Read Online Dr Berlin by Francis Bennett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Francis Bennett
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she’d rush off on her bike to buy something savoury from the French delicatessen in Petty Cury, then to Fitzbillie’s for a treacle tart – Bill had a sweet tooth – before racing back to the flat to await his arrival. Sometimes the tension of the minutes until she heard him put his key in the door was almost unbearable. Why was she always so afraid he wouldn’t appear? Why did she always fear that in her letterbox one day she’d find a note ending the affair? Couldn’t she have more confidence in herself? Sometimes, after he had gone, she would lie in bed crying.
No notes came. He kept their appointments every Wednesday. But the magic didn’t work because magic cannot be one-sided. Bill Gant remained what he was, a tired man whose reserves of life had been wrested from him by the demands of a mad wife. He could not be revived because there was no longer anything left to revive. He came to Marion for comfort and relief, for someone with whom he could share the misery that was slowly destroying him. He made love to her with a clumsiness that upset her, as if he was careless of her feelings. He slept in her arms, not peacefully, but twitching and sometimes calling out. Too late she learned that Bill Gant was a lost soul, and that lost souls have nothing to give. They can only take. The relationship, she realised, was indeed one-sided. She felt empty and resentful. That he needed her was clear. That she had made a mistake in believing they mighthave a life together was also clear. She was trapped in an affair she now wanted to end because she had overestimated her own powers. In his fragile frame of mind, wouldn’t rejection destroy him?
She continued to let him come to her flat; she allowed him to make love to her; she dreamed of ways of breaking off the relationship but on each occasion, as Bill described the worsening of what he called ‘this business with Jenny’, her nerve broke and she said nothing. She had fooled herself and now she was caught in a plot of her own making.
No, this wasn’t how it would end because it wasn’t ever going to end. There was no way out. Her life would be an endless cycle of Wednesdays, dreary apologies for late arrivals, bicycle clips on the dressing table, clumsy grapplings with each other’s bodies and endless stories about Jenny, each one worse than the last. She felt a sudden desperation spiral up inside her, bringing tears to her eyes. Only with an effort was she able to control it.
Bill Gant was eating a piece of cheese when she came into the kitchen. He’d put plates on the table and cut some bread.
‘All I could find,’ he said. ‘The cupboard is bare and so is the fridge.’
No thinly cut French ham today, no mushroom salad with a sweet French dressing, no treacle tart. She’d not had time to go shopping. The truth was, she hadn’t even thought about it. She’d only got back to the flat ten minutes before he arrived.
‘You’ll be all right,’ she said, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘You’ve already had a sandwich. Here—’ She handed him his bicycle clips. ‘You forgot these.’
She brought out an opened bottle of white wine from a cupboard and poured him a glass. Bill looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to another.
‘Marion.’
‘Yes?’
‘The thing is …’ He stopped in mid-sentence, at a loss forwords. It was bound to be more bad news about Jenny and her regular visits to the local sanatorium. ‘I had to take Jenny into Fulbourn last night.’
Poor Bill. No wonder the years of coping with Jenny’s bouts of mania had run down his energies and come close to finishing him.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She wrestled with her guilt. She could imagine the strain he was under because of Jenny. Had she been too hard on him earlier when she’d attacked his opposition to Berlin? All she had done was make his mood worse. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to make love. ‘You should have told me at once.’
‘She’d complained
No notes came. He kept their appointments every Wednesday. But the magic didn’t work because magic cannot be one-sided. Bill Gant remained what he was, a tired man whose reserves of life had been wrested from him by the demands of a mad wife. He could not be revived because there was no longer anything left to revive. He came to Marion for comfort and relief, for someone with whom he could share the misery that was slowly destroying him. He made love to her with a clumsiness that upset her, as if he was careless of her feelings. He slept in her arms, not peacefully, but twitching and sometimes calling out. Too late she learned that Bill Gant was a lost soul, and that lost souls have nothing to give. They can only take. The relationship, she realised, was indeed one-sided. She felt empty and resentful. That he needed her was clear. That she had made a mistake in believing they mighthave a life together was also clear. She was trapped in an affair she now wanted to end because she had overestimated her own powers. In his fragile frame of mind, wouldn’t rejection destroy him?
She continued to let him come to her flat; she allowed him to make love to her; she dreamed of ways of breaking off the relationship but on each occasion, as Bill described the worsening of what he called ‘this business with Jenny’, her nerve broke and she said nothing. She had fooled herself and now she was caught in a plot of her own making.
No, this wasn’t how it would end because it wasn’t ever going to end. There was no way out. Her life would be an endless cycle of Wednesdays, dreary apologies for late arrivals, bicycle clips on the dressing table, clumsy grapplings with each other’s bodies and endless stories about Jenny, each one worse than the last. She felt a sudden desperation spiral up inside her, bringing tears to her eyes. Only with an effort was she able to control it.
Bill Gant was eating a piece of cheese when she came into the kitchen. He’d put plates on the table and cut some bread.
‘All I could find,’ he said. ‘The cupboard is bare and so is the fridge.’
No thinly cut French ham today, no mushroom salad with a sweet French dressing, no treacle tart. She’d not had time to go shopping. The truth was, she hadn’t even thought about it. She’d only got back to the flat ten minutes before he arrived.
‘You’ll be all right,’ she said, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘You’ve already had a sandwich. Here—’ She handed him his bicycle clips. ‘You forgot these.’
She brought out an opened bottle of white wine from a cupboard and poured him a glass. Bill looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to another.
‘Marion.’
‘Yes?’
‘The thing is …’ He stopped in mid-sentence, at a loss forwords. It was bound to be more bad news about Jenny and her regular visits to the local sanatorium. ‘I had to take Jenny into Fulbourn last night.’
Poor Bill. No wonder the years of coping with Jenny’s bouts of mania had run down his energies and come close to finishing him.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She wrestled with her guilt. She could imagine the strain he was under because of Jenny. Had she been too hard on him earlier when she’d attacked his opposition to Berlin? All she had done was make his mood worse. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to make love. ‘You should have told me at once.’
‘She’d complained
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