Stephanie (9 page)

Not easy, those last days in India. They had slept together twice more, but each time she had withdrawn within herself and he, aware enough, had become increasingly irritable. She also thought he was aware enough of why, though not perhaps the extent of her knowledge or suspicions. Smack, scag, dragon were the words most commonly in use for heroin, but flax had recently become the local, fashionable word. She remembered Fiona Wilson laughing at her once for not knowing. And Arun Jiva, who was there, had also smiled.

It was not just that, though, which convinced her. So many of Errol's odd comings and goings – and the men he met – had slotted into place.

So what did one do? Every night she had examined her own feelings. What did one do? Close your eyes, forget it, put it behind you (am I my brother's keeper?) and let the affair run on as long as it may? He's an engaging lover, a wonderful companion. Let it run.

Or break off with excuses. You want to concentrate on Schools. It has been fine while it lasted. (Find someone else, perhaps. Quickly, find someone else and tell him so.)

Or break it off and tell him why. He must have some idea, her disillusion dating from when it did, and her untactful questions.

Or shop him.

Unlikely. He had never personally done
her
any harm, however much harm he might be doing to others. Doubtful if the police would believe her anyway. She just couldn't see herself in that role. And yet …

She had thought more than once of consulting Teresa. As sisters they had been drawn close together by their mother's defection. The difference in age did not seem to matter. They had shared confidences, confessions, arguments, laughter, loneliness. Once or twice they had ganged up against their father, though heaven knew it was seldom necessary; he was such an old softy where they were concerned. Only since she went to Oxford had they drifted apart, and Teresa's marriage had widened this. Yet there was no lack of sympathetic understanding between them – absence was all.

Still, she could not
ring
and say: ‘Teresa, I've had rather a shock – it's about Errol …' Confidences over the telephone at a range of fifty miles. It wasn't on. Go up to London and have lunch together. That was the way.

Maybe understanding had been a
little
less complete of late. Before going to India she had rung Teresa, and had felt instinctively some lifting of Teresa's eyebrows at the news. Although a conformist, Teresa was certainly not a prig, but the idea of her young sister going off to the ends of the earth with a married man she had only known since Christmas was no doubt a bit of a surprise. Could she now, only a few weeks later, see Teresa and confess she had made a horrible error and had discovered Errol to be a common criminal? It would be humiliating, to say the least.

The doorbell rang and her heart jumped, telling her plainly enough that she was not emotionally or sexually free of him yet. If ever.

But it was not Errol. Only Anne, twenty minutes early as usual.

‘Stephanie, dar-ling.' A fond embrace. Anne Vincent was twenty, not bad-looking in a coltish way but with not much idea how to make the best of herself. Brilliant at Maths, if she would only work; in her first term she had become undisputed chess champion of St Martin's. But of late she had grown enamoured of the smart set to which Stephanie belonged. Stephanie was not sure whether she would do the girl more good by cutting her completely or by remaining friendly and using her influence to make her behave. Certainly the flatmate bit would not be a good idea, even for a relatively short time. Anne's kiss confirmed that.

But she ought to get someone, and not many undergraduates had enough money. (If you got two it would be the end of privacy – which she much needed if she was going to make any sort of a showing in Finals.)

‘Am I early?' said Anne. ‘Never mind, we can have a drink first and you can tell me about your holiday.'

Usually when people say that, they don't really want to know – unless you've had a miserable time – but one of Anne's more engaging qualities was that she really did seem interested in what you had done. They sat in the kitchen over a coffee while Stephanie showed her a designedly small selection of the photographs with which Errol had bombarded her. Though she had only seen him twice since their return, the photographs had flooded in from him as soon as developed.

‘Smashing snaps. They really are. Errol's a kingpin, isn't he. How is he, by the way?'

‘Very well.'

‘Has he been over this week?'

‘He came last Thursday.'

Anne sipped her coffee. She made too much noise doing this. ‘I suppose everything's fine between you?'

‘Yes, lovely, thanks.'

Anne's china-blue eyes wandered wistfully round the kitchen. ‘You're staying on in the flat?'

‘Well, at least till after Schools. I haven't made up my mind what I'm going to do then. If I get a reasonable degree I may try to stay on for postgraduate work. It's tempting. Life in Oxford is quite agreeable.'

‘Yes. Yes, isn't it. I've got this room in Parkville Road, as you know. Mrs Asher. She's really quite good, does well for you, and not too fussy. Of course it isn't the same as having a perch of your own. I think my family would sub me if I found the right sort of place. Is Errol moving in with you?'

‘Good Lord, no! He's got a
wife.
And a house in the Chilterns and a flat in London. Why ever should he move in with me?'

‘I don't know. I just thought …'

Stephanie got up. ‘I expect to keep this just for myself, at least for the time being. Where are we going to eat?'

As they left the flat together Anne said: ‘Tell me, how soon are you going to make arrangements for the college ball?'

In the afternoon John Peron rang to say Sir Peter Brune would pick her up at nine tomorrow to take her to Reading. She had hardly put the telephone down before it rang again.

‘Stephanie? Good afternoon to you. It's the Bursar speaking.'

‘Oh … good afternoon.' She wondered what was coming.

‘Your father rang me this morning. Said you were interesting yourself in the drug scene.'

Hell! ‘Well, in a way, yes. I – after I graduate I might take up social studies' – what a lie! – ‘ and it seemed to me I've not ever really thought about some of its modern aspects – including the drug scene.'

‘Ah. Your father seemed to think you needed advice. He said you were ringing Peter Brune.'

‘Yes, I did that this morning. He's taking me to the Worsley Clinic tomorrow afternoon.'

‘Good. Well, you're in good hands there. It occurred to me, though, that if you wanted to see more of it in the raw, so to speak, I might provide additional background.'

‘That's very kind, Bursar. In what way?'

‘Well, as you'd expect, I have contacts with the local police and social workers.'

‘The police?'

‘I don't think, in this case, though, you'd want to be put in touch with the law, would you? They tend to be a bit heavy handed. There are a couple of social workers I know who I think might be useful to you if you really want to get an all-round picture of the scene. One, Sandra Woolton, particularly, I'm sure could help if you were interested.'

‘… Thank you.'

‘You know all about squats and communes and that sort of thing?'

‘I've read about them. Yes, I've a fair idea.'

‘Sandra was on cannabis for a time, but came off it. Of course, that's fairly mild. Do you want to know more about the hard stuff?'

‘Anything connected with it, really.'

‘Well, shall I give her your telephone number?'

‘Thank you very much, Bursar.'

As she hung up she felt annoyed at ever having mentioned the subject to her father. He shouldn't have fussed. Indeed, he shouldn't have interfered. It was not like him, and in a sense it infringed on her independence.

They left next morning at nine, travelling in Peter Brune's chauffeur-driven Daimler.

Brune said: ‘I'm still not quite sure why you want to see the inside of a place like this. It's really very unimpressive. But if nothing more, it's an outing.'

She laughed. ‘You'll feel I've brought you on a fool's errand? But it's not just idle curiosity.'

‘I'm sure it wouldn't be with you. But … you're not into drugs at all yourself, are you? You look far too healthy.'

‘No, I've never taken to them … It's something quite different.'

She had an impulse to confide in this man. It would be a tremendous relief to have a sage and worldly-wise man's advice. But it would be cowardice to do so. This was between herself and what for want of a better word she must call her conscience. No other person could advise her. Events might help her to make up her mind but not by confession. Besides, telling Peter Brune was effectively making the choice, for he might feel it imperative to tell the police, otherwise he became an accessory after the fact.

Building on her impromptu lie of yesterday she said lightly: ‘ I'm thinking about doing social work when I've graduated; but I realise I've only existed in a small corner of life.'

‘Well, my dear, you're still pretty young. You've a long way to go.'

‘I hope so. The Bursar rang me yesterday offering some help and advice.'

‘What, Colonel Gaveston? Henry?'

‘You must know him well, of course.'

‘For more than twenty years. But did you telephone him too?'

‘No. I mentioned to my father that I was thinking of speaking to you, and he must have rung the Bursar. He's going to put me in touch with some social worker who's very much into the drug scene. Or so he says.'

‘I don't think I've ever met your father. I've seen him on television. Does he approve of your new interest?'

‘Approve perhaps is too strong. I don't think he minds so long as I am not in any way hooked myself.'

They drove on in silence. Peter Brune looked older in the light of day. Yet his whole face was good-humoured, the lips turned as if they waited to smile.

It looked like a country house when they reached it, which no doubt was what it had been. Laurels and rhododendrons – not at all, she thought, the sort her father grew, probably the despised
ponticum
– tall trees, a fairly strong wire fence, presumably to keep the curious out rather than to stop anyone inside from escaping. Attached to the main building was a flat-topped, large windowed, wood-framed extension which looked like a laboratory.

A spacious tiled hall, a sister in a blue uniform, then the smell of antiseptics. Dr Bridge was a short dark man with a clipped moustache and a bald domed forehead.

‘Miss Locke. Welcome.' His handshake was crisp and dry and very brief. They talked for a minute or two, then he said: ‘I'm sure Sir Peter will have warned you that much of our work is confidential – that is, between nurse and patient – and all but a very few of our patients (who are too ill to move) are here voluntarily and can terminate their treatment whenever they wish. Therefore it's important that nothing should happen which would give them the impression that they were being observed by an outsider. So may I ask you to put on this blue overall so that you may pass as a trainee nurse?'

It was a quick tour – Bridge gave the impression of doing everything in a hurry, even his voice was rapid and undertoned and confidential. As she was shown round Stephanie half listened to what he was saying about the withdrawal of the drug, the replacement with oral methodone, group therapy, the part played by psychiatry and general counselling.

‘Treating a drug addict is a very wearing and testing experience for the doctor. You have to make ethical judgments – moral judgments, if you like – that can't really be justified by any sort of social values that you're familiar with. Many doctors give up after a few years, unable to stand the strain.'

Dr Bridge explained that about sixty per cent of the patients being treated had been on analgesic drugs, mainly heroin; twenty per cent had been on cocaine; the remainder a mixed bag, chiefly cannabis.

Three rooms with six beds in each, two of men, one of women. (Bridge said men as addicts were in a majority.) In the first room all the patients were under some sort of sedation and mostly asleep, but in the second they were restless, an old man scratching and yawning, another sweating, a third, a boy of fifteen with his knees tucked up under his chin and crying with pain. In the women's ward two, quite young, were emaciated skeletons, clean and docile enough, but as thin as if they had just been taken from Belsen. Then there was a children's ward and a few private rooms. (Bridge looked at Sir Peter, who spread his hands equivocally and deferred to Stephanie, who at once nodded.)

Bridge said: ‘A few of our better patients are receiving treatment and therapy so I can't include them. Here we have a few bad cases. If you'll just come as far as the door, I will give you a glimpse.'

On the way back there was silence again for a while, except for the hum of the car.

Eventually Stephanie said: ‘Well, thank you very much, Sir Peter.'

He smiled. ‘Would it not now be appropriate to drop the sir?'

‘Of course. Thank you.'

‘I must confess it's pleasant these days to meet a young lady who observes the formalities. I'm old enough to find it irritating to be addressed by my Christian name by every Tom, Dick and Harry who happens to have a nodding acquaintance.'

She laughed. ‘Well, thank you for arranging this for me – Peter. And for sparing the time.'

‘I hope it has done the trick for you – whatever that was.'

‘Whatever that was. Well, I tried to explain when I rang you. I just wanted to see what I could.'