THE POSTMODERN MALADY OF DR. PETER HUDSON

PART II

The elder, and taller, of the two smartly dressed gentlemen, stood patiently at the bottom of the stairs. The second, shorter man, paced from one side of the great hall to the other. When every so often the silence became too great, their eyes would meet, and on each occasion the patience of the older man unsettled his younger companion further. The younger man seemed perplexed by the calm exterior of his companion, yet he was not to realise the inner turmoil, and the fear which gripped the heart of the taller man, for the taller man did not know how to show it. The two men differed in age by about ten years, the older being a few months short of his 65th birthday.

When finally this reticent conference was disturbed, by the family physician descending the main staircase, the younger man, for all his energy, seemed suddenly drained and, like a child, left it to the older gentleman to speak.

“What news?”

“Much the same,” answered the physician, “I venture it may be soon gentlemen. I would advise you to be prepared.”

“I think that we have, for some time, been prepared for this. Yet it will make his passing no easier for either of us to bear.”

“He will be sadly missed. He was a good friend of my father.”

“Let us not wish him passed just yet!” interjected the younger gentleman sharply.

“Of course, I meant no offence,” replied the physician hurriedly, “Merely that it will not be long.”

“No offence was taken,” answered the older gentleman for his companion. “On another note, I hear the Ripper struck again last night?”

“Indeed, it appears so. Bond, the surgeon, is a friend of mine. It happened in Spitalfields, the fifth he says.”

“A serious business, more so if they were not prostitutes, but how long until it is more serious, I wonder?” The older man turned to the younger, “We must go up and see him now, James.”

“Yes, of course. Good night, Arthur,” said James, the younger man, and with that he turned and walked upstairs.

On his departure, the older man rang the bell, and the maid entered. The older man and the physician parted ways, and the maid showed the physician out. The older man waited in the hall for the maid to return.

“Can I get you anything, Master George?” she asked.

“No, thank you, I will go and join James upstairs. We will have dinner around eight.”

“As is your wish, Sir.”

George nodded, and made his way to his father’s room.

When he got inside, he found James staring out of the window. George, who had always shared a closer bond with his father, drew up a chair to the bedside, and held his father’s hand. His father was frail, because he was close to death, because he was ninety-one years old, but always, at least so long as George could remember, there had been such a frailty to him, though never in character, or morality. As a young child George had sensed indebtedness on his father’s part towards him, which was an odd thing, perhaps, for a child to sense. Later, George would understand this to be because his birth brought the loss of his mother in childbirth – and the reaction then, could surely only be over protection, or resentment. Fortunately, he gathered his father was a loving man, and so it could never be the latter, although sometimes he felt there was some resentment somewhere in his father, but buried very deep. Yet for any doubt George had, the resentment never rose to the surface, it was always controlled; if it were there, it had never affected the relationship between them, at least not in a negative way.