D. Compton: The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

I had time, before Katherine Mortenhoe came into the office, to wish that her computer, too, had had a sense of humor.

Suddenly, out of the blue, the Medical Center had rung her.

Always, in the past, it had been she who rang them. Always a little ashamed, and therefore sharp. Naturally Dr Mason was a busy man, but she was busy also. And she, not he, was the neurotic. And if he didn’t prescribe some new capsules for her (placebos, whatever they were) she doubted if she’d be able to carry on to the end of the week. She was proofreading the new Celia Wentworth or Aimee Paladine or Ethel Pargeter — always a preempting self-mockery in her voice — and it had to be in by Friday. And always they were very kind, and fitted her in the same afternoon.

There were other things she didn’t say. That her work was demanding and creative, for example. That it wasn’t any use imagining that because you had a computer you just sat back and let it do all your thinking for you. That she was responsible to the Board for the running of her department. (Peter was a nice boy, and bright, but he didn’t know a plot loop from a denouement phase.) That in fact she was her department… These were things she didn’t say, for they were the cry of every petty bureaucrat and organization man from the beginning of time.

These she saved for Dr Mason’s ear alone. He knew her, and knew she had no need to bolster herself in the eyes of others.

And then, suddenly, out of the blue, there was the telephone call from the Medical Center. They said they saw she was booked for the following Tuesday, and were just confirming arrangements.

She’d made no such booking, she said, and she was sure there must be some mistake.

They agreed that a mistake was more than possible, but said the slot was available all the same. Perhaps she’d like to make use of it — periodic chats with one’s doctor did no harm, they said, even if one was as fit as a fiddle. (‘They’ was actually a youngish man, and kind sounding. But his kindness was professional, and he’d been engaged on its account. Her only way through the professional carapace was Dr Mason, who cared.)

She didn’t argue, but said she’d be there, and made a note in her desk diary, and immediately forgot all about it. Or, more precisely, misremembered it, edging it forward in her mind to Wednesday, which was also the day she was having her hair done. For she knew perfectly well, and faced the fact bravely, that there was really only one possible reason why Dr Mason should ask to see her. The Center didn’t make mistakes. If Dr Mason wanted to see her it must be because she was ill: not genteelly neurotic (highly-strung, her grandmother would have said), but ill. Physically ill.

She toyed briefly with the idea that she was dying. It was dramatic, but unlikely. It was what came of having a novelist’s mind — of, if you like, being a novelist. It was a graceful idea, charmingly old-fashioned. In the real world practically nobody died of anything except senescence. For God’s sake, at forty-four she was a long way off that.

She told Harry about the Center’s phone call that evening, after dinner, while they were loading the dishwasher. She dropped the news in very lightly, believing it was he she was sparing. He froze, a clump of dirty cutlery in his hand.

‘What do you think they want?’ he said.

‘They don’t want anything. I told you. They more or less admitted it was all a mistake.’

‘That’s all right then.’ He smiled at her, and bent down to put the cutlery in the holder. But he didn’t believe her.

‘My dear man, if they say it’s a mistake, I’m sure that’s what it is. After all, you of all people must know the sort of mess these big offices get into.’

‘Of course I know.’ He racked plates while she watched him, then closed the dishwasher and started it. ‘Anyway, a chat with Mason won’t do you any harm. You always feel better when you’ve been to see him.’

‘Meaning that there’s never really anything the matter with me.’

‘Nothing physical, Katherine. We both know that.’

As if to prove his point she felt the approach of one of her fits of dizziness, and the familiar tightness around her head. Not exactly a headache, more a feeling of tightness, as if her scalp were shrinking. How she hated people who thought and talked of nothing but their health.

‘The computer may have come up with something,’ she said.

He was drying his hands. ‘Don’t you wish it would? The physical things are so easy these days.’ He dried his hands carefully, as he always did. Then he carefully threw away the towel. ‘Chess?’ he said. ‘I can always get on with my model if you’d rather.’

‘I’ve brought home some proofs.’

‘You’ll sit and brood.’

‘Barbara needs them by Friday.’

‘Come down to the Hobby Room with me.’

‘I shall take one of my capsules and work in bed.’

He was already on his way out of the door. ‘Take two,’ he said, over his shoulder.

She leaned against the kitchen table. ‘My appointment’s for ten-thirty,’ she called after him. ‘I’ll ring you afterward. Ten-thirty Wednesday. The day I’m having my hair done.’

He came back, and smiled, and kissed her forehead which he could reach, and went away again.

She’d met Harry across the desk of a License Bureau cubicle. He was a green form, and a pen, and a necessary rubber stamp. Her marriage to Gerald was up for its second five-year renewal, and he wasn’t renewing. She had no Basis for Discussion — even if she’d wanted one — for there were no children and she was a Grade I wage earner in her own right. Gerald hadn’t warned her of the nonrenewal. The official notification was simply in the box one morning when she went to the Post Office to pick up her mail, together with the form for her signature. And that evening he didn’t come back to the flat after work. He never came back to the flat again, but sent a friend for his things. The friend told her, unnecessarily, that Gerald couldn’t go on living with what he described as ‘an armored cruiser.’ She was not so much shocked as astonished.

Harry had helped her to fill in the simple form and — more importantly — had provided someone with whom she could share this astonishment. He was far too straightforward a person to have guessed it might be the cover for something more. Just by way of something to say, or possibly to comfort her, he’d mentioned casually that he was in the same boat himself. A nonrenewal at the second option… Of course, it was harder for her, harder for the woman — everyone knew that. But he’d heard his ex-wife was getting along very nicely. The cases weren’t quite the same, mind, the nonrenewal being her idea not his, but there hadn’t been another man or anything like that, and his ex-wife was finding her new status in society quite pleasant. There were plenty of clubs and associations. His ex-wife had been a great one for clubs and associations.

At first Katherine had suspected the whole story of being a social worker’s ploy. But the name of the ex-wife in a social worker’s ploy would have tripped readily off the tongue: it wouldn’t still, months after nonrenewal, have been too painful to speak even. This betokened a faithful heart. Besides, the man in front of her across the desk had been obviously no social worker. He’d been too evidently lonely. And too undevious.

She reasoned that in his daily work he must have had to deal with dozens of women in her situation. Therefore she allowed his unusual concern to flatter her. Further, she allowed him to take her out to things, ostensibly to meet other people, other Newly Singles. They went to parties, and lectures, and on a couple of cultural exchange trips. After the first two or three outings he stopped even pretending to introduce her around. They discovered a common interest in chess: he a follower of Moldenev, and she of Fu Tsong. So they sat at the back of the meetings and played, and thought how silly they were to go home afterward to their separate beds.