The Heart in Exile

  FIRST AMERICAN EDITION, 1954

  I OPENED a window and we could hear the muffled sounds of Kensington from beyond my quiet street. Resting on the couch, Miss Wilkins' old-fashioned, pointed shoes stood like two sentries at ease. They glittered in the g'orious sunshine of the summer afternoon. I could not help smiling at her hat on the radio-phonograph, as I resumed my seat behind her pillow.

  Miss Wilkins and I had been "free associating" for ten months now, three times a week. I knew that her handwashing obsession had become less pronounced and that she was no longer as frightened to touch door knobs as when she first came to me. She also talked less about irrelevancies than in the past. I dare say she got a certain amount of comfort and confidence from being in positive transference with a safe male, and perhaps the outlook for her wasn't as poor as I had felt, even six months ago.

  Maybe it was the warmth and the peace of the day that were encouraging me; the weather had been wonderful for the past week and I had been feeling very happy all day without any particular reason. It was one of my good days, when work is easy and the future and the past are forgotten.

  "Any dreams lately?" I said.

  "I don't think so," Miss Wilkins said eagerly.

  "Then what about the dream you had the last time? You didn't tell me all about it."

  "...Which one?"

  It was obvious that Miss Wilkins knew very well which dream and fairly obvious why she had shied away from it three days ago. As dreams went, it was a perfectly "standard" dream—a handbook dream if you like—of obsessive-compulsives. Thousands of people like Miss Phoebe Wilkins dream the same dream every night.

  "You were being chased over open country," I said, "by a tramp. You were running wildly, but finally he caught up with you. I asked you what he looked like and you said his face was blurred. Now try to remember what he looked like."

  After a short silence she suddenly said, "I don't know." She sounded petulant. "Is it so very important?"

  "Of course it is. You may as well try to look on me as a policeman. I must identify the tramp in order to catch him, you see. And I must catch him, because he's a nuisance. Now try to think what he looked like. Would you say he was young?"

  "Mm, yes... fairly tall...."

  "As tall as I am?" I was feeling a little uneasy.

  "Oh, no." Miss Wilkins suddenly giggled and I felt relieved.

  "Well," I said, "we're getting on."

  "It's funny. At first I thought it was Mr. Mainwaring. But you wouldn't know him...."

  "Who's he?"

  "A clergyman. But I haven't seen him for a long, long time. Must be quite an old man now.... You see, it was he who prepared me for my confirmation...."

  I made a quick note on my pad. This was becoming interesting. I said, "At first you thought it was Mr. Mainwaring. Then what happened? Did you make a mistake?"

  "I must have."

  "So it was another man, after all?"

  "Well, not exactly.... I should say a mixture of two men."

  "Who was the other?"

  "...I ...I don't know."

  "Miss Wilkins," I said in the tones of Infinite Wisdom, "we shall never get anywhere if you are not perfectly truthful. And the point is that your condition is improving. Now come on, who was the other man?"

  Miss Wilkins didn't reply. But I had an idea.

  Ten minutes later, after a short, gentle battle, I saw that my original guess was correct. The other man was her father. I was feeling hopeful, very hopeful, and it seemed that Miss Wilkins was feeling happier. Her treading-on-manholes compulsion was still worrying me, but we could start exploring that next week.

  "Well," I said, "that's about all for today. I'll see you next Thursday."

  Miss Wilkins got up from the couch, put on her hat, and I showed her out; then I went back to the desk and made a few notes. Another indication of her improvement was that she no longer wore gloves all the time to protect herself against contamination. More than this—lately she had, quite on her own, offered me her hand, or three fingers anyway.

  It was a quarter to six, and the new patient was coming at six. I remembered that, but I forgot her name. I reached for the diary and saw Terry's schoolboy handwriting: Miss Hewitt 6 p.m. She had rung last night, when I was on my way to dine with Weblen. Terry had asked whether Friday morning would suit her, but she had said it was urgent and wanted to come earlier.

  I was wondering who had sent her, the hospital, her G.P. or possibly some other patient. Very likely a G.P. Another Miss Wilkins, I thought; but the prospect at the moment was not displeasing. Miss Wilkins was getting on well, and her previous doctor had given her up. The only thing that made me doubt that Miss Hewitt's case would interest me was her sense of urgency. It was my experience that the patients whose cases really excited me professionally—with the exception of Dighton—never said things were urgent. They usually accepted, even asked for, an appointment in the distant future, often rang up later to alter it and sometimes even failed to turn up for the first appointment.

  As I put Miss Wilkins' file back into the cabinet, I saw the two empty teacups on the desk. I took them into the kitchen. Terry, in his dark blue T-shirt, was busy peeling potatoes.

  "Did Miss Hewitt say yesterday who sent her?" I asked.

  Terry put the knife down. "I'm so sorry. I forgot to ask." His face turned crimson. Serious concern made him look incredibly young in spite of his build.

  "It doesn't really matter," I said. "Forget it.... I mean, don't forget it." As I put the cups on the draining board, I saw his smile, the coral gum over his strong white teeth. The only thing, I thought, was that if I took on Miss Hewitt, I must fit her in at an earlier hour. Three times a week I already had Dighton coming after six and I wasn't anxious to have any other late patients. If Miss Hewitt worked all day and couldn't come earlier, she would have to go somewhere else. I had eight patients in all; definitely enough.

  "A cup of tea?" Terry said.

  "Well, we're eating in an hour's time, aren't we?" I said and remembered that we had thought of going to see a film. Then, as the idea of a glass of sherry crossed my mind, the bell rang. It was only five minutes to six. "She's early," Terry said and jumped to dry his hands on the towel by the sink.

  "You carry on," I said. "I'll answer it."

  As I opened the front door, I realized that my preconceived ideas about my new patient were wrong in every conceivable detail. The woman who stood there was young, about twenty-five or so, tallish, with broad shoulders and expensively dressed. "Dr. Page," she said, a little abruptly I thought.

  "Yes," I said. "Will you come in, please."

  I looked at her back as I let her into the consulting-room and I felt it was not only nervousness that made her look ill at ease in her high-heeled shoes, the smart costume and the impossible hat. "County," I thought, but she's made up her mind to be smart. Who on earth could have sold her that hat? She had probably insisted, brushing all arguments aside.

  But there was little determination in her voice as she now suddenly said, "It was very kind of you to see me at such short notice, but it's urgent."

  "I see," I said. It's always urgent, or nearly always. "Will you take a seat, please." I pointed to the armchair. She carried a large and expensive handbag, and now I saw her pearl choker. I had never had a rich patient before. Nervous insomnia, I thought suddenly and I took my seat at the desk. "First of all," I said, "may I know who sent you to me?"

  "Oh, I'm not ill," she said, shaking her head slightly; but she didn't smile. "As a matter of fact, I'm feeling very ill now," she corrected herself, shrugging a shoulder as if to say that that was beside the point, "but I came to see you about a personal matter.... You knew Julian Leclerc...."

  Just as she
said "personal matter," a barrel organ in the street outside began to play a jazz number, slightly out of tune. On most occasions in the past I have been irritated by such an interruption, but as I jumped up without saying excuse me, I felt with my heart in my throat that the barrel organ was a heaven-sent opportunity, a lifebuoy, a glorious release. I was hoping all she had read on my face was annoyance.

  "That's better," I said after I shut the window, and my heart was no longer thumping as I sat down again. "You mentioned Julian Leclerc. I was very sorry to read about it in the papers.... A week ago, wasn't it?" I added, and immediately felt that my voice was false, that I was hamming it. I was looking at the desk, trying to avoid her eyes, and a sudden fear made my heart thump again. My throat was dry. "I hadn't seen him for a very long time," I said.

  "Then I was wrong." Her words came fast and loud with childish bitterness and I saw at once that she noticed nothing unusual about me, that her embarrassment was greater than mine. "I thought you were his doctor...." She was blushing in confusion. "But you did know him," she said, almost imploringly. "You did know him, didn't you?"

  "Oh, yes," I said, but my voice seemed too loud with relief. "I knew him for quite a long time. We met a few years before the war. When we were both students, you see...." I was sitting against the light all the time; she couldn't have seen my face. "But what gave you the idea that I knew him?" I asked. What indeed?

  I thought my voice was fairly calm now, but she must have interpreted the question as suspicion or disapproval, because like lightning she picked up her handbag from the carpet and opened it. She said nothing. She was trying to prove a case. She took out a large, grey envelope and handed it to me, as if it were a passport. The envelope had my name and address on it, and in the corner my telephone number was scribbled in pencil. The envelope was empty and unused.

  "I found it on his desk, inside the blotting-pad," she said anxiously, like a child. "There was nothing else there except writing paper and some luggage labels." Her hand, a large hand, like a man's, was trembling. She was trying to prove that the passport was genuine. She seemed to feel inferior and almost apologetic. "We were engaged to be married, you see.... This envelope was my only hope of finding out why Julian killed himself...."

  "Why do you say he killed himself?" I said. It was now that I began to feel ashamed of my earlier fear, which obviously had been unjustified. "There was an open verdict, wasn't there? I read the case in the paper. An overdose of sleeping tablets.... If people only knew how dangerous..."

  "Everybody thinks it must have been suicide," she interrupted. Her voice was peevish again; it was now a voice that disliked contradiction. Almost angrily, she shrugged a shoulder. "At least, I am absolutely sure. They didn't ask me much at the inquest. I was so ill. But I knew how upset Julian had been in the last few days." Her voice suddenly dropped and she shook her head slowly. "I'm sure it was suicide. Only perhaps, out of consideration for me, he made it look like an accident. But people will talk. You can imagine how I feel." I saw her chest rising. "We were in love, about to decide the date of our wedding, then he suddenly kills himself.... And it was in every paper...." She began to sob.

  She looked quite ugly now with the tears streaming down her face, and I saw for the first time that her skin was not too good. I rose and offered her my handkerchief, but she shook her head and reached for her handbag. "I'm sorry," she said.

  "What on earth for?" I asked. Partly from habit, I placed a hand on her shoulder. I think we both felt relieved.

  "I've made such an exhibition of myself," she said, explaining the obvious. "But I just couldn't help it."

  "Exhibition," I said. "Come now.... Nothing could be more natural." She said nothing, but dabbed her eyes; I noticed that her eyelids were already pink. "I'm not only a doctor, but a psychiatrist. Everybody who comes here has some trouble...."

  "My first idea," she said, staring at the damp handkerchief in her hand, "was that you were an ordinary doctor. You know...." After a moment's glance at the ceiling, she found the word she wanted. "I mean, a family doctor. I thought perhaps Julian was ill." For the first time I was conscious that the barrel organ was no longer playing outside.

  "It just doesn't make sense," she said. "I mean, why did he want to contact you? Had he written to you before?"

  "Never," I said, but as I walked back to my chair I felt somehow that my answer was unconvincing, although it was true. Julian had never written to me. I picked up the envelope. "This, I take it, is his handwriting?" It was large, with the capitals printed. I knew much less about handwriting than I ought to have known.

  "Yes."

  "Did he ever mention my name to you?" I said.

  "No."

  "There was no reason for him to have done so," I said. "The last time I saw him was about a year or so ago. Quite a chance meeting. At the Underground station at Hyde Park Corner." I remembered the occasion. Julian had said he would come and see me "one of these days. Professionally." But I decided I wouldn't tell her that. In any case, he might have been joking. "It was only before the war that I really used to know him," I said.

  "Not since then," she nodded. It was a statement, not a question.

  "Well, I met him once or twice during the war. Quite casually. I suppose he was abroad most of the time, wasn't he? I was working at a hospital in London. Not much opportunity of seeing him or anybody else. Then I went to America after the war.... But surely you must know a number of people who knew him really well?"

  "That's just the point. I don't." She shook her head helplessly. "I tried to think of people all day yesterday. His father had a nervous breakdown. He lives in the country. Julian's mother has married again and lives in Kenya. There's only his partner, Peter Mohill.... Perhaps you know that Julian was a solicitor.... Mr. Mohill was extremely kind to me; he helped me during the inquest, told me there would be hardly any questions. He was there when the police looked through Julian's things. But they found nothing except the sleeping pills. The jar was empty.... Peter gave me lunch afterwards, but it turned out that even he knew next to nothing about Julian. Or that's what he said." She shook her head. "Maybe he knows much more than he wanted to tell me...." Suddenly she looked up. "I say, do you know Roger Temple?"

  "No. Who's he?"

  "He was in the Guards with Julian. They are neighbours of ours."

  I was more interested at the moment in Mohill.

  "Why did you think Mohill knew more than he would tell you?" I asked.

  "Oh, it was just a feeling." She raised a hand slightly, and her thumb became curiously eloquent. "Maybe I'm wrong. I'm quite often wrong in my feelings. But sometimes, you know..."

  "You hadn't known Julian long, had you?" I said.

  "I suppose not." She spoke quietly now. "Actually, we'd known each other for about six months, but I always felt as if I'd known him a long time. Once or twice, in the early days, I told him that. He said he felt the same way about me. And it was true. I knew it was true." She was looking at the floor. "I feel I knew him quite well. At least, that's what I used to feel. It's only now... I mean, it's so awful to know that Julian had no intimate friends; at least I've never met any, because there's no one I can talk to about him. I can't find out about him from anybody." She was looking straight at me now. "Julian knew dozens of people. He was very popular. But he had no real friends."

  "Perhaps he didn't need them," I said. "And if he was in love with you..."

  "Maybe." She suddenly looked away, but she didn't say what I expected. "My parents want me to go back to the country or to go away for a time. My mother has rung me up four times since Monday, but I can't rest till I find out what happened. I must know." She shook her head. "Even if the evidence damns me in the end...."

  "What do you mean," I said. It was an alarming decision, but this time I felt I was in full control of the situation.

  "I have a dreadful feeling that it must have been partly my fault. Something in me that came between us...."

  "Why do you sa
y that?"

  "Because I'm more than certain there was another woman."

  I saw that she was watching my face when she said that, and she noticed my surprise, but I was confident that she didn't know what it was that surprised me.

  "Another woman?" I said.

  "Yes. And if that's so, it must have been my fault...." She broke off abruptly. I was about to say, "What makes you think so?" when she spoke. "I really don't know why I'm telling you all this... the more so because you didn't know Julian well...." She had been addressing the carpet.

  "I can tell you why," I said. I spoke fast. I mustn't allow her to go now. "Because you simply must tell someone. It would be unnatural if you didn't talk about it. And... there are situations in life about which it is easier to talk to strangers...."

  How often I had employed that cliché—how often! I had first used it at school, the precocious child I had been. But all the same I knew that I was not "just a stranger," but a "particular" stranger in whom people confided at once, to whom people talked without reserve. I had known that practically all through my life. This was, I suppose, what was known as a "social asset"—about my only one. It had great value in my profession; I carried it like a skeleton key. But I had had it all my life. Perhaps it was my enormous curiosity about people, their minds, their actions and motives, that somehow luckily conditioned my behaviour and, in the end, perhaps even my voice and looks.

  "You see," Miss Hewitt said—and I wasn't quite sure whether she had heard and understood me—"like Julian, I have very few friends...."

  I nodded. It was a "sympathetic" nod, I saw to that—an approving nod, a bedside nod, if you like. Her statement, in so far as it concerned Julian, was completely untrue. Julian had a wide circle of friends, acquaintances, and admirers, even though, for a very good reason, he had kept this fact a secret from her. I imagined, however, that she herself didn't make friends easily.

  She was now fumbling in her bag and took out a leather cigarette case. "Want one?" she said.

  "You have one of mine," I said. I pushed the box towards her. "I've smoked too much today already."