The Good Doctor Read online

  TITANIC ASHES

  “Titanic Ashes is a fast read filled with elegant expression and surprising emotion. Butler makes it easy to see inside the turmoil both sides felt when split second decisions made the difference between life or death. With surprising conclusions for all, this gem of a novel is sure to please those looking to expand on what came after.” — Historical Novels Review

  “Titanic Ashes paints an interesting and seemingly accurate picture of Ismay and provides insight into a troubled man.”

  — Edwards Book Club

  “Butler uses well-documented evidence on which to build this story, and he creates a finely-detailed psychological portrait. Not just of a man, but that of his family—and of the desperate self-delusion of which we are all capable in the face of unattractive truth. Add into the mix a climactic confrontation with another survivor of the Titanic, whose personal circumstances contrast sharply with those of Ismay, and Butler’s novel becomes quite suspenseful as well as absorbing.” — The Western Star

  “Butler covers a lot of ground in a short space, and the flashbacks are vivid and well executed.” — Quill & Quire

  “Titanic Ashes resets the immense and famous tragedy on an intimate scale, interlaced with family loyalties and individual memories.” — The Telegram

  “Butler skilfully shows us the characters and their connections. By drawing the barest lines to delineate then, he lets us fill in the colours and shading of the relationships.”

  — The Northeast Avalon Times

  “Paul Butler’s prose is like Granny’s knitting, tightly stitched; its tension perfect.” — The Charter

  CUPIDS

  “A tale of both danger and intrigue . . . and an interesting read to boot.” — The Compass

  “Butler does a good job of bringing out that ‘unstated drama’ in Cupids, the drama unfolding in the first person voices of various characters—most notably John Guy and Bartholomew. Butler provides enough detail to give you a sense of life in the 1600s, but not so much that it weighs down the characters and the story they are telling. Another of his strengths as a writer is an ability to quickly create a picture of a character, one that stays with you.” — The Chronicle Herald

  “Paul Butler’s novel Cupids has brilliant insight to the beginning of what was once known as Cupers Cove and John Guy’s adventures.” — Current Magazine

  “Reminds me of prose that might have been penned by my favourite dead English author, Thomas Hardy.”

  — The Southern Gazette

  “A rich story filled with interesting characters and unpredictable plot twists.” — Downhome

  “Butler provides solid descriptions of both the coast of Newfoundland and Bristol, England; where he excels is in his depictions of the human psyche: the servant who rebels against her station, the aunt who never forgets past wrongs, the willful daughter of a rich man. He has created memorable characters who could all easily be historical figures rather than imaginative figments.” — Historical Novels Review

  1892

  “1892 combines both lyrical writing and telling detail. It is a novel written by a sure and confident writer in his prime.”

  — The Chronicle Herald

  “[1892] is a page turner that will be enjoyed as romance, historical fiction and a chilling gothic tale.” — Atlantic Books Today

  “The unanswered questions that will nag historians forever (like ‘Who started the fire?’) are answered amid the drama of a love story caught in tragic circumstances, making for a rich blend of fact and fantasy.” — Downhome

  “[Paul Butler’s] writing is lyrical and compelling.”

  — The Sudbury Star

  “Beautifully written . . .” — Book-A-Rama

  “Butler’s account of the fire’s genesis is dramatic, but his descriptions of how people find themselves in old St. John’s are persuasive and compelling.” — Resource Links

  “Butler is adept at using historical events in his compelling story about the developing intimacy of two lower-class young people.” — Newfoundland and Labrador Studies

  “1892 is a novel as intriguing as it is lyrical. Paul Butler is a great writer and a gifted storyteller.”

  — Donna Morrissey, Author of Sylvanus Now

  ST. JOHN’S: CITY OF FIRE

  “It’s no easy task to make a long ago emergency interesting to a modern reader, but Butler brings his novelists skill to the newspaper reports, eyewitness accounts, and archival information, creating vivid images of the city and her inhabitants.”

  — Atlantic Books Today

  “Paul Butler brings a level of detail possible only through in-depth historical research.” — Downhome

  NAGEIRA

  “Butler’s prose is smooth and clean; the story moves forward vigorously, with patches of poetry.” — The Globe and Mail

  “Butler keeps the story grounded, brisk and inviting.”

  — The Telegram

  “A tour de force of the imagination . . .”

  — Canadian Book Review Annual

  “[A] brilliant exploration of one of Newfoundland’s central mythological figures set within highly-crafted, well-written parallel stories that hinge on twists of fate and an intricate plot structure.” — Atlantic Books Today

  “The novel is poetic, compelling and surprisingly fluid.”

  — Product of Newfoundland website

  EASTON’S GOLD

  “A compelling novel . . .” — The Globe and Mail

  “Easton’s Gold and its predecessor [Easton] are about as different as it’s possible for two novels featuring the same character to be. They’re both excellent, but in very different ways.”

  — The Chronicle Herald

  “Butler is an invigorating writer, keeping the reader in suspense, but moving the story along at an exhilarating pace. Furthermore, he provides a substantial background to his story, and is meticulous in his re-creation of time and place, especially of shipboard space.” — Canadian Book Review Annual

  EASTON

  “The story is fast-paced, action-packed, and replete with horrific details, frequent tests of will, a somewhat improbable love match, and a satisfying denouement.”

  — Canadian Book Review Annual

  “It is exceptionally well-written, with the author’s prose—and especially the dialogue—flowing in an easy, natural manner.”

  — The Telegram

  “Taking the reader from England to Newfoundland to the Caribbean, this tale of politics, power and piracy provides an adventurous perspective on a fascinating time in our history.”

  — Current Magazine

  “The story is fast-paced and captivating.” — Downhome

  “Nicely detailed and imagined.” — The Telegram

  “Striking phrasings.” — The Independent

  STOKER’S SHADOW

  “Butler’s prose style is often lush; he describes post-Victorian London quite eloquently . . .” — The Globe and Mail

  “Stoker’s Shadow is a stunning achievement that will doubtless gather to itself all praise.”

  — Joanne Soper-Cooke,

  Author of A Cold-Blooded Scoundrel

  “Though the vampires in Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula cast no shadows, the author and the book certainly do. In Stoker’s Shadow, Paul Butler explores this phenomenon in a unique blending of biography and dreamscape.”

  — Dr. Elizabeth Miller, Author of Dracula: Sense and Nonsense and A Dracula Handbook

  “Stoker’s Shadow is an interesting read because of its unique approach an
d its historical insights.”

  — The Newfoundland Herald

  The

  Good

  Doctor

  _______________________________

  Paul Butler

  Pennywell Books

  St. John’s

  By Paul Butler

  Titanic Ashes

  Cupids

  1892

  City of Fire

  NaGeira

  Rogues and Heroes

  Easton’s Gold

  Easton

  Stoker’s Shadow

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Butler, Paul, 1964-, author

  The good doctor / Paul Butler.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77117-361-2 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-77117-362-9 (epub).--

  ISBN 978-1-77117-363-6 (kindle).--ISBN 978-1-77117-364-3 (pdf)

  1. Grenfell, Wilfred Thomason, Sir, 1865-1940--Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS8553.U735G66 2014 C813’.6 C2014-903429-6 C2014-903430-X

  ———————————————————————————————— ————————————————

  © 2014 by Paul Butler

  All rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

  Printed in Canada

  Cover Design by Graham Blair

  Flanker Press Ltd.

  PO Box 2522, Station C

  St. John’s, NL

  Canada

  Telephone: (709) 739-4477 Fax: (709) 739-4420 Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

  www.flankerpress.com

  Pennywell Books is an imprint of Flanker Press.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

  — Prologue —

  1910: Portland, Maine

  The slide show is over. A small electric light buzzes over the lectern and sends a ghostly blue pallor over the faces in the front row.

  “That, my friends,” the doctor says, “is the sum of the pictures I have to show you tonight. Blame the railway company for mislaying the rest.”

  A ripple of unforced laughter stirs the audience. He is amazed not for the first time at how remarkably easy it is for a famous man to elicit any emotion, from shock to sympathy to mirth. The worry that nagged him before, the sense of a malign, watching presence, has faded. The feeling first emerged with the sound of laboured breathing, a wounded animal in the darkness. The rasp is still present but the lecture’s obvious success demystifies the sufferer. Medical terms, like bronchitis and emphysema, devoid of the poetry of vengeance or moral judgment, have come into the doctor’s mind. His nerves are soothed.

  Florence leaves the projector and takes her seat by his side.

  “I have touched upon the dreadful hardships of those who trap inland upon the Labrador during the winter, and pursue the fishery in summer. I’ve talked of the diseases of malnourishment, the children who are stillborn who might have been saved. But one question remains and it’s a central one, a question that corresponds to one debt I intent to pay, and that I never tire of paying.”

  The silence is impressive. He senses they are turning upon his hook, open-mouthed and helpless like pilchards. “When did it all start for me, a lowly, humble intern learning his skills in London’s East End?” A barely audible murmur sweeps through the audience. No one has asked him anything of the kind, but this is the crux of the story, the moment when those who had come to see a Great Man might get that glimpse into the workings of his soul, see what differentiates him from the crowd and garner some speck of insight into how they might turn the knowledge to their advantage.

  “It was nearly thirty years ago, late, very late at night. It was early fall and I was trudging through the normally blackened East End streets. Tired and worn down by the sights and smells of poverty, haunted by the knowledge I had just delivered a new babe to a family with no means of support in the smallest and dingiest corner of a city slum. In an open space between the streets, I noticed a tent rising improbably beneath the autumn moon, its canvas yellow with burning lamps, Arabesque with spires and dune-like dips.”

  Someone suppresses a cough, and the doctor again hears the laboured breathing again, yes, surely the early signs of emphysema. The sound arises as the most touching kind of faith now. The poor man, who should be at home, has come to be inspired.

  “Despite my tiredness, the idle curiosity of youth drew me toward the entrance. Once inside I instantly breathed the pure, fresh air of faith. Although hundreds of eyes fixed on him, the man on the podium commanded my attention like an osprey catching the shimmer of a tail fin far below. He gave a nod of recognition, and a special kind of challenge glistened in his eyes. What did he say that night to claim my energies for the unsentimental service of good?”

  The lectern light flickers for a moment and buzzes louder as though about to blow. The doctor feels his legs shift and wonders if his concentration might fail, but as the filament dims and then brightens again, he realizes the wavering light has merely focused the audience’s interest, capturing its attention more securely in its hypnotic pull. “In truth,” he continues, “I hardly remember. But the energy and the sincerity emanating from the man I would later come to know as D. L. Moody, the great evangelist, was palpable. And his message was timeless. It was simply this: come follow me. Forget the pomp and sham of religion, the hollow ceremonials. Come to the poorest and hungriest places on earth and once there lend your talents to the service of humanity.”

  Save for the soft buzz of the light and a mouse-like scratching from a pencil at the far end of the front row from someone apparently taking notes, the silence hangs like a pall. The doctor’s practice is to announce his appearances only a day or two in advance so that word of mouth might spread through the hotel reception, bar, and restaurant in time to gather up interest, but newspaper reporters, should they get wind of the event, will be unlikely to have time to read up too much on the subject. By the time their scanty reports appear, he is usually long gone.

  The intensity of the man’s writing—his pencil now scurrying across the paper as though the mouse senses food—gives the doctor a momentary pang of fear. But this is not the quarter from which the challenge will arise.

  “My friends, I will conclude here. You will notice that my secretary has at her feet a donation box.” Florence nods, turns on her seat, and switches on the wall light, revealing a sea of blinking eyes, crumpled suits, and bristling fur from ladies’ coats and stoles. “Please do not feel compelled. The hotel generously donated space, so we do not need to cover our costs. The box is for cash which goes straight to work in our mission. We do not accept cheques because we respect the anonymity of our donors. Please be governed merely by yourselves.” He gives a slight cough and feels heat under his moustache as he nods; a modest shadow of a bow to let them know it’s over. “Meanwhile, I would be delig
hted to mingle and answer individually any questions you might have.”

  It’s rather a scruffy ending and he notes, as he will remember later, that this part of the presentation needs more work. But the fault is about to be covered. A single clap, loud and obliging, announces a tumult of applause ready to break.

  “One question, sir,” says the wheezing man. The coming applause is suspended.

  Terribly thin, with deeply sunken eyes and cheekbones jutting like doorknobs from either side of his skull, the man could be anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. He stands up with some difficulty. Through thick pebble glasses his eyes remain upon the doctor. A stick on each side supports his skeletal frame.

  “Of course,” the doctor replies with a genial laugh. He hasn’t yet sensed catastrophe but does wonder why he’s addressed as “sir” rather than “doctor.”

  “You say you accept only cash?”

  “Yes.” He will remember later the numb feeling in his lips as he spoke the word, and how an unreal sensation flooded through his body, weakening his knees. The spectre of vengeance has returned.

  “But last year when in New York there was no such rule. In fact, the audience was expressly told to make out cheques to the Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen.”

  The hush of the audience, a balm a moment ago, feels suddenly like a slap. Men and women in the front turn and crane their necks to get a view of the stranger. Someone makes a tut-tut sound, aimed, the doctor realizes, at the heckler, not at himself, but he catches at least one set of middle-aged eyes narrowing suspiciously in his direction, too. The infernal scratching of the reporter’s pencil becomes louder and more frantic. The mouse has found its food.

  “That was when the association was new to this kind of fundraising, my dear friend. There have been concerns expressed since that donors prefer the cloak of . . .” He tries to think of a word other than “anonymity”; repetition can sound desperate. His feet have begun to move in agitation, soles scraping against the wooden flooring. Time has run out. “. . . anonymity.”