girlish ways. Gladys described herself romantically as a man’s woman. The gossips of Drineffy used another word. Doctor Bramwell doted upon her and it was rumoured that only his blind fondness prevented him from observing her more than skittish preoccupation with Doctor Gabell, the ‘coloured’ doctor from Toniglan.
As Andrew scanned her he sought hurriedly for an evasion.
‘I’m afraid, Mrs Bramwell, I can’t possibly get away tonight.’
‘But you must, silly. I’ve got such nice people coming. Mr and Mrs Watkins from the mine and,’ a conscious smile escaped her, ‘Doctor Gabell from Toniglan – oh, and I almost forgot, the little school-teacher Christine Barlow.’
A shiver passed over Manson.
He smiled foolishly.
‘Why, of course I’ll come, Mrs Bramwell. Thank you very much for asking me.’ He managed to sustain her conversation for a few moments until she departed. But for the remainder of the day he could think of nothing but the fact that he was going to see Christine Barlow again.
Mrs Bramwell’s ‘ evening’ began at nine o’clock, the late hour being chosen out of consideration for the medical gentlemen who might be detained at their surgeries. It was, in fact, a quarter past nine when Andrew finished his last consultation. Hurriedly, he splashed himself in the surgery sink, tugged back his hair with the broken comb, and hastened to The Retreat. He reached the house which, belying its idyllic name, was a small brick dwelling in the middle of the town, to find that he was the last arrival. Mrs Bramwell, chiding him brightly, led the way, followed by her five guests and her husband, into supper.
It was a cold meal, spread out on paper doyleys on the fumed oak table. Mrs Bramwell prided herself upon being a hostess, something of a leader in style in Drineffy, which permitted her to shock public opinion by ‘doing herself up,’ and her idea of ‘making things go’ was to talk and laugh a great deal. She always inferred that her background previous to her marriage to Doctor Bramwell had been one of excessive luxury. Tonight, as they sat down she glittered:
‘Now! Has everybody got what they want.’
Andrew, breathless from his haste, was at first deeply embarrassed. For a full ten minutes he dared not look at Christine. He kept his eyes lowered, overpoweringly conscious of her sitting at the far end of the table between Doctor Gabell, a dark complexioned dandy in spats, striped trousers and pearl pin, and Mr Watkins, the elderly scrubby-headed mine manager, who in his blunt fashion was making much of her. At last, driven by a laughing allusion from Watkins: ‘Are ye still my Yorkshire lass, Miss Christine?’ he lifted his head jealously, looked at her, found her so intimately there, in a soft grey dress with white at the neck and cuffs, that he was stricken and withdrew his eyes lest she should read them.
Defensively, scarcely knowing what he said, he began to devote himself to his neighbour, Mrs Watkins, a little wisp of a woman who had brought her knitting.
For the remainder of the meal he endured the anguish of talking to one person when he longed to talk to another. He could have sighed with relief when Doctor Bramwell, presiding at the top of the table, viewed the cleared plates benevolently and made a napoleonic gesture.
‘I think, my dear, we have all finished. Shall we adjourn to the drawing-room.’
In the drawing-room, when the guests were variously disposed – chiefly upon the three-piece suite – it was plain that music was expected in the order of the evening. Bramwell beamed fondly on his wife and led her to the piano.
‘What shall we oblige with first tonight, my love.’ Humming, he fingered amongst the music on the stand.
‘“Temple Bells”,’ Gabell suggested. ‘I never get tired of that one, Mrs Bramwell.’
Seating herself on the revolving music stool Mrs Bramwell played and sang while her husband, one hand behind his back, the other advanced as in
As Andrew scanned her he sought hurriedly for an evasion.
‘I’m afraid, Mrs Bramwell, I can’t possibly get away tonight.’
‘But you must, silly. I’ve got such nice people coming. Mr and Mrs Watkins from the mine and,’ a conscious smile escaped her, ‘Doctor Gabell from Toniglan – oh, and I almost forgot, the little school-teacher Christine Barlow.’
A shiver passed over Manson.
He smiled foolishly.
‘Why, of course I’ll come, Mrs Bramwell. Thank you very much for asking me.’ He managed to sustain her conversation for a few moments until she departed. But for the remainder of the day he could think of nothing but the fact that he was going to see Christine Barlow again.
Mrs Bramwell’s ‘ evening’ began at nine o’clock, the late hour being chosen out of consideration for the medical gentlemen who might be detained at their surgeries. It was, in fact, a quarter past nine when Andrew finished his last consultation. Hurriedly, he splashed himself in the surgery sink, tugged back his hair with the broken comb, and hastened to The Retreat. He reached the house which, belying its idyllic name, was a small brick dwelling in the middle of the town, to find that he was the last arrival. Mrs Bramwell, chiding him brightly, led the way, followed by her five guests and her husband, into supper.
It was a cold meal, spread out on paper doyleys on the fumed oak table. Mrs Bramwell prided herself upon being a hostess, something of a leader in style in Drineffy, which permitted her to shock public opinion by ‘doing herself up,’ and her idea of ‘making things go’ was to talk and laugh a great deal. She always inferred that her background previous to her marriage to Doctor Bramwell had been one of excessive luxury. Tonight, as they sat down she glittered:
‘Now! Has everybody got what they want.’
Andrew, breathless from his haste, was at first deeply embarrassed. For a full ten minutes he dared not look at Christine. He kept his eyes lowered, overpoweringly conscious of her sitting at the far end of the table between Doctor Gabell, a dark complexioned dandy in spats, striped trousers and pearl pin, and Mr Watkins, the elderly scrubby-headed mine manager, who in his blunt fashion was making much of her. At last, driven by a laughing allusion from Watkins: ‘Are ye still my Yorkshire lass, Miss Christine?’ he lifted his head jealously, looked at her, found her so intimately there, in a soft grey dress with white at the neck and cuffs, that he was stricken and withdrew his eyes lest she should read them.
Defensively, scarcely knowing what he said, he began to devote himself to his neighbour, Mrs Watkins, a little wisp of a woman who had brought her knitting.
For the remainder of the meal he endured the anguish of talking to one person when he longed to talk to another. He could have sighed with relief when Doctor Bramwell, presiding at the top of the table, viewed the cleared plates benevolently and made a napoleonic gesture.
‘I think, my dear, we have all finished. Shall we adjourn to the drawing-room.’
In the drawing-room, when the guests were variously disposed – chiefly upon the three-piece suite – it was plain that music was expected in the order of the evening. Bramwell beamed fondly on his wife and led her to the piano.
‘What shall we oblige with first tonight, my love.’ Humming, he fingered amongst the music on the stand.
‘“Temple Bells”,’ Gabell suggested. ‘I never get tired of that one, Mrs Bramwell.’
Seating herself on the revolving music stool Mrs Bramwell played and sang while her husband, one hand behind his back, the other advanced as in
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