her and took her to the door.
‘And how’s your husband keeping?’ he asked.
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Martha automatically; then it struck her as more than politeness and she looked inquiringly.
‘His stomach behaving itself?’
‘Oh, we’ve both got digestions like an ostrich,’ she said with a laugh, thinking of the amount they had drunk and eaten in the last few weeks. Then she said quickly, ‘There’s surely nothing wrong with his stomach?’ Her voice was full of the arrogance of perfect health. She heard it herself. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ she repeated. The solicitude in her voice rang false.
‘I believe I’ve been indiscreet,’ said Dr Stern. ‘But he is silly not to tell you. Ask him.’ And now he smiled, and held out his hand, saying that if she wanted help, if she just wanted to drop in for a chat, she must give him a ring. Martha wrung the hand, and left his room with the same look of soft, grateful pleasure that the previous patient had worn.
The other women watched her critically; they found that confused, self-confessing smile ridiculous. Then, as Stella rose to join her, they lost interest and turned their eyes back to the closed door.
‘Well, was he nice, did you like him?’ asked Stella urgently; and Martha said reticently that he was very nice.
Nothing more, it seemed, was forthcoming; and Stella urged, laughing, ‘Did you learn anything new?’ And it occurred to Martha for the first time that she had not. Her sense of being supported, being understood, was so strong that she stopped in the passage, motionless, with the shock of the discovery that in fact Dr Stern had said nothing at all, and in due course Douglas would be sent a bill for half a guinea – for what?
Stella tugged at her arm, so that she was set in motion again; and Martha remarked irritably that Dr Stern was something of an old woman, ‘sitting all wrapped up behind his desk like a parcel in white tissue paper, being tactful to a blushing bride.’
At once Stella laughed and said that she never took the slightest notice of what he said, either; as for herself and her husband, they had used such and such a method for three years, and she distinctly remembered Dr Stern telling them it was useless.
‘Well,’ asked Martha ungratefully, ‘what did you send me for, then?’
‘Oh!’ Stella was shocked and aggrieved. ‘But he’s so nice, and so up to date with everything, you know.’
‘He can’t be much older than you are,’ remarked Martha, in that same rather resentful voice. She was astounded that Stella was deeply shocked – at least, there could be no other explanation for her withdrawal into offended dignity. ‘If you don’t want a really scientific doctor then …’ Belatedly, Martha thanked her for the service; but they had reached the door marked ‘Private’, where they must wait for Alice; and Stella forgot her annoyance in the business of wriggling the door handle silently to show Alice they were there.
On the other side of the door, Alice was holding the handle so that it should not rattle, and watching Dr Stern to catch the right moment for announcing the next patient. Usually, having accompanied a patient to the door, he went straight back to his desk. This time, having shed his calm paternal manner over Martha’s farewells, he went to the window and looked down at the street through the slats in the shutter. He looked tired, even exasperated. Alice expected him to complain again about being a woman’s doctor. ‘I can’t understand why I get this reputation,’ he would grumble. ‘Nine-tenths of my practice are women. And women with nothing wrong with them.’
But he did not say it. Alice smiled as she saw him adjust the shutter so that the patch of sun, which was now on the extreme edge of the desk, should return to the empty space of polished wood nearer the middle. He turned and caught the smile, but preferred not to notice it. He frowned slightly and remarked that in three months’ time Mrs Knowell would be back in this room crying her eyes out and asking him to do an abortion – he knew the type.
Alice did not smile; she disliked him in this mood. Her eyes were cold. She noted that his tired body had straightened, his face was alert and purposeful.
He seated himself and said, ‘Make a card out for Mrs Knowell tomorrow.’ He almost added, laughing, ‘And book her a room in the nursing home.’ But he remembered in time that one did not make this sort of joke with Mrs Burrell, who was sentimental; his previous nurse had been better company. All the same, he automatically made certain calculations. January or February, he thought. He even made a note on his pad; there was a complacent look on his face.
‘That will do, Mrs Burrell. Thank you for staying over your time – you mustn’t let me overwork you.’ He smiled at her; the smile had a weary charm.
Alice did not respond. Her criticism of him formed itself in the thought, he has to have his own way over everything. And then the final blow: Heaven preserve me from being married to him, I wouldn’t have him as a gift.
‘Who’s next?’ he asked briskly.
‘Mrs Black,’ said Alice, going to the other door to call her in.
‘She ought to be starting her next baby soon,’ he remarked.
‘Have a heart,’ she said indignantly. ‘The other’s only six months old.’
‘Get them over young,’ he said. ‘That’s the best way.’ He added, ‘You ought to be starting a family yourself.’
Alice paused with her hand on the knob of the door, and said irritably, ‘The way you go on! If I catch you with less than five when you get married …’
He looked sharply at her; he had only just understood she was really annoyed; he wished again that he might have a nurse with whom he did not have to choose his words. But she was speaking:
‘You Jews have got such a strong feeling for family, it makes me sick!’
He seemed to stiffen and retreat a little; then he laughed and said, ‘There’s surely every reason why we should?’
She looked at him vaguely, then dismissed history with ‘I don’t see why everybody shouldn’t leave everybody else alone.’
‘Neither do I, Mrs Burrell, neither do I.’ This was savage.
‘You’re the sort of man who’d choose a wife because she had a good pelvis,’ she said.
‘There are worse ways of choosing one,’ he teased her.
‘Oh, Lord!’
‘Let’s have Mrs Black. Okay – shoot.’
Alice opened the door and called, ‘Mrs Black, please.’ She shut the door after the smiling Mrs Black, who was already seating herself; and, as she crossed the room on her way out, heard his voice, calmly professional: ‘Well, Mrs Black, and what can I do for you?’
She joined Martha and Stella, saying, ‘Wait, I must tell the other nurse …’
She came back almost at once, pulling out the frayed cigarette stub from her pocket and lighting it. Then she began tugging and pushing at the wisps of black hair that were supposed to make a jaunty frame for her face, but were falling in lank witch locks. ‘Oh, damn everything,’ she muttered crossly, pulling
