'At which you're extremely efficient.'

  'Thank you. Everyone regards me as a dedicated and completely sexless ward sister. There're plenty of them about. The backbone of any hospital. The whole system would fall to bits without such women. When I was in training, I often wondered exactly what created them. Now I know.'

  'That sounds a gloomy prognosis for yourself.'

  'Perhaps someone will turn up. You never know. Otherwise I shall sister on, until I'm pensioned off and go to live in a seaside boarding-house.'

  'But don't you bear any resentment? Towards Graham?'

  'How can one bear any resentment towards a maladjusted child?'

  'I daresay you're right, 'John told her.

  22

  The government was out of luck. The worst snowfall of the century was followed by the worst floods that could be remembered at all. The cascade began in the middle of March 1947, the rivers spilt disastrously across the countryside, swamping the roads and railways, drowning the sheep, ruining the potato crop and countless carpets. Two years after victory the people who had given blood, toil, tears, and sweat were left standing in queues holding damp ration-books.

  The postwar disgruntlement which affected everyone began to depress Graham. He was starting to confess himself bored and disgusted with his brother-in-law and his cronies. The girl Liz was really a shocking creature, though he felt disinclined to ditch her with no replacement in sight. Perhaps there never would be, he reflected. He was becoming a shade elderly to play the rake. He would have liked to stay at the villa after Sheila Raleigh came home, he craved for luxury and sunshine, but he had too much private work in London. There seemed to be a dammed-up demand for plastic surgery, as for other prewar luxuries like chocolates and cars, and plastic surgery was readily obtainable for your money. And at least, he reflected, he passed most of his time in hospitals and nursing homes, where it was warm and there was plenty of hot water.

  He was still living alone, and trying to reconcile himself to it. To make his evenings more bearable he started to write a textbook on the surgery of burns. He had never written much before, though he felt that if he could paint he was equipped with the right sort of mental muscles for self-expression. He turned out a trunkful of notes from the annex, sorted them into bundles, and started work with his portable typewriter. Progress was slow. As he read his scribbled pages, he found himself drawn back to the atmosphere of the bungalow where he had jotted most of them down. He found the composition becoming dominated by Clare. He remembered exactly what she was saying or doing when he had drawn up some particular account of a patient or an operation. It disturbed him. He had thought about her often enough since they separated, but he told himself she was in the past, finished and done with, like Edith. He determined to put her resolutely out of his mind. It was the only way. Anyway, if he didn't, the book would never be finished.

  He was working alone one evening towards the end of March when the telephone rang. It was Lord Cazalay.

  'I say, Graham, are you still at home? We were expecting you tonight.'

  'I'm sorry, but I couldn't make it.' Another one of his damn parties. 'Didn't you get the message? I asked the Clinic to phone you.'

  'Some signal got through to me, but I didn't take it seriously.' Lord Cazalay sounded offended. 'You remember you particularly promised to come.'

  'I've got an urgent case coming in, I'm afraid. You'll have to excuse me.'

  This pretext being unanswerable, Lord Cazalay added, 'I wonder if I could have a word with you fairly soon? It's a matter of some importance.'

  Graham gave a grunt. He probably wants more money out of me, he thought. Money is the only matter of importance that he knows. 'I'm dreadfully booked up this week, Charles, professionally.'

  'Surely you can spare a moment? It's rather pressing. How about lunch tomorrow at my club?'

  'It's a miserable confession, but my lunch is always a sandwich between cases.'

  'Can't I call tomorrow evening? About seven?'

  'All right, I'll make a point of being here,' Graham told him, giving in.

  'I'm much obliged. By the way, you'll make sure we're undisturbed, I take it? It's extremely confidential.'

  'I'm nearly always on my own,' Graham assured him.

  In the next morning's paper he saw that Fred Butcher had resigned from the Government. He wondered why. He had seemed from brief acquaintance a likeable, down-to-earth sort of fellow. He couldn't be bothered to read the story running down the column. Politics was a bore, and the newspapers only made tip fairy-stories. When someone mentioned the incident in the theatre of the Cavendish Clinic during Graham's first case, he said, 'Yes, I met the chap the other day. Seemed a very solid citizen.'

  'Did you?' asked his young assistant, looking up.

  'What's the matter?' Graham was surprised at the tone. 'Is he in disgrace, or something? I supposed he'd resigned on some lofty point of political principle.'

  'Reading between the lines, he's in the cart. Something very peculiar about Army contracts. A number of old Army wireless sets seem to have gone sadly astray.'

  'Who on earth would want an old Army wireless set?'

  'People want anything these days. In Germany you could refurnish your house with a few hundred cigarettes.'

  'I suppose so,' said Graham sombrely. 'Everyone seems to be on the make. There's a spiv in all of us.'

  Lord Cazalay arrived promptly at seven. With him was the ferret-faced Arthur. Graham invited them in cordially. If they had some proposition for him, he had already decided to reject it. But at least he could politely offer them a whisky. After all, it had come via Lord Cazalay.

  For a while Lord Cazalay talked about the obstacles to making money in the postwar world, a subject he seemed inclined to leave with more impatience than usual. Arthur sat sipping whisky nervously and said nothing. After a few minutes Lord Cazalay declared, 'Graham, I've found you a new patient.' He inclined his head. 'Arthur here.'

  Graham looked at the ferrety man with mild interest. 'What's the trouble?' he asked.

  'I'd like you to fix my face up, Sir Graham.'

  'But you haven't any scars or blemishes that I can see.'

  'I'd just like you to change it a bit. Like you did to the pilots during the war.'

  Lord Cazalay gave a harsh laugh. 'Plenty of room for improvement, eh, Graham?'

  Graham put his finger-tips together and gave the proffered features a more careful inspection. It wasn't a bad face. The nose was too pointed and the jaw underslung, but not to the point of unsightliness. But he appreciated, even if he still never understood, the psychological forces urging patients towards him. A crooked nose or a dropping eyelid, passing more or less unnoticed by the world, could incite any amount of self-torture. He remembered a youth during the war with a leg withered from polio. All the frustrations of his life were ascribed to his leg. He implored one of the general surgeons to chop it off, to cast it from his life altogether, replace it with one of the splendid artificial ones they were designing for the wounded. The surgeon obliged. Six months later the young man committed suicide. We must all find something to blame, Graham thought, even if it's a bit of ourselves.

  'Of course, you realize that a cosmetic operation, like any operation, carries a risk?' Graham explained, as he did to every patient. Arthur nodded. 'Nor is it free from pain and bother. Some can be distinctly uncomfortable for weeks afterwards. And even I can't guarantee a perfectly successful result.'

  'The bill will be rather painful too, I fancy,' said Lord Cazalay, laughing again.

  'I wouldn't conceal that, either,' said Graham.

  'You'd be looked after, Sir Graham,' Arthur assured him solemnly. 'Rely on me for that.'

  'As this is turning into a consultation, I'll have to ask you to leave us, Charles,' Graham explained to his brother-in-law. 'It's rather irregular to conduct one with an audience.'

  Arthur looked at Graham imploringly and asked, 'Can't he stay? He's a friend.'

  'Oh, very well, if you wish,' Graham conceded testily. 'In what particular way do you want your appearance changed?'

  'I just want it changed. I'm not fussy.'

  Graham frowned. 'But what's the object? What is it that distresses you about your looks?'

  'I want it changed for business reasons.'

  Graham looked at Lord Cazalay. 'What's going on?'

  'Graham, do you have to ask so many questions?'

  Graham paused. 'I'm sorry, Mr King, but I'm afraid I can't take you as my patient.'

  Lord Cazalay glared angrily. 'Look here, Graham, you're being ridiculous.'

  'I apologize if it strikes you that way. But I couldn't possibly operate on a patient without satisfying myself over the reasons. Some of them are pretty obscure, admittedly, but at least they hold water. I'm inclined to think there's something behind all this. I'd prefer not to ask about it. There're plenty of other plastic surgeons in London. You can always try your luck elsewhere.'

  Lord Cazalay brushed his moustache, 'I'm sorry you're being so unco-operative. Perhaps you'll think again.'

  'Why don't we tell him the truth?' suggested Arthur, as if struck by a novel thought. As Lord Cazalay made no reply, he went on, 'Look, Sir Graham-I'm in a bit of trouble.'

  'We're all in a bit of trouble,' muttered Lord Cazalay.

  'You saw in the papers this morning about Fred Butcher?' Arthur continued. 'It's the beginning of something. People have been nosing about where they shouldn't, making trouble. Mind, I've always acted in good faith, always. But you've got to cut a few corners these days. I'll have to lie low for a bit. I thought if you changed my face it would all be a bit easier to avoid the publicity.'

  Graham sat staring at him. 'You mean, you're a crook and you want me to alter your appearance to escape your just deserts?' As neither visitor said anything, he continued, 'Well, I shan't play the outraged citizen. I've had a few requests of a similar nature in my time. I'll only tell you the whole idea is reprehensible, and ask you to leave at once.'

  'I'll make it well worth your while, honest I will,' Arthur repeated hopefully.

  Graham got up. 'You could never do that, Mr King.'

  'Just a moment,' Lord Cazalay interrupted. 'We're none of us shining with innocence. You seem to have forgotten the few favours I've done you. That foreign currency for your villa. It would look pretty nasty if it came into court, wouldn't it? They'd hand out a stiff sentence for a fiddle on that scale. You'd go to jail, wouldn't you? And your medical authorities would have a few words to say about the matter, too. They'd hardly let you go on practising after that.'

  'You mean you're blackmailing me?' demanded Graham.

  'Blackmail? I don't know what that means. Business is run on a system of favours done and granted. Persuasion is necessary from time to time.'

  'Get out.'

  'I'm not going to let you take this high-and-mighty line,' Lord Cazalay continued more confidently. 'For your own good, Graham. You won't do yourself any harm, tidying up Arthur. You get dozens of people coming to have their faces altered, you said so yourself. You aren't to know he's in any trouble. Not yet. In a week or two it'll be a different matter. You're going to do this, my boy. I'm not given to idle threats. You've known my family long enough to realize that we get what we want. Either you do something for Arthur, or the details of your little currency transactions end up on the desk of the Director of Public Prosecutions.'

  'Get out,' Graham repeated.

  'No, I shan't get out. Sit down and think it over. I'll give you five minutes.'

  23

  Graham was startled how old Denise looked. Then he remembered she had been ill. As she opened the front door she stared at him with surprise, quickly trying to find a smile.

  'Could I see John?' Graham asked at once. 'The Clinic told me he'd gone home.'

  'Yes, of course, Graham. Come in. How are you keeping?'

  'Oh, pretty well.'

  'The weather's ghastly, isn't it?'

  'Yes, ghastly.'

  'And all this dreadful austerity we're supposed to put up with.'

  'Yes, yes,' said Graham.

  He came into the cold hall of the Bickleys' flat overlooking Regent's Park. It was barely an hour since his confrontation with Lord Cazalay.

  John was in the sitting-room, reading the evening paper and tickling the dog. He stood up as Graham entered, saying amiably enough, 'An unexpected pleasure. Or have you come for a contribution towards the damage the boys did to that restaurant?'

  'I won't stay a moment.' Still in his overcoat, Graham looked pointedly at Denise.

  'Would you like a cup of coffee or something?' she asked with great reluctance.

  'Please. That would be very kind.' As the door shut he turned to John and said, 'I wonder if you'd stuff a case for me? Tomorrow morning.'

  John knocked his pipe on the fireplace. 'I expect I could squeeze it in, if it's early enough. Has everyone else let you down?'

  'It's a special case.' Graham hesitated. 'It calls for a great deal of discretion. I'm going to do it at that little nursing-home place out at Ealing.'

  'Graham!' John laughed. 'Don't tell me you're branching into the abortion racket?' Seeing Graham's troubled expression, he added seriously, 'But what is it? Some actress with a secret scar? Stella Garrod all over again?'

  'Oh, it's a much nastier business than the Stella Garrod affair. I've got myself in a bit of a mess.'

  John raised his eyebrows. Hardly the first time. At Graham's age, he really should start to learn. Perhaps Clare was right about the maladjusted child.

  'A woman, you mean?'

  'No, not this time.'

  Graham explained about Arthur King.

  'I see,' said John calmly when he had finished. 'So you're going to do the case?'

  'I've no alternative, have I? I was a fool having anything to do with that Cazalay bastard. He tried to bring me down once before. This time he's going to make a proper job of it.'

  'But if you do it, and the fact comes out in the papers, it's going to look pretty nasty for you.'

  'Perhaps nothing will come out'

  'These things generally do.'

  Graham looked more uneasy, and said, 'It isn't the first time, you know. Before the war I did a couple of patients like this. I had my doubts about them, but didn't delve very deeply. I just blinded myself to the fact they were a pair of crooks. I was disgusted at myself afterwards. I don't want to repeat the experience, quite apart from risking my neck. But if I don't…why the hell did I buy that villa, anyway? I've never had a chance to use it'

  'I don't think I can really give the anaesthetic for you, Graham.'

  'No, I didn't expect you would. It was selfish of me to ask. I wanted the moral support, I think, that's all. I'll see what I can do under local. Probably I can manage more than I expect We get spoiled, with good general anaesthetics always available from experts like you. Some of our more unfortunate brethren manage to run a flourishing practice in cosmetic work under locals. The ones who get themselves struck off for advertising.'

  'Won't you take my advice and not touch this case, Graham?'

  'You mean to substitute the certainty of trouble with the law for the possibility?'

  'It's two sorts of trouble. The operation would spoil everything you gained for yourself during the war.'

  'What did I gain? A knighthood. For services to publicity.'

  'You know that's not true.'

  'Not completely so, perhaps. But it's near enough to the mark.'

  'I was speaking to Clare about you two or three weeks ago,' John remarked unexpectedly.

  Graham looked at him sharply. 'I thought she'd disappeared off the face of the earth?'

  'She's at the Kenworth. Children's ward sister. I do a list there once a week.'

  Graham made a wry expression. 'How is she?'

  'Very well. She likes her job.' John paused and added, 'Do you want to see her again?'

  'She'd hardly want to set eyes on me,' Graham told him impatiently.

  'I'm certain she would.'

  'No, that's ridiculous. Not after the way I treated her.'

  'Is it ridiculous? You'd know. You've had more experience of women than me.'

  Graham stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and started pacing the room. 'Everything's wrong, isn't it? You see things differently as you go through life, and often enough you realize all the time you've been seeing them wrong. When I was young I could view the way ahead, and I tramped up it not caring overmuch how I muddied my boots. Things didn't go all that smoothly-Maria, all that fuss. But I got where I wanted. In the war, I didn't really want anything for myself and I was happy. Now I'm trying to worship my old gods, but they don't represent anything any more. They're like native idols discovered in some jungle. Incomprehensible, frightening to look at, make you wonder at the simplicity of the people who venerated them. I'd got no proper sense of values. The war imposed one on me.'

  'Graham, you're making yourself sound a horrible type,' smiled John.

  'Well, I am. Though let's hope it's not because I can't help it, but because I try to be.'

  'Because you think it's smart?'

  Graham shrugged. 'I can't even contemplate meeting Clare again. Not at this particular crisis in my life.'

  'She might be glad to help you. She did during several others.'

  'I suppose she loved me.'

  'You loved her, surely?'

  'Deep down, I told myself I didn't. It was the same with every woman I've got mixed up with. I never wanted to give myself to them completely. At the age when you can face these things, it's too late to rectify them.'

  Denise appeared with the coffee.

  'Graham wanted to discuss a case he's doing tomorrow, darling,' John explained.

  'I'm not doing it,' said Graham briefly. 'I've decided it's inoperable.'

  He'd forgotten about Denise and her coffee. He then had to sit down and make conversation of some sort while he drank it, and she always made dreadful coffee, anyway.

  24

  Haileybury had hardly shaved when Graham arrived the next morning at his house in Richmond. His sister, who had seen six years' service in the A.T.S., had returned to offer the same dutiful devotion to her brother as to her King. She showed Graham in to the cold sitting-room, which was filled with models of railway engines. Graham sat in his overcoat, looking at them in puzzlement. He supposed Haileybury had constructed them all with his own hands. A strange secret for a man to have.

 

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