Old Filth - Jane Gardam [81]
“Mrs.-er,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I am going away.”
“Away? Oh, yes?”
“Yes. I am going to Malmesbury.”
“Malmesbury? Down Gloucester?”
“Yes. I was there in the Army during the War. Just for a look round.”
“If it’s hotels, be careful. There’ll be steps and stairs you don’t know. Remember poor Judge Veneering.”
“It is not a ship. I’ll leave my address.”
“I’ll pack for you.”
“Thank you, I’m sure I can manage. And I’ll be hiring a car.”
Two minutes later he saw her outside, furiously conferring with Garbutt, the mauve woman having disappeared. Their excitement maddened him.
The next day, she came in to tell him that if it was a hotel he ought to have new pyjamas.
He said, “Oh, and Mrs.-er, when I come back I intend to manage here alone.”
“Alone?”
“I think I am becoming too dependent on you all. I’m going to employ the Social Services. The Meals on Wheels. I’m sorry, Mrs.-er.”
“After all these years you still don’t know my name,” she said. “That’s it, then. I’ll go now. Get yourself to Malmesbury.”
He saw her clacking at Garbutt on the lawn and marching away, and felt gleefully cruel. He opened the glass doors and waited till Garbutt went by.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Garbutt. “I’ll just see the fire’s out, then I’m off. You know where to find me if you change your mind. Her name’s Katey, by the way. You’ve gutted her.”
In the hotel at Malmesbury, journey safely accomplished, splendid room looking across at the Abbey, smell of a good dinner floating up, his unrepentant euphoria remained. Their blank faces, ha! Their disbelief. They’d see he was his own master yet. And here in Malmesbury not a soul knew him. He stumbled on the stairs and limped into the dining-room, rather wishing he’d brought his walking-stick for his explorations tomorrow.
The ankle next morning was the size of a small balloon and he telephoned the Desk for assistance. They suggested bringing him breakfast in bed which outraged him. Staggering down a steep flight of stairs between two waiters, he somehow made the breakfast-room. Outside it was pouring with rain and people went by behind umbrellas at a forty-five degree angle against the wind. Unable to walk from the table, he enquired whether there was a doctor who could come and see him and was told the way to a surgery. It was not far, they said, but Old Filth couldn’t even reach the hotel’s front door and sank upon an oak bench. People passed by. A whole coachload of tourists streamed past, chattering about the disappointing weather. He asked if the Desk would ring for a doctor to call to examine him.
“You’d have to go to the hospital for that. For an X-ray.”
“I only need a GP’s opinion.”
The Desk stared. “You’d have to go round to the surgery. They don’t do home visits now unless it’s serious.”
He asked the Desk to call a taxi.
The paving stones between the taxi and surgery door shone slippery and menacing. He hesitated. The umbrellas continued to go by. At last he was helped in, and found a room crowded and silent like a church and one girl at a screen with her back to the audience.
“I need to see a doctor.”
“Yes.” She handed him a disc saying “21.”
“Do I wait here?”
She looked surprised. “Where else?”
“This means that there are twenty people ahead of me?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of wait will that be?”
“A long one.”
“An hour?”
“Oh, nearer two.”
He rang the Desk and asked for his luggage to be collected and brought down to the hotel foyer. And would they kindly ring the car-hire company to come and take him from the surgery, then back to the hotel and then home to the Donheads.
“It wasn’t even Malmesbury I really wanted to go to, it was Badminton. Just down the road,” he told this driver.
“It is. Just as it ever was. Down the road and down the hill.”
“I was there in the War. Wanted to have another look. I was in the Army.” (His ankle was hell.)
“There’s a good hotel near there where you could keep your foot up.