But he was getting on fast. Divorce might mean a break with the Holbrooks; he managed to put up with her. After five years in Darien an act of appeasement by old Holbrook had given them Fourways, a handsome property in the Quaker Ridge district of Greenwich. Quieter, conservative people here, the garden club—he persuaded her to join—their modest entertaining; he had hopes that she might settle down. All an illusion. Gradually, through increasingly erratic and intractable moods, fits of violence and periods of amnesia, she passed into depressive delusions. Finally the moment when Wilenski, called in consultation, put a consoling hand on his shoulder.
“Paranoid schizophrenia. She will have to be certified.”
And then, for fifteen years, he had been the man with a wife in a mental clinic, awaiting the results of the insulin and electroshock treatments, the slight improvements and deeper relapses, enduring the whole hopeless muddle, until the unmentionable relief of that terminal hypostatic pneumonia.
Was it surprising, in these tragic circumstances, that—himself walking the tightrope of nerve tension—he had needed, had thrown himself into, his work with Bert. There was nothing wrong with Bert, good, decent, genial Bert, who had always stood by him fair and square, helped him repeatedly in dealing with Doris, even admitted liability in the matter for having glossed over her adolescent attacks, and who, after old Mr Holbrook’s death, had given him outright an equal partnership in the rich and expanding American firm.
And work apart, as a man sorely victimised, had he not been justified in devoting himself to himself: to set out to cultivate his personality, to study the arts, acquire languages, French, German and Italian to be precise, to dress with taste—in short, to develop himself into a finely mannered man, consciously dated in his style—in his reading he favoured the gracious Edwardians—a veritable “man of distinction” who with his natural charm and ability to please could command, even in this appalling age when all sense of values had gone by the board, immediate interest, attention and respect. And of course, in his position, he had a physical obligation to himself, which as a well-read man he could sanction—if this were necessary—by quoting Balzac’s pointed letter on the subject to Madame de Hanska. He too had no intention of allowing himself to degenerate into impotence and imbecility! Naturally he recoiled from promiscuous adultery, from those brief and unreliable encounters that took place after cocktail parties in cars parked in the country club shrubbery. Chance threw him in the way of a quiet little woman—he had always preferred the small-boned type—a widow in her early thirties, blonde and of Polish extraction, her name Rena, who worked, humbly enough, as a binder in a Stamford commercial publishing house. His tactful approach produced surprisingly agreeable results. He found her both soothing and satisfying, neat, clean in her person, undemanding, and absurdly grateful for his help. Soon a discreet and regular arrangement was reached between them. He even grew quite fond of her, in her own way, and though she was fearfully broken up when he left America, he had done the right thing with a generous settlement.
Yes, there had been good reason for the pattern of his life, yet though self-exoneration brought some relief his thoughts were still painful as he turned away and, descending Blairhill, made his way back to the Central. Here he could not even think of lunch. But, feeling the need of something in preparation for his journey, he took a glass of dry sherry and an Abernethy biscuit in the bar, after which he felt better.
The car arrived at the specified hour and when he had signed the necessary papers and paid the deposit he drove off. No need to ask the way. Free of the busy streets, he took the main western road, past the Botanic Gardens and the Westland playing fields, then on to the highway leading from the city outskirts to the lower reaches of the Firth. This, since his time, had been widened and improved, yet while now it bypassed the shipyards and steel works of the riverside industrial towns it still was the road that had taken him to Mary. He drove slowly, prolonging his sensations, though almost overcome by them as, one after another, known sounds and scenes broke upon him. That steady rat-a-tat from the yards, the hoot of the Erskine ferry boat, a long-drawn rusty wail from an outgoing tramp—these blended to a haunting dissonance that fairly ravaged him, as did the fleeting vistas of green woods and gleaming water, of distant purple mountain crests that sudden outward, upward sweeps of the way revealed to him. All, all brought before him, in sweet anguish, the image of the one woman he had truly loved.
Some thirty miles from Winton he reached the village of Reston and, turning off the main route, took the winding, narrow road that followed the widening estuary towards Ardfillan. His heart was beating like those shipyard hammers as he entered the little town, all so unchanged, as though he had left it only the day before. Still the same narrow strip of esplanade lapped by quiet waves, the iron bandstand, the tiny pier, the curve of low grey houses, the square church towers. So blurred was his vision, he had to stop the car momentarily. Oh, God, he had stopped exactly opposite that same wooden shelter where, when Willie was sent on the errand, he had taken Mary in his arms. He was in a turmoil, confused thoughts poured through his mind: would he find her greatly altered, would she recognise, let alone forgive him, was it even possible that she might refuse to see him?
At last he took himself in hand, drove further along the front and parked the car. Then, with lowered head, he walked up the lane giving access to the Douglas shop. He reached the familiar back street, lifted his head, then suddenly drew up. The shop was no longer there, instead, a high brick frontage from which a whirring of machinery emerged, confronted him. He had built with such irrational confidence on finding everything as he had left it that he was less disappointed than stupefied. After a few blank moments he moved further along the narrow cobbled way, and saw that a wide new cross street had been cut at right angles to the old, giving access to a large double-fronted glittering establishment with a neon sign: Town and Country Bakeries Ltd.
Motionless, he stood gazing at the trays of starkly coloured cakes which filled the windows, then he crossed the street and went into the shop. Two pert-looking young girls in mauve dresses with white collars and cuffs were behind the counter.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I am seeking a family who once owned a shop in this vicinity. The name is Douglas.”
They were of the age that construes the unusual as the absurd, and seemed prepared to giggle. But something, perhaps the excellence of his clothes, restrained them. One glanced at the other.
“I never heard tell of any Douglas, did you, Jenny?”
“Me neither,” Jenny said, with a shake of her head.
There was a pause, then the first girl said:
“Maybe old Mr Donaldson could help you. He’s been here a long time.” Now she did giggle. “A lot longer than us.”
“Donaldson?” The name touched a chord of memory.
“Our caretaker. If you go through the van entrance on the left you’ll find his wee house opposite the bakery.”
He thanked her and, following her directions, found himself in what had once been the Douglas yard, greatly enlarged now, with the big machine bakehouse on the left, a garage for motor vans facing him, and on the right the old stable converted to a small one-storey apartment. He rang the bell and after an interval slow steps were heard within. The door opened, revealing the stooping, steel-spectacled figure of a man of seventy in a cloth cap, worn back to front, a black alpaca apron and carpet slippers. When Moray questioned him, he remained silent for a moment, soberly reflective.