The Young Physician

by Francis Brett Young

Above all, the sight of his Aunt Laura, who was conscientiously doing the honours of the house, maddened him. He could not look at her without remembering that she had been selfish and unkind to his mother; that, on the very last day, she had robbed him of the privilege of seeing his darling alive. Even now, he believed that she was enjoying herself. Her eyes occasionally brimmed with tears, but that meant nothing. They were such easy tears . . . so different from the terrible tears that had shaken his father’s body on the day of desolation. If only she were dead, he thought, there would be no great loss.

And yet, while he thought of this, he suddenly caught sight of her husband, the little manufacturer whom he had lately begun to know as Uncle Albert, a small man with a shiny bald head and a diffident manner: and in the eyes of Uncle Albert, which were fixed upon his wife, he saw an extraordinary mixture of love and admiration for this shallow, diffuse creature whom he had found himself hating.

“If Aunt Laura were to die,” he thought, “Uncle Albert might very well be like father is to-day. That’s a queer idea. . . .” He was amazed at the complications of human relationships and the potential pain that love brings with it. He thought, “It’s no good thinking about it. . . . I give it up. I don’t really wish she were dead. I only wish . . . that there were no such thing as death. Why does God allow it?” No answer came to him: but in place of an answer another angry impulse. “Curse God,” he thought, meaning the God of Mr. Leeming, the God to whom this queer collection of people were to dedicate his mother’s soul. Another thought followed quickly: “What’s the good of cursing him? He doesn’t exist. If he existed this sort of thing couldn’t happen. . . .”

People were seriously setting themselves to the putting on of black kid gloves that the undertaker had provided. The horses on the gravel drive were getting uneasy and the cab wheels made a grating noise. Heavy steps were heard descending the stairs—awkward steps like those of men moving furniture. Edwin saw that his father had heard too. He was looking towards the closed door of the room. He wanted to go and take his father’s hand and hold it, but the space round the edge of the table was packed with people. Now they had opened the hall door. He dared not look out of the window.

The voice of Aunt Laura, most studiously kind, said to him: “Eddie, you’ll come along with your father and Uncle Albert and me.” He said, “All right.” People at the side of the table made way for him. On his way he found himself abreast of his friend, Miss Beecock. She said nothing, but smiled at him and put her arm on his sleeve. She was wearing black silk mittens, and her eyes were full of tears. That weak, tearful smile nearly did for Edwin.

The first cab was drawn up at the hall door. Edwin scrambled in last. Aunt Laura, with a rustle of black silk, made way for him. She took out her handkerchief, and Edwin was stifled with a wave of scent. He hated scent: but anyway it was better than Sanitas. He saw his father’s puzzled eyes on the other side of the cab . . . so old, so awfully old. Uncle Albert took out his handkerchief, too. Evidently, Edwin thought, it was the correct thing to do. He had misjudged him. Uncle Albert proceeded to blow his nose.

They were driving through the High Street. Aunt Laura noticed that most of the shop shutters were up, and in several cases tradesmen were standing at their shop doors bare-headed as they passed.

“It’s very kind of them . . . very nice to see so much respect, John,” she said to his father. Mr. Ingleby said “Yes,” and Aunt Laura, with a little laugh that was merely a symptom of nervousness, went on: “I expect there’ll be a crowd at the cemetery gate.” This time Mr. Ingleby said nothing and Uncle Albert once more stolidly blew his nose. “Albert, dear, I wish you wouldn’t,” said Aunt Laura. The brakes grated, and the cab stopped with a jerk. “Come along, Edwin, jump out, there’s a good boy,” said Aunt Laura. “You’ll walk with your father.”

He walked with his father. The church was full. His father went with bowed head, seeing nothing; but Edwin was conscious of many faces that he knew. In the middle of the aisle the thought suddenly came to him that these people weren’t really there to do honour to his mother: they were so many that most of them could never have known her: no, they were just curious people who had flocked there to find something sensational in the faces of the mourners. In a dull place like Halesby a funeral, and such an important funeral, was an unusual diversion. And this revelation made him determined that whatever happened he would show no emotion that might tickle the sensations of these ghouls. He only wished to goodness that he could explain the matter to his father so that he too might give them nothing to gloat over.

In the church, where a faint mustiness mingled with the exotic scent of arum lilies that diffused from the heap of wreaths on the coffin, Edwin held himself upright. They sang a hymn: “I heard the voice of Jesus say . . . Come unto me and rest”—the first quatrain in unison, and Edwin sang with them, just as he would have sung in the chapel at St. Luke’s. In the churchyard, when they walked in procession behind the bearers to the grave-side, his eyes were still dry, his lips did not tremble, though Aunt Laura’s scented handkerchief was now drenched with tears, and even Uncle Albert, a virtual outsider, was on the edge of violent emotion.