Читать книгу Seven Men Came Back - Warwick Deeping - Страница 18
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ОглавлениеDr. Pitt was washing his hands in the bathroom of a patient’s flat. He looked tired, and he had not shaved, for the hour was 7.25 a.m. In the doorway stood another man who had not yet used his razor.
“Have a spot of something, doc?”
Dr. Pitt eyed himself in the mirror.
“Not at this time of the morning, Fothergill. I’ve got a pretty heavy day. Yes, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
The other man was not worrying. His wife had just presented him with a baby, a most unfashionable act, and he was not interested in babies, and not particularly interested in his wife. In fact he was one of those men with private means who—in less fortunate circumstances—would have hung about at street corners waiting for the pubs to open. His club in Pall Mall was his pub.
Pitt did not like Fothergill. He saw Fothergill’s face reflected in the mirror, pink and flabby and foolishly cynical. Mrs. Fothergill was of different texture. It occurred to Pitt to wonder why on earth she had married this fellow whose head was like a pink wen.
“I don’t want your wife—disturbed, Fothergill.”
The man smiled his silly, sly smile.
“I shan’t disturb her, doctor. I shall just drop down to the club. The superfluous male, what!”
Dr. Pitt put on his coat.
“Yes, that’s the idea—superfluous.”
Fothergill’s slow, sly smile trickled down the stairs with him. It flowed like some gelatinous substance. It even accompanied Pitt to the vestibule where a porter in his shirtsleeves was manhandling a coal-box.
“Sorry you wouldn’t have a spot of anything, doctor.”
Pitt went briskly and solidly down the steps. Had he had a mouth at the back of his round and capable head it might have emitted the one word—“Ass.” The best service that Fothergill could perform would be to drink himself to death as quickly as possible and remain celibate during the process. Pitt walked briskly along the April street where the privet hedges and a few sooty lilacs were doing their best to celebrate the spring. Fothergill, finding the doctor so unfacile, turned his slippers towards the porter, and presented him with a ten-shilling note and a sample of that same sly and succulent smile.
“Have a drink, Bates.”
“Thank you, sir. Congratulations, sir.”
Mr. Fothergill went up the stairs in his slippers. Congratulations indeed! O, well, there might be something in it after all, something to keep Octavia occupied, and prevent her from posing before him as a sort of Tragic Muse. Why the devil couldn’t a woman let life be all slippers and sherry? So damned psychological! Yes, like Sarah Siddons in a white sheet attending a meeting of the Theosophical Society. Well, she could experiment on the young soul.
He decided to have a hot bath.
Pitt walked with solid briskness to his house—No. 5 Chandos Place. His very walk was both hygienic, efficient and prosperous. His brass plate bore the name of Dr. Penrose Pitt. He had become officially Dr. Penrose Pitt, and the alliteration was apt and rotund. It was spatted and clean and polished, a smooth chin, a confident forehead, a humanity that was both ivory and honey. A woman in a blue linen apron and cap was polishing the metalwork of No. 5’s apple-green door. She was a fresh-coloured woman, big, blue-eyed, deep-chested, and her smile was the smile of health.
“Good morning, Mrs. Woodhill.”
“Good morning, sir.”
She let him pass, and then closed the door, and sailed past him. She was one of those big women who can float like thistledown. Pitt went up to his bedroom to change his shirt, and by the time he had reached the bathroom his shaving water was in the basin, covered with a clean white towel.
Yes, that was the sort of woman a man wanted about the house, a supremely healthy and sunny person, not one of your moody whimperers, a rag-bag, full of emotional odds and ends. Health was so supremely important, especially to a man like Pitt whose day was dedicated to disease.
Pitt shaved himself. He had one of those plump faces that are easy to shave, and he used cream on his skin. An effeminate practice? Not a bit of it. More than three-quarters of his patients were women, and Pitt, shrewd ambassador from the Kingdom of Aesculapius, understood women. He understood the supreme importance of skins and scalps, and the disasters that are caused by gastric discords and inhibitions. Sunlight. Violet rays. A doctor had to provide vitality.
He was prospering. He had educated himself to be an expert in the matter of skins and diet. Many a medical reputation can be wrecked on an unresolved acne spot. Prove yourself sympathetic towards a woman’s complexion as well as to her temperament, and she will swear by you. St. John’s Wood was swearing by Dr. Penrose Pitt.
His breakfast was ready. Woodhill, the husband of Mrs. Woodhill, removed the lid from Dr. Pitt’s porridge plate. Woodhill had been in the navy. He understood discipline.
“There was a telephone call last night, sir.”
“A patient, Woodhill?”
“No, sir; a gentleman named Steel wanted to speak to you on the phone.”
“Steel?”
“Yes, sir, rang up from Narbiton. He wouldn’t leave a message. Said he would ring up again.”
Dr. Pitt sugared his porridge.
Steel! What was the matter with young Steel. In trouble of some sort?
For, to Dr. Pitt, the telephone was associated with appeals for help. Occasionally, people rang him up to ask him to dine with them; but more often the message concerned itself with the disharmonies of unwise dining.
