Charles Snow - Time of Hope

With me she was friendly, irritated, protective. Like many others at that time, like Mrs Knight at the ball, she noticed at once that I was looking physically strained. It was easy to perceive, for I had a face on which wear and tear painted itself. The lines, as with Sheila, were etching themselves while I was young.

Marion was perturbed and cross.

‘We’ve got to deliver you in London on the—’ It was like her to have remembered the exact date of Bar Finals. ‘We don’t want to send you there on a stretcher, Lewis.’

She scolded George.

‘You mustn’t let him drink,’ she said. ‘Really, you’re like a lot of children. I think I’m the only grown-up person among the lot of you.’

Against my will, she made me promise that, if I did not feel better, I would go to a doctor.

I was afraid to go. Partly I had the apprehension of any young man who does not know much of his physical make-up. There might be something bad to learn, and I was frightened of it.

But also I had a short-term fear, a gambler’s fear. Come what may, I could not stop working. It was imperative to drive myself on until the examination. Nothing should stop that; a doctor might try to. After the examination I could afford to drop, not now.

I parted from Sheila on a Friday afternoon. The next morning, as I got out of bed, I reeled with giddiness. The room turned and heaved; I shut my eyes and clutched the mantelpiece. The fit seemed to last, wheeling the room round outside my closed eyelids, for minutes. I sat back on the bed, frightened and shaken. What in God’s name was this? Nevertheless, I got through my day’s quota of reading. If I broke the programme now, I was defeated. I felt well enough to remember what I worked at. But the next morning I had another attack, and for two days afterwards, usually in the morning, once at night.

I was afraid: and above all I was savagely angry. It would be intolerable to be cheated at this stage. Despite Sheila, despite all that had happened to me, I had got myself well-prepared. That I knew. It was something I had to know; I should suffer too much if I deceived myself this time. George was speaking not with his cosmic optimism, but as a technical expert, when he encouraged me. Recently I had asked him the chances. George did not think naturally in terms of odds, but I pressed him. What was the betting on my coming out high in the first class? In the end, George had answered that he thought the chances were better than even.

It would be bitter beyond bearing to be cheated now. My mind was black with rage. But I was also ignorant and frightened. I had no idea what these fits meant. My fortitude had cracked. I had to turn to someone for help.

I thought of calling on old Dr Francis — but, almost involuntarily one evening, after struggling through another day’s work, I began walking down the hill to the infirmary. I was going to ask for Tom Devitt. The infirmary was very near, I told myself, I should get it over quicker; Tom was a modern doctor, and the old man’s knowledge must have become obsolete; but those were excuses. She had spoken of him the afternoon that I proposed, and I went to him because of that.

At the infirmary I explained to a nurse that I was an acquaintance of Devitt’s, and would like to see him in private. She said, suspiciously, formidably, that the doctor was busy. At last I coerced her into telephoning him. She gave him my name. With a bad grace she told me that he was free at once.

I was taken to his private sitting-room. It overlooked the garden, from which, in the April sunshine, patients were being wheeled. Devitt looked at me with a sharp, open, apprehensive stare. He greeted me with a question in his voice. I was sure that he expected some dramatic news of Sheila.

‘I’m here under false pretences,’ I had to say. ‘I’m presuming on your good nature — because we met once. I’m not well, and I wondered if you’d look me over.’

Devitt’s expression showed disappointment, relief, a little anger.

‘You ought to have arranged an appointment,’ he said irritably. But he was a kind man, and he could no more forget my name than I could his.

‘I’m supposed to be off duty,’ he said. ‘Oh well, You’d better sit down and tell me about yourself.’

We had met just the once. Now I saw him again, either my first impression had been gilded, or else he had aged and softened in between. He was very bald, his cheeks were flabby and his neck thickening. His eyes wore the kind of fixed, lost look that I had noticed in men who, designed for a happy, relaxed, comfortable life, had run into ill luck and given up the game. I should not have been surprised to hear that Devitt could not bear an hour alone, and went each night for comfort to his club.

There was also a certain grumbling quality which overlaid his kindness. He was much more a tired, querulous, professional man than I had imagined him. But he was, I felt, genuinely kind. In addition, he was businesslike and competent, and, as I discovered when I finished telling him my medical history, had an edge to his tongue.

‘Well,’ said Tom Devitt, ‘how many diseases do you think you’ve got?’

I smiled. I had not expected such a sharp question.

‘I expect you must have diagnosed TB for yourself. It’s a romantic disease of the young, isn’t it—’

He sounded my lungs, said: ‘Nothing there. They can X-ray you to make sure, but I should be surprised.’ Then he set to work. He listened to my heart, took a sample of blood, went through a whole clinical routine. I was sent into the hospital to be photographed. When I came back to his room Devitt gave me a cigarette. He seemed to be choosing his words before he began to speak.

‘Well, old chap,’ he said, ‘I don’t think there’s anything organically wrong with you. You’ve got a very slight mitral murmur—’ He explained what it was, said that he had one himself and that it meant he had to pay an extra percentage on his insurance premium. ‘You needn’t get alarmed about that. You’ve got a certain degree of anaemia. That’s all I can find. I shall be very annoyed if the X-rays tell us anything more. So the general picture isn’t too bad, you know.’

I felt great comfort.

‘But still,’ went on Tom Devitt, ‘it doesn’t seem to account for the fact that you’re obviously pretty shaky. You are extremely run down, of course. I’m not sure that I oughtn’t to tell you that you’re dangerously run down.’ He looked at me, simply and directly: ‘I suppose you’ve been having a great deal of worry?’

‘A great deal,’ I said.

‘You ought to get rid of it, you know. You need at least six months doing absolutely nothing, and feeding as well as you can — you’re definitely undernourished — and without a worry in your head.’

‘Instead of which,’ I said, ‘in a month’s time I take the most important examination of my career.’

‘I should advise you not to.’

At that point I had to take him into my confidence. I was not ready to discuss Sheila, even though he desired it and gave me an opening. ‘Some men can have their health break down — through something like a broken engagement,’ said Tom Devitt naïvely.

‘I can believe that,’ I said, and left it there. But I was quite open about my circumstances, how I was placed for money, what this examination meant. For every reason I had to take it this year. If my health let me down, I had lost.

‘Yes,’ said Devitt. ‘Yes. I see.’ He seemed taken aback, discomfited.

‘Well,’ he added, ‘it’s a pity, but I don’t think there’s a way out. I agree, you must try to keep going. Good luck to you, that’s all I can say. Perhaps we can help you just a bit. I should think the most important thing is to see that you manage to sleep.’