Page 99 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

At dinner that night, James told them more about the state of affairs in Germany than they could have gleaned from the newspapers.

‘Hitler has vowed to exterminate the Jews, in revenge for them “stabbing Germany in the back”, as he puts it, in 1918. Everything is their fault, apparently. At his big annual speech to the Reichstag in January, he said that if there was another Great War, it would be their doing, and it would result in the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe.’

‘As I understood it,’ Lennie said, ‘the only person who wants a war is him.’

‘Of course. The Jews are just an excuse. It’s all about getting Lebensraum for the Fatherland, which is code for Germany spreading out and taking over any country it fancies. He’s got Austria – Czechoslovakia will be next.’

‘But Chamberlain brought back that piece of paper,’ Polly objected.

‘Czechoslovakia’s not a stable country. The Slovaks want independence, and Hitler will use them to break it up and take it over. And some say he has Poland in his sights, too.’

Perplexed, Polly said, ‘But what does that mean for us?’

‘Britain, you mean? I don’t know, Pol. I think it has to mean war in the end. However little we want to fight, we can’t let Germany go on like this. You know what happened last time.’

‘Well, I don’t believe it,’ Ethel said. She looked pale. ‘There’s not going to be a war. You shouldn’t talk like that, James, spreading alarm. We got caught up in it last time, and for what? Let the French and the Belgians and the rest sort it out for themselves.’

Polly only gave her a glance, her eyes still on James. ‘What will you do?’ she asked.

‘We won’t be able to keep operating in Germany much longer,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want to get trapped in France. As soon as it starts to look dangerous, I’ll come home. If you’ll have me.’

‘Of course I will. It’s what I want, to have my people here,’ Polly said.

Lennie looked at her. Didn’t she realise that if – when – the war started, James would be called up?

Ethel knew that – she had two sons of fighting age.

That was why she didn’t want to believe war was likely.

As an American citizen he, Lennie, would not be conscripted, but he had volunteered in the last war, and would he feel able to keep out of it if things went bad?

But Polly turned her eyes to him just for a moment, and he saw that she knew, all right.

She wanted to have her people around her while she could; she knew it couldn’t last.

Oliver came round his desk to shake Richard’s hand.

‘It’s good of you to see me, Uncle Oliver.’

‘What can I do for you?’ He scanned Richard’s face, smiling. ‘I can’t make you any more good-looking than you already are. That wouldn’t be fair.’

Richard smiled too. ‘It’s not your surgical skills I’m after. It’s your advice.’

‘Oh. Well, sit down, and tell me all about it.’

It was hard at first for Richard to put it into words.

It was all so very personal. Cynthia had recovered physically from the miscarriage, and the doctor had signed her off.

But she was not herself. She was too quiet: she brooded, and her attempts to hide it and be jolly for him were painful.

And at night, in bed, she kept turned away from him.

When he tried to touch her, she flinched and pulled back.

He wanted merely to hold her and comfort her, but she evidently viewed any contact as a prelude to sexual congress, and she very clearly didn’t want that.

When at last he had – as gently as he could – tried to talk to her about it, she had burst into tears and begged him to leave her alone. ‘I’m afraid,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so afraid.’

From her barely coherent broken phrases, he gathered that she did not want to conceive again.

The pain and distress of the miscarriage were things she did not want to revisit.

She believed she was ‘all wrong’ inside and that she could never bear him a child.

If they made love, and she conceived, it would only lead to another disaster.

And to the fear was added guilt. ‘I’m no use to you,’ she wept. He hated the idea that she saw him as a threat; he hated himself for doing that to her.

‘I don’t know what to do. I must help her, but I don’t know how.

And I thought – I hoped … You were so good to us when Papa died.

And you know everything. I thought you might be able to tell me what to do, who to go and see.

Recommend a specialist, perhaps, who could help us. I don’t care what it costs.’

Oliver rubbed his chin, thinking. ‘Do you believe it’s her mind that most needs help, or her body? Do you want me to recommend a psychiatrist or a gynaecologist?’

Richard looked taken aback. ‘She’s not mad ,’ he protested.

Oliver lifted his hands in a soothing motion.

‘Of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest it.

I should have said, would you like her to see a psychoanalyst?

They talk to the patient, tease out the basis of the aberrant behaviour, help them to confront the cause and thereby achieve healing of the mind.

Or do you think there is something physically wrong with her reproductive organs?

In which case, a specialist in that field might be able to help. ’

Richard, trying not to blush at the words ‘reproductive organs’, managed in the end only to say, ‘I don’t know.’

Oliver eyed him sympathetically. ‘Of course you don’t. Women’s bodies are a mystery to most men. And what we don’t understand scares us. Am I right?’

‘I don’t want to let her down,’ Richard said miserably.

‘Which doctor has been attending her?’

‘Well, she saw Mother’s doctor at first, of course, down at Tunstead. And since then, her old family doctor, Saloman, in Earls Court.’

‘Old family doctor. Agreeable old fossil who knew her from a child?’ Oliver suggested.

‘And whom, therefore, she trusts implicitly, even though he qualified before the war and has no specialist knowledge of female reproduction?’ Richard nodded uncertainly.

‘Well,’ Oliver said, ‘it seems to me that the first thing is to find out whether there is any physical problem, and whether, if there is, it can be dealt with. And after that, if necessary, we can look at healing the mind.’

Richard felt a surge of relief. ‘That sounds sensible.’

‘Good. Then I recommend you make an appointment for her to see Felix Young, who is a gynaecologist I can recommend wholeheartedly – not only very knowledgeable, but also very sympathique , quite accustomed to dealing with shy and nervous patients. For some reason it helps that he is very handsome, and also – appropriately to his name – young. In medical terms. Mid-forties. You needn’t worry that he doesn’t know his stuff. ’

‘Thank you, Uncle. Thank you so much.’

Oliver got up and went to the door. ‘Miss Holcombe. Can you look up Felix Young, and write down his address and telephone number for Mr Howard?’ He came back and shook Richard’s hand.

‘Remember, this is very recent for her, and a shock of the sort we men can’t really understand.

Get the facts first, then deal with them.

Miscarriages are quite common, and most probably there is nothing wrong with her, and the next time it will all go well. ’

‘Thank you.’

‘And come and see me again if there’s anything else I can do.’ He smiled. ‘Try not to worry too much.’

Richard smiled too, but it was a frail thing. ‘There seems to be so much to worry about, these days.’

It was hard to persuade Cynthia to agree to consult Mr Young. She didn’t want ‘any more doctors messing me about’ and she queried why he was only a mister and not a doctor. Richard explained that surgeons always called themselves ‘mister’. That alarmed her. ‘I don’t want an operation!’

‘I’m not suggesting one. Just a consultation to find out if there is a problem – inside. After all, you’ve never seen anyone who really knew what he was talking about. Apparently this Young fellow is the best.’

‘You want a son to follow you, I know,’ she said drearily.

He took her hands and gave them an encouraging shake. ‘That’s not what this is about. This is about putting your mind at rest. There’s nothing worse than not knowing the facts. Let’s find out, and then we can decide what to do. Or not do.’

‘I won’t have an operation,’ she said, her lip trembling.

‘No-one’s saying you will. Just go and see this man, and find out if you’re all right. You’re probably worrying about nothing.’

To Richard’s surprise, Hannah was on his side. ‘See the specialist,’ she urged. ‘Dr Saloman is a good man, a wise man, but about women’s problems he doesn’t know. And he’s getting old. There are new things being found out all the time. Go and see this young man who knows what he’s talking about.’

So the appointment was made. Richard drove her to Harley Street and sat in the waiting room, holding her hand until she was called.

She had dressed in her best for the occasion, in her good wool suit with a silk blouse, smart hat, baum marten piece around her neck, leather gloves.

Richard guessed she had her best underwear on underneath, though he was not privy to that information.

He knew what an ordeal his wife was about to undergo, simply in being examined by a strange man.

She didn’t even like him, her husband, to see her naked body.

She was in the consulting room for a long time.

Richard sat in the waiting room and leafed through a copy of the Lady from the table.

He read the small-ads. He got up and walked around, smoked a cigarette, sat down again and started on an article by Nancy Mitford.

He looked at the clock, and smoked another cigarette.

Examined the fashion drawings. His wife was tall, but even she didn’t have legs that long.

And at last the inner door opened, and Mr Young looked out, smiled, and said, ‘Would you like to come in?’