'Thanks. I reckon I've a lot to catch up.' Bluey sat on his bed and inspected his surroundings. There was no need for mirrors in annex D. He could see himself in the monstrosities all round him. He suddenly realized he was an outcast, a frightening object, something to make any man wince and any woman run away in horror. For the first time the bitterness of his humiliation swept over him. He wanted to cry in self-pity. But his lachrymal glands were burnt, and even to weep was impossible.

  6

  Brigadier Haileybury was a fair-minded man. He knew Trevose was a prima donna, unwilling or temperamentally unable to fit into any co-ordinated effort, even to win a war. And of course Pile didn't help. The fellow was unbelievably stupid. But the line must be drawn somewhere. Authority must be established. On the morning following Bluey's arrival he appeared at Smithers Botham to make his first inspection of the annex.

  He could readily believe Pile's account of indiscipline among Graham's patients. He needed only to recall the notorious laxity of Graham's own life before the war. It would have to be checked, even if it meant a row. Haileybury was aware that he and Graham had quarrelled every second time they met, and recalled uneasily that he himself generally got the worst of it. Trevose had a quick tongue, and a slick way of putting things. But now Haileybury told himself he was dressed in authority-which was neither little, nor, in view of the summer's military disasters, likely to be brief.

  He marched across the lawn with Captain Pile, admiring the flower-beds. As the operating theatre now blocked one end of the annex, entrance was between the horse-box lavatories and the kitchen, where twice daily the nurses portioned out food dispatched from the central Smithers Botham kitchens in reputedly heatproof trolleys. As the pair entered, the door of the washroom opened and Graham himself appeared. He was wearing a surgeon's green gown with a gauze mask dangling below his chin, and seemed busy.

  'Haileybury, I was delighted to learn of your impending visit,' he began affably. 'I'd been hoping you'd look us up all summer.'

  'I'm glad to find you so cheerful, Trevose. No one knows better than myself the difficulties under which you've been obliged to work.'

  'I agree, we haven't sufficient equipment, sufficient room, sufficient staff, or a sufficient number of hours in the day, but we manage. I'd like you to see our star turn,' he invited. 'Nurse, give these two gentlemen masks and gowns. Step inside. It's the saline bath unit.'

  In a partitioned corner of the wash-house one of the bathtubs was in use. Sitting up to his waist in water was a man-or so it was to be assumed, the creature being without hair, eyebrows, or nose, the skin of his face and even his eyelids burnt away. There were two nurses working on him in white gowns and rubber gloves. One was moistening the man's head with a trickle of clear solution running from a glass vessel suspended near the ceiling. The other was manipulating a pair of forceps in the stream, picking away plaques of hard black material embedded in the pus and raw tissue. Captain Pile, whose eyes had become used to inspecting official rather than human material, felt his stomach turn over.

  'Very interesting,' said Haileybury.

  'Somewhat Heath Robinson, but it works,' Graham explained. 'It's got plenty of snags. For one thing, the saline solution in the carboy up there cools too quickly. It's a nuisance for the nurses to keep replacing it.'

  'Doubtless,' said Haileybury.

  They watched the operation in silence. After a few minutes Graham led them out. 'Why do you do it to them, Haileybury?' he demanded.

  Haileybury untied the tapes of his surgeon's gown. 'Do what?'

  'Plaster those burns with tannic acid jelly. Do you know what I feel when I look round my wards? No hatred of the Germans. Their fellows are getting even worse treatment, I know that well enough, I lectured there before the war. No, I simply writhe with indignation over the stupidity of my own countrymen.'

  'So you think tannic acid is stupid, do you?' Haileybury asked drily.

  'I think it's criminal.'

  'But you must know perfectly well, Trevose, it happens to be the regulation treatment. And what else would you suggest? That the dressing-stations do nothing in the way of first-aid at all?'

  'That's exactly what I do suggest. I'm charitably assuming you treat burns with the equivalent of grannie's cold tea because, one, you can't think of anything better, and two, you want the casualties to feel something's being done for them. Well, something's being done, all right. Medieval mutilation.'

  'I really don't think I need comment on that,' said Haileybury wearily. 'Ever since I've known you, you've ruined your advocacy of any cause, worthy or not, with the extravagance of your language.'

  Graham suddenly felt angry. 'This situation doesn't need any language at all.' He pointed to the closed door of the wash-house. 'Haven't you eyes to see for yourself? That patient's a pilot officer, observer in a Blenheim, which failed to take off properly for some reason or other. The pilot was burnt to a cinder. By the time that poor devil turned up here his head and neck had skin like an elephant's. You know what it was, don't you? Congealed tannic acid. His hands were worse where he'd tried to pull his blazing clothes off. The fingers were drawn into the palms, webbed together, one black horrible mess. That's his real tragedy. With time and luck I can give him a face which will pass without too much comment in a crowd. But he'll probably never feed or wash himself again, even light his own cigarette. He'll be dependent on someone for the rest of his life. An awful prospect for both parties.'

  Haileybury decided to be firm but patient. If the argument was to end in his favour, Trevose needed even more thoughtful handling than usual. 'I can appreciate how you feel involved with these men, Trevose. But you must try and see our arrangements as a whole. The application of tannic acid as a first-aid measure to burns isn't some shot in the dark. It's been most carefully thought out. It is the official procedure. It is _regulation treatment,'_ he emphasized.

  'Then it's got to be changed. Do you know the first cases I had in here? A pair of naval ratings, picked up after an hour in the sea at Dunkirk. Both were badly burnt in the arms and legs. Both did splendidly. No tannic acid. Just salt solution like I'm using here, Nature's own.'

  'Now you're being fanciful.' Haileybury started to sound irritated. 'I'm certainly not going to let you rush all of us into something entirely new.'

  'Am I? Send me a lot more burns and make up your mind in six months. I'd like you to pull a few strings for me, by the way,' Graham invited airily. 'The unit's got to be expanded. I shall have to squeeze a second operating table into the theatre somehow. Tudor Beverley can run that himself. He's good enough. I'll need more assistants. And we want more huts desperately. It's like a slum in here.'

  'You might reduce your difficulties if you ceased scouring the countryside for extra patients,' Haileybury told him bleakly.

  Graham gave a grin. 'You heard about that, did you? It's the Services' own fault. It's weeks before I see some of the cases. They go on a ghastly traipse all over the shop, rotting for weeks in hospitals in Scotland or Wales, miles away. Faulty organization, that's the trouble. I'd like you to do something about that, too, please, and quickly.'

  Haileybury became angry despite himself. 'Have you thought of making life easier for yourself and everyone else with some attempt to understand how Service administration works?'

  'The only administration I understand is the one which gets me my own way.'

  'No one's yet signed for the extra beds shifted here, sir,' interrupted Captain Pile, who was feeling out of it.

  'Oh, do be quiet, Captain!' snapped Haileybury. 'Listen, Trevose, I know you're an enthusiast. Often enough, I'll admit, in a perfectly good cause. But you can't expect the Services to make fundamental changes according to your whim of the moment. Please get that into your mind for a start.'

  'Do you imagine I haven't thought about these problems just as carefully as you or anyone else? You must issue instructions banning tannic acid.'

  'Are you giving me orders?'

  'Yes.'

  Haileybury drew a breath. 'You might have the courtesy to recognize my position, even if you don't respect it.'

  'Why should I? It's I who have to handle the patients. Anyway, I know far more about burns than you do.'

  'You would seem to have lost nothing of your high opinion of yourself.'

  'It's a justifiable opinion,' Graham told him off-handedly.

  'As far as I could make out before the war,' Haileybury exclaimed, 'your best skill was concentrated in your cock.' He stopped, looking confused. He could not remember using the expression before. Trevose always seemed to bring out vulgarity in him.

  'Then do as you please,' Graham said casually. 'I'll get the tannic acid banned by the R.A.F., at least. You know a Member of Parliament called Fergusson?'

  'I've heard of him,' Haileybury admitted surlily.

  'He's just collared a job in the Air Ministry. Have you met his wife Sally? Wonderful pair of tits. Guaranteed to stop the conversation at a party. Well, I made them. The couple are pathetically grateful.'

  'You mean, you intend to go behind my back?'

  'I've no inhibitions about going behind anyone's back if I think it's in a good cause.' Haileybury said nothing. It was all most frustrating. 'You know, I've made so many bad decisions in my life,' Graham told him with returning cheerfulness, 'it's good to find once in a while I've hit on the right one. I mean staying out of uniform.'

  'I would offer no view on the lightness or wrongness of that.'

  Haileybury looked at him sourly. It seemed he had lost the argument, as usual. He vaguely wondered why. 'As I am here, perhaps you would invite me to look round your wards?' he added as sarcastically as possible.

  'Of course.' Graham smiled. 'You know that I am always ready to oblige an old acquaintance in any professional matter whatever.'

  Graham opened the door of the ward. It was a terrible thought, he told himself, but he was really quite enjoying the war.

  7

  'But why don't you divorce her, Graham?' asked Denise Bickley. 'I can't understand why you don't divorce her.'

  It was a subject which Graham chose to skip away from as quickly as possible. 'I hate having truck with lawyers, I suppose,' he told her. 'They give me the creeps. With their undertakers' clothes and their undertakers' faces, burying all your hopes under a mound of stony possibilities.'

  'But unfortunately not at undertakers' rates,' smiled John Bickley, the anaesthetist, across the log fire.

  It was a Sunday afternoon in the first week of 1941, when the Luftwaffe was bombing the country nighty, the onion had become a fragrant memory, whisky and bananas had vanished with the other flavours of peace, and the war was starting to change from a perilous adventure to a wearisome way of life.

  'But you can divorce her, you know.' John's wife Denise was chillingly well informed about everything to do with the married state. 'You can these days. The law's been changed.'

  Why does the woman continually go paddling in the muddy waters of my soul? Graham asked himself. 'So I understand,' he agreed. 'A. P. Herbert's Act altered everything. Maria's been mad for over five years, so I'm legally at liberty to rid myself of the encumbrance whenever I feel like it. Of course, it was different when I first had her locked up.'

  Graham had hoped that putting the situation so starkly might shame Denise into changing the subject, but she persisted, 'I'd have thought it worth taking the trouble, if only to get things straight.'

  'But how could it make the slightest difference to my life?'

  'Supposing you wanted to get married again?' Denise exclaimed.

  Graham laughed.

  'Well, you never know.'

  'I'm forty-six. Hardly the romantic age. Anyway, who's to be the bride?'

  'How old must Maria be now?' asked Denise.

  'Let me see-she's nine years older than me. Which makes her fifty-five.'

  'How's she bearing up? Physically, I mean,' asked John. It was an attempt to turn the conversation. He knew Graham's sensitivities far better than his wife did.

  'Her body's extremely well. I went down with Desmond to see her over Christmas. She's put on a lot of weight-they generally do, I gather. But her vital organs are functioning perfectly, though admittedly her blood-pressure's a bit up. Her mind's quite unbalanced, of course. She doesn't know me, sometimes she doesn't know her own nurses. On good days she washes herself. On bad days she wets the bed.'

  Denise lit a cigarette and said, 'It must be dreadfully upsetting, seeing her like that.'

  'Not particularly. I can hardly be expected to correlate her with the person I married. She was what they called a " society beauty", you know. The only daughter of our popular tub-thumping millionaire, Lord Cazalay.' A lot of things have happened since then, Graham reflected sombrely. Lord Cazalay's gone bust, for a start.

  'Graham, may I ask you one thing?' Denise puffed earnestly. 'I'm only trying to help, you do understand that, don't you?'

  'Ask anything you like,' said Graham resignedly.

  'Do you still love her?'

  'I never did.'

  'But surely you must have done once?'

  'I don't know. I don't know if I've ever been in love with anybody. I fancy I have some sort of inborn immunity to the condition, like some people have for tuberculosis. Or perhaps I just expect too much.'

  'But that's a tragedy, Graham! A life without love.'

  'Is it? Aren't people over-obsessed with such attitudes? It's all the fault of the pictures and the wireless. Anyway, I've enough satisfaction for one lifetime in my work.'

  'That tannic acid row was fun,' laughed John.

  Graham's face lit up. He developed an almost schoolboy eagerness when anyone started talking about the annex. 'It was amusing, wasn't it? I told you, if McIndoe and myself made enough fuss in the right places they'd ban it. Fergusson grasped the point at once, luckily. Haileybury was so delightfully furious. He suffers a terrible spasticity of ideas, that man, his mind's as rigid as a plank. In peacetime I never had much use for the bigwigs who impose their authority on the profession, you know that, John. I never realized how gratifying it would be to extend my range in the war.' He looked at his wrist-watch. 'It was a wonderful lunch, Denise, but I must go.'

  She looked disappointed and asked, 'Won't you stay for another cup of coffee?' She always did, every Sunday.

  'I promised to see Peter Thomas this afternoon. A vital consultation-he's bursting to go on leave. Then I've someone to interview for a job. I'd like an early start in the theatre tomorrow, John,' he added. 'An awful list of oddments has piled up. Tim O'Rory's sending us a newborn baby with a hare lip. It ought to be done as soon as possible, I think, to give the poor little thing a chance to have a go at mother's milk.'

  'I'll have the case on the table at eight.'

  'I'd be much obliged,' said Graham.

  When he had gone, Denise started clearing the dishes and declared, 'I really can't understand about Graham and Maria.'

  Her husband, tall, bony, wearing an old jacket and chalk-striped flannels, stretched himself in front of the fire. 'Perhaps he doesn't think a divorce would be in Maria's own interests.'

  'I couldn't believe that for a moment,' she said impatiently. 'Graham's one of the most selfish men I know. He's totally self-centred about everything, even the war.'

  John started refilling his pipe. 'I imagined our Graham had undergone something of a sea change this last year.'

  'I certainly hadn't noticed it.'

  He stuck a spill of newspaper into the fire. Matches were becoming almost as precious as razor-blades. 'Do you think he really is so selfish? The plastic surgery racket was pretty tough in London before the war, you know. If a man didn't push himself, nobody else would take the trouble. Now that it doesn't matter a damn to Graham if he operates on three cases a week or thirty, perhaps he can afford the luxury of indulging his better nature.'

  'He hasn't been showing much of it to you lately, has he? In the annex, I mean.'

  John shrugged. Never an easy-going colleague, Graham was becoming worse-tempered in the theatre than ever. 'With the amount of work we're getting through, some tension between surgeon and anaesthetist is inevitable.'

  Denise picked up the tray. 'If he _did _divorce the woman, it would all be perfectly respectable. He wouldn't have to take a girl for a week-end to Brighton, or anything like that.'

  'I rather think you need a permit these days to pass a weekend in Brighton,' John observed mildly.

  'Oh, you never take anything seriously,' she complained, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Graham usually walked from the Bickleys' cottage back to Smithers Botham, on the double assumption that it did him good and he ought to save his official petrol. He started along the bare country lane wondering how he could get out of these Sunday lunches. Denise's insensitivity was deadly.

  She had come into his life on the shoulders of John, a friend of twenty years' standing. John Bickley had given the anaesthetics since Graham was a young house-surgeon making a false start on throat work, in the days when children were submitted to the rape of their tonsils under the oblivion of asphyxia more than anaesthesia. Perhaps Denise was jealous, Graham wondered. The relationship of surgeon and anaesthetist had something in common with marriage. He and John had half a lifetime of shared experience, together having faced the triumphs, failures, and excitements concentrated in the few square feet round an operating table. As Graham had become a fashionable plastic surgeon so John Bickley had become a fashionable 'doper' or 'stuffist', hurrying with his rubber tubes and cylinders from nursing-home to nursing-home on a timetable more complicated than Bradshaw's. The surgeons allowed him ten per cent of the operating fee, so he had to keep in with a good many to keep going. The year before the war he had married Denise, whom he had met at a suburban golf-club. She was tall, slim, blonde, and athletic, and had money. It struck Graham that ever afterwards John occupied himself by keeping in with her.

 

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