The Hollow

Dear John, she thought. John was wonderful. Everyone thought so. Such a clever doctor, so terribly kind to his patients. Wearing himself out—and the interest he took in his hospital patients—all that side of his work that didn’t pay at all. John was so disinterested—so truly noble.

She had always known, from the very first, that John was brilliant and was going to get to the top of the tree. And he had chosen her, when he might have married somebody far more brilliant. He had not minded her being slow and rather stupid and not very pretty. ‘I’ll look after you,’ he had said. Nicely, rather masterfully. ‘Don’t worry about things, Gerda, I’ll take care of you…’

Just what a man ought to be. Wonderful to think John should have chosen her.

He had said with that sudden, very attractive, half-pleading smile of his, ‘I like my own way, you know, Gerda.’

Well, that was all right. She had always tried to give in to him in everything. Even lately when he had been so difficult and nervy—when nothing seemed to please him. When, somehow, nothing she did was right. One couldn’t blame him. He was so busy, so unselfish—

Oh, dear, that mutton! She ought to have sent it back. Still no sign of John. Why couldn’t she, sometimes, decide right? Again those dark waves of misery swept over her. The mutton! This awful weekend with the Angkatells. She felt a sharp pain through both temples. Oh, dear, now she was going to have one of her headaches. And it did so annoy John when she had headaches. He never would give her anything for them, when surely it would be so easy, being a doctor. Instead he always said: ‘Don’t think about it. No use poisoning yourself with drugs. Take a brisk walk.’

The mutton! Staring at it, Gerda felt the words repeating themselves in her aching head, ‘The mutton, the MUTTON, THE MUTTON…’

Tears of self-pity sprang to her eyes. ‘Why,’ she thought, ‘does nothing ever go right for me?’

Terence looked across at the table at his mother and then at the joint. He thought: ‘Why can’t we have our dinner? How stupid grown-up people are. They haven’t any sense!’

Aloud he said in a careful voice:

‘Nicholson Minor and I are going to make nitroglycerine in his father’s shrubbery. They live at Streatham.’

‘Are you, dear? That will be very nice,’ said Gerda.

There was still time. If she rang the bell and told Lewis to take the joint down now—

Terence looked at her with faint curiosity. He had felt instinctively that the manufacture of nitroglycerine was not the kind of occupation that would be encouraged by parents. With base opportunism he had selected a moment when he felt tolerably certain that he had a good chance of getting away with his statement. And his judgement had been justified. If, by any chance, there should be a fuss—if, that is, the properties of nitroglycerine should manifest themselves too evidently, he would be able to say in an injured voice, ‘I told Mother.’

All the same, he felt vaguely disappointed.

‘Even Mother,’ he thought, ‘ought to know about nitroglycerine.’

He sighed. There swept over him that intense sense of loneliness that only childhood can feel. His father was too impatient to listen, his mother was too inattentive. Zena was only a silly kid.

Pages of interesting chemical tests. And who cared about them? Nobody!

Bang! Gerda started. It was the door of John’s consulting-room. It was John running upstairs.

John Christow burst into the room, bringing with him his own particular atmosphere of intense energy. He was good-humoured, hungry, impatient.

‘God,’ he exclaimed as he sat down and energetically sharpened the carving knife against the steel. ‘How I hate sick people!’

‘Oh, John.’ Gerda was quickly reproachful. ‘Don’t say things like that. They’ll think you mean it.’

She gestured slightly with her head towards the children.

‘I do mean it,’ said John Christow. ‘Nobody ought to be ill.’

‘Father’s joking,’ said Gerda quickly to Terence.

Terence examined his father with the dispassionate attention he gave to everything.

‘I don’t think he is,’ he said.

‘If you hated sick people, you wouldn’t be a doctor, dear,’ said Gerda, laughing gently.

‘That’s exactly the reason,’ said John Christow. ‘No doctors like sickness. Good God, this meat’s stone cold. Why on earth didn’t you have it sent down to keep hot?’

‘Well, dear, I didn’t know. You see, I thought you were just coming—’

John Christow pressed the bell, a long, irritated push. Lewis came promptly.

‘Take this down and tell Cook to warm it up.’

He spoke curtly.

‘Yes, sir.’ Lewis, slightly impertinent, managed to convey in the two innocuous words exactly her opinion of a mistress who sat at the dining-table watching a joint of meat grow cold.

Gerda went on rather incoherently:

‘I’m so sorry, dear, it’s all my fault, but first, you see, I thought you were coming, and then I thought, well, if I did send it back…’

John interrupted her impatiently.

‘Oh, what does it matter? It isn’t important. Not worth making a song and dance about.’

Then he asked:

‘Is the car here?’

‘I think so. Collie ordered it.’

‘Then we can get away as soon as lunch is over.’

Across Albert Bridge, he thought, and then over Clapham Common—the short-cut by the Crystal Palace—Croydon—Purley Way, then avoid the main road—take that right-hand fork up Metherly Hill—along Haverston Ridge—get suddenly right of the suburban belt, through Cormerton, and then up Shovel Down—trees golden red—woodland below one everywhere—the soft autumn smell, and down over the crest of the hill.

Lucy and Henry… Henrietta…

He hadn’t seen Henrietta for four days. When he had last seen her, he’d been angry. She’d had that look in her eyes. Not abstracted, not inattentive—he couldn’t quite describe it—that look of seeing something—something that wasn’t there—something (and that was the crux of it) something that wasn’t John Christow!

He said to himself: ‘I know she’s a sculptor. I know her work’s good. But damn it all, can’t she put it aside sometimes? Can’t she sometimes think of me—and nothing else?’

He was unfair. He knew he was unfair. Henrietta seldom talked of her work—was indeed less obsessed by it than most artists he knew. It was only on very rare occasions that her absorption with some inner vision spoiled the completeness of her interest in him. But it always roused his furious anger.

Once he had said, his voice sharp and hard, ‘Would you give all this up if I asked you to?’

‘All—what?’ Her warm voice held surprise.

‘All—this.’ He waved a comprehensive hand round the studio.