The Bachelors Read Free

he experiences the aura,
and this enables him to take preliminary precautions as to his physical safety
during the seizure. He learns to lie down on the floor in time. He learns…’
    ‘No,
that’s not what I mean,’ Ronald said. ‘What I mean is something different. It
is like being partly an onlooker during the fit, yet not quite…’
    ‘The
seizure,’ said the doctor, meanwhile puzzling his brains with a frown.
    ‘The
seizure,’ said Ronald.
    ‘Oh,
quite,’ said the doctor. ‘The patient might learn to exercise some control
during the petit-mal stage to stand him in good stead during the grand-mal
convulsions.
    ‘That’s
right,’ Ronald said, and went home and, on the way, had a severe fit in the
street; on which occasion his method would not work, so that he came to his
senses in the casualty department of St. George’s hospital, sick with
inhalations which had been administered to him to arrest his frenzy.
    Soon
Ronald was obliged to earn his living. His father, a retired horticulturist,
still mourning the early death of his wife, took fright when he realised that
Ronald was incurable. Ronald reassured him, advised him to buy an annuity and
go to live at Kew; the father smiled and went.
    Ronald
got a job in a small museum of graphology in the City, to which people of
various professions had recourse as well as curious members of the public. To
Ronald’s museum came criminologists from abroad, people wishing to identify the
dates of manuscripts, or the handwriting attached to documents of doubt. Some
came in the hope of obtaining ‘readings’ by which they meant a pronouncement as
to the character and future fortunes of the person responsible for a piece of
handwriting, but these were sent empty away. Ronald gained a reputation in the
detection of forgeries, and after about five years was occasionally consulted
by lawyers and criminal authorities, and several times was called to court as
witness for the defence or prosecution.
    At the
museum he had a room to himself, with an understanding that he could there have
his fits in peace without anyone fussing along to his aid. He knew how to
compose himself for a fit. He cultivated his secret method of retaining some
self-awareness during his convulsions, and never mentioned this to his doctors
again, lest he should lose the gift. He kept by him a wedge of cork which he
stuck between his teeth as the first signs seized him. He knew how many seconds
it took to turn off the gas fire in his small office, to take the correct dose
of his pills, to lie flat on his back, turn his head to the side, biting his
cork wedge, and to await the onslaught. It was arranged, at these times, that
no-one entering Ronald’s office should touch him except in the event of blood
issuing from his mouth. Blood was never seen at his mouth, only foam, for Ronald
was careful with his cork wedge. His two old colleagues and the two young
clerks got used to him, and the typist, a large religious woman, ceased to try
to mother him.
    After
five years Ronald’s fits occurred on an average of once a month. The drugs
which he took regularly, and in extra strength at the first intimations of his
fits, became gradually more effective in controlling his movements, but less
frequently could he ward off the violent stage of his attack until he found a
convenient place in which to lie down. Twice within fourteen years he was
arrested for drunkenness while staggering along the street towards a chemist’s
shop. Twice, he simply lay down on the pavement close in to the walls and
allowed himself to be removed by ambulance. As often as possible he travelled
by taxi or by a lift in a friend’s car.
    The
porter of his flats had once found him, curled up and kicking violently, in the
lift, and Ronald had subsequently gone over the usual explanations in patient
parrot-like sequence. And, on these out-of-doors occasions, wherever they might
take place, Ronald would go home to bed and sleep for twelve to