The Hollow. Агата Кристи

       CHAPTER 3

      John Christow sat in his consulting-room, seeing his last patient but one for that morning. His eyes, sympathetic and encouraging, watched her as she described—explained—went into details. Now and then he nodded his head, understandingly. He asked questions, gave directions. A gentle glow pervaded the sufferer. Dr Christow was really wonderful! He was so interested—so truly concerned. Even talking to him made one feel stronger.

      John Christow drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write. Better give her a laxative, he supposed. That new American proprietary—nicely put up in cellophane and attractively coated in an unusual shade of salmon pink. Very expensive, too, and difficult to get—not every chemist stocked it. She’d probably have to go to that little place in Wardour Street. That would be all to the good—probably buck her up no end for a month or two, then he’d have to think of something else. There was nothing he could do for her. Poor physique and nothing to be done about it! Nothing to get your teeth into. Not like old mother Crabtree…

      A boring morning. Profitable financially—but nothing else. God, he was tired! Tired of sickly women and their ailments. Palliation, alleviation—nothing to it but that. Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it. But always then he remembered St Christopher’s, and the long row of beds in the Margaret Russell Ward, and Mrs Crabtree grinning up at him with her toothless smile.

      He and she understood each other! She was a fighter, not like that limp slug of a woman in the next bed. She was on his side, she wanted to live—though God knew why, considering the slum she lived in, with a husband who drank and a brood of unruly children, and she herself obliged to work day in day out, scrubbing endless floors of endless offices. Hard unremitting drudgery and few pleasures! But she wanted to live—she enjoyed life—just as he, John Christow, enjoyed life! It wasn’t the circumstances of life they enjoyed, it was life itself—the zest of existence. Curious—a thing one couldn’t explain. He thought to himself that he must talk to Henrietta about that.

      He got up to accompany his patient to the door. His hand took hers in a warm clasp, friendly, encouraging. His voice was encouraging too, full of interest and sympathy. She went away revived, almost happy. Dr Christow took such an interest!

      As the door closed behind her, John Christow forgot her, he had really been hardly aware of her existence even when she had been there. He had just done his stuff. It was all automatic. Yet, though it had hardly ruffled the surface of his mind, he had given out strength. His had been the automatic response of the healer and he felt the sag of depleted energy.

      ‘God,’ he thought again, ‘I’m tired.’

      Only one more patient to see and then the clear space of the weekend. His mind dwelt on it gratefully. Golden leaves tinged with red and brown, the soft moist smell of autumn—the road down through the woods—the wood fires, Lucy, most unique and delightful of creatures—with her curious, elusive will-o’-the-wisp mind. He’d rather have Henry and Lucy than any host and hostess in England. And The Hollow was the most delightful house he knew. On Sunday he’d walk through the woods with Henrietta—up on to the crest of the hill and along the ridge. Walking with Henrietta he’d forget that there were any sick people in the world. Thank goodness, he thought, there’s never anything the matter with Henrietta.

      And then with a sudden, quick twist of humour:

      ‘She’d never let on to me if there were!’

      One more patient to see. He must press the bell on his desk. Yet, unaccountably, he delayed. Already he was late. Lunch would be ready upstairs in the dining-room. Gerda and the children would be waiting. He must get on.

      Yet he sat there motionless. He was so tired—so very tired.

      It had been growing on him lately, this tiredness. It was at the root of the constantly increasing irritability which he was aware of but could not check. Poor Gerda, he thought, she has a lot to put up with. If only she was not so submissive—so ready to admit herself in the wrong when, half the time, it was he who was to blame! There were days when everything that Gerda said or did conspired to irritate him, and mainly, he thought ruefully, it was her virtues that irritated him. It was her patience, her unselfishness, her subordination of her wishes to his, that aroused his ill-humour. And she never resented his quick bursts of temper, never stuck to her own opinion in preference to his, never attempted to strike out a line of her own.

      (Well, he thought, that’s why you married her, isn’t it? What are you complaining about? After that summer at San Miguel…)

      Curious, when you came to think of it, that the very qualities that irritated him in Gerda were the qualities he wanted so badly to find in Henrietta. What irritated him in Henrietta (no, that was the wrong word—it was anger, not irritation, that she inspired)—what angered him there was Henrietta’s unswerving rectitude where he was concerned. It was so at variance to her attitude to the world in general. He had said to her once:

      ‘I think you are the greatest liar I know.’

      ‘Perhaps.’

      ‘You are always willing to say anything to people if only it pleases them.’

      ‘That always seems to me more important.’

      ‘More important than speaking the truth?’

      ‘Much more.’

      ‘Then why in God’s name can’t you lie a little more to me?’

      ‘Do you want me to?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’m sorry, John, but I can’t.’

      ‘You must know so often what I want you to say—’

      Come now, he mustn’t start thinking of Henrietta. He’d be seeing her this very afternoon. The thing to do now was to get on with things! Ring the bell and see this last damned woman. Another sickly creature! One-tenth genuine ailment and nine-tenths hypochondria! Well, why shouldn’t she enjoy ill-health if she cared to pay for it? It balanced the Mrs Crabtrees of this world.

      But still he sat there motionless.

      He was tired—he was so very tired. It seemed to him that he had been tired for a very long time. There was something he wanted—wanted badly.

      And there shot into his mind the thought: ‘I want to go home.’

      It astonished him. Where had that thought come from? And what did it mean? Home? He had never had a home. His parents had been Anglo-Indians, he had been brought up, bandied about from aunt to uncle, one set of holidays with each. The first permanent home he had had, he supposed, was this house in Harley Street.

      Did he think of this house as home? He shook his head. He knew that he didn’t.

      But his medical curiosity was aroused. What had he meant by that phrase that had flashed out suddenly in his mind?

      I want to go home.

      There must be something—some image.

      He half-closed his eyes—there must be some background.

      And very clearly, before his mind’s eye, he saw the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea, the palms, the cactus and the prickly pear; he smelt the hot summer dust, and remembered the cool feeling of the water after lying on the beach in the sun. San Miguel!

      He was startled—a little disturbed. He hadn’t thought of San Miguel for years. He certainly didn’t