The Private Patient (7 page)

10

Marcus found George Chandler-Powell in the operating suite. He was alone and occupied in counting a new delivery of instruments, examining each carefully, turning it over in his hand and replacing it in its tray with a kind of reverence. This was a job for an operating-department assistant and Joe Maskell would arrive at seven o'clock next morning to prepare for the first operation of the day. Marcus knew that checking the instruments didn't mean that Chandler-Powell had little confidence in Joe—he employed no one whom he couldn't trust—but here he was at home with his two passions, his work and his house, and now he was like a child picking over his favourite toys.

Marcus said, “I wanted to have a word with you, if you've got time.”

Even to his own ears his voice sounded unnatural, oddly pitched. Chandler-Powell didn't look up. “That depends on what you mean by a word. A word or a serious talk?”

“I suppose a serious talk.”

“Then I'll finish here and we'll go to the office.”

For Marcus there was something intimidating in the suggestion. It was too reminiscent of boyhood summonses to his father's study. He wished he could speak now, get it over with. But he waited until the last drawer was shut and George Chandler-Powell led the way out of the door into the garden, through the back of the house and the hall, to the office. Lettie Frensham was seated at the computer, but as they entered, she muttered a low apology and quietly left. Chandler-Powell sat down at the desk, motioned Marcus to a chair and sat waiting. Marcus tried to convince himself that the silence wasn't a carefully controlled impatience.

Since it seemed unlikely that George would speak first, Marcus said, “I've come to a decision about Africa. I wanted to let you know that I've finally made up my mind to join Mr. Greenfield's team. I'd be grateful if you could release me in three months' time.”

Chandler-Powell said, “I take it you've been to London and spoken to Mr. Greenfield. No doubt he pointed out some of the problems, your future career among them.”

“Yes, he did all that.”

“Matthew Greenfield is one of the best plastic surgeons in Europe, probably among the six best in the world. He's also a brilliant teacher. We can take his qualifications for granted—FRCS, FRCS (Plast), Master of Surgery. He goes to Africa to teach and to set up a centre of excellence. That's what Africans want, to learn how to cope for themselves, not to have white people going in to take over.”

“I wasn't thinking of taking over, just of helping. There's so much to be done. Mr. Greenfield thinks I could be useful.”

“Of course he does; he wouldn't otherwise want to waste his time or yours. But what exactly do you think you're offering? You're an FRCS and a competent surgeon, but you're not qualified to teach, nor even to cope unaided with the most complicated cases. And even a year in Africa will interfere seriously with your career—that is, if you see yourself as having one. It hasn't been helpful to you staying here, and I pointed that out when you first came. This new MMC—Modernising Medical Careers—makes training schemes far more rigid. Housemen have become foundation-year doctors—and we all know what a mess the government have made there—senior house officers are out, registrars are specialist surgical trainees, and God knows how long all this will last before they think of something else, more forms to fill in, more bureaucracy, more interference with people trying to get on with their jobs. But one thing's certain: if you want to make a career in surgery, you need to be on the training scheme, and that's become pretty inflexible. It might be possible to get you back on stream, and I will try to help, but it won't be if you're gadding off to Africa. And it's not as if you're going from religious motives. I wouldn't sympathise if you were but I could understand—well, if not understand, accept. There are people like that, but I have never thought of you as particularly devout.”

“No, I don't think I could claim to be.”

“Well, what are you claiming? Universal beneficence? Or postcolonial guilt? I understand that's still popular.”

“George, there's useful work for me to do. I'm not claiming anything except this strong conviction that Africa would be right for me. I can't stay here indefinitely, you said that yourself.”

“I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you to consider carefully which way you want your future career to go. That is, if you want a career in surgery. But I'm not going to waste breath trying to persuade you if you've made up your mind. I suggest you think it over, and for the present I'll take it that I shall need a replacement for you in three months' time.”

“I know it will be inconvenient for you, and I'm sorry about that. And I know what I owe you. I am grateful. I'll always be grateful.”

“I don't think you need to bleat on about gratitude. That's never an agreeable word between colleagues. We'll take it that you'll leave in three months' time. I hope you find in Africa whatever it is you're looking for. Or is it a case of finding relief from whatever it is you're running away from? And now, if that's all, I'd like the use of my office.”

There was one other thing, and Marcus steeled himself to say it. Words had been spoken which had destroyed a relationship. Nothing could be worse. He said, “It's about a patient, Rhoda Gradwyn. She's here now.”

“I know that. And she'll be back again in two weeks for her operation, unless she takes a dislike to the Manor and opts for a bed at St. Angela's.”

“Wouldn't that be more convenient?”

“For her or for me?”

“I was wondering whether you really want to encourage investigative journalists at the Manor. And if one comes, others may follow. And I can imagine what Gradwyn will write.
Rich women spending a fortune
because they're dissatisfied with how they look. Valuable surgeons' skills which
could be better used.
She'll find something to criticise, that's her job. Patients rely on our discretion and expect an absolute confidentiality. I mean, isn't that what this place is about?”

“Not altogether. And I don't intend to distinguish between patients on any grounds other than medical need. And, frankly, I wouldn't lift a finger to muzzle the popular press. When you consider the machinations and deviousness of governments, we need some organisation strong enough to shout occasionally. I used to believe that I lived in a free country. Now I have to accept that I don't. But at least we have a free press, and I'm willing to put up with a certain amount of vulgarity, popularisation, sentimentality and even misrepresentation to ensure it remains free. I suppose Candace has been getting at you. You'd hardly have thought this up on your own. If she has personal reasons for her antagonism to Miss Gradwyn, she need have nothing to do with her. She's not required to; the patients are not her concern. She doesn't need to see her either now or when she returns. I don't select my patients to oblige your sister. And now, if you've nothing else to say, I'm sure both of us have work to do. I know I have.”

He got up and stood at the door. Without another word, Marcus walked past him, brushing George's sleeve, and left. He felt like an incompetent servant, discharged in disgrace. This was the mentor he had revered, almost worshipped, for years. Now, with horror, he knew that what he felt was close to hatred. A thought, almost a hope, disloyal and shameful, took hold of his mind. Perhaps the west wing, the whole enterprise, would be forced to close if there were a disaster, a fire, infection, a scandal. If the supply of wealthy patients dried up, how could Chandler-Powell carry on? He tried to shut his mind against the most shameful imaginings, but they were unstoppable, even, to his disgust, the most shameful and terrible of all, the death of a patient.

11

Chandler-Powell waited until Marcus's footsteps had faded, then left the Manor to see Candace Westhall. He hadn't intended to spend this Wednesday becoming embroiled in arguments with either Marcus or his sister, but now that a decision had been made it would be as well to see what Candace had in mind. It was going to be a nuisance if she, too, had decided to leave, but presumably, now that her father was dead, she would want to return to her university post for the next term. Even if that wasn't the plan, her job at the Manor, taking over from Helena when Helena was in London and helping out in the office, was hardly a career. He disliked interfering in the domestic management of the Manor, but if Candace now intended to leave, the sooner he knew the better.

He walked up the lane to Stone Cottage in the fitful winter sunshine and, approaching, saw that there was a dirty sports car parked outside Rose Cottage. So the Westhalls' cousin, Robin Boyton, had arrived. He remembered that Helena had said something about his visit with a marked lack of enthusiasm which, he suspected, was shared by both the Westhalls. Boyton tended to book the cottage at short notice, but as it was vacant, Helena obviously had found it difficult to refuse him.

He was always interested in how different Stone Cottage had looked since Candace and her father had arrived some two and a half years previously. She was an assiduous gardener. Chandler-Powell suspected that it had been one legitimate excuse for getting away from Peregrine Westhall's bedside. He had only visited the old man twice before his death, but he knew, as he suspected did the whole village, that he was a selfish, demanding and unrewarding patient to care for. And now that he was dead and Marcus about to leave England, no doubt Candace, released from what must have been servitude, would have her own plans for the future.

She was raking the back lawn, wearing her old tweed jacket, corduroy trousers and boots which she kept for gardening, her strong dark hair covered by a woollen cap pulled down to her ears. It emphasised the stark resemblance to her father, the dominant nose, the deep-set eyes under straight bushy brows, the length and thinness of the lips, a forceful uncompromising face which, with the hair concealed, looked androgynous. How oddly the Westhall genes had fallen, so that it was Marcus, not she, in whom the old man's features were softened into an almost feminine gentleness. Seeing him, she propped the rake against a tree trunk and came to meet him. She said, “Good morning, George. I think I know why you've come. I was just going to break for coffee. Come in, will you.”

She led him through the side door, the one commonly used, into the old pantry, which, with its stone walls and floor, looked more like an outhouse, a convenient dump for worn-out equipment, dominated by a Welsh dresser hung with a miscellany of mugs and cups, bundles of keys and a variety of plates and dishes. They moved to the adjoining small kitchen. It was meticulously tidy, but Chandler-Powell told himself that it was time something was done to enlarge and modernise the place, and wondered that Candace, reputed to be a good cook, hadn't complained about it.

She switched on a coffee percolator and took down two mugs from the cupboard, and they stood in silence until the coffee was ready. She had collected a jug of milk from the refrigerator, and they passed into the sitting room. Seated opposite her at a square table, he thought again how little had been done to the cottage. Most of the furniture was hers, taken from store, some pieces enviable, others too large for the space. Three walls were lined with wooden bookshelves brought to the cottage by Peregrine Westhall as part of his library when the old man had moved from his nursing home. The library had been bequeathed by him to his old school, and the books thought worth preserving had been collected, leaving the walls honeycombed with empty spaces on which the unwanted volumes fell against one another, sad symbols of rejection. The whole room had an air of impermanence and loss. Only the cushioned settle at right angles to the fireplace gave promise of comfort.

He said without preamble, “Marcus has just given me the news that he's leaving for Africa in three months. I'm wondering how far you influenced that not very intelligent plan.”

“You're not suggesting that my brother isn't capable of making his own decisions about his life?”

“He can make them. Whether he feels free to carry them out is something else. Obviously you influenced him. It would be surprising if you hadn't. You're older by eight years. With your mother an invalid for most of his childhood, it's not surprising that he listens to you. Didn't you more or less bring him up?”

“You seem to know a great deal about my family. If I did influence him it's been to encourage him. It's time he left. I can see it's inconvenient for you, George, and he's sorry about that, we both are. But you'll find someone else. You've known about this possibility for a year now. You must have a replacement in mind.”

She was right, he had. A retired surgeon in his own field, highly competent if not brilliant, who would be glad to assist for three days a week. He said, “That isn't what concerns me. What does Marcus propose? To stay in Africa permanently? That hardly seems feasible. To work there for a year or two and then come home? To what? He needs to think very clearly about what he wants to do with his life.”

Candace said, “So do we all. He has thought. He's convinced this is something he has to do. And now that probate has been granted for Father's will, the money's there. He won't be a burden in Africa. He won't go empty-handed. You surely understand one thing, the need to do what every instinct of your body tells you is ordained for you. Haven't you lived your life like that? Don't we all at some time or another make a decision which we know is absolutely right, the assurance that some enterprise, some change, is imperative? And even if it fails, to resist it will be a greater failure. I suppose some people would see that as a call from God.”

“In Marcus's case it seems to me more like an excuse for running away.”

“But there's a time for that, too, for escape. Marcus needs to get away from this place, from the job, from the Manor, from you.”

“From me?” It was a quietly spoken response, without anger, as if this was a suggestion he needed to think over. His face gave nothing away.

She said, “From your success, your brilliance, your reputation, your charisma. He has to be his own man.”

“I wasn't aware that I was stopping him from being his own man, whatever that means.”

“No, you aren't aware. That's why he has to go and I have to help him.”

“You'll miss him.”

“Yes, George, I'll miss him.”

He said, anxious not to sound intrusively curious but needing to know, “Will you want to stay on here for a time? If you do, I know Helena will be glad of help. Someone has to take over when she makes her trips to London. But I suppose you'll want to get back to the university.”

“No, George, that isn't possible. They've decided to shut down the Classics Department. Not enough applicants. And they've offered me a part-time job in one of the new departments they're setting up—Comparative Religion or British Studies, whatever that may mean. As I'm not competent to teach either, I shan't be returning. I'm happy to stay on here for at least six months after Marcus leaves. In nine months I should have made up my mind what I'm going to do. But with Marcus gone I can't justify continuing to live here rent-free. If you'll accept some rent, I'd be grateful to have this place until I've settled where I'll go.”

“That won't be necessary. I'd rather not establish any kind of tenancy here, but if you could stay on for nine months or so, that would be fine if Helena's happy about it.”

She said, “I'll ask her, of course. I'd like to make some changes. While Father was alive he so hated any fuss or noise, particularly workmen coming in, that there was no point in doing anything. But the kitchen is depressing and too small. If you're going to use this cottage for staff or visitors after I've left, I think you'll have to do something about it. The sensible thing would be to make the old pantry into a kitchen and enlarge the sitting room.”

Chandler-Powell had no wish now to discuss the state of the kitchen. He said, “Well, have a word with Helena about it. And you'd better speak to Lettie about the cost of redecorating the cottage. It needs doing. I think we could manage some renovations.”

He had finished his coffee and discovered what he needed to know, but before he could get up she said, “There's one other thing. You've got Rhoda Gradwyn here, and I understand she's coming back in two weeks for her operation. You've got private beds at St. Angela's. London's more appropriate for her anyway. If she stays here she'll get bored, and that's when women like her become most dangerous. And she is dangerous.”

So he had been right. Candace was at the back of this obsession with Rhoda Gradwyn. He said, “Dangerous in what way? Dangerous to whom?”

“If I knew that I'd be less worried. You must know something of her reputation—that is, if you read anything other than the surgical journals. She's an investigative journalist, one of the worst kind. She sniffs out gossip like a pig with truffles. She makes it her job to discover things about other people which give them distress or pain, or worse, and would titillate the great British public if they became known. She sells secrets for money.”

He said, “Isn't that a gross exaggeration? And even if it's true, it wouldn't justify me in refusing to treat her where she chooses. Why the concern? She's unlikely to find anything here to whet her appetite.”

“Can you be sure of that? She'll find something.”

“And what excuse would I give for telling her she can't return?”

“You wouldn't need to antagonise her. Simply say that there's been a double booking and you find you haven't a bed.”

It was difficult to control his irritation. This was an unforgivable intrusion, interfering with the management of his patients. He said, “Candace, what's all this about? You're usually rational. This seems close to paranoia.”

She led the way through to the kitchen and began washing the two mugs and emptying the percolator. After a moment's silence, she said, “I sometimes wonder about that myself. I admit it does sound farfetched and irrational. Anyway, I've no right to interfere, but I don't think patients who come here for privacy would be delighted to find themselves in the company of a notorious journalist. But you needn't worry. I shan't see her, either now or when she returns. I'm not proposing to take a kitchen knife to her. Frankly, she's not worth it.”

She saw him to the door. He said, “I see Robin Boyton is back. I think Helena did mention that he'd booked in. What's he here for, do you know?”

“He said because Rhoda Gradwyn is here. Apparently they're friends and he thinks she might like company.”

“For a stay of one night? Does he plan to book into Rose Cottage when she returns? If he does he won't see her, and he won't see her now. She made it plain that she's coming here for absolute privacy, and that's what I'll ensure she gets.”

Closing the garden gate behind him, he wondered what all that had been about. There must be some strong personal reason for an antipathy which seemed otherwise unreasonable. Was she perhaps focusing on Gradwyn the two years of frustration tied to a cantankerous, unloving old man and the prospect of losing her job? And now there was Marcus's plan to go to Africa. She might support his decision but she could hardly welcome it. But, striding purposefully back to the Manor, he put Candace Westhall and her troubles out of mind and concentrated on his own. He would find a replacement for Marcus, and if Flavia decided it was time to leave, he would cope with that, too. She was getting restless. There had been signs which even he, busy as he was, had noticed. Perhaps it was time the affair ended. Now, with the Christmas break coming and the work slowing down, he should steel himself to end it.

Back at the Manor, he decided to speak to Mogworthy, who would probably be working in the garden, taking advantage of an uncertain period of winter sun. There were bulbs still to be planted, and it was time he showed an interest in Helena and Mog's plans for the spring. He passed through the north door leading to the terrace and the knot garden. Mogworthy was nowhere in sight, but he saw two figures walking side by side towards the gap in the far beech hedge which led to the rose garden. The shorter was Sharon; her companion he recognised as Rhoda Gradwyn. So Sharon was showing her the garden, a task usually undertaken at a visitor's request by Helena or Lettie. He stood watching them, an odd couple, as they passed out of sight, walking in intimacy, obviously talking, Sharon looking up at her companion. For some reason the sight disconcerted him. Marcus and Candace's forebodings had irritated rather than worried him, but now, for the first time, he felt a twinge of anxiety, a sense that something uncontrollable and possibly dangerous had entered his domain. The thought was too irrational, even superstitious, to be seriously examined, and he thrust it aside. But it was odd that Candace, highly intelligent and usually so rational, had this obsession with Rhoda Gradwyn. Did she perhaps know something about the woman that he didn't, something she was unwilling to reveal?

He decided not to look for Mogworthy, and, re-entering the Manor, he closed the door firmly behind him.