Free The Citadel by A. J. Cronin

don’t bother to combine the symptoms in their own mind and puzzle out the diagnosis. They say very quick, because they’re usually in a rush, “Ah! headache – try this powder,” or “ you’re anaemic, you must have some iron.” Instead of asking themselves what is causing the headache or the anaemia –’ He broke off sharply, ‘Oh! I’m sorry! I’m boring you!’
    ‘No, no,’ she said quickly. ‘ It’s awfully interesting.’
    ‘I’m just beginning, just feeling my way,’ he went on tempestuously, thrilled by her interest. ‘But I do honestly think even from what I’ve seen that the text-books I was brought up on have too many old-fashioned conservative ideas in them. Remedies that are no use, symptoms that were shoved in by somebody in the Middle Ages. You might say it doesn’t matter to the average GP. But why should the general practitioner be no more than a poultice mixer or a medicine slinger? It’s time science was brought into the front line. A lot of people think that science lies in the bottom of a test-tube. I believe that the outlying GP’s have all the opportunities to see things, and a better chance to observe the first symptoms of new disease than they have at any of the hospitals. By the time a case gets to hospital it’s usually past the early stages.’
    She was about to answer quickly when the door bell rang. She rose, suppressing her remark, saying instead, with her faint smile:
    ‘I hope you won’t forget your promise to talk of this another time.’
    Watkins and his wife came in, apologising for being late. And almost at once they sat down to supper.
    It was a very different meal from that cold collation which had last brought them together. They had veal cooked in a casserole and potatoes mashed with butter, followed by new rhubarb tart with cream, then cheese and coffee. Though plain, every dish was good and there was plenty of it. After the skimpy meals served to him by Blodwen it was a treat to Andrew to find hot appetising food before him. He sighed:
    ‘You’re lucky in your landlady, Miss Barlow. She’s a marvellous cook!’
    Watkins, who had been observing Andrew’s trencher work with a quizzical eye, suddenly laughed out loud.
    ‘That’s a good one.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Did you hear him, mother? He says old Mrs Herbert’s a marvellous cook.’
    Christine coloured slightly.
    ‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ she said to Andrew. ‘It’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever had – because you didn’t mean it. As it happens, I cooked the supper. I have the run of Mrs Herbert’s kitchen. I like doing for myself. And I’m used to it.’
    Her remark served to make the mine manager more jovially boisterous. He was quite changed from the taciturn individual who had stoically endured the entertainment at Mrs Bramwell’s. Blunt and likeably common, he enjoyed his supper, smacked his lips over the tart, put his elbows on the table, told stories which made them laugh.
    The evening passed quickly. When Andrew looked at his watch he saw to his amazement that it was nearly eleven o’clock. And he had promised to pay a late visit to see a case in Blaina Place before half past ten.
    As he rose, regretfully, to take his leave, Christine accompanied him to the door. In the narrow passage his arm touched her side. A pang of sweetness went over him. She was so different from anyone he had ever known, with her quietness, her fragility, her dark intelligent eyes. Heaven forgive him for daring to have thought her skimpy!
    Breathing quickly, he mumbled:
    ‘I can’t thank you enough for asking me tonight. Please can I see you again? I don’t always talk shop. Would you – Christine, would you come to the Toniglan cinema with me, sometime?’
    Her eyes smiled up at him, for the first time faintly provocative.
    ‘You try asking me.’
    A long silent minute on the doorstep under the high stars. The dew scented air was cool on his hot cheek. Her breath came sweetly