Research Into Marriage

It had been impossible to hide from David what the subject of her new work was to be, and now temper ignited inside her that he should have so completely read her mind, but she toyed with the idea of denying it and telling him that the only reason she was contemplating such a course was quite simply to save her sister’s health, when it struck her that it would be far wiser to let him believe what he had just said. Apart from anything else it would be a mammoth blow to his pride to know that she would marry a stranger rather than submit to him, and so with a smile that was entirely false she said sweetly, ‘Yes, that’s quite right, David,’ and then with a slam she shut the door in his face and locked it.

Now that she was committed, incredibly she was very calm. Before she went to bed she drafted out her advertisement, keeping it as brief and general as possible, quoting merely her age and sex. It was the most quixotic thing she had ever done in her whole life, and amazingly she felt neither anxiety nor guilt at the thought of it.

THE LIFE OF A COUNTRY GP, when he was the sole doctor for a radius of twenty miles with only the back-up service of an understaffed cottage hospital behind him, was certainly no sinecure, Lyle Garnett decided tiredly as he folded his long frame into his shabby estate car.

When he had voluntarily given up the brilliant career specialising in micro neuro-surgery that had been forecast for him his friends had thought he was mad, and privately he tended to agree with them, but the involvement and commitment needed to succeed in that sort of field were not something he could give and bring up two children as well, especially not two boys as rebellious and difficult as Stuart and James.

It was because of his career that he had seen so little of them during their early years. Even before their divorce he and Heather had been living in semi-estrangement; he devoting long hours to the advancement of his career, and Heather constantly complaining about the two small children which had made the continuation of hers impossible.

The fact was that they should never have married. Heather hadn’t wanted to. When she discovered that their affair had led to a pregnancy she had wanted to go for an abortion, but he had been young and idealistic in those days and he had stubbornly held out for marriage. He had loved her then, or had thought he did, he acknowledged wryly, but what in effect he had loved had been a very young man’s dream of a woman, not the reality. He had wanted Heather to be the mother to his children that he himself had never known. His mother had been an actress, someone he saw very infrequently and whom he had yearned for desperately all his childhood. She had died when he was sixteen from a brain haemorrhage, and her death had sparked off his interest in medicine, filling in with a crusading and totally impractical dream of curing the world of all its ailments.

Time and reality had hardened that idealistic teenager into the man he was today, a world, and almost twenty years, away from that boy of sixteen. Now he recognised that for his own sake he should have allowed Heather to have her abortion. If he had maybe she would still be alive today … but that was an old guilt and one he had learned to live with in a way that he had never learned to live with his guilt towards his sons. He loved them but they were hostile towards him. They resented the fact that they had lost their mother and in her place gained a father who was virtually a stranger to them. He and Heather had divorced when James was two and Stuart four and Heather had died two years ago, running directly into the path of an oncoming car, having just had a row with him.

She had always had a terrible temper, something he had pushed to the back of his mind when as a young houseman of twenty-odd he fell in love with her, and when he had refused to take the children so that she could emigrate to America with her lover and take up the medical career she had been forced to abandon when she became pregnant, she had flown from his flat in such a fierce rage that she had never even seen the car.

She had been killed instantly, the driver distraught with shock; and in death she had achieved what she had not been able to achieve in life. He had had to take on the responsibility for his sons. Not that it had been a lack of love for them or reluctance to care for them that had prompted his refusal, merely the belief that their place was with their mother. But Heather had never wanted them. She had told him so often enough. And so he had had little alternative but to give up his career as a neuro-surgeon, and instead look around him for something less demanding and time-consuming that would mean he could take charge of his sons.

He had heard of this rural practice from a friend of a friend, and the local medical board had been astounded and delighted at the thought of getting such a highly qualified man for the job.

Within a month of Heather’s death he and the children were established in Sutton Parva, several miles west of Oxford, where his married sister and her family lived.

Justine had promised to do all she could to help him with the boys and had been as good as her word, but there were still problems. He frowned as he drove homewards. The boys were both rebellious and sullen; and being older than their cousin tended both to dominate and persecute him. Although he told himself that their bad behaviour sprang from insecurity and pain, there were times when he was so exasperated by them that he almost wanted to be able to resort to the old-fashioned parental hard hand in a place where it hurt the most. So far he had managed to restrain himself.

Added to all his other problems was the fact that as a widower and a doctor, not to mention what Justine called his ridiculously unfair share of good looks, he was constantly having to fend off the romantic and sexual overtures of some of his female patients.

It took him half an hour to drive home. The house he had bought from the previous doctor was large and rambling, with a garden that he made infrequent and haphazard attempts to tame.

Far from enjoying their country environment his sons never ceased bemoaning the lack of facilities. Raised as city children, even after eighteen months they were still not at home in the country. The new bikes he had bought them for Christmas were virtually unused, and obvious but nonetheless effective method of showing their dislike and resentment of him.

A large part of the problem was that Heather had never made any attempt to hide from the children how little either parent had genuinely wanted them, and they in turn were fiercely determined to show the rest of the world, especially their father and his family, how little they wanted him.

Even while he understood and sympathised with them, Lyle found they exasperated him.

He knew the moment he entered the kitchen that there had been another scene.

Justine, who like him had inherited the strong family profile and thick dark hair, was standing belligerently by the table, the silence thick and taut with angry resentment.

‘I’ve sent the boys upstairs,’ she told him without preamble. ‘I had to bring them back early. They tied Peter up in the garden and built a bonfire under him. They told me they were playing at Guy Fawkes.’ Her eyes darkened as she said unsteadily, ‘Dear God, Lyle, if I hadn’t caught them in time …’

She had no need to go on. He himself felt physically ill at the thought of what could have happened.

‘I can’t look after them for you any more, Lyle,’ she told him bluntly. ‘I know their problems aren’t necessarily their own fault, but I’ve tried everything, and nothing works. They need someone of their own.’

She watched sympathetically as her brother sat down; a big lean man, with a shock of thick dark hair, and eyes of a vividly intense blue, who at this moment in time looked older than his thirty-five years.

She loved him and she sympathised with him, but she could not risk the safety of her own dearly loved eight-year-old any longer with a pair of children whom she frankly considered to be beyond her ability to help.

‘God, Justine, what the hell am I going to do?’ He looked so tired and depressed that she was tempted to retract, but she hardened her heart against him.

‘Well, for one thing, this,’ she told him firmly, placing a folded newspaper down on the table in front of him. ‘Go on, read it,’ she demanded, waiting until he raised his eyes to hers in incredulous disbelief, finely mixed with anger.

‘You’re seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you? That I reply to this ad from some crazy woman who wants a husband, sell myself?’

‘Why not? Other people do it all the time,’ she interrupted evenly. ‘Only they call it self-sacrifice. You’re a doctor, Lyle,’ she reminded him, hoping he wouldn’t guess how much she hated doing this to him. ‘But how long can you go on calling yourself that? How long will it be before all the problems you’ve got here occupy so much of your mind that you make a mistake? A mistake that could cost someone’s life?’

She was only echoing his own inner thoughts, but to do what she was suggesting! He put his hand to his forehead and found that he was sweating slightly.

‘I just can’t look after them any more,’ Justine pressed on. ‘I’ve got Peter to think of. They need someone of their own,’ she added more gently, ‘someone who can give them what you and I can’t.’

‘And you think this … this stranger, a woman who needs a man so desperately she’s forced to advertise for one, will do that?’ he demanded harshly, expelling the pent-up breath from his lungs so tensely that it hurt.

Justine lowered her eyelids so that he wouldn’t see the sympathy and pain in her eyes.

‘I know that after Heather you said you’d never marry again, Lyle, but the children need a mother, even if you don’t need a wife. Of course, you could always marry one of your patients. Sylvia Hastings, for example.’

She saw the grimace and understood why. Sylvia was a pretty divorcee with a tendency to develop minor ailments, and an avid look in her eyes whenever they rested on the doctor.

‘She’s not capable of looking after herself, never mind two kids.’

‘No, and she would demand something from you that you’re no longer capable of giving, wouldn’t she, Lyle?’

She said it quietly, hating herself for delivering the blow but knowing she had to. After Heather’s death, he had told her that his guilt had affected him so strongly that he felt completely unable to touch any other woman. Physically he was as capable of being aroused as the next man, but mentally there was something there, stronger than that physical need, which had destroyed his desire for sex.

‘A marriage with someone with whom you can make a proper business arrangement would solve all your problems,’ she told him quietly. ‘I’m not saying that you marry the woman in this particular advertisement. But its one way of looking for someone. And to help you make a start, I’ve replied to this on your behalf.’

For a moment she thought he might actually hit her, but then the angry colour died out of his face, leaving it white, a muscle beating sporadically against his jaw.

‘By God, Justine, you push your luck,’ he told her thickly. ‘I don’t want or need your interference in my life.’

Her own anger beat up inside her, reminders of how they had quarrelled as children filling her mind. He had been so stubborn, a trait both his sons had inherited.

‘Maybe not, but you do need my help, and it is my right to decide what form that help will take,’ she told him evenly, adding for good measure, ‘I’ve replied to the advertisement suggesting that the woman calls here to see you.’ She saw his look of incredulous fury and held up her hand. ‘I had to do it, Lyle. I know you, if I hadn’t you’d find a way of wriggling out of it. I’m not asking you to marry the woman, not at this stage. I’m simply telling you that your children need someone in their lives that they can trust and relate to, and it seems that neither you nor I can fulfil that role. They are your children, Lyle.’

‘Yes.’

He said it wryly, his voice heavy with acceptance, and Justine felt herself relax just a little. Knowing of his decision never to marry again she had realised what she had taken on in adopting such a high-handed course of action, but she was convinced that it was the only way to help Stuart and James. Lyle might not need or want a wife, but they both needed and wanted a mother. It was after all no worse than the arranged marriages organised by many Eastern parents for their children, and on balance these worked.

‘Good.’ She smiled briefly and glanced at her watch, squashing her guilt. ‘I’ll have to go. The boys had something to eat. I think it’s best from now on that they don’t come to me. It just isn’t working out, so instead I’ve arranged for my daily, Mrs Davies, to come here and look after them, but it can only be a temporary arrangement,’ she warned him.

Watching her drive off, Lyle stuck bunched hands into his trouser pockets. Damn her for her interference! He scowled blackly, unaware of how much he looked like his recalcitrant sons. What kind of woman would advertise for a husband, for God’s sake? But he supposed he would have to see her now, otherwise Justine would raise merry hell and he depended too much on his sister to risk antagonising her.

He turned away from the window and looked at the door. Now he would have to go upstairs and tackle the boys. Cravenly he found himself longing for a restorative whisky and soda before doing so, but he refused to give in to the urge.

Justine had been right about one thing. They were his children … his responsibility and one that he was not tackling very well at all. It was all very well to know in theory what to do, but in practice two sulky and silently condemning children seemed to be able to frazzle his nerves far faster than the most awkward patient

He found them in the room linking their bedrooms, which was designated as a study. Both of them were sitting down, so close together that their bodies were touching.

They looked more like him than Heather. They had his height and colouring, but their eyes were Heather’s, deeply hazel, and now both of them gazed accusingly but mutely at him.

He sat down, feeling ill at ease and ill equipped to deal with them. What on earth had possessed them to play that stupid and dangerous game with their cousin? They were not unintelligent kids, far from it.

He took a deep breath.

‘Okay … your Aunt Justine has told me all about this afternoon. What you were doing was very, very wrong, and very dangerous. Peter could have been seriously injured if you had set that bonfire alight, killed even.’

Two pairs of unblinking hazel eyes regarded him without expression. It was like talking to a brick wall. He knew that he was simply not getting through to them. Exasperated and exhausted, he pushed irate fingers through his hair. His hand itched to administer punishment of a more basic nature than a lecture, but Heather had been resolutely against any form of physical punishment and he had felt bound to abide by her wishes, even though he himself as a boy had felt his father’s hand against his backside on more than one occasion—events which he remembered without rancour when he recalled the misdeeds that had given rise to them.

‘Your Aunt Justine can’t look after you any more.’ He frowned, a solution presenting itself to him, and added slowly. ‘Perhaps I ought to send you both away to school.’

Briefly both sets of hazel eyes mirrored fear, and he had a momentary urge to reach out and enfold them reassuringly, but he knew that any attempt on his part to touch them would be fiercely repudiated. He had already talked over with Justine the wisdom of sending them away to school but she had been vehemently against it. ‘If you do they will grow up institutionalised, Lyle,’ she had told him. ‘They haven’t got enough self-confidence in themselves for that. They’d think of it as punishment.’ And now looking at them he could see that she was right.

‘Okay, no boarding school.’ He felt rather than saw them relax, and wished a little despairingly that they were not so close to the long school holiday. Previously they had stayed with Justine during the week, coming home to him at weekends, but today she had made it plain that that could not continue.

Justine had forced him into a corner with marriage as his only escape. But marriage was the last thing he wanted. His marriage to Heather had been a living hell, and he had loved her. But this marriage that Justine was promoting would not be like that, it would be a business arrangement, like employing a housekeeper or a nanny.

‘Why can’t the pair of you make more of an effort to get on with Peter?’ he demanded wearily as he got to his feet. ‘Your Aunt Justine loves you, but …’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ Stuart’s lip curled as he spoke. ‘She doesn’t love us at all,’ he continued, watching him. ‘She just puts up with us because you’re our father.’

There was enough truth in what he was saying for Lyle to be lost for a way to answer.

‘No one loves us,’ James piped up. ‘And we don’t love anyone, just each other.’

Slowly Lyle backed towards the door. Poor wretched little brats … But what on earth could he say to them? That he had loved the four and two-year-old sons he had been forced to leave when Heather wanted her divorce, but that the ten and twelve-year-olds they now were were strangers to him? Heather had demanded sole custody and had told him that she thought it would be better for the children if they didn’t see him, and his solicitor had advised him to accept her demands, so they had come to him virtually strangers.

Justine was right, he thought, opening the door abruptly. They did need someone of their own. She was also right about the pressure of his personal problems and the effect it was likely to have on his work, and as a doctor he could not afford to make mistakes.

What was she like, this woman who advertised so boldly for a husband, merely describing herself as twenty-six, single and self-supporting?

Well, thanks to Justine it looked as though he might soon find out.

CHAPTER TWO

ONCE HAVING MADE UP her mind to find herself a husband Jessica was amazed at how calm she felt about the whole thing.

She did not anticipate that David would attempt to tell Andrea what she was doing; to do so would constitute far too hard a blow to his pride, and she suspected that he found it very convenient to hide his brief flings with his female students behind her sister’s neurotic belief that he was having an affair with her.

More surprisingly however, neither did it stop him from attempting to make headway with her himself. She was a regular visitor to the university library, and it irritated her how often he managed to waylay her there, subjecting her to the heavy gallantry and smug male egotism that she most loathed about him.

His skin was so thick nothing could dent it, she reflected bitterly after one such encounter. He still refused to believe that she would actually get married and constantly taunted her about it, to the extent that she felt she would virtually marry the first man who asked her simply to prove him wrong.

Over and above all this, Andrea’s mental state worried her increasingly, and she was finding it almost impossible to concentrate on her work. She needed a calmer, more relaxing environment. She grimaced faintly to herself. Marriage, from what she had observed of it, was scarcely conducive to such virtues, and then because her sense of humour was highly developed and sometimes disconcertingly self-directed she wondered if embarking on such a marriage as she planned would confirm her research on arranged marriages, and how she would cope if it did not.

IF SHE HAD WONDERED what sort of person responded to advertisements in the personal columns, she was no nearer to discovering the answer over a week later when she had read through the replies she had received.

After discounting the cranks and frankly obscene responses she was left with over a dozen apparently genuine replies all from men who seemed united in only one thing—their loneliness. Apart from one, that was.

Thoughtfully she picked up the letter which had seemed so different from all the others and read it again. For one thing, it was much longer than the other replies; it was also extremely detailed and direct giving her much more information than her other correspondents, even to the point of being almost ‘chatty’ in places.

It described both the house and life-style of the writer, and made no bones about the problems he was experiencing with his two sons, nor his reasons for wanting a wife, ‘Primarily to take care of the boys and give their lives a focal point, and secondarily to provide for myself a well-organised home life, so that I can concentrate on my patients.’

It contained no false promises of emotional commitment or mutual happiness, being rather severely practical. In short, it represented a subtle challenge and the ideal background against which she could test out her research behind her new book, and Jessica felt herself responding to that challenge, her response in no way lessened by the knowledge that the letter was carefully designed to elicit such a response.

She was surprised by the degree of sympathy she felt towards the two boys, described unflatteringly in the letter as ‘a pair of holy terrors designed to try the patience of a saint, and who, despite their insecurities and needs, manage to be as obnoxious and unlovable as it is possible to be.’ No false imagery there. It was the cry of an exasperated adult, exhausted by the emotional problems he was ill-equipped to solve.

She retained sufficient memories of her own parents’ divorce to be fully aware of the nature of the children’s problems, and going into such a household was hardly likely to leave her as much free time as she was used to, to concentrate on her work, but despite that she found herself reading and re-reading the letter. Absently she searched among her books for a map, and found that as he had guessed the village was less than seventy miles away. Far enough away to put a distance between her and David, but close enough for her to get back quickly if Andrea needed her. Rather oddly the letter named a day and a time for a prospective meeting, taking things forward faster than she had anticipated. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for a direct confrontation with her prospective spouse as yet, but he it seemed had no qualms. The letter included a map and directions, she noticed, but no surname or telephone number so that it would be impossible for her to ring up and cancel the appointment. She simply either had to turn up or ignore the letter completely. Plainly there were not going to be any half measures.

How would she like being married to a doctor? Contrary to popular opinion she had found that they were often harassed, ill-mannered brutes, anxious only to empty their surgery, but she was quite willing to be proved wrong. She had nothing against the breed per se.

A sense of adventure, long dormant inside her, made her lips curl in a slow smile, a feeling of light-heartedness, so alien after the miseries of the past months that it felt like champagne in her veins, and impelled her to study her diary. If she had nothing on on the day stipulated in the letter than she would go, she decided rashly, unaware that she had been holding her breath like an excited child until she turned over the pages and found the date completely free of other engagements.

Telling herself that it was completely ridiculous to decide what could be the whole of her future on such a simple whim, it nevertheless pleased her to find the date free. Guiltily she acknowledged that she had been playing a silly game of pretending she was not responsible for her own fate, and that somehow it lay in other, more powerful hands, thus also avoiding taking any responsibility for what might happen. Sometimes it was decidedly uncomfortable being a psychologist, she decided wryly. There were odd occasions when she might have preferred to remain in ignorance of her own motives.