Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“Perhaps they were rather hard to tell apart,” she said, and then went on: “Oh, Paul, I must tell you something I heard on the radio this morning. Apparently there was a big wind blowing in Washington and the news announcer said ‘Mother Nature went on a rampage in our nation’s capital’. I thought you’d enjoy that.”

He did, as she had guessed, but then seemed abruptly deflated. “Rampage, rampage,” he muttered. “You think that’s a good word for something I go on at times?”

“Yes, I do.”

They stopped at a roadside place where there was as good a chance of being unrecognized as anywhere, and she persuaded him to have a bowl of soup as well as coffee. The heat and stuffiness of the place made him instantly drowsy; his eyes kept closing and she noticed that in bringing the spoon to his mouth he often touched his cheek first, as if his hand was not in perfect co-ordination. She remarked on this, as casually as she could. “Do you know you do that, Paul?”

He replied rather crossly: “No, and what of it?” Then he smiled in apology. “Reminds me of the only time I tried to play golf. Greg took me round at Carmel. I simply couldn’t hit the ball. Not once.”

That didn’t astonish her so much as the fact that Greg had ever succeeded in putting a club in his hand and getting him on to a course. And then she remembered Interlaken: Paul in shorts, gathering wild flowers in a wood. The things he would do under stress of a personal enthusiasm—for Wanda then, for Greg recently. She said: “Anyhow, I’m glad Greg made you take some physical exercise.”

He said gloomily: He won’t again. I’m through with him.”

“WHAT? With GREG?”

“After last night you bet I am. For him to talk to ME like that— just because I made a speech he hadn’t either the brains or the guts to swallow! What would he be without me, I’d like to know?”

“Pretty much what he is now, darling—a successful movie actor.”

“But Morning Journey’s given him a new reputation—the first picture he’s ever got an award for—the nearest he ever came in his life to a real acting performance—”

“And the worst picture you ever made, don’t forget. You really are a bit inconsistent, Paul. Does this mean, then, that you’re not going abroad with Greg as you planned?”

“That’s all out of the question now.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” he answered heavily. “I only know I want to get away some place.”

“There’s one thing I’d like you to do,” she went on, with as much and as little emphasis as she dared. “Have a checkup with a doctor. The one who saw you at the studio said you ought, but you never did. I wish you would, Paul. You’re not young any more.” She added quickly: “Neither am I.”

She paid the bill and they left the restaurant. There had been no mention so far of where they were driving to, or for how long. They were some twenty or thirty miles out, she wasn’t quite sure where. She drove on, as the only alternative to turning back, and after another few miles during which he was silent she saw that his head had slumped forward. This was not unusual when he was being driven, but now for some reason she stopped the car and looked at him intently. That made him wake up.

“You were asleep,” she said.

“I guess I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“Neither did I—till early this morning. Then I slept in the car by the roadside. I can have adventures too, can’t I? I’ll tell you all about it if… Or no; sleep if you’d rather.” Then she felt, still watching him, a sudden tightness in her voice. He looked so worn, so shop-soiled; maybe it was the late sunlight, shining in his face as they drove west— spotlight on Lear in a not too good production. “Oh, Paul, anything you like if only you don’t get ill. Will you do what I ask and see a doctor?”

Weakly, surprisingly, he nodded.

“When, darling?”

“Any time.”

“Now?”

He half nodded, and she drove on to the next doctor as if it had been to the next gas station. It was beginning to be dusk.

The doctor was intelligent, exact, and considerably interested in his two chance visitors. Also he was clearly not a movie fan. She entered his unpretentious office first, leaving Paul in the waiting-room, dozing off. There were no other patients waiting and she rather gathered she had found him in by chance at such an hour. Paul’s general appearance and need of sleep were not unnatural after the kind of night he had spent, but of course she had to think of some other explanation to tell the doctor. “We’re touring,” she said, “and I think it’s been too much for him. He has a bad headache. Perhaps it’s the heat… but I’m a little worried and I thought…”

“And the name?” he said, pulling a pad towards him.

“Mrs. Bond.”

“Well, we’ll have a look at him.” He left his desk and opened the door to the waiting-room. Carey went past him towards Paul. She touched Paul’s shoulder but he did not move; he was breathing heavily, snoring a little, the head sagging on the chest. The doctor walked across. “I guess your father’s taking a real nap,” he said, stooping over Paul with a smile.

“He’s not my father.” She had spoken before she could check herself.

“Oh?”

“He’s…” She had to say something now. “He’s my husband.”

The doctor was already shaking Paul more vigorously. At last Paul wakened, blinked to find where he was, then with a sharp shift to gentleness and courtesy, apologized to the doctor. The latter kept on smiling. “That’s all right, Mr. Bond.” Still only half awake as he staggered into the office on the doctor’s arm, Paul did not seem to notice.

He went out to the car afterwards, while she talked to the doctor.

“Quite a sick man you’ve got, Mrs. Bond,” he began, and her heart fell through the guard-rail into some abyss of its own.

“He is?” she stammered foolishly. “He… he really IS?”

“I’d advise you to call off your holiday and get him home. Then put him in the care of his regular doctor. Maybe you should take the train if you’ve come a long way.”

“Oh no, not far—just from… inside the state.”

He looked as if he expected her to say more. “Well, don’t do any more travelling today. Take him to some hotel—the Bristol up the road isn’t so bad—and let him have a good long sleep. He said he didn’t get any last night. Were you driving late?”

“No… no…”

“He seems quite exhausted.”

“Yes… but… it’s not… is it, I mean… is it anything VERY serious?”

“If he doesn’t get rest it could be.”

“But with rest… he’ll be all right?”

“There’s a very good chance of it… What does he do for a living?”

“He’s—he’s in business.”

“For himself?”

“Oh yes.” Even at such a moment she could not help thinking wryly how well the phrase suited all Paul’s activities since he was born.

“That’s fortunate—he can take things easily, then, if he wants to. Men like him at his age are a problem—if they were working men they’d be glad enough to retire, but because they have their own businesses to run they—”

“He’s not so old,” she interrupted.

“He told me sixty-three.”

It was on her tongue to exclaim: “WHAT? Why, he’s only FIFTY-three!” —but then she thought there was little point in developing the issue. She said: “Well, that’s not so very old”—and all the time she was wondering why on earth Paul had added ten years to his age. Was it because of some twisted vanity that made him want to hear the comment: “You certainly don’t look it”? But the tragic thing was that he DID look it; to be sure of the pleasing answer he should have added twenty years.