Heartbreak Surgeon (1960s Medical Romance Book 2)

by Sheila Burns

  This had shown itself in moods of despair and depression and times when he sought to be alone, and to sulk; that was what it seemed to other people, though she understood him better and excused it. Enid Strong had said that she thought he was odd, and had half admitted that she had never liked him, but that might be a personal aversion, nothing more.

  Now, at the moment when Lorna had entered the room and had seen aunt and nephew together, she had realised that Mrs. Liskeard knew far more about him than she was going to admit to anyone else. They did not live completely happily with never a harsh word, as she always said; they had their own bones to pick, and pick them they did. She was afraid for Roger. Although she might seem always to be one of those gently persuasive creatures, she had seemed quite different for that brief moment. Mrs. Liskeard was suspicious of the accident. She did not believe any of the tale.

  That night there had been another case of a young man thumbing a lift, and of a kindly young woman driver who had stopped her car and had given it to him. There were all the same events which had happened to Lorna, only this time it was near gracious Claremont, wooded and fertile. A gun pressed hard against the ribs, a sudden disturbance in the lay-by which had apparently scared the man, and he had bolted.

  Lorna did not go down to dinner with the men that night, and put up the excuse that she thought they would probably prefer to be alone. Brown brought her a tray, and she was glad to have it quietly in the window table, looking down on the park and the deer sheltering under the trees, for the heat was still strong.

  She did not want Mrs. Liskeard to know that she had avoided dinner downstairs. She had always had her breakfast brought to her room, and she knew that it saved a lot of extra work in Wiseways if people had tray meals. Long ago they had forgone the communal breakfast with a silver tray on the side, with the cooked dishes still sizzling over little stoves.

  She went to Mrs. Liskeard later and put her to bed, then returned to her room with a book. The men, she gathered, had gone off to Tintagel.

  Lorna saw no one until mid-morning when Dr. Morde arrived in his ancient car for the consultation. He seemed to be in a bad way, his eyes baggy and he only half awake. Lorna met him in the hall.

  ‘An Alka-Seltzer?’ she suggested.

  ‘I’ve had at least three already. I daren’t have more. I’ve tried a touch of the hair of the dog that bit me, it’s no good. I oughtn’t really to attend these “dos” but they only come once a year, and I must have some fun.’

  ‘It’s nice meeting friends.’

  ‘You’ve got it in one, my girl, but the thing is are a chap’s friends really his friends? They egg him on; they make it all so attractive. Now I wish I hadn’t gone, but I did go, and that’s that. Has the great man come?’

  ‘He is somewhere downstairs. I’ve asked Brown to tell him you are here.’

  He nodded a trifle gloomily. ‘So Roger’s been in the wars again?’ he said. ‘He and I met and had a quick one. He seems to have been a bit biffed about and not quite his old cheerful self. Gloomy, I’d have said; downright gloomy, which is not what anyone wants, is it?’

  ‘Yes, he had a nasty shock.’

  ‘What’s he done to that cheek of his?’

  ‘He was flung against the side of the car, and there must have been something jagged there, for he has a scratch across the bruise.’

  Maudie laughed. The quick one he had taken with Roger was beginning to work and he was recovering. ‘I suppose it wasn’t some girl he tried to kiss, and she caught him a fourpenny? Could be, you know, for I’ve had some of Master Roger!’

  They went into the small library at the foot of the stairs, a quiet room, with something that was almost sombre about it. It had been furnished all in grey. Apparently Mr. Liskeard who had died had had a feeling that one went into the library to read and that there should be nothing to disturb the emotions, and take one’s mind from concentration. Mrs. Liskeard after his death had added crimson lampshades, some black and white cushions which were effective, and a thick crimson hearthrug before the fire. But the room still clung to the sombre outlook, in spite of all her attentions to the place.

  A moment later they heard Michael Bland coming down the stairs; he called out to Brown to know where they were, and the door opened. Maudie, who seemed to be warming slightly, blinked hard and stared. He was afraid of Michael Bland, afraid lest the great surgeon with the clear black eyes and keen alertness, would realise what thirty years ‒ or almost ‒ in this place had done for him.

  It had meant the fading out of ambitions, and the knowledge that whatever you did with your world, it ended the same way for all, in the weedy nettle bed of a churchyard at the head of the harbour, with the dank smell of yew trees about it. There was a helpless hopelessness about it all. Once Maudie had thought this charming place was escape from the authority of the big hospitals, and martinet consultants, and could give him freedom and life.

  It was not life and never had been.

  It was the pathway to death, and perhaps he was rapidly approaching the time of his life when he would ask to die. I’m through, he often told himself, only nobody must know that this happened. He drank more to try to cheer himself, and he laughed more loudly and made more timeworn jokes, over-acting in the hopeless attempt to make other people believe that he was the hail-fellow-well-met young man who had originally come down here as the G.P.

  The previous G.P. had been carted to a churchyard grave with a mass of handsome wreaths, kindly thoughts, and magnificent obituaries in the papers, but that did not really help a chap, did it?

  Michael entered. ‘Good morning, Dr. Morde. I hear you were out last night at Tintagel.’

  ‘I was indeed. I shouldn’t have gone, of course, I’m very sorry about it all today, but when the heart is still young, the old bones get misled.’

  He laughed over-boisterously. He had an idea that Michael understood it, and although he should have thanked him for being so knowledgeable, inside himself he hated him all the more for it.

  ‘Good morning, Nurse,’ from Michael.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ from Nurse (all nurse at this moment, for she realised that it was expected of her).

  ‘The patient seems to be much improved.’ Michael deposited himself in a large armchair, and sat back comfortably. ‘There ought now to be some chance of her going out into the garden and getting some sunshine. She needs it. I want to go into this with you. Dr. Morde.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. We mustn’t rush our hurdles.’ Maudie only hoped that he had said the right thing, for at this very moment a little tic had started to throb in his temple, leaving him with sharp dagger thrusts. He had a splitting headache, and all the medical resources of the British Pharmacopoeia had apparently done very little to help him. To hell with medicine! It was a snare and a delusion anyway. ‘It doesn’t work’, he told himself, ‘it does nothing for you, why do these fools pay for it? Ask me another!’

  Michael began to talk.

  The two men went over the details, prompted every little while by Lorna. On his examination Michael had found her condition considerably improved, but there were slight weaknesses still there which he did not like, and felt could not possibly be overlooked.

  When they had finished, slow on arriving at a conclusion, for Maudie was not in the right mood, they went up to Mrs. Liskeard’s room to tell her what they had decided for her. Henderson had got her dressed, and she was lying back on the sofa by the window. She listened to everything that was said but found it wearisome, and did not absorb more than the gist. Lorna stood there meekly, with her hands clasped before her, the picture of a good nurse, the tiny stiffened white cap poised back on her hair.

  That girl’s a good looker, thought Maudie, trying to cover a yawn. If I had been a younger man I would have had a dart at it, now of course … Oh well, why worry …? and he swept the thought aside.

  Michael went on talking. He turned and tapped Maudie’s shoulder after an interminable time. ‘I’d like to h
ave a last word with you downstairs before you go. You know this house, where can we go?’

  ‘If you don’t mind Roger being there, his study is ideal,’ and the thought of the sideboard and the tantalus suddenly brightened Maudie considerably.

  But Michael Bland did object. He was, Maudie decided, one of those men who had been born to be annoying. He wanted the talk to be just between them, no more. Mrs. Liskeard suggested that the morning room would be free. It was a legacy from the forebears, who had lived in the time of innumerable maidservants, and three footmen in dazzlingly striped yellow waistcoats. Today it was seldom used, for it seemed to have lost its place in the household, but it was always kept tidy.

  It was a small room with a deep purple carpet, soft warm pinky-orange cushions and lampshades, and Regency silver everywhere. It opened out with wide French windows on to the terrace where the morning was bright, and the smell of roses provocative, and it was there that the two men went to talk. The curious thing was that Michael Bland did not want to discuss Mrs. Liskeard (he had done all that upstairs), what he wanted to ask was a few questions about Roger.

  Maudie was at least a sportsman; he had never let a pal down in his life, though a patient perpetually, for after all the two were not the same thing, were they? He was not intending to break his golden rule now. Roger was a damned good sort, said he, he had known him since he was thirteen, or thereabouts, and had always liked him.

  ‘But mentally?’ said Michael. ‘There is something about him that made me very suspicious.’

  ‘Good heavens! Suspicious of what? I can’t imagine what could have worried you about good old Roger. A bit moody at times, I grant you, but otherwise sterling. Absolutely sterling.’

  Michael went off into a psychiatric lecture.

  Before very long Maudie was completely lost, and sitting there with an empty glass, praying for something to happen. It might be impressive to some people, but damn the man, what did he think he was doing? It made it much worse that privately he did not really like Roger Liskeard, and wished that this talk had never started.

  ‘I think he needs watching,’ said Michael.

  ‘Watching? But damn it all, he is quite fit. The old breakdown has never recurred and now doesn’t mean a thing. Anyone would tell you that. You’re a stranger in these parts, sir, if I may say so, and it is my qualified opinion that everything is okay with our friend Roger. He is my patient, not yours, and I know him better than you do.’

  Maudie should not have said it, of course, but this did not happen to be his morning. He couldn’t stand these collar-and-cuff specialists, who simply stank of Harley Street, curse it! Once he had had the dream of getting there himself, and he had not got there. Once he had prayed to graduate slowly into Ear, Nose and Throat work, and then had been forced to let it go. Lack of money. Lack of impetus. Lack of qualifications. It could have been any of those things, but that had been the end.

  He had come down here. A place of women having babies at awkward moments, of coughs and colds, bad legs, and epidemics. Nothing to do but wait to die. Ye gods! What a life! And this was not his morning.

  Michael said, ‘I realise that you are a very good friend to him, and I do not want to be unpleasant, but I am suspicious about him. Perhaps a stranger comes to this sort of thing with wider open eyes than those who live with it all the time. You must admit this.’

  He was being kind to a nasty little man, he appreciated what had brought Maudie here in the beginning, and knew that he resented it. Resentment was the very worst groundwork for life, as any decent psychiatrist would tell you.

  It so happened that luck helped the little man. ‘Here’s someone coming across the garden; she’s left her car by the far lily bed, and is coming in this way,’ he said, and then, ‘It’s Enid Strong. Now that’s a bore, isn’t it?’

  She walked across the path, a big woman gauntly boned, and striding as she came. The hot sun found a real light in her hair, and set a certain brightness about her. She was unusual, changed, and she walked like a young girl though it was quite clear that she was in the early forties. She saw Dr. Morde and waved to him, came up the steps on to the terrace, and smiled at them.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, then to Michael, ‘You must be Mr. Bland, and I’ve disturbed a consultation, have I?’

  ‘Dear me, no!’ said Maudie, only too anxious for her to stay, for he had had quite enough of being alone with Master Smart from Harley Street. ‘You’re looking very bright. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve had awfully good news. I really came to see Mrs. Liskeard’s nurse, Lorna, she’s rather a dear. She and I had a long talk the other afternoon, she’s such an awfully nice girl.’

  ‘She is indeed, I’ll fetch her,’ said Michael, glad of the chance.

  ‘Not you, sir, let me do it,’ said Maudie, yet making no attempt to go.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Michael was off. He swung across the terrace to the French windows; he looked very tall, and whatever he privately felt about him, Maudie had to admit that he walked very well in long even strides, the shoulders well down. He had gone.

  Maudie turned to Enid. ‘I can’t even offer you a drink, because there seems to be nothing going the rounds. Besides, I rather think Master Smart is T.T. (the grand sort), they keep a stock of those in Harley Street. Now he is reduced to running errands, but I bet the Liskeards are paying him the earth to stay here, and he doing damn-all for it. That’s one way to get a nice summer holiday!’ and he laughed. A hiccough upset the laugh. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘I was out last night. Tintagel. One of those get-together dinners; sixteen of us, we made the compact years ago and always meet. It’s like a tryst, only I drank too much. You know what it is, must be in the fashion.’ Glancing at her a trifle uneasily, he realised that she was not really interested. ‘And why are you so cheery?’

  ‘I’ve had a big success. It’s the sort of commission I’ve always dreamt about but never thought could come to me. It’s a wonder statue, work that I could throw myself into, a statue for a new church that is being built in the Midlands, a modern cathedral.’

  It did not make Maudie enthusiastic, and disappointedly he said, ‘Oh!’ Fancy anyone glowing about that! He never went to church save to patients’ funerals, which he felt was something of a duty. He had contrived to work his flower account for wreaths with the local florist at thirteen to the dozen, which he considered to be rather slick of him. He wondered if any physician, homely and ordinary, had ever had that bright idea before.

  Then the door opened and Lorna appeared. Michael had not come with her, and for a single moment it struck even Maudie that perhaps he had over-played his cards and been snubbed. Ah well, said he to himself, who cares? If he could only manage it he would leave the women together and sneak off to Roger’s study where Roger would be waiting, and helpful with a drink. He usually was.

  Enid said, ‘Lorna, I came because I simply had to tell you my news. They want me to do the big statue for the façade of the new cathedral at Gordonbury.’

  ‘Oh, Enid!’

  ‘I ‒ I don’t know quite what to say, or what to do. Perhaps I’m a wee bit drunk with success, and this is what happens to everyone when they get the first really big commission. It’s something to dream about, something to have, something to be a little crazy about.’

  She paused. (‘Excuse me,’ said Maudie, and he slipped out. This was his cue.) ‘Oh, Lorna, this means such a lot to me.’

  ‘Of course it does, and I am so glad. It just came out of the blue?’

  ‘Out of the blue like a flash, they say all the big things do.’ She clasped her arms round her knees, and there was an absorbed look in her eyes which seemed to have become strangely understanding. ‘Once I wanted beauty so much, I was always gawky, too thin, too bulky in other ways, just me, and I could never be beautiful. Then I wanted a baby. I was burnt up with the desire to have Lionel’s child, and now I’m forty-three and that is neve
r likely to happen.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ and Lorna laughed. ‘I have attended mothers of forty-three, and we had bouncing boys and so little trouble with them that you’d be surprised.’

  ‘Yes, but none of that is for me. I realise it.’ A trifle wearily, she said, ‘Lionel would have loved a son and I suppose I should have spoilt him madly. Women do. Never mind, I’ve got this great commission, and this is something to think about, something to work for. What is the first thing one should think about when one comes to a great cathedral? I have got to get an idea. Most people do Christ, wouldn’t it be far more original to do Adam? The first man? The husbandman, the man who made the earth yield to him?’

  She paused enthralled, and Lorna felt some of Enid’s quality coming to herself. It was inspiration. The news had come when Lionel was away, and Enid had come over to Wiseways because she simply had to tell somebody. It seemed extraordinary that she should be here telling the girl whom, when they first had met, she had almost disliked. Yet now it was a joy to be with Lorna. Enid took the girl’s hand in her own big compelling one, with fingers accustomed to handling stone, not flesh.

  ‘Oh, Lorna, I am so wildly pleased that I hardly know what I am doing. Is there any chance of seeing Mrs. Liskeard?’

  ‘I’ll slip along and see. I think she’d love to see you for she is surprisingly well today, and Mr. Bland says she is to go out into the garden later. One moment.’

  Enid stood alone waiting.

  She stood by the marble fireplace resting against the coolness of it, with the glittering crystal glass along its shelf, and beside her a violet chair with the pinky cushion in it. She herself had helped choose the colour scheme, though she had sought a chestnut glow for it against the violet, and Mrs. Liskeard had shrunk from this. It was always difficult to change the old association of colours in a world that disliked any new venture.