Shannon's Way Read online

  “This is a new lock … a brand-new lock.” He straightened himself. “ What’s going on here? Gloag, go and tell Pim to bring a crowbar.”

  I saw then that I had to face it. I did not wish Pim to be involved, and Matron was looking worried, so I fumbled in my inside pocket, and brought out the key.

  “I can let you in.” Making the best of a bad job, I unlocked the door and switched on the light.

  With their instincts of detection fully aroused, all three of them pushed forward and stared in an outraged fashion at my equipment. After their hitherto fruitless excursion it was meat and drink to them to discover this iniquity.

  “God damn it!” Masters exclaimed. “ What’s all this?”

  I smiled at them propitiatingly.

  “It’s very simple, gentlemen. I am doing some research work, and as this pavilion was completely unoccupied I ventured to make use of it as my laboratory.”

  “Who gave you permission?”

  In spite of my resolution to be meek, I reddened at Masters’s tone.

  “Was it necessary to have permission?”

  Masters’s brows drew down. He glared at me.

  “Don’t you realize that you are responsible to the committee for everything? You had no right whatsoever to take such a liberty.”

  “I don’t understand your point of view. Am I taking a liberty in applying myself to scientific research?”

  “Certainly you are. You’re the doctor of this fever hospital, not a bloody experimenter.”

  Hone coughed gently behind his hand.

  “May we inquire whose time you utilized for this so-called research of yours? I presoom you were doing it when you should have been in the wards, caring for our patients.”

  “I worked in my own time, at night, when my official duties were over.”

  “Your official duties are never over,” Masters cut in rudely. “This is a whole-time job. We pay you to be on your toes twenty-four hours of the day, not to sneak off and shut yourself up with a lot of germs. What the hell have you been doing with them?”

  Forgetting the wise example of the matron—that the only way to deal with a self-important official is to flatter and cajole him—I lost my temper.

  “What the hell d’you think I’ve been doing? Keeping them as pets?”

  Genuinely shocked, Hone interposed.

  “Insolence won’t help you, Doctor. Most improper. It’s a nasty business this, a very nasty business. Who do you think pays for the electricity you burn, and the gas to light these burners? We represent the ratepayers of the district. You can’t run a private business on public time and public money.”

  “We’ll have to report the whole thing to the main committee,” Masters declared. “I’ll bring it up myself.”

  “Uh-huh,” added Gloag.

  I bit my lip impotently. The grain of truth in Hone’s remarks made them even more unpalatable. Although I had never dreamed that it was necessary, I saw now that it would have been wiser for me, in the first instance, to have secured permission. I could only grind my teeth in silent rage, my misery enhanced by the odd glance of commiseration which Miss Trudgeon gave me, as I shut the door of that fatal pavilion and followed the others to the main building where, after a quick nip of spirits to fortify themselves against the cold, my three oppressors bundled into their coats and scarves and prepared to take their departure.

  Their leave-taking of the matron was cordial, but they barely said goodbye to me, and that with the chilliest of glances.

  Glumly, I wandered back to my room. My ill-luck was colossal; still, I couldn’t believe that they would come down upon me severely. It wasn’t a crime I had committed, and when, in calmer mood, they considered the matter, they must surely see the honesty of my motives. Resolved to leave nothing to chance, I went there and then to my desk and wrote them a full account of all that I was attempting in my research. I felt more confident when I had posted it.

  That night, when I returned from my last round, I met Sister Peek in the corridor. She hadn’t gone on duty—the night report book was clutched under her arm. Apparently she had been waiting for me. Whenever I appeared she took a quick breath.

  “Good evening, Dr. Shannon. I hope you enjoyed yourself this afternoon.”

  “What do you say?” I asked her.

  “I hope you liked the visit this afternoon.”

  Her voice was strangely shrill, indeed, the very fact that she should address me directly was, in itself, odd enough to arrest my attention. Lately she had kept out of my way, and when we did meet had passed me without raising her eyes. Peering at her in the dim corridor, I saw that she was crouching, almost, against the wall. Yet, for all her shrinking, she went on, with a gasp and a rush:

  “It must have been nice for you when they walked into the isolation pavilion. And found out about your fine laboratory. I’m sure you enjoyed it thoroughly.”

  I kept watching her face. It surprised me how much she hated me.

  “Oh, yes, indeed, my fine Dr. Shannon, I’m not the one that’s going to be kicked out. So there! Perhaps that will teach you not to insult a lady. For in case you may not know it,” she gulped with fearful triumph, “ the chairman of the committee, Mr. Masters, is my brother-in-law.”

  Before I could speak, as though afraid I might strike her, she swung round and scuttled off.

  I stood quite still … long after she had gone.

  Now everything was clear, the last thing in the world I had ever dreamed would happen. At one time I had feared that Matron might report me, but never, of all people, never Effie Peek. On her night duty she had seen me leave the pavilion and, after further spying, had informed on me to her worthy relative. It was a sweet revenge. When my first wild fury died, I felt sick and hopeless. How could one fight a thing like this? I had outraged her shrinking sensibilities beyond forgiveness. It wasn’t ordinary vindictiveness or spite, but something more. She probably was the victim of a neurotic compulsion, she could not help herself. Yet I had no redress. And after this, I hadn’t a spark of hope.

  On the last day of the month I received an official communication from the committee of management, signed by Ben Masters, requesting my resignation from my position as medical officer at Dalnair Hospital. I read the letter with a stony face.

  The staff were very sympathetic about it. Headed by the matron, they got up a subscription and at a little ceremony, after several agreeable speeches, presented me with a nice umbrella. Then, with an air of melancholy justification, Pim took me to the station in the aged ambulance. I was loose again in the world, faced with the prospect of conducting my experiments in the street. And for a start, as I walked blindly from the platform at Winton Station, I left my new umbrella in the train and lost it.

  Book Three

  Chapter One

  At the globe Commercial Hotel, in a mean street off the Trongate in the noisy heart of the city, I found a room, uncarpeted, fusty from unopened windows, the wallpaper discoloured, the wooden washstand charred by cigarette ends. I did not like the room, which seemed alien, defiled by the innumerable travellers who had occupied it. But it was cheap.

  After a cup of tea in the greasy coffee-room downstairs, I set out for Parkside Crescent, on the far side of Winton. When I reached that quiet residential quarter I found, to my relief, that Professor Challis was at home and would see me.

  He came almost at once into the dim, maroon-curtained, book-lined study, moving a little uncertainly, his thin, blue-veined hand shakily outstretched, and a grave welcome in his ash-grey eyes, which, though clear, were deep with age.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, Robert. You called some months ago. I was sorry to miss you.”

  Wilfred Challis was now over seventy, a frail little bowed figure, dressed in an out-of-fashion frock coat, tight black trousers, and button boots which gave to him an old-world appearance that was both touching and absurd. Because of failing health, he had retired from the University, being superseded by Professor Usher,
and, outside of a limited circle of experts in France and Switzerland, where much of his best work had been done, his name was almost unknown. Yet he was a true scientist who, through the purity of his motives and the nobility of his mind, had without any material reward brought light to the darkness of the world. During my student days he had become my ideal, and he had given me in many ways evidence of his regard. His aged face, with its high brow, its look of tranquil distinction, of warm humanity, was mild and serene.

  He took an armchair beside me, followed by his old brown spaniel dog, Gulliver, which immediately lay down at his feet; then, giving me his close attention, he listened with deepening sympathy while I told him my story. After a brief pause he asked a few technical questions, then passed his long, sensitive fingers meditatively through his thin white hair.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Most interesting. Robert, I always felt that you would not disappoint me.”

  Unexpectedly, I felt my eyes fill up with tears.

  “If only I could get a grant, sir,” I pressed, earnestly. “Surely I’m entitled to it? I don’t want to tie myself up with another job. You see how I’ve been hampered by lack of money.”

  “My dear boy …” He smiled gently. “A lifelong experience has taught me that the hardest thing about scientific research is to get the money for it.”

  “But surely, sir, that’s what the Research Council is for … I’d only need a lab and about a hundred pounds. If you approach them, you have such influence.”

  He shook his head, with a faint, regretful smile.

  “I am a back number now, an old fogey laid away upon the shelf. And what you ask is difficult. But I assure you I will try. Not only to get the grant, but to help you in every way I can.” He paused. “One day, Robert, I should really like to find you a Continental appointment. Here, we are still tied down by insular prejudice. In Paris or Stockholm you would have a freer hand.”

  He would not let me thank him, but led me back with warm interest to the subject of my research. While I talked, the dog, Gulliver, licked his hand, the fire burned clear, from upstairs I could hear the cheerful chatter of his grandchildren. I felt my heart expand towards this kindly old man who, through his hatred of the pompous, still seemed young, and from whom there emanated a sense of gentle humour. Half an hour later, as I took my leave, he made a careful note of my address, and promised he would get in touch with me soon.

  Cheered and encouraged, I made my way back across the city. It was a clear afternoon, with high luminous clouds, and the pavements of Manfield Street, the main shopping thoroughfare, were thick with people taking advantage of the mildness of the weather to examine the bargains offered in the spring sales. Near the General Post Office I crossed to the south side of the street.

  Then, all at once, I started, my abstraction gone, my body suddenly alive. Directly ahead of me, standing with her mother, holding a number of parcels, and gazing into the window of one of the large department stores, was Jean.

  Although I had known she must return for her examination, now only two weeks away, this unexpected sight of her caught me by the throat and left me breathless. My heart began to beat like mad. I started towards her, then held myself in check. Sheltered by the crowd, my pulse still thudding in my ears, I watched her with straining eyes. She looked older, more mature, and although no apparent sadness was discernible in her expression, her interest in her mother’s conversation, which related, no doubt, to a dark coat displayed behind the plate glass, was no more than passive and obedient. From time to time, indeed, her attention wandered, and she looked about her with an air of pensive inquiry which sent a fresh pang through me. Why, oh why, was she not alone?

  Presently, with a wise shake of her head, Mrs. Law took Jean’s arm and the two women moved away from the window. I saw that they had finished their shopping and were proceeding in the direction of Central Station to go home. I followed them, like a thief, my heart burning with desire, longing to approach, yet debarred by a vision of the consternation which my appearance must produce.

  Outside a little creamery Mrs. Law paused and looked at her watch. After a moment’s consultation, they went inside and sat down at a small marble-topped table. From outside, torn by love and indecision, I watched them order and drink hot milk. When they stepped out I tracked them into the busy station. There, amongst the crowd, under the bookstall, which had so often been our meeting place, I was almost close enough to touch Jean. Why did she not turn and see me? I willed, desperately, with all my force, that she might do so. But no, arm in arm with her mother, she slowly passed the barrier, entered the waiting train, and was lost to view.

  Immediately she was gone I blamed myself for my stupidity in bungling this opportunity, and hastening back to my shabby room, after restively pacing its narrow confines, I took a sheet of paper and my pen, sat down on the creaky bed. I wanted to release my long suppressed feelings in a flood of words, but the thought that the letter might be intercepted held me back. Finally, under cover of an envelope addressed to Luke, I sent this message:

  “DEAR JEAN,—I saw you to-day in Winton without having a chance to speak to you. I realize that you will soon be taking your examination again and have no wish to disturb you before or during that event. But when it is over I ask you to meet me without fail. I have missed you terribly and have so very much to say to you. Please reply to this address. Best of luck in the exam.

  “Yours, “R OBERT .”

  For the next few days I watched the hotel mail-rack feverishly, waiting for an answer to this letter, my love for her reawakened and renewed. Surely she must reply? My longing to be with her was irresistible.

  At the same time, since my funds were running so perilously low that I must soon reach a decision about the future, I was anxious to have word from Professor Challis. I did not wish to commit myself to another job for fear the grant from the Research Council materialized. But as I began to economize on food, to eat a single sausage roll for lunch, and, a little later, to miss my dinner altogether, I began to wish I had more strongly impressed the critical nature of circumstances upon my old Professor. Could it be that he had forgotten, that the main purpose of my visit had slipped from his failing memory? As a precaution I went to the Medical Employment Agency and left my name there, but in the process I had a disagreement with the clerk in charge, an exchange of words which did little to improve my prospects. My failure to hear from Challis, Jean’s continued silence, the miserable conditions under which I was living, and, above all, the mounting sense of delay in the progress of my work, began to prey upon me intolerably.

  In desperation, I rummaged out a flask from the equipment which encumbered the floor space at the foot of my bed and began to try upon myself a series of skin reactions with heat-killed suspensions of the vacilli, scratching the surface of my arm and inoculating the abrasion with dilutions of attenuated cultures. To my joy, a series of typical ulcers developed, thus enabling me to study the important processes of dermal reaction. I watched these carefully and, since I could do no more, made notes and drawings as the condition spread.

  In the intervals, I walked the streets endlessly and took to haunting the approaches to Winton Central, in an effort to catch sight of Jean, coming from the Blairhill train. Several times in the crowds I would glimpse some girl who so resembled her that my heart stopped beating. But as I hastened forward, eager and anxious, it was only to find myself gazing into the eyes of a total stranger.

  One wet night while I vainly hung about the station, after a particularly wretched day, I felt a hand upon my shoulder.

  “How are you, Robert?”

  I swung round, a light of expectation leaping to my face. But it was Spence, buttoned up in a raincoat, the evening paper which he had just purchased tucked beneath his arm. I lowered my head quickly, glad, of course, to see him, yet confused that he should find me here, like this.

  There was a pause. Neil never could make conversation, but after an awkward moment he said, in his ha
lting style:

  “What are you doing in Winton? Taking a day off?”

  I kept my eyes averted, afraid of his pity.

  “Yes,” I said. “I just got in from Dalnair.”

  He looked me over, in his sidelong apologetic way.

  “Come on home and have dinner with us to-night.”

  I hesitated. I had nothing to look forward to but another wasted, dismal evening at the Globe, where, if I did not wish to listen to the noisy conversation of commercial travellers in the draughty lounge, I must shut myself in my room. I was damp, cold, and hungry. My head was ringing from a day in the streets, my arm kept throbbing painfully. I had not had a decent meal for a week, in fact for twenty-four hours I had eaten practically nothing. I felt faint and ill. It was a severe temptation.

  “That’s settled,” he said, before I could refuse.

  We took the bus which ran to Mount Pleasant, the outlying district where, ever since their marriage, Spence and his wife had rented a small half-timbered house, one of many standing in a row in a modest suburban drive. During the journey we did not talk. Pretending to read his paper, Spence left me alone, but once or twice I felt his eye upon me and, as we got off and approached his home, he said, as though to put me at my ease:

  “Muriel will be so glad you’ve come.”

  The house, although not spacious, was brightly lit and warm. When we entered, the change from the outer chill gave me an absurd giddy spell, so that I had to steady myself against the wall. Before he removed his things, Spence took me through the lobby to his study and, having seated me before the fire, insisted on giving me a glass of sherry and a biscuit. There was a look of concern upon his honest face which made me feel most uncomfortable.

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  I forced a laugh.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  For a moment or two he pottered about, pretending not to watch me, then he left, with the remark: