Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym Read Free Book Online Page B

that moment the nurse called out Marcia's name and she knew that her turn had come. She was not so naive as to imagine that Mr Strong's name on the door was a guarantee of his presence in the room, so she was not unduly cast down when, having half undressed and lain down on a couch, she was examined by a golden-haired boy, a houseman doing his training in surgery. He prodded her in a highly professional manner, took her blood pressure and listened with his stethoscope. Of course he did not notice her new pink underwear but did comment admiringly on the neatness of her operation scar — Mr Strong's work, of course — and told her that she was too thin and ought to eat more. Yet he, just coming up to his twenty-fifth birthday, hardly knew what to expect of a woman in her sixties. Were they always as thin as this? Certainly his great aunt, the nearest equivalent he could think of, was not at all like Miss Ivory, though he had never seen her without clothes.
    'I think perhaps somebody should keep an eye on you,' he said kindly, and Marcia was not at all offended or irritated as she was when the social workers and the church people implied the same thing, for hospital was different She was quietly triumphant when she handed her card in at the appointments desk to arrange for a further check-up at some future date.
    Marcia's second holiday treat was a visit to Mr Strong's house, or rather to view at a safe distance the house where he lived. She knew from the telephone directory that he functioned not only in Harley Street but also at an address in Dulwich, a district easily reached by her on a 37 bus.
    She let a week elapse after her visit to the hospital — spacing out the treats — before setting out on a fine afternoon to see Mr Strong's house. The bus was nearly empty and the conductress kind and helpful. She knew the best stop for the road Marcia asked for, but when she had punched the ticket she seemed, like the woman at the hospital, to want to chat. They were lovely houses in that road — did Marcia know somebody who lived there or — for this seemed unlikely — was she perhaps going after a job there? It was dreadful, Marcia felt, the way so many people wanted to know one's business and, when she did not respond, to tell one about their own. She had to listen to quite a long story about husband and kiddies, categories she knew nothing about, but at last the stop was reached and she got out and walked along the road in the sunshine.
    The house was imposing, as were its neighbours, just the kind of house that looked worthy of Mr Strong. There were shrubs in the front garden. Marcia imagined the laburnum trees and the lilacs in May, but now in early August there wasn't much to admire. Perhaps there were roses at the back, for the garden behind the house seemed extensive, but all she could see was a swing hanging from a massive old tree. Of course Mr Strong was a family man; he had children, and now they were all away at the seaside. The house seemed completely deserted which meant that Marcia could stand in the road gazing, noticing discreetly drawn curtains in a William Morris design. It went through her mind that there were no net curtains here, they did not seem to go with Mr Strong. Her thoughts were unformulated, it was enough just to stand. Afterwards she waited for over half an hour at the bus stop, unconscious of the delay, time passing and no bus. Eventually she reached home and made a cup of tea and boiled an egg. The young doctor at the hospital had told her she ought to eat more and she was sure Mr Strong would agree with that.
    Next day she returned to the office, but when they asked her how she had spent her leave she was evasive, only saying that the weather had been good and she'd had a nice break, which was what people always said.
     
    The first day of Norman's leave was brilliantly sunny, the kind of day for going to the country or the seaside or for walking hand in hand with a lover in Kew