The Heart in Exile Read online

  "Dr. Page," she said. "You said you were a psychiatrist.... That's not why I came to see you in the first place."

  "I am." I was feeling my own warmth. This was better than I had expected.

  For a moment she was silent; then she looked away, and, raising her voice a little, "Could you please give me treatment?" she asked. "As a private patient, I mean. I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Perhaps I have had one already.... I feel awful.... And I don't know any doctors, except our own in the country, and he wouldn't understand.... I know it's expensive." She suddenly looked at me. "Treatment, I mean. But I can easily afford it." Abruptly she looked round the room as if to indicate that she could easily afford me. It was a simple room that contained just a few pieces of furniture I had bought after the war. Instead of the close-fitted grey Wilton I had always wanted, it had a shabby Indian carpet, and the steel filing cabinet was an eyesore. She ignored my two worthwhile things: the Rouault drawing above the mantelpiece and the Chinese horse below it. There was a purse-proudness in her brief stocktaking and a slight ring of the cash register in the words "I can easily afford it," but I knew it was sheer despair. She was trying to use the one single weapon she had. "Will you take me on?"

  "Well, of course," I said, and immediately I saw the relief on her face. "Mind you," I continued, trying not to show how pleased I was that she had saved me all the trouble, "I don't know if there's much need for treatment. You are at present in a nervous state. But everybody would be, under the circumstances. I'm not sure you are on the verge of a nervous... breakdown, but in any case I shall be glad if I can help you."

  "You see, I can't talk about this to anybody else," she said. That was her way, I thought, of saying thank you. "When I had lunch with Mr. Mohill, I naturally didn't even hint at the idea that there may have been another woman, or anything like that. I mean, he either wouldn't have believed me, or he wouldn't have told me if he knew. And I couldn't possibly talk about my suspicions to Julian's father, even if I could get to see him. Or to my own parents.... In fact, it would be awful if they found out...."

  "But why do you think there was another woman?"

  She reached for her handbag again and took out a sheet of yellow writing paper. "You won't tell anybody?" she said, clutching the paper like a schoolgirl.

  "How could I? For one thing, I'm supposed to be your doctor...."

  "I'm sorry." She handed me the letter, which I read.

  "Where did you find this?" I asked. I made no other comment.

  "It was in the blotting-pad on his desk." At first she tried to avoid my glance, but now she was looking at me. "Yesterday morning..." She shook her head. This was obviously a habit of hers. "I wish I hadn't looked. But one is..."

  "The most natural thing," I said.

  "You have to agree it's very painful." She made an impatient gesture towards the letter. "I mean, the writing. It's uneducated. And there's a spelling mistake, I think. The whole thing is so vulgar. And her name. Gina. Italian, or God knows what. A waitress...."

  "It may not mean a thing," I said. "Just because she speaks of 'good times we had.' Completely meaningless words. Besides"—I raised the yellow sheet in the air—"they may refer to a time when Julian didn't know you. After all, there's no date on it. It may have been written a long time ago. During the war... years ago...."

  It was amazing how cool I was, how very cool, because now I was no longer thinking of the letter and the things it really conveyed to me or of the pretence I had been keeping up. Pretence was easy for a man like me, it was second nature—a great necessity, sometimes a lifeline and always self-defence. I was thinking of the young woman facing me. I found myself wondering how people could have behaved in a crisis before cinema-going became a habit. Everything Miss Hewitt said, every intake of breath, every modulation of her voice, every gesture seemed to have been conditioned by the screen. Her feelings were genuine, the problem was genuine, and so were the pain, the burning doubt and the shame, and yet her emotions found expression in the manner of a talented amateur imitating her favourite film star,

  "If so, why did Julian keep it?" she asked now.

  "Just by chance. It may have been in the blotting-pad for years and years. You didn't find anything else?"

  "I didn't look very thoroughly. I..." Here she broke off abruptly. "In any case, you'll help me, won't you?"

  "I shall do what I can."

  "Did you know anybody who knew Julian?" she said. "Mutual friends?"

  I had to say something quickly now. "Let me see," I said, and I felt I was hamming it. "I think I know one or two. I haven't seen them for a long time, but I can try to contact them.... In any case," I said, changing the subject, "I shall try to give you some sort of treatment. You haven't been sleeping well lately, have you?"

  "Well, the first two nights I haven't been sleeping at all, and since then..."

  "I know," I said. "I shall give you a prescription for a harmless draught." I took a sheet of notepaper and decided that one grain of Persomnia was about her dose, then I printed my name above the address. Since I write very few prescriptions, I always used my private note-paper. "Here you are," I said, and pushed the sheet of paper across the table. "I should like to ask you a few questions."

  "What would you like me to tell you?"

  "You said you saw Julian the night before he died."

  "Yes. Last Thursday."

  "And he was very upset."

  "Well, it's difficult to say. He had been very upset the last few weeks, but not on the last evening. In fact, he was very sweet. Or perhaps he was just acting, I don't know.... I think so. We had dinner at the Berkeley. He ordered champagne and we danced; then we went home. I asked him to come in, but he said he had to get up very early the next day. So I gave him a lift to his place. Then he said something which, looking back on it, was very significant. He said 'Thank you for a very lovely evening.' He never said that before." She shook her head. "At least never the way he said it that night. Then he kissed me...." She was looking at the floor again. "It was a very strange kiss," she said. "He gripped me by both shoulders so much that it almost hurt me. Thinking back on it, he must have felt like crying." She shook her head. "A man crying. Then he suddenly turned round, opened the door of the taxi and got out. He slammed the door, didn't give my address to the driver and ran up the stairs. I had no time to think much because the taxi-driver pushed the glass back and asked me where I wanted to go. I told him, but as he drove me home I felt Julian was behaving in an odd way. But that was all. I wasn't really upset, because he was so nice during the evening. I thought he was getting over the trouble he had the last couple of weeks. When I got home I noticed he bruised my lip," She paused for a few seconds and I avoided her glance on purpose. Suddenly she said, "If only I could get myself to go to a detective agency. I've been thinking about it the last two days."

  "It would be worse than useless," I shouted. Then I took a grip on myself. "Worse than useless. They charge you fantastic sums and can't find out anything. For one thing, you can't investigate things when the man is dead. You can't follow him and the clues you have are insufficient. Besides, I shall try to find out what I can for you. And I can do it as well as a detective."

  "I wish I had really gone through his desk," she said. "Look." She suddenly raised her head and I noticed again that she had no lipstick on. "I have the key to Julian's room. The caretaker gave it to me. He thought I was a relation. Could you very kindly come with me some time and look through it?"

  "I think I ought to go," I said, "but not you. You must not go there any more."

  "Perhaps you are right." She shrugged a shoulder like a little girl who has been told off, and I began to feel where I was with her. "The address is sixteen Hans Terrace. It's just behind Harrods. Julian's flat is on the ground floor at the end of the passage as you go in. Nobody would notice you. The front door is always open and the care-taker'S usually out in the morning." It was clear that she was now trying to persuade me, not even guessing
that I needed no persuasion, that on the contrary I would have tried my very best to persuade her to give me the key.

  "Besides, should anybody notice you, you could always say you went to fetch a photograph for me.... Incidentally," she gave a little sigh, "I really want my photograph back. It's on the mantelpiece. In a brown leather frame. Could you please bring it back?" There came a pause. She added, "Only please take it out of the frame and leave the frame there. Could you kindly do that?"

  Was she already trying to get rid of Julian's memory while consciously she tried to find out why he died? "And leave the frame there." That was almost a conclusive indication. It was not just a sense of propriety. It seemed she didn't want anything to remind her of him.

  "How are you feeling now?" I said a little later.

  "A lot better than when I came in, but of course..."

  "I know. But don't worry. You will be all right." I almost added, "Sooner than you'd imagine."

  "When can I come to see you again?"

  I looked at the engagement book, though I knew more or less precisely what engagements I had in the next few days, now that my lectures were over. "I had better telephone you in a day or two."

  She wrote her telephone number down on a visiting card which said Mrs. Herbert Hewitt, and under it Miss Hewitt, and the address in Hampshire, a visiting card which I thought had gone out with the war.

  II

  "Dinner's ready," Terry said a little later. It was some time before I realized that he was now wearing a cowboy shirt of red-and-green checks.

  "How much?" I asked, pointing to the shirt.

  "Thirty two and six." He sensed I was feeling troubled and that I was just making conversation. He washed his hands at the sink, then replaced his watch on his wrist.

  "I couldn't get decent mushrooms," he said quietly as he served the soup. "This is tinned."

  "I'm feeling rather tired," I told him a moment later.

  "So you don't want to go to the Odeon tonight?"

  "If you don't mind, Terry. You go. You don't mind going on your own, do you?"

  "Well," he said, a little confusedly, and I remembered at once it was I who had suggested we ought to go to see that particular film.

  "You'll tell me all about it," I said.

  He continued to smile shyly, but a sudden look of alarm crossed his face. "You're not ill or anything?" he asked me. He pushed back his chair, walked over and put his hand on my forehead; the smell of washing soap came to my nostrils.

  "No," I said. "Just a little overworked. I didn't sleep too well last night...." This was untrue, but I hoped it sounded convincing. I liked Terry very much and trusted him more than I did most people, but it was important that he should not know what was worrying me. "How brown your arms are," I said.

  "I peeled very little this year," he replied. He went back to his chair.

  "Did you go to the Serpentine today?" I asked.

  "For about an hour. There wasn't much sun."

  "Many people?"

  "The usual crowd. Mostly men who have night jobs."

  "We must go there again one day," I said. "Only the water's so dirty."

  III

  I refused coffee and returned to the consulting-room, where it was quiet and rather stuffy. I opened the window and stood by it for a time. This was an occasion when I was feeling in need of a friend, but no friend existed. When it came to a personal crisis, one usually found oneself alone. This is what I usually said to people, but it was only true in relation to people like myself. I couldn't say anything to Terry, not only because I was alarmed, but rather because Miss Hewitt's visit had provoked in me a mad mixture of emotions, of which alarm or fear was only one constituent. There was curiosity, a sense of shock, a sense of shame for a childish anger which I had thought I had forgotten some time ago, and—most important of all—a sense of shame for the original cause of that anger. It was love—love which I had long forgotten.

  Love, I thought, and a vicious circle suddenly closed. I was alone because I was almost incapable of love, because I was suffering from a stunted heart—not a disease, a condition, and fairly common. I knew how common. I had a well-developed body, a well-developed mind, but my heart was small and stunted.

  I could be good, understanding, charitable, helpful. That was my reputation, I knew. Considering the man I was, it was surprising how few people I hated. I could also be brave, there was no doubt about that. On certain occasions, it seemed, I had been almost insanely reckless—when it came to sex, to be precise—but when it came to love, I suppose I had been a coward. This had all started long ago, of course, and in later years cowardice had become "reasonable precaution." I presume I had learned to live without love. I didn't miss it. I felt, in fact, that its absence gave me strength. To admit one's weakness was a sign of weakness. Now I wasn't so sure, and I felt the need for a friend.

  I suppose, I could have discussed things with Terry. The story was complex and madly incoherent, but Terry might have understood. He wasn't intellectual, but he felt deeply and instinctively, and might even have helped. In fact, I owed him some confidence. He had told me all about himself—private and intimate things. And I had told him nothing about myself beyond a series of vague commonplaces. Did Terry feel in his own way how mean I was? Perhaps not. But I knew all the time that if I really revealed myself to him he would discover how confused, weak and frightened I was, and it might destroy his respect for me, a respect I needed because I liked him.

  I heard his footsteps along the passage and the sound of the front door shutting behind him. I turned round.

  In front of me on the desk was the letter on the thick, yellow notepaper, and the key to Julian's flat. I read the letter again.

  The same bloody address

  DEAR JUL—This is just a letter to say hullo and thank you again for the good time had last week. I am now back on the old job but like I said previous I shall be in London again in two months time look forward to see you then.

  Cheerio till then,

  your friend, GINA

  I had formed an impression already as to the type of man who had written the letter. That it was a man was obvious from everything about it. It was obvious to me before I'd read it. Only one point puzzled me, the signature. It had misled Ann Hewitt and was the one thing which didn't fit in. Gina. He was certainly not the sort of person who might have used a woman's name as a nickname. But I was already comparing his "i's," his "n's," and his "a's," and in less than a minute I saw that the last letter was not an "a," but a distorted “g.” Ging. So the signature was "Ging," short for "Ginger."

  It was five days since I had seen the news about Julian in the paper. It had shocked and rather pained me for a moment, then a minute or two afterwards a patient had come in and I had forgotten it. But the shock had returned the same afternoon while I was going through the notes for my final lecture. I remember that I'd closed my eyes and gone back in my mind more than ten years. I suddenly saw the barber's shop in Knightsbridge, with its view over Rotten Row, and I began actually to smell the lotions, the shampoos, the damp towels. Then someone telephoned me, and while I was still on the line, my next patient arrived. Later that evening, I thought of contacting Bobby Sillock to inquire what could have happened. Bobby had known Julian well and would probably have told me all the facts, but I hadn't seen him for quite some time. That phase of my life was perhaps over; in any case, lately it didn't interest me. So I let the matter drop. I was then, as far as I can see now, far more curious than concerned.

  The next day, it seems, I didn't think about Julian, but he returned to my mind while Miss Mayhew, lying on the couch, mentioned the word "suicide." "My mother often thought of suicide, you see," she said in her wooden voice.

  "But that was after we moved to Morden...." And for a moment I smelled the damp towels and heard the buzz of the electric hair-dryer in the barber's shop. Then, noticing that she was silent, I said, "Yes. Please go on, Miss Mayhew. We are getting on fine." And, until today, that
was the last time I had thought of Julian.

  It is difficult to know how I would have reacted later to his death had Ann Hewitt not called and brought me the envelope bearing my name and address. Of course, I should have thought about him in the days, weeks, months, even years to come, but the emotions I had felt when I first saw the news in the paper would have faded. For that matter, they had begun to fade already until Ann's visit revived them.

  I thought I had successfully put aside what was troubling me, but now, after her visit, I knew that the thing was not over, in fact it was very real. I again felt the shock and the pain that had come to me five days earlier, only this time they were stronger, particularly the pain. I was curiously excited emotionally, and, for the moment, I was not feeling alarmed. What on earth could Julian have wanted from me? We hadn't seen each other for six or seven months, and then only for a couple of minutes, casually, at Hyde Park Corner Tube Station.

  Until today I had attributed no importance to that meeting, as, after all, I didn't know it was to be our last. But now I remember that cold morning just around Christmas when I had last seen him, hatless and without an overcoat. "How are things?" he asked. "One has to be well"—this was a cliché I sometimes used—"when one's dealing with so many sick people." He smiled. It was then that he said "I'll come and see you one of these days. Professionally." Many people say things like that to psychiatrists as a joke, and I quickly replied that he would find my charges moderate.

  I don't remember what he said to that, but perhaps his remark wasn't a joke, after all.

  When had we last met before that? I tried to think, but couldn't remember. It was probably just before I went to America, because after my return I seldom visited the places where, during the war, I'd occasionally bumped into him—pubs, night-clubs or parties. On those occasions we rarely spoke more than a few words. This wasn't perhaps from reserve or embarrassment, but as likely as not because we each thought the other was tied up with a different circle of friends. But we did talk, I remembered, at Bobby Sillock's party, just after the war. We were sitting together and Julian said he had heard I was a capable psychiatrist, especially with shell-shock cases. I was a little embarrassed, partly because of the praise and partly because this was the first serious talk we had had in four or five years. I wondered at the time whether he remembered our first meeting, and whether he knew that he had played a more important part in my life than I in his.