Джон Пристли - Salt is Leaving

Dr Salt carefully stopped his machine and lifted the record from the turntable. "This isn't a surgery and, anyhow, I'm not in practice here now."

"And I'm not ill." The young man grinned, pleased with himself.

Even apart from that funny business with poor little Peggy, Dr Salt would have disliked this young man – everything about him. "Well, don't wear those dam" silly dark glasses too often, you'll ruin your eyesight. Good afternoon."

"Not yet. Want to talk to you. You"re leaving Birkden, aren't you?"

"Yes, quite soon. Why?"

"I've a friend who wants this flat – and right sharp."

"Go away."

The young man brought out and held up what looked like a number of banknotes. "A hundred quid here. Nice new fivers. All off tax. Lovely money. And my friend says it's all yours if you'll walk out tonight – like that – bingo!"

Dr Salt was curious now. "It's a bargain. I leave here tonight, and you or your friend book me a suite for a few days at the Queen " s Hotel ."

"Oh – no. That's out."

"I thought it would be. Put your money away."

"You think you"re being clever, Dr Salt, but you"re not. You"re just being bloody stupid. Look – if you"re leaving Birkden, you can't like it much-"

"Not much – no."

"Lovely town. And I'm not one of the locals. Only been here a year. But I go with the right kind of people. You don't – you"re bloody stupid."

"You've made your point," said Dr Salt wearily.

"Oh – no. Just coming to it. Look – if I want you to clear out of Birkden – right sharp – it's only for your own good. You"re not popular, y"know, Dr Salt. You've been careless. You've made enemies. Didn't matter before. Not safe to start monkeying with a doctor who's working hard. He's got too many people on his side. But you've finished here now, haven't you? You"re not working any more. You"re not important to anybody. You"re redundant , man. And it can turn out to be a nasty experience."

"Can it? What are you proposing to do?"

"Me?" cried the young man. "I'm not going to do anything. I'm just giving you a warning, that's all. After that I mind my own business. And you ought to mind yours."

"I am doing." Dr Salt went to his desk and picked up a telephone directory.

"Look – I've given you a warning, now I'll make you a nice offer. My last. Clear out now and you can take ten of those fivers with you and I'll see that everything here is properly packed and put into store. There's a good train to the Smoke at half past six – you could catch it. And two or three to Birmingham – if you like Birmingham."

Dr Salt was now looking through the telephone directory. "I don"t," he threw over his shoulder. "And I don't like you. Now go away."

"And you go screw a duck." The young man slammed the door so hard that a lithograph in colour jumped its nail and crashed on a pile of books.

After blowing out his breath in a long sighing sound, Dr Salt began dialling. "This is Dr Salt. Is Mr Duffield there, please? He knows me." A youthful but surprisingly precise voice, belonging, it said, to one Godfrey, personal assistant to Mr Duffield, replied that Mr Duffield was away and would not be back until the following afternoon. "Well," said Dr Salt, "tell him I'll be coming round to see him about something that might be rather important. About this time perhaps . . . Yes, Dr Salt. He'll remember me because his brother was one of my patients."

Then he recalled that he had been trying to make up his mind about the Schubert Octet. He started the fifth movement again, listened carefully, decided in the record's favour, but then had some trouble finding the pile of chamber music recordings he was keeping. After listening to several more records he went into his kitchen, which was larger than most and also served as a dining room even when he had two or three guests. He examined some tins in the cupboard and chose a French one – tripes a la mode de Caen . He brought it out but did not open it, knowing that he had plenty of time, but he peeled a few potatoes and cleaned and shredded half a cabbage. Then he put the potatoes into salted water and started them going over a low flame, poured some whisky into a tumbler, added a couple of ice cubes and then took the drink into the sitting room. There he sat at his desk, lit a pipe and, after taking one slow sip of the whisky, forgot about it, began thinking hard and making notes in a scribble that was as good as a cipher. Sometimes even he couldn't read it after a few hours; but he just managed to make it out, later that evening, when he began thinking again.

1

The letter came by the second post on Wednesday morning. It was the only letter, the rest of the post being bills and receipts. Reg Morgan, looking important as well as scholarly, brought it into the little back office, where Maggie and Mrs Chapman were sitting over their cups of elevenses.

"Just one real letter, Miss Culworth," said Reg. "I can't imagine what's in it. Looks very peculiar."

"So do you, Reg," said Mrs Chapman sharply. "Hanging about here, making silly remarks. Go and help Sheila."

"What doing, Mrs Chapman? She's just standing there – in a dream."

"I'll find something for both of you to do in a minute. Now off you go, Reg."

Maggie was staring at the letter. Printed in red at the top of the envelope was Lyceum Cinema , Birkden . But it was addressed in a childish hand to Mr Culworth , Bookshop , Hemton . "I must say Reg was right, though. It does look most peculiar. See for yourself."

"Must be one of these silly young girls they have working in some of these offices now. Can't get anybody else. Not even a big cinema like the Lyceum. Are you going to open it, Maggie?"

"I think I ought, don't you? After all, it's addressed to him here at the shop. It might be something we ought to attend to. I think he'd want me to open it, don't you?"

"Certainly." Mrs Chapman brought that out promptly, but then she hesitated. "Besides – if it isn't business – well, it's from Birkden, isn't it? And all you know so far about your father is that he went to Birkden. So if it isn't business, if it's personal, then it might tell you something about where he is and what he's doing. You read it, Maggie." She took a look into the shop. "Damn – two customers! I'd better go and cope."

The sheet inside was headed Lyceum Cinema again. The letter was written in the same childish hand that had addressed the envelope.

Dear Mr Culworth,

Dr Salt came here to ask me about Noreen and from what he said I think I was wrong what I told you about her. And now there is trouble so look out but I am in a hurry to write this so cant explain.

Yours truly,

Peggy Pearson

Maggie read it three times, her mind racing round and round it. And then, before she settled down to consider the letter carefully, she realized something. She was suddenly more alive than she had been for the last two years, ever since she fled from the ruin and misery of her affair with Hugh. Not joyously alive, of course – she hated this letter – but still – alive. Or at least far less desiccated, instantly more capable of real feeling, than she had been ever since she came back home.

"Was it anything?" Bertha Chapman was back, for once a highly inquisitive type.

Maggie had to think quickly. She had already decided that she must show the letter to Alan, but must make him agree that it ought to be kept from their mother. But what about Bertha? Yes, she needed one ally in the shop. "You read it, Bertha, but please don't say anything about it to Sheila and Reg."

Bertha, built for it, gave a snort. "I wouldn't tell those two what I was having for lunch. Now then." When she had read the letter twice, she stared inquiringly at Maggie.