The Private Patient (8 page)

12

Helena knew that Chandler-Powell had gone to Stone Cottage and was unsurprised when, twenty minutes after his return, Candace arrived in the office.

Without preamble she said, “There's something I wanted to discuss with you. Two things, actually. Rhoda Gradwyn. I saw her arriving yesterday—at least I saw a BMW being driven past and I assumed it was hers. When is she leaving?”

“She isn't, at least not today. She's booked in for a second night.”

“And you agreed?”

“I could hardly refuse, not without an explanation, and there wasn't one. The room was vacant. I phoned George and he didn't seem worried.”

“He wouldn't be. An extra day's income and at no trouble to him.”

Helena said, “And no trouble for us either.”

She spoke without resentment. George Chandler-Powell was behaving reasonably. But she would find a time to have a word with him about these one-nighters. Was it really necessary to have to take a preliminary look at the facilities? She didn't want the Manor degenerating into a bed-and-breakfast hotel. On second thoughts, perhaps it would be wiser not to raise the matter. He had always been adamant that patients should be given the opportunity to see in advance where their operation was to take place. He would see any interference with his clinical judgement as intolerable. Their relationship had never been clearly defined, but both knew how they stood. He never interfered with her domestic running of the Manor; she took no part in the clinic.

Candace said, “And she's coming back?”

“I presume so, in just over two weeks' time.” There was a silence. Helena said, “Why do you feel so strongly about it? She's a patient much like the others. She's booked in for a week's convalescence after surgery, but I doubt whether she'll stay the course, not in December. She'll probably want to get back to town. Whether she does or not, I can't see her being more of a nuisance than the other patients. Probably less.”

“It depends on what you mean by a nuisance. She's an investigative journalist. She'll always be on the lookout for a story. And if she wants material for a new article, she'll find it, even if she does no more than write a diatribe about the vanity and silliness of some of our patients. After all, they're guaranteed secrecy as well as security. I don't see how you can hope for secrecy with an investigative journalist in residence, particularly this one.”

Helena said, “With only herself and Mrs. Skeffington in residence, she's hardly likely to encounter more than one example of vanity and silliness to write about.”

She thought,
But it's more than that. Why should she worry whether the
clinic flourishes or fails once her brother has gone?
She said, “But with you it's personal, isn't it? It has to be.”

Candace turned away. Helena regretted the sudden impulse which had prompted the question. The two of them worked well together, respected each other, at least professionally. Now wasn't the time to start exploring those private areas which she knew, like her own, were barred by a keep-out notice.

There was silence, then Helena said, “You said there were two things.”

“I've asked George if I can stay on here for another six months, perhaps as long as a year. I would continue to help with the accounts and in the office generally, if you think I could be useful. Obviously once Marcus has left I'd pay a proper rent. I don't want to stay on if you're not happy about it. I ought to mention that I shan't be here for three days next week. I'm flying to Toronto to arrange some kind of pension for Grace Holmes, the nurse who helped me with Father.”

So Marcus was going. It was about time he made up his mind. His loss would be a major inconvenience for George, but no doubt he'd find a substitute. Helena said, “We wouldn't find it easy to do without you. I'd be grateful if you could stay on, at least for a time. I know that Lettie will feel the same. So you've finished with the university?”

“The university has finished with me. There are not enough students to justify a Classics Department. I saw it coming, of course. They closed the Physics Department last year to enlarge Forensic Science, and now the Classics Department is to close, and Theology will become Comparative Religion. When that's judged to be too difficult—and with our intake it undoubtedly will be—then no doubt Comparative Religion will become Religion and Media Studies. Or Religion and Forensic Sciences. The government, which proclaims a target of fifty per cent of young people going to university, and at the same time ensures that forty per cent are uneducated when they leave secondary school, lives in a fantasy world. But don't let me get on to the subject of higher education. I've become a bore about it.”

So,
Helena thought,
she's lost her job, is losing her brother and is now
facing six months stuck in this cottage with no clear idea of her future.
Looking at Candace's profile, she felt an onrush of pity. The emotion was transitory but surprising. She couldn't imagine letting herself drift into Candace's situation. It was that dreadful, domineering old man, dying so slowly for two years, who had caused the mischief. Why hadn't Candace broken free of him? She had nursed him as conscientiously as might a Victorian daughter, but there had been no love. It hadn't needed any perception to see that. She herself had kept away from the cottage as much as possible, as indeed did most of the staff, but the truth of what was going on was known, by gossip, innuendo and by what they saw and heard. He had always despised his daughter, destroyed her confidence as a woman and a scholar. Why, with her ability, hadn't she applied for a job at a prestigious university instead of one near the bottom of the pecking order? Had that old tyrant made it clear to her that she deserved nothing better? And he had needed more care than she could reasonably provide, even with the help of the district nurse. Why hadn't she put him in a nursing home? He hadn't been happy in the one at Bournemouth where his father had been nursed, but there were other nursing homes and there was no lack of family money. The old man was rumoured to have been left close on eight million pounds by his father, who predeceased him by only a few weeks. Now that probate had been granted, Marcus and Candace were wealthy.

Five minutes later Candace had left. Helena thought over their conversation. There was something she had not told Candace. She couldn't imagine that it was particularly important, but it might have proved an added source of irritation. It would hardly have lightened Candace's mood to be told that Robin Boyton had also booked himself in at Rose Cottage for the day before Miss Gradwyn's operation and the week of her convalescence.

13

By eight o'clock on Friday
14
December, the operation on Rhoda Gradwyn satisfactorily completed, George Chandler-Powell was alone in his private sitting room in the east wing. It was a solitude he often sought at the end of an operating day, and although there had only been one patient, dealing with her scar had been more complicated and time-consuming than he had expected. At seven Kimberley had brought him a light supper, and by eight o'clock evidence of the meal had been removed and the small dining table folded away. He could be confident of two hours of solitude. He had seen his patient and checked on her progress at seven o'clock and would do so again at ten. Immediately after the operation, Marcus had left to spend the night in London, and now, knowing Miss Gradwyn to be in the experienced hands of Flavia, and with himself on call, George Chandler-Powell turned his mind to private pleasures. Not least among them was the decanter of Château Pavie on a small table before the fire. He prodded the burning logs into greater life, checked they were carefully aligned and settled into his favourite chair. Dean had decanted the wine, and Chandler-Powell judged that in another half-hour it would be right for drinking.

Some of the best pictures, bought when he purchased the Manor, hung in the great hall and the library, but here were his favourites. They included six watercolours bequeathed to him by a grateful patient. The bequest had been totally unexpected, and it had taken some time for him to remember her name. He was grateful that she had obviously shared his prejudice against foreign ruins and alien landscapes, and all six showed English scenes. Three views of cathedrals: Albert Goodwin's watercolour of Canterbury, a Peter de Wint of Gloucester and Girtin's Lincoln. On the opposite wall he had hung Robert Hills's painting of a view in Kent and two seascapes, one by Copley Fielding and Turner's study for his watercolour of the arrival of the English packet at Calais, which was his favourite.

He let his eyes rest on the Regency bookcase with the books he most often promised himself to reread, some childhood favourites, others from his grandfather's library, but now, as often at the end of the day, he was too tired to summon energy for the symbiotic satisfaction of literature and turned to music. Tonight a particular pleasure awaited him, a new recording of Handel's
Semele,
conducted by Christian Curnyn with his favourite mezzo-soprano, Hilary Summers, glorious sensual music as joyous as a comic opera. He was putting the first CD into the player when there was a knock on the door. He felt an irritation close to anger. Very few people disturbed him in his private sitting room, and fewer knocked. Before he could answer, the door opened and Flavia came in, shutting it sharply behind her and leaning against it. Apart from her cap, she was still in uniform, and his first words were instinctive.

“Miss Gradwyn. Is she all right?”

“Of course she's all right. If she weren't, would I be here? At six-fifteen she said she was hungry and ordered supper—consommé, scrambled egg and smoked salmon, followed by lemon mousse, if you're interested. She managed to get most of it down and seemed to enjoy it. I've left Nurse Frazer in charge until I return; then she'll be off duty and will drive back to Wareham. Anyway, I'm not here to discuss Miss Gradwyn.”

Nurse Frazer was one of his part-time staff. He said, “If it's not urgent, can't it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, George, it can't. Not until tomorrow, nor the day after, nor the day after that. Not until any day when you condescend to find time to listen.”

He said, “Will it take much time?”

“More time than you are usually willing to give.”

He could guess what was coming. Well, the future of their affair had to be settled sooner or later, and with his evening already ruined it might as well be now. Her outbursts of resentment had become more common of late but had never before occurred while they were at the Manor. He said, “I'll get my jacket. We'll walk under the limes.”

“In the dark? And the wind's rising. Can't we talk here?”

But he was already fetching his jacket. Returning and putting it on, he patted the pocket for his keys. He said, “We'll talk outside. I suspect that the discussion will be disagreeable and I'd prefer a disagreeable conversation to take place outside this room. You'd better get a coat. I'll see you at the door.”

There was no need to specify which door. Only that on the ground floor of the west wing led directly to the terrace and to the lime walk. She was waiting for him, coated and with a woollen scarf tied over her head. The door was locked but unbolted, and he locked it behind them. They walked for a minute in silence which Chandler-Powell had no intention of breaking. Still annoyed at the loss of his evening, he was disinclined to be helpful. Flavia had asked for this meeting. If she had anything to say, let her say it.

It wasn't until they had reached the end of the lime walk, and after a few seconds of indecision had turned back, that she stopped walking and faced him. He couldn't see her face clearly, but her body was rigid and there was a harshness and a resolution in her voice that he had never heard before.

“We can't go on as we are. We have to make a decision. I'm asking you to marry me.”

So it had come, the moment he had dreaded. But it was meant to be his decision, not hers. He wondered why he hadn't seen it coming, then realised that the demand, even in its brutal explicitness, wasn't totally unexpected. He had chosen to ignore the hints, the moodiness, the sense of a grievance unexpressed amounting almost to rancour. He said calmly, “I'm afraid that isn't possible, Flavia.”

“Of course it's possible. You're divorced, I'm single.”

“I mean that it wasn't something I've ever considered. From the beginning our relationship was never on that footing.”

“What footing exactly did you think it was on? I'm speaking of when we first became lovers—eight years ago, in case you've forgotten. On what footing was it then?”

“I suppose sexual attraction, respect, affection. I know I felt all those things. I never said I loved you. I never mentioned marriage. I wasn't looking for marriage. One failure is enough.”

“No, you were always honest—honest or careful. And you couldn't even give me fidelity, could you? An attractive man, a distinguished surgeon, divorced, eligible. Do you think I don't know how often you've relied on me—on my ruthlessness, if you like—to get rid of those avaricious little gold-diggers who were trying to get their claws into you? And I'm not talking about a casual affair. For me it was never that. I'm talking about eight years of commitment. Tell me—when we're apart, do I ever enter your mind? Do you ever picture me except gowned and masked in the theatre, anticipating your every need, knowing what you like and what you don't like, what music you want played while you work, available when wanted, discreetly on the margin of your life? Not so very different from being in bed, is it? But at least in the operating theatre there was no easy substitute.”

His voice was calm, but he knew with some shame that Flavia wouldn't miss the clear note of insincerity. “Flavia, I'm sorry. I'm sure I've been thoughtless and unintentionally unkind. I had no idea you felt like this.”

“I'm not asking for pity. Spare me that. I'm not even asking for love. You haven't got it to give. I'm asking for justice. I want marriage. The status of being a wife, the hope of children. I'm thirty-six. I don't want to work until I retire. And what then? Using my retirement lump sum to buy a cottage in the country, hoping the villagers will accept me? Or a one-bedded flat in London when I'll never be able to afford a decent address? I have no siblings. I've neglected friends to be with you, to be available when you have time for me.”

He said, “I never asked you to sacrifice your life for me. That is, if you say it's a sacrifice.”

But now she went on as if he hadn't spoken. “In eight years we've never had a holiday together, in this country or abroad. How often have we been to a show, a film, dined in a restaurant except one where there'll be no risk of meeting someone you know? I want these ordinary companionable things that other people enjoy.”

He said again, and with some sincerity, “I'm sorry. Obviously I've been selfish and unthinking. I think in time you'll be able to look back on these eight years more positively. And it isn't too late. You're very attractive and you're still young. It's sensible to recognise when a stage of life has come to an end, when it's time to move on.”

And now, even in the darkness, he thought he could see her contempt. “You mean to throw me over?”

“Not that. To move on. Isn't that what you've been saying, what this talk is all about?”

“And you won't marry me? You won't change your mind?”

“No, Flavia, I won't change my mind.”

She said, “It's the Manor, isn't it? It isn't another woman who's come between us, it's this house. You've never made love to me here, ever, have you? You don't want me here. Not permanently. Not as your wife.”

“Flavia, that's ridiculous. I'm not looking for a chatelaine.”

“If you lived in London, in the Barbican flat, we wouldn't be having this conversation. We could be happy there. But here at the Manor I don't belong, I can see it in your eyes. Everything about this place is against me. And don't think that the people here don't know that we're lovers—Helena, Lettie, the Bostocks, even Mog. They're probably wondering when you're going to chuck me. And if you do, I'll have to endure the humiliation of their pity. I'm asking you again, will you marry me?”

“No, Flavia. I'm sorry, but I won't. We wouldn't be happy, and I'm not going to risk a second failure. You have to accept that this is the end.”

And suddenly, to his horror, she was crying. She grasped his jacket and leaned against him and he could hear the great gasping sobs, feel the pulse of her body against him, the soft wool of her scarf brushing his cheek, sense the familiar smell of her, of her breath. Taking her by the shoulders, he said, “Flavia, don't cry. This is a liberation. I'm setting you free.”

She drew apart, making a pathetic attempt at dignity. Controlling her sobs, she said, “It'll look odd if I just disappear, and there's Mrs. Skeffington to be operated on tomorrow, Miss Gradwyn here to be cared for. So I'll stay until you leave for the Christmas break, but when you return I won't be here. But promise me one thing. I've never asked for anything, have I? Your presents on birthdays and Christmases were chosen by your secretary or posted from a shop, I always knew that. Come to me tonight, come to my room. It'll be for the first and last time, I promise. Come late, about eleven. It can't end like this.”

And now he was desperate to get rid of her. He said, “Of course I'll come.”

She murmured a thank you and, turning, began walking quickly back towards the house. From time to time she half stumbled, and he had to resist the urge to catch her up, to find some final word which could assuage her. But there was none. He knew that already he was turning his mind to find a replacement as theatre sister. He knew, too, that he had been seduced into a disastrous promise, but it was one he had to keep.

He waited until her figure became faint, then merged into the darkness. And still he waited. Looking up at the west wing, he saw the faint blur of two lights, one in Mrs. Skeffington's room, one next door in Rhoda Gradwyn's. So her bedside lamp must be on and she was not yet settled for sleep. He thought back to that night just over two weeks ago when he had sat on the stones and watched her face at the window. He wondered what it was about this particular patient that had so caught his imagination. Perhaps it was that enigmatic, still-unexplained response when, in his Harley Street consulting room, he had asked her why she had waited so long to get rid of her scar.
Because I no longer
have need of it.