speak, there he goes waving a great knife, that kind of
behaviour. Not at all easy. All these vile rights of the individual, you know —
it’s becoming more and more difficult to get anything done.’
He gave
me his card, engraved to the nines needless to say, with an address in Eaton
Square as well as one in New Harley Street. ‘Mr Duke,’ he went on, staring at
me, ‘I do want to impress upon you that I’m most inordinately interested in my
subject. So much so that even after all these years I still catch myself
wondering how supposedly intelligent people can absorb themselves in these
various secondary pursuits. Mathematics. Literature, even. This means in
practice that I’m prepared, I’m very willing to talk about your son’s case with
you at any remotely reasonable time by telephone, in person by arrangement.
Such a discussion couldn’t fail to touch on points of significance, do you see.
Just try to bear that in mind, would you?’
As soon
as I was alone I started thinking about what Steve had said when he agreed to
go into hospital, or rather just remembering, because I failed to get any
actual thinking done on the subject. I stood about in the sitting room, then in
the kitchen, where I tried to think about food instead and got nowhere there
either. Obviously it was time I settled down to what I always did when I wanted
to relax, to unwind, to take my mind off things, to potter through a couple of
hours without having to think. Only I was short of anything like that, it
seemed, except small stuff like a beer and a read of the paper. How had I
managed before and after Nowell left me? It had been different then, I was not
very clear how — something to do with being away a lot, changing jobs, having
the builders in, and other rubbish I had forgotten after eight years.
On past
form on a Saturday Susan would not be back for a fair while, but sometimes she
was early, and when she was going to be she usually rang to say, but not
always. I was feeling powerfully like ringing her, but was uneasy about making
her feel she ought to be home when she could still not leave work. All the same
I had moved to within reach of the phone when it rang and made me jump.
‘Stanley?
Is that you, Stanley?’
It was
like something out of a dream, not what that usually means, something
marvellous, too good to be true, dreamy in fact, but something very hard to
take, not at all vague, most precise, hard to take in too because the thing is
wrong in a special way, like black and white at the same time. Anyway, for a
moment I really thought Susan was talking to me with Nowell’s voice. Then I
realized that of course it must all just be Nowell.
‘Yes, Nowell,
as a matter of fact I was —’It’s Nowell here, darling. Did it work?’
‘What?
Oh yes. Like a charm. Thanks very —’
‘You
might have taken the trouble to let me know.’
‘I was
going to, honestly, but I haven’t had a chance — he’s only this absolute second
gone out of the door. We couldn’t get hold of the chap.’ Already without the
least sense of strain I had slipped back into Nowell’s world, a place where,
among other features, the truth or untruth of a statement rated rather low when
you came to decide whether to state it or not. Not that you actually bothered
to go into that
them up and into his pocket. He seemed to me to be trying and failing to come
up with a hopeful but true remark that also meant something.
‘Bit of
luck, getting hold of that chap this time of the week,’ I said.
Nash
thought not, on the whole. ‘Saturday afternoon’s time and a half. Monday
morning’s when you won’t find them. All day Monday, in fact.’
‘Oh
yeah,’ I said. I could not have accounted for it, but this information
depressed me. ‘Could you have put him in, put my son in if he’d gone on refusing
to budge?’
‘Oh
yes. Yes. But it’s not easy with a patient who isn’t grossly mad, mad on
inspection so to speak, there he goes waving a great knife, that kind of
behaviour. Not at all easy. All these vile rights of the individual, you know —
it’s becoming more and more difficult to get anything done.’
He gave
me his card, engraved to the nines needless to say, with an address in Eaton
Square as well as one in New Harley Street. ‘Mr Duke,’ he went on, staring at
me, ‘I do want to impress upon you that I’m most inordinately interested in my
subject. So much so that even after all these years I still catch myself
wondering how supposedly intelligent people can absorb themselves in these
various secondary pursuits. Mathematics. Literature, even. This means in
practice that I’m prepared, I’m very willing to talk about your son’s case with
you at any remotely reasonable time by telephone, in person by arrangement.
Such a discussion couldn’t fail to touch on points of significance, do you see.
Just try to bear that in mind, would you?’
As soon
as I was alone I started thinking about what Steve had said when he agreed to
go into hospital, or rather just remembering, because I failed to get any
actual thinking done on the subject. I stood about in the sitting room, then in
the kitchen, where I tried to think about food instead and got nowhere there
either. Obviously it was time I settled down to what I always did when I wanted
to relax, to unwind, to take my mind off things, to potter through a couple of
hours without having to think. Only I was short of anything like that, it
seemed, except small stuff like a beer and a read of the paper. How had I
managed before and after Nowell left me? It had been different then, I was not
very clear how — something to do with being away a lot, changing jobs, having
the builders in, and other rubbish I had forgotten after eight years.
On past
form on a Saturday Susan would not be back for a fair while, but sometimes she
was early, and when she was going to be she usually rang to say, but not
always. I was feeling powerfully like ringing her, but was uneasy about making
her feel she ought to be home when she could still not leave work. All the same
I had moved to within reach of the phone when it rang and made me jump.
‘Stanley?
Is that you, Stanley?’
It was
like something out of a dream, not what that usually means, something
marvellous, too good to be true, dreamy in fact, but something very hard to
take, not at all vague, most precise, hard to take in too because the thing is
wrong in a special way, like black and white at the same time. Anyway, for a
moment I really thought Susan was talking to me with Nowell’s voice. Then I
realized that of course it must all just be Nowell.
‘Yes, Nowell,
as a matter of fact I was —’It’s Nowell here, darling. Did it work?’
‘What?
Oh yes. Like a charm. Thanks very —’
‘You
might have taken the trouble to let me know.’
‘I was
going to, honestly, but I haven’t had a chance — he’s only this absolute second
gone out of the door. We couldn’t get hold of the chap.’ Already without the
least sense of strain I had slipped back into Nowell’s world, a place where,
among other features, the truth or untruth of a statement rated rather low when
you came to decide whether to state it or not. Not that you actually bothered
to go into that
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