Sad Cypress. Агата Кристи
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Welman went on:
‘Elinor and my nephew have come down to cheer me up.’
‘Splendid!’ said Dr Lord. ‘Just what you need! It will do you a lot of good, I am sure, Mrs Welman.’
He was still looking at Elinor with obvious admiration.
Elinor said, moving towards the door:
‘Perhaps I shall see you before you go, Dr Lord?’
‘Oh—er—yes, of course.’
She went out, shutting the door behind her. Dr Lord approached the bed, Nurse O’Brien fluttering behind him.
Mrs Welman said with a twinkle:
‘Going through the usual bag of tricks, Doctor: pulse, respiration, temperature? What humbugs you doctors are!’
Nurse O’Brien said with a sigh:
‘Oh, Mrs Welman. What a thing, now, to be saying to the doctor!’
Dr Lord said with a twinkle:
‘Mrs Welman sees through me, Nurse! All the same, Mrs Welman, I’ve got to do my stuff, you know. The trouble with me is I’ve never learnt the right bedside manner.’
‘Your bedside manner’s all right. Actually you’re rather proud of it.’
Peter Lord chuckled and remarked:
‘That’s what you say.’
After a few routine questions had been asked and answered, Dr Lord leant back in his chair and smiled at his patient.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You’re going on splendidly.’
Laura Welman said: ‘So I shall be up and walking round the house in a few weeks’ time?’
‘Not quite so quickly as that.’
‘No, indeed. You humbug! What’s the good of living stretched out like this, and cared for like a baby?’
Dr Lord said:
‘What’s the good of life, anyway? That’s the real question. Ever read about that nice mediæval invention, the Little Ease? You couldn’t stand, sit or lie in it. You’d think anyone condemned to that would die in a few weeks. Not at all. One man lived for sixteen years in an iron cage, was released and lived to a hearty old age.’
Laura Welman said:
‘What’s the point of this story?’
Peter Lord said:
‘The point is that one’s got an instinct to live. One doesn’t live because one’s reason assents to living. People who, as we say, “would be better dead”, don’t want to die! People who apparently have got everything to live for just let themselves fade out of life because they haven’t got the energy to fight.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s nothing more. You’re one of the people who really want to live, whatever you say about it! And if your body wants to live, it’s no good your brain dishing out the other stuff.’
Mrs Welman said with an abrupt change of subject:
‘How do you like it down here?’
Peter Lord said, smiling:
‘It suits me fine.’
‘Isn’t it a bit irksome for a young man like you? Don’t you want to specialize? Don’t you find a country GP practice rather boring?’
Lord shook his sandy head.
‘No, I like my job. I like people, you know, and I like ordinary everyday diseases. I don’t really want to pin down the rare bacillus of an obscure disease. I like measles and chicken-pox and all the rest of it. I like seeing how different bodies react to them. I like seeing if I can’t improve on recognized treatment. The trouble with me is I’ve got absolutely no ambition. I shall stay here till I grow side-whiskers and people begin saying, “Of course, we’ve always had Dr Lord, and he’s a nice old man: but he is very old-fashioned in his methods and perhaps we’d better call in young so-and-so, who’s so very up to date…”’
‘H’m,’ said Mrs Welman. ‘You seem to have got it all taped out!’
Peter Lord got up.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I must be off.’
Mrs Welman said:
‘My niece will want to speak to you, I expect. By the way, what do you think of her? You haven’t seen her before.’
Dr Lord went suddenly scarlet. His very eyebrows blushed. He said:
‘I—oh! she’s very good-looking, isn’t she? And—eh—clever and all that, I should think.’
Mrs Welman was diverted. She thought to herself:
‘How very young he is, really…’
Aloud she said:
‘You ought to get married.’
Roddy had wandered into the garden. He had crossed the broad sweep of lawn and along a paved walk and had then entered the walled kitchen-garden. It was well-kept and well-stocked. He wondered if he and Elinor would live at Hunterbury one day. He supposed that they would. He himself would like that. He preferred country life. He was a little doubtful about Elinor. Perhaps she’d like living in London better…
A little difficult to know where you were with Elinor. She didn’t reveal much of what she thought and felt about things. He liked that about her… He hated people who reeled off their thoughts and feelings to you, who took it for granted that you wanted to know all their inner mechanism. Reserve was always more interesting.
Elinor, he thought judicially, was really quite perfect. Nothing about her ever jarred or offended. She was delightful to look at, witty to talk to—altogether the most charming of companions.
He thought complacently to himself:
‘I’m damned lucky to have got her. Can’t think what she sees in a chap like me.’
For Roderick Welman, in spite of his fastidiousness, was not conceited. It did honestly strike him as strange that Elinor should have consented to marry him.
Life stretched ahead of him pleasantly enough. One knew pretty well where one was; that was always a blessing. He supposed that Elinor and he would be married quite soon—that is, if Elinor wanted to; perhaps she’d rather put it off for a bit. He mustn’t rush her. They’d be a bit hard-up at first. Nothing to worry about, though. He hoped sincerely that Aunt Laura wouldn’t die for a long time to come. She was a dear and had always been nice to him, having him there for holidays, always interested in what he was doing.
His mind shied away from the thought of her actual death (his mind usually did shy away from any concrete unpleasantness). He didn’t like to visualize anything unpleasant too clearly… But—er—afterwards—well, it would be very pleasant to live here, especially as there would be plenty of money to keep it up. He wondered exactly how his aunt had left it. Not that it really mattered. With some women it would matter a good deal whether husband or wife had the money. But not with Elinor. She had plenty of tact and she didn’t care enough about money to make too much of it.
He thought: ‘No, there’s nothing to worry about—whatever happens!’
He went out of the walled garden by the gate at the far end. From there he wandered into the little wood where the daffodils were in spring. They were over now, of course. But the green light was very lovely where the sunlight came filtering through the trees.
Just for a moment an odd restlessness came to him—a rippling of his previous placidity. He felt: ‘There’s something—something I haven’t got—something I want—I want—I want…’
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