graves together. But it all
got mixed up in me – her kindness, the old black guy...’
‘His white coat,’ I said. Two could play at this pseudo-psychology of his.
‘The white coat,’ he said musingly. ‘Yes. You may be right about that, Frank. The idea came to me right then.’
‘That you should be a doctor.’
‘Yes. It wasn’t clear like that, you know, but... the seed was there. From that moment.’
‘Because of your parents.’
‘That’s how I knew it must be the same for you. Your mother’s death. Mine was because of my parents too. I think we’re very similar, Frank.’
‘But I never had a moment like that,’ I said.
‘Maybe you don’t remember it,’ he said. ‘But you did.’
He was very insistent about it, but I knew there’d never been a clear moment like that for me. I’d never had a burning sense of vocation – just uneasy ambition and a need to impress my father.
But the question he’d put to me stayed in my mind, bothering me. I felt that I should have had a moment of truth like his. It was only long afterwards that I wondered whether his revelation from
the graveyard had ever actually happened at all.
He never mentioned it again. He was too busy asking other questions. When he wanted to know something, he had no sense of delicacy or restraint. Sometimes he alarmed me, but I also found myself
telling him things I’d never discussed before.
My marriage, for instance. This wasn’t a subject on which I felt inclined to open up to anybody. Not that it was charged with a lot of pain any more – the nerves were dead – but it was still
private and unexposed. But a week or two after he came, Laurence plunged right in.
‘I notice you still wear your wedding ring.’
‘That’s because I’m still married.’
‘Really? But where’s your wife?’
And in a moment I was telling him all sorts of delicate details – how Karen had run off with Mike, my best friend from army days and one-time partner in practice. How they were living together
now and how my retreat up here had somehow stalled the divorce process so that we were still technically man-and-wife.
‘And when will it all be over?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Some time in the next six months. She’s got the whole divorce process moving along again lately. I think they’re in a hurry to leave the country.’
‘Is she getting married again?’
‘I think that’s the idea.’
‘To this guy? Your friend from the army?’
‘Mike? J a, she’s still with him. She says he’s the great love of her life.’
‘He was never your friend, Frank,’ he told me solemnly. ‘No true friend would ever do that to you.’
‘I am aware of that, Laurence.’
‘I would never do that. Never, never, never.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I wouldn’t wear that ring any more,’ he said. ‘Why do you wear it, Frank?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Habit.’ But the golden glint on my finger was more a symbol than a habit. I closed my hand into a fist to hide it.
When he said, ‘I would never do that to you,’ he was telling me that he was a true friend. I think he felt that way almost from the first day. Yet the feeling wasn’t mutual. He was a room-mate
to me, a temporary presence who was disturbing my life.
But I found myself spending a lot of time with Laurence. In some respects I didn’t have a choice: in the room, at work, he’d been assigned to me. Yet outside of that, and almost imperceptibly,
we started to keep each other company. It became something of a ritual, for instance, to play table tennis in the recreation room. I’d never spent much time there before; it was a sad room. But
somehow it was not unpleasant to bat the plastic ball back and forth across the table, talking in a desultory way. Most of our conversations were like that: weightless, aimless, passing the
time.
And we went on a few walks together. It had been years since I’d gone off on those long hikes of mine; now we
got mixed up in me – her kindness, the old black guy...’
‘His white coat,’ I said. Two could play at this pseudo-psychology of his.
‘The white coat,’ he said musingly. ‘Yes. You may be right about that, Frank. The idea came to me right then.’
‘That you should be a doctor.’
‘Yes. It wasn’t clear like that, you know, but... the seed was there. From that moment.’
‘Because of your parents.’
‘That’s how I knew it must be the same for you. Your mother’s death. Mine was because of my parents too. I think we’re very similar, Frank.’
‘But I never had a moment like that,’ I said.
‘Maybe you don’t remember it,’ he said. ‘But you did.’
He was very insistent about it, but I knew there’d never been a clear moment like that for me. I’d never had a burning sense of vocation – just uneasy ambition and a need to impress my father.
But the question he’d put to me stayed in my mind, bothering me. I felt that I should have had a moment of truth like his. It was only long afterwards that I wondered whether his revelation from
the graveyard had ever actually happened at all.
He never mentioned it again. He was too busy asking other questions. When he wanted to know something, he had no sense of delicacy or restraint. Sometimes he alarmed me, but I also found myself
telling him things I’d never discussed before.
My marriage, for instance. This wasn’t a subject on which I felt inclined to open up to anybody. Not that it was charged with a lot of pain any more – the nerves were dead – but it was still
private and unexposed. But a week or two after he came, Laurence plunged right in.
‘I notice you still wear your wedding ring.’
‘That’s because I’m still married.’
‘Really? But where’s your wife?’
And in a moment I was telling him all sorts of delicate details – how Karen had run off with Mike, my best friend from army days and one-time partner in practice. How they were living together
now and how my retreat up here had somehow stalled the divorce process so that we were still technically man-and-wife.
‘And when will it all be over?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Some time in the next six months. She’s got the whole divorce process moving along again lately. I think they’re in a hurry to leave the country.’
‘Is she getting married again?’
‘I think that’s the idea.’
‘To this guy? Your friend from the army?’
‘Mike? J a, she’s still with him. She says he’s the great love of her life.’
‘He was never your friend, Frank,’ he told me solemnly. ‘No true friend would ever do that to you.’
‘I am aware of that, Laurence.’
‘I would never do that. Never, never, never.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I wouldn’t wear that ring any more,’ he said. ‘Why do you wear it, Frank?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Habit.’ But the golden glint on my finger was more a symbol than a habit. I closed my hand into a fist to hide it.
When he said, ‘I would never do that to you,’ he was telling me that he was a true friend. I think he felt that way almost from the first day. Yet the feeling wasn’t mutual. He was a room-mate
to me, a temporary presence who was disturbing my life.
But I found myself spending a lot of time with Laurence. In some respects I didn’t have a choice: in the room, at work, he’d been assigned to me. Yet outside of that, and almost imperceptibly,
we started to keep each other company. It became something of a ritual, for instance, to play table tennis in the recreation room. I’d never spent much time there before; it was a sad room. But
somehow it was not unpleasant to bat the plastic ball back and forth across the table, talking in a desultory way. Most of our conversations were like that: weightless, aimless, passing the
time.
And we went on a few walks together. It had been years since I’d gone off on those long hikes of mine; now we
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