Read Online The Greatcoat by Helen Dunmore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Dunmore
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fearfully slow.’
‘You’ll get quicker.’
‘Will I?’ she asked. To her amazement, he was perfectly serious. He didn’t want her to tutor local children in French. He didn’t want her going into other people’s houses, earning money and using her qualifications. He wanted her to learn to cook. He was so handsome, she thought. His face remained dark, remote, romantic, even while he chewed the tough meat and thought about his patients. He was in his own world. He’ll have to be careful, thought Isabel. Some of those patients will fall in love with him. They’ll start inventing illnesses, so that they can see him, and he won’t know why. He’ll tell me that they are hypochondriacs.
She considered him. You might say he was modest, and praise him for it … But had anyone got the right to be so unaware of his effect on others?
Philip ate quickly, fastidiously. Isabel knew he wanted to get to his desk. There would be something niggling him – a symptom he wasn’t quite sure about, or a diagnosis he was beginning to doubt. Soon he’d have his books piled around him like a fortress, over which she might hand him a cup of tea. He would glance up at her with that sweet but absent smile.
She hadn’t known anything about marriage. Her father and mother had vanished while they were still the sun and moon of her world. Her uncle had been away for the whole of the war, and when he returned after fighting his way from North Africa to the north of Italy, it was clear that he and her aunt barely knew each other. The trim, youthful figure who had been on parade on the mantelpiece for six years had become a grey-haired man who lost his temper easily and couldn’t stand noise. She and Charlie quickly learned to keep out of his way. As soon as he was old enough, Charlie had cleared off to the other side of the world.
But Isabel knew Philip. She had been sure of him. The formalities of the wedding were a thorny thicket that they had to hack through in order to be where they wanted. And they’d done it. Private, ruthless exhilaration had gripped them both as they drove away from the church in his father’s car, on their way to the three days in the Peak District that would be their honeymoon. The figures of his parents dwindled behind them. His mother had already turned to clear away the remains of the wedding breakfast. Aunt Jean staunchly kept on waving, having fulfilled to the letter every detail of her duty and affection to her niece. Philip and Isabel were on their own, and it was all about to begin. It seemed incredible that somehow they had robbed the bank of happiness and now they could spend their treasure as they liked, over the days and years to come. Philip drove, while Isabel sat beside him, watching the road unfurl. From time to time she glanced at his profile, or lit a cigarette for him and put it between his lips. That was in June. It was no time ago, and yet everything had changed.
‘That was very nice,’ said Philip, putting down his knife and fork.
‘Good,’ she said, taking his plate. There would be more, and better, steak-and-kidney puddings. There would be processions of meals. She would meet more Janet Ingoldbys, with their efficient knitting, their children away at school, their gardens and their good works. Rivers of coffee would be drunk, and mountains of little cakes would be popped, one by one, into the mouths of women gathered to chat. They would soon accept Isabel as one of themselves.
‘Any interesting cases today?’ she asked brightly, as she cleared the table.
‘Are you all right, Is?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. You seem a bit down.’
‘It says in
Early Days
that the young wife may take time to adjust, after the excitement of the wedding is over.’
He thought of their wedding, with Isabel in a blue linen dress and coat, clutching a bunch of crimson roses as if they might escape. Her dark, slippery hair swung down, touching the petals. She’d refused
‘You’ll get quicker.’
‘Will I?’ she asked. To her amazement, he was perfectly serious. He didn’t want her to tutor local children in French. He didn’t want her going into other people’s houses, earning money and using her qualifications. He wanted her to learn to cook. He was so handsome, she thought. His face remained dark, remote, romantic, even while he chewed the tough meat and thought about his patients. He was in his own world. He’ll have to be careful, thought Isabel. Some of those patients will fall in love with him. They’ll start inventing illnesses, so that they can see him, and he won’t know why. He’ll tell me that they are hypochondriacs.
She considered him. You might say he was modest, and praise him for it … But had anyone got the right to be so unaware of his effect on others?
Philip ate quickly, fastidiously. Isabel knew he wanted to get to his desk. There would be something niggling him – a symptom he wasn’t quite sure about, or a diagnosis he was beginning to doubt. Soon he’d have his books piled around him like a fortress, over which she might hand him a cup of tea. He would glance up at her with that sweet but absent smile.
She hadn’t known anything about marriage. Her father and mother had vanished while they were still the sun and moon of her world. Her uncle had been away for the whole of the war, and when he returned after fighting his way from North Africa to the north of Italy, it was clear that he and her aunt barely knew each other. The trim, youthful figure who had been on parade on the mantelpiece for six years had become a grey-haired man who lost his temper easily and couldn’t stand noise. She and Charlie quickly learned to keep out of his way. As soon as he was old enough, Charlie had cleared off to the other side of the world.
But Isabel knew Philip. She had been sure of him. The formalities of the wedding were a thorny thicket that they had to hack through in order to be where they wanted. And they’d done it. Private, ruthless exhilaration had gripped them both as they drove away from the church in his father’s car, on their way to the three days in the Peak District that would be their honeymoon. The figures of his parents dwindled behind them. His mother had already turned to clear away the remains of the wedding breakfast. Aunt Jean staunchly kept on waving, having fulfilled to the letter every detail of her duty and affection to her niece. Philip and Isabel were on their own, and it was all about to begin. It seemed incredible that somehow they had robbed the bank of happiness and now they could spend their treasure as they liked, over the days and years to come. Philip drove, while Isabel sat beside him, watching the road unfurl. From time to time she glanced at his profile, or lit a cigarette for him and put it between his lips. That was in June. It was no time ago, and yet everything had changed.
‘That was very nice,’ said Philip, putting down his knife and fork.
‘Good,’ she said, taking his plate. There would be more, and better, steak-and-kidney puddings. There would be processions of meals. She would meet more Janet Ingoldbys, with their efficient knitting, their children away at school, their gardens and their good works. Rivers of coffee would be drunk, and mountains of little cakes would be popped, one by one, into the mouths of women gathered to chat. They would soon accept Isabel as one of themselves.
‘Any interesting cases today?’ she asked brightly, as she cleared the table.
‘Are you all right, Is?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. You seem a bit down.’
‘It says in
Early Days
that the young wife may take time to adjust, after the excitement of the wedding is over.’
He thought of their wedding, with Isabel in a blue linen dress and coat, clutching a bunch of crimson roses as if they might escape. Her dark, slippery hair swung down, touching the petals. She’d refused
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