Except the Dying

Cyril could sympathize. This stretch of Church Street from Gerrard up to Carlton was jokingly referred to by the trades as “widow’s walk.” There were seven widows living in large houses on the west side and five on the east, all of them well-to-do. He had jumped at the opportunity to rent an office plumb in the midst of these possibly lonely ladies, but it hadn’t brought him the custom he’d hoped for. Initially, they had come in droves out of curiosity, manufacturing trivial ailments in order to assess him, but that hadn’t lasted. It was his fault, he knew. He wasn’t comfortable with a certain class of women, and try as he might to prevent it, his stammer got worse in their presence. To compensate, he became aloof and impersonal. This was not a good style to have with such ladies, who all wanted to be cosseted and flattered and who expected him to spend considerable time listening to them. Over the years they had drifted away, and nowadays the majority of his patients were from the working classes. They expected their doctor to be remote and took his stutter as a sign of his superiority.

Suddenly Cyril leaned forward, adjusting his pince-nez. My God, surely that wasn’t Martha? Not here. She wouldn’t dare to come here.

A stout woman in a dark fur cape and wide hat was walking up the street opposite, her skirt lifted indecorously high above her boots. Beside her was a young girl in a bright red tam and matching coat. Quickly, he ducked back from the window and pulled down the blind, just lifting it enough to see. He groaned. It was her. The woman and her daughter were proceeding quite slowly past his office towards Carlton Street.

He watched, breath held, as they halted at the corner. What was she doing? Surely she didn’t intend to go into the hotel? The livened doorman opened the door in anticipation, but with a haughty toss of her head, the woman turned back to face the road. Cyril shrank back further but she gave no sign she had seen him. She was concentrating on the electric streetcar that was swaying down the tracks towards them. She flagged it to stop. The urchin gave one last ostentatious sweep at the snow but the woman took her daughter’s hand and hurried past him without a glance. They clambered aboard the streetcar, the girl looking over her shoulder at the boy. Encouraged, he started to run after them, but the ticket collector leaned out from his platform and waved him away.

Cyril watched until they were out of sight. His heart was racing and he felt quite ill. He’d long ago realized the situation couldn’t be maintained indefinitely, but this was horribly close. Things were getting worse and worse, dreadful scene after dreadful scene. When she heard about Donalda’s leaving, it would be even more difficult.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was actually sweating.

Slowly, he went to his desk and sat down. There was a photograph on his desk of himself and Donalda, taken on their wedding day. He was beaming and she looked lovely, aglow with an inner joy.

He turned the picture facedown.

A shrill whistle from the speaking tube startled him. He seized his notebook and opened it although Mrs. Stockdale, his nurse, wouldn’t dream of coming into the inner office unannounced.

“Mr. Shepcote is calling, Doctor. Shall I put him through?”

“Yes.”

He pulled the telephone towards him and put the hearing piece to his ear.

“Rhodes here.”

The voice on the other end was so low and throaty he wouldn’t have recognized it as Shepcote’s.

“Rhodes, I have to cancel this evening’s salon. I’m not up to it…”

Cyril’s heart sank. He had promised Charlotte she would meet the famous actress Flo Wortley, and he knew how icy an atmosphere would prevail when he told them it was cancelled. Not from the girl – she was never like that – but certainly from Martha.

“Rhodes?”

“Y-yes, sorry. Woolgathering over h-here. Perhaps anoth-ther time…”

“Perhaps,” whispered Shepcote. Cyril heard the click of the receiver. He had hung up.

What appalling manners, no polish at all. Surely a person deserved an explanation. Was there anything he could do instead? he wondered. He sat toying with his pen, making scribbles on the blotter. He almost laughed when he realized what he was drawing. A line of stick men, all of them hanging from a gallows. Oh God, what had he got into?

The speaking tube whistled again.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Latimer is here with his father, Doctor.”

“Give me a few minutes. And, Mrs. Stockdale, is Mrs. Spoffard on the telephone?”

“I believe so, Doctor.”

“Call her up and cancel her appointment. See if she can come tomorrow.”

“Yes, Doctor. What shall I tell her?”

“What?”

“Can I give her a reason for the cancellation?”

“I don’t have to explain my every move to that woman.”

“Yes, sir, of course not. It’s just that…”