Before he went into the kitchen he found himself knocking at the door. Mrs. Weaver’s manner was neutral; she showed neither pleasure nor displeasure at his entrance. Had she seen Mrs. Featherstone? No. Had she any idea why Mrs. Featherstone hadn’t come? No, she wasn’t interested in Mrs. Featherstone’s affairs. These daily women——
‘Then I had better go and see her,’ Philip said. ‘Meanwhile, for lunch I might have—, and for dinner—. The omelette last night was delicious. What a good cook you are, Mrs. Weaver!’
How pleasant to be away from the house and in the open air! Philip quite enjoyed his ramble down the broad, straggling village street, liberally besprinkled with cowpats, pleasantly aglow with September sunshine. But when he reached Mrs. Featherstone’s white-washed cottage with its porch of trellis-work, her daughter told him she was ill in bed. ‘Mum’s none too good,’ she said. ‘The doctor calls it a haemorrhage. All to do with those ulcers. She’s always been too thin, he says.’
Walking back, Philip didn’t notice the sunshine, or the country sights and sounds. He went straight up to his bedroom and peeped inside the medicine-cupboard. Not seeing very well he opened the doors wide. It had been swept and garnished. Once more the serried ranks of soldier-bottles guarded an empty stage.
So several days went by without more manifestations, and Philip began to put the whole thing at the back of his mind. He was punctual in inquiring about Mrs. Featherstone, however. She had been taken to hospital, and every day her condition was said to be ‘unchanged’. Philip’s efforts to replace her were unsuccessful. Two women came to see him; he showed them over the house, making light of its size, and introduced them to Mrs. Weaver, who though not affable was not ungracious; but neither wanted the job, and when they went away gave him the impression that they had come out of curiosity.
Without more manifestations . . . But Philip had cheated. He had made a rule not to look inside the corner cupboard unless he really required some medicine. This seemed sensible. What was less sensible was that more than once, when he did need some, for minor ailments brought on by the chalky water, he refrained. Why? Because, he told himself, he had got into the habit of taking too much medicine. The real reason, which he didn’t acknowledge, was a reluctance to open the medicine-cupboard door.
Oh, but this fibrositis, which a single application of liniment would charm away! ‘Mrs. Weaver!’ he called down the passage. ‘Have you any oil of wintergreen?’
‘What for, sir?’
‘To rub on my stiff neck.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t, sir.’
‘Then would you be an angel and fetch me a bottle out of my medicine-cupboard? A smallish bottle, on the left side, I think.’
Mrs. Weaver, the catspaw!
In she came, bearing the bottle.
‘Shall I give your neck a rub, sir?’
‘Oh, no, thank you. I can do it quite easily myself.’
‘I often used to rub my husband’s neck, sir.’
‘Did he have fibrositis too?’
‘Yes, and not only in his neck, sir. He had it all over him. I could give you a rub, sir.’
‘I’m sure you could, but I think I can manage.’
‘It’s easier for someone else to do it, sir.’
‘But it’s such a sticky business.’
‘Not if you only use the tips of the fingers. I always use my fingertips. They are much more sensitive.’
‘I’ll remember to use mine,’ Philip said.
‘Excuse me, sir, but have you any objection to my rubbing you? It always did my husband so much good.’
Now don’t lose your head, Philip told himself, but impatience got the upper hand.
‘If you think I’m your husband——’
‘I don’t, sir, my husband was a guardsman and a gentleman, not an Oxford undergraduate and a cad.’
‘I’m sure he was,’ said Philip, far too angry to relish being called an undergraduate. ‘I’m sure he was, but did he never tell you——’
‘Tell me what, sir?’
‘Well, to leave him alone?’
Aghast at the cruelty of these words, Philip closed his eyes. When he opened them Mrs. Weaver had gone.
He put off rubbing his stiff neck until he went to bed. To do so suited his habit of procrastination—just another half-hour before I start rubbing! Also it would be more prudent, as well as pleasanter, to get straight into bed after the operation: less likelihood of catching a chill. Also, if he did it on his way to bed one wash and one undressing would take the place of two, for he would have to take some clothes off to get at his neck. And he would not dirty his vest and shirt as well as his pyjamas. But the chief cause of the postponement was a different one. After Mrs. Weaver’s exit he had had the usual revulsion of feeling about her. He had behaved abominably to her and he ought to apologize. The best way of apologizing would be to call her in and ask her to rub his neck after all. ‘I’m so sorry I was irritable, Mrs. Weaver. Please forget about it, if you can, and give my neck a rub. Just wait a minute while I take my shirt off.’ He rehearsed these sentences and others like them, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to act upon them. Since the incident he had only seen Mrs. Weaver’s face beyond the hatch when she put the food through, and it told him nothing. At what time did she retire for the night? At about half-past nine, he thought, and kept involuntarily looking at the clock, his neck protesting sharply as he did so. But the clock wasn’t on the chimney-piece, it was in the corner cupboard, and probably not going, since he had omitted to wind it up. How silly: he had his wrist-watch, of course, and it said ten o’clock. If he called her now she would probably be in bed, and come down in her nightgown or her pyjamas, or whatever slumberwear she favoured, and that would never do.
He felt an unaccountable unwillingness to go to bed, and lingered on watching the dying fire. A fire made work; he oughtn’t to have it, really, now that he was without a daily woman: to-morrow he would tell Mrs. Weaver not to light it.
At last he dragged himself upstairs, but when he reached his bedroom he realized he had forgotten the oil of wintergreen. He must turn the lights on and go back and fetch it. Down he went through the quiet house. It was on the sideboard where Mrs. Weaver had left it, and even at a distance exhaled a strong whiff of her presence. Its own smell, when he took the cork out, was much more reassuring.
Remember the finger-tips . . . He rubbed gently along his neck, and as far round to the back as he could reach; Mrs. Weaver was right: it was easier for someone else to do it, but that someone had to be the right one, which she was not. He lengthened out the process, turning up the bottle, taking little nips, as if he was a wintergreen addict.
Now there was no excuse for these delaying tactics: he must get into bed. But before getting into bed, he must put back the bottle—put it back into the corner cupboard.
But why? Why not leave it on his dressing-table till the morning, when somebody else—Mrs. Weaver in fact—would put it back? He wasn’t mad about the corner cupboard and she was, or seemed to be: if he put it back he would deprive her of a pleasure. But he saw through his own cowardice, for cowardice it was; he mustn’t let it grow on him, mustn’t let neurosis grow on him, or soon he wouldn’t be able to do the simplest thing, not cross the street, perhaps, which was far more dangerous, even in the country, than putting a medicine-bottle back into its place.
When he was only a few feet from the cupboard he heard the sound of something dripping. Was it the tap from his wash-basin? But no, the tap was turned off. Back he came and saw, couldn’t help seeing, a dark pool like an inky sunburst on the bare boards below the cupboard. He stooped to touch it; his upturned finger came back red, not black.
A quotation, or perhaps a misquotation, from Landor stole into his mind: ‘Dost thou hear the blood drip, Dashka?’