Something to Answer For by P. H. Newby

Author:P. H. Newby [Newby, P. H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780571300235
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2012-10-04T07:00:00+00:00

What interested Townrow was that she even dressed the part: the nurse with the white smock and the long white sleeves and the hair done up in a white cap. He wondered where she could have found this gear in such a short time. It was possible that she had gone out and bought it while he was taking a bath, getting into the pyjamas, slippers and dressing gown (these were her father’s) and generally failing to resist orders. She had been giving these orders rather more sharply than was necessary, like a big girl playing hospitals. The fuss, the discipline, the concern, were all excessive. Old Abravanel was there but he was brushed aside. He had discarded his dark glasses and Townrow could see anxious, round, darting brown eyes like a chimpanzee’s. Leah made him go off and eat in the kitchen. The room Townrow was given had a view of the sea in one direction and the harbour in the other and since he absolutely refused to go to bed in spite of her bullying he was able to relax in a wicker chaise longue and look out at the shipping. This was where Dr Catafago examined him. Catafago was a bearded, kingly looking man, but with a shrill voice in which he said he was a graduate of the American University of Beirut and was paid by the visit, at the visit, to avoid misunderstanding.

He rested his head against Townrow’s chest, presumably to listen to his heart (‘Do not believe in the stethoscope. I use the unaided ear.’), looked deeply into his eyes, tested various mechanical reflexes, prescribed a certain ointment for the sunburned and peeling skin. Again he put his cheek to Townrow’s chest. His beard scraped like a loofah. All this time Leah was standing at the foot of the chaise longue, holding a large silver pocket watch and a clinical thermometer. Catafago was giving orders now. She produced a notebook from a sort of pouch in her apron and began making notes. She said, ‘Yes, doctor. No, doctor,’ and did not so much look at Townrow as observe him.

The next day he realised he was not only her patient but her prisoner, too.

“Catafago is a fool. I must get an American doctor,” she said.

It was a big flat, with large, lofty rooms and to keep it functioning there was a male cook, a Berber, and two Sudanese servants whose main duties seemed to have been switched to looking after Townrow. Or watching him, perhaps. They brought him toast and coffee, cold, cooked meats, fruit, cheese but no alcohol. Townrow appealed to Leah but she said he was on barley water and artichoke juice. It must have been the small hours of the morning when he woke up to find someone standing by his bed and reached out his hand to switch on the bedside lamp. She really did look like Matron.

“I want you to know,” she said, “that I shall never allow anyone to take you away from here against your wishes.

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