You Can't Go Home Again (69 page)

The little doctor was a Russian of the old regime, who had been a physician at the court of the Czar, and had accumulated a large fortune, which of course had been confiscated when he fled the country during the revolution. Penniless, he had come to England, and had made another fortune by a practice about which Mrs. Purvis, with a kind of haughty aloofness mixed with loyalty, had invented a soothing little fiction, but concerning which the doctor himself became in time quite candid. From one o’clock in the afternoon until four or thereabouts, the door-bell tinkled almost constantly, and Mrs. Purvis was kept busy padding up and down the narrow stairs, admitting or ushering out an incessant stream of patients.

George had not been long in the place before he made a surprising discovery concerning this thriving practice. He and the little doctor had the same telephone, by a plug-in arrangement which permitted each to use the instrument in his own quarters while sharing the same number and the same bill. Sometimes the telephone would ring at night, after the doctor had departed for his home in Surrey, and George observed that the callers were always women. They would demand the doctor in voices that varied from accents of desperate entreaty to tones that fairly crooned with voluptuous and sensual complaint. Where
was
the doctor? When George informed them that he was at his home, some twenty miles away, they would moan that it couldn’t be true, that it wasn’t possible, that fate could assuredly not play them so cruel a joke. When told that it was indeed so, they would then sometimes suggest that perhaps George himself could render them some assistance on his own account. To these requests he was forced to reply, often with reluctance, that he was not a physician, and that they would have to seek help in some other quarter.

These calls sharpened his curiosity, and he began to keep his eye peeled during the doctor’s office hours in the afternoon. He would go to the window and look out each time the door-bell rang, and in a little while he became convinced of what he had already begun to suspect, “that the doctor’s practice was devoted exclusively to women”. Their ages ranged from young womanhood to elderly haghood, they were of all kinds and conditions, but the one thing that was true of these patients was that they all wore skirts. No man ever rang that door-bell.

George would sometimes tease Mrs. Purvis about this unending procession of female visitors, and would openly speculate on the nature of the doctor’s practice. She had a capacity for self-deception which one often encounters among people of her class, although the phenomenon is by no means confined to it. No doubt she guessed some of the things that went on below stairs, but her loyalty to anyone she served was so unquestioning that when Geprge pressed her for information her manner would instantly become vague, and she would confess that, although she was not familiar with the technical details of the doctor’s practice, it was, she believed, devoted to “the treatment of nervous diseases”.

“Yes, but what kind of nervous diseases?” George would ask. “Don’t the gentlemen ever get nervous, too?”

“Ah-h,” said Mrs. Purvis, nodding her head with an air of knowing profundity that was very characteristic of her. “Ah-h,
there
you ‘ave it!”

“Have what, Mrs. Purvis?”

“‘Ave the hanswer,” she said. “It’s this Moddun Tempo. That’s what Doctor says,” she went on loftily, in that tone of unimpeachable authority with which she always referred to him and quoted his opinions. “It’s the pace of Moddun Life—cocktail parties, stayin’ up to all hours, and all of that. In America, I believe, conditions are even worse,” said Mrs. Purvis. “Not, of course, that they
really
are,” she added quickly, as if fearing that her remark might inadvertently have wounded the patriotic sensibilities of her employer. “I mean, after all, not ‘avin’ been there myself, I wouldn’t know, would I?”

Her picture of America, derived largely from the pages of the tabloid newspapers, of which she was a devoted reader, was so delightfully fantastic that George could never find it in his heart to disillusion her. So he dutifully agreed that she was right, and even managed, with a few skilful suggestions, to confirm her belief that almost all American women spent their time going from one cocktail party to another—in fact, practically never got to bed.

“Ah, then,” said Mrs. Purvis, nodding her head wisely with an air of satisfaction, “then you know what this Moddun Tempo means!” And, after a just perceptible pause: “Shockin’ I calls it!”

She called a great many things shocking. In fact, no choleric Tory in London’s most exclusive club could have been more vehemently and indignantly concerned with the state of the nation than was Daisy Purvis. To listen to her talk one might have thought she was the heir to enormous estates that had been chief treasures of her country’s history since the days of the Norman conquerors, but which were now being sold out of her hands, cut up piece-meal, ravaged and destroyed because she could no longer pay the ruinous taxes which the government had imposed. She would discuss these matters long and earnestly, with dire forebodings, windy sighs, and grave shakings of the head.

George would sometimes work the whole night through and finally get to bed at six or seven o’clock in the dismal fog of a London morning. Mrs. Purvis would arrive at seven-thirty. If he was not already asleep he would hear her creep softly up the stairs and go into the kitchen. A little later she would rap at his door and come in with an enormous cup, smoking with a beverage in whose soporific qualities she had the utmost faith.

“‘Ere’s a nice ‘ot cup of Ovaltine,” said Mrs. Purvis, “to git you off to sleep.”

He was probably nearly “off to sleep” already, but this made no difference. If he was not “off to sleep”, she had the Ovaltine to “git him off”. And if he was “off to sleep”, she woke him up and gave him the Ovaltine to “git him off” again.

The real truth of the matter was that she wanted to talk with him, to exchange gossip, and especially to go over the delectable proceedings of the day’s news. She would bring him fresh copies of
The Times
and the
Daily Mail
, and she would have, of course, her own tabloid paper. Then, while he propped himself up in bed and drank his Ovaltine, Mrs. Purvis would stand in the doorway, rattle her tabloid with a premonitory gesture, and thus begin:

“Shockin’, I calls it!”

“What’s shocking this morning, Mrs. Purvis?”

“Why, ‘ere now, listen to this, if you please!” she would say indignantly, and read as follows: “‘It was announced yesterday, through the offices of the Messrs. Merigrew & Raspe, solicitors to ‘Is Grace, the Duke of Basingstoke, that ‘Is Grace ‘as announced for sale ‘is estate at Chipping Cudlington in Gloucestershire. The estate, comprisin’ sixteen thousand acres, of which eight thousand are in ‘untin’ preserve, and includin’ Basingstoke Hall, one of the finest examples of early Tudor architecture in the kingdom, ‘as been in the possession of ‘Is Grace’s family since the fifteenth century. Representatives of the Messrs. Merigrew & Raspe stated, ‘owever, that because of the enormous increase in the estate and income taxes since the war, ‘Is Grace feels that it is no longer possible for ‘im to maintain the estate, and ‘e is accordingly puttin’ it up for sale. This means, of course, that the number of ‘Is Grace’s private estates ‘as now been reduced to three, Fothergill ‘All in Devonshire, Wintringham in Yawkshire, and the Castle of Loch McTash, ‘is ‘untin’ preserve in Scotland. ‘Is Grace, it is said, ‘as stated recently to friends that if somethin’ is not done to check the present ruinous trend towards ‘igher taxation, there will not be a single great estate in England remainin’ in the ‘ands of its original owners within a ‘undred years…

“Ah-h,” said Mrs. Purvis, nodding with an air of knowing confirmation as she finished reading this dolorous item. “There you ‘ave it! Just as ‘Is Grace says, we’re losin’ all our great estates. And what’s the reason? Why the owners can no longer afford to pay the taxes. Ruinous ‘e calls ‘em, and ‘e’s, right. If it keeps up, you mark my words, the nobility’ll ‘ave no place left to live. A lot of ‘em are migratin’ already,” she said darkly.

“Migrating where, Mrs. Purvis?”

“Why,” she said, “to France, to Italy, places on the Continent. There is Lord Cricklewood, livin’ somewhere in the south of France. And why? Because the taxes got too ‘igh for ‘im. Let all ‘is places go ‘ere. Ah-h, lovely places they were, too,” she said, with appetising tenderness. “And the Earl of Pentateuch, Lady Cynthia Wormwood, and ‘Er Ladyship, the Dowager Countess of Throttlemarsh—where are they all? They’ve all left, that’s where they are. Packed up and got out. Let their estates go. They’ve gone abroad to live. And why? Because the taxes are too ‘igh. Shockin’, I calls it!”

By this time Mrs. Purvis’s pleasant face would be pink with indignation. It was one of the most astonishing demonstrations of concern George had ever seen. Again and again he would try to get to the bottom of it. He would bang down his cup of Ovaltine and burst out:

“Yes, but good Lord, Mrs. Purvis, why should
you
worry so much about it. Those people aren’t going to starve. Here you get ten shillings a week from me and eight shillings more from the doctor. He says he’s retiring and going abroad to live at the end of this year. I’ll be going back to America pretty soon after that. You don’t even know where you’ll be or what you’ll be doing this time next year. Yet you come in here day after day and read me this stuff about the Duke of Basingstoke or the Earl of Pentateuch having to give up one of his half-dozen estates, as if you were afraid the whole lot of them would have to go on the dole. You’re the one who will have to go on the dole if you get out of work. Those people are not going to suffer, not really, not the way you’ll have to.”

“Ah-h yes,” she answered quietly, in a tone that was soft and gentle, as if she were speaking of the welfare of a group of helpless children, “but then, we’re used to it, aren’t we? And
they
, poor things, they’re not.”

It was appalling. He couldn’t fathom it. He just felt as if he’d come up smack against an impregnable wall. You could call it what you liked—servile snobbishness, blind ignorance, imbecilic stupidity—but there it was. You couldn’t shatter it, you couldn’t even shake it. It was the most formidable example of devotion and loyalty he had ever known.

These conversations would go on morning after morning until there was scarcely an impoverished young viscount whose grandeurs and miseries had not undergone the reverent investigation of Mrs. Purvis’s anguished and encyclopaedic care. But always at the end—after the whole huge hierarchy of saints, angels, captains of the host, guardians of the inner gate, and chief lieutenants of the right hand had been tenderly inspected down to the minutest multicoloured feather that blazed in their heraldic wings—silence would fall. It was as if some great and unseen presence had entered the room. Then Mrs. Purvis would rattle her crisp paper, clear her throat, and with holy quietness pronounce the sainted name of “‘E”.

Sometimes this moment would come as a sequel to her fascinated discussion of America and the Moddun Tempo, as, after enlarging for the hundredth time upon the shocking and unfortunate lot of the female population in the United States, she would add:

“I must say, though,” tactfully, after a brief pause, “that the American ladies
are
very smart, aren’t they, sir? They’re all so well-turned out. You can always tell one when you see one. And then they’re
very
clever, aren’t they, sir? I mean, quite a number of ‘em ‘ave been received at court, ‘aven’t they, sir? And some of ‘em ‘ave married into the nobility, too. And of course”—her voice would fall to just the subtlest shade of unction, and George would know what was coming—“of course, sir, ‘E…”

Ah, there it was! Immortal “‘E”, who lived and moved and loved and had his being there at the centre of Daisy Purvis’s heaven! Immortal “‘E”, the idol of all the Purvises everywhere, who, for
their
uses,
their
devotions, had no other name and needed none but “‘E”.

“Of course, sir,” Mrs. Purvis said, “‘E likes ‘em, doesn’t ‘E? I’m told ‘E’s very fond of ‘em. The American ladies
must
be very clever, sir, because ‘E finds ‘em so amusin’. There was a picture of ‘Im in the news just recently with a party of ‘Is friends, and a new American lady was among ‘em. At least I’d never seen
‘er
face before. And very smart she was, too—a Mrs. Somebody-or-other—I can’t recall the name.”

Again, something in the day’s news would bring the reverent tone to her voice and the glow of tenderness to her face, as:

“Well, I see by the paper ‘ere that ‘E’s got back from the Continent. I wonder what ‘E’s up to now.” And suddenly she laughed, a jolly and involuntary laugh that flushed her pink cheeks almost crimson and brought a mist to her blue eyes. “Ah! I tell you what,” she said, “‘E
is
a deep one. You never know what ‘E’s been up to. You pick the paper up one day and read where ‘E’s visitin’ some friends in Yawkshire. The next day, before you know it, ‘E turns up in Vienna. This time they say ‘E’s been in Scandinavia—it wouldn’t surprise me if ‘E’s been over there visitin’ one of them young princesses. Of course”—her tone was now tinged with the somewhat pompous loftiness with which she divulged her profounder revelations to the incondite Mr. Webber—“of course there’s been talk about
that
for some time past. Not that ‘E would care! Not
‘Im
! ‘E’s too independent,
‘E
is! ‘Is mother found that out long ago. She tried to manage ‘Im the way she does the others. Not
‘Im
! That chap’s got a will of ‘Is own. ‘E’ll do what ‘E wants to do, and no one will stop ‘Im—that’s ‘ow independent ‘E is.”

She was silent a moment, reflecting with misty eyes upon the object of her idolatry. Then suddenly her pleasant face again suffused with ruddy colour, and a short, rich, almost explosive laugh burst from her as she cried:

“The dev-_ill_! You know, they do say ‘E was comin’ ‘ome one night not long ago, and”—her voice lowered confidingly—“they do say ‘E’d ‘ad a bit too much, and”—her voice sank still lower, and in a tone in which a shade of hesitancy was mixed with laughter, she went on—“well, sir, they do say ‘E was ‘avin’ ‘Is troubles in gittin’ ‘ome. They say that really ‘E was ‘avin’ to support ‘Imself, sir, by the fence round St. James’s Palace. But they do say, sir, that—ooh! ha-ha-ha!”—she laughed suddenly and throatily. “You must excuse me, sir, but I ‘ave to larf when I think of it!” And then, slowly, emphatically, with an ecstasy of adoration, Mrs. Purvis whispered: “They say, sir, that the bobby on duty just outside the palace saw ‘Im, and came up to ‘Im and said: ‘Can I ‘elp you, sir?’ But not
‘Im!
‘E wouldn’t be ‘elped! ‘E’s too proud,
‘E
is! That’s the way ‘E’s always been. I’ll tell you what—‘E
is
a dev-_ill!_” And, still smiling, her strong hands held before her in a worn clasp, she leaned against the door and lapsed into the silence of misty contemplation.