The Private Patient

by P. D. James

  She remembered her emotions, surprise followed by relief, of which she was slightly ashamed, that this marriage could remove a part of her responsibility for her mother, might lessen her guilt over her infrequent letters and telephone calls and even rarer meetings. They met as polite but wary strangers still inhibited by the things they couldn’t say, the memories they took care not to provoke. She couldn’t remember hearing about Ronald and had no desire to meet him, but this was an invitation she had an obligation to accept.

  And now she consciously relived that portentous day which had promised only boredom dutifully endured but which had led her to this rain-lashed moment and to all that lay ahead. She had set off in good time but a lorry had overturned, shedding its load on the motorway, and when she arrived outside the church, a gaunt Victorian Gothic building, she heard the reedy uncertain singing of what must be the last hymn. She waited in the car a little way down the street until the congregation, mainly middle aged or elderly, had emerged. A car with white ribbons had drawn up but she was too distant to see her mother or the bridegroom. She followed the car, with others leaving the church, to the hotel, which was some four miles further down the coast, a much-turreted Edwardian building flanked by bungalows and backed by a golf course. A profusion of dark beams on the façade suggested that the architect had intended mock Tudor but had been seduced by hubris to add a central cupola and a Palladian front door.

  The reception hall had an air of long-faded grandeur, curtains of red damask hung in ornate pleats and the carpet looked grimed as with decades of dust. She joined the stream of fellow guests who, a little uncertainly, were moving to a room at the rear which proclaimed its function by a board and printed notice: Function room available for private parties. For a moment she paused in the doorway, irresolute, then entered and saw her mother at once. She was standing with her bridegroom surrounded by a little group of chattering women. Rhoda’s entrance was almost unnoticed, but she edged through them and saw her mother’s face breaking into a tentative smile. It had been four years since they had met but she looked younger and happier, and after a few seconds kissed Rhoda on the right cheek a little hesitantly then turned to the man at her side. He was old – at least seventy, Rhoda judged – rather shorter than her mother with a soft round-cheeked, pleasant but anxious face. He seemed a little confused and her mother had to repeat Rhoda’s name twice before he smiled and held out his hand. There were general introductions. The guests resolutely ignored the scar. A few scampering children gazed at it boldly, then ran off shouting through the French windows to play outside. Rhoda remembered snatches of conversation. ‘Your mother speaks of you so often.’ ‘She’s very proud of you.’ ‘It’s good of you to come so far.’ ‘Lovely day for it, isn’t it? Nice to see her so happy.’

  The food and the service were better than she had expected. The cloth on the long table was immaculate, the cups and plates shone and her first bite confirmed that the ham in the sandwiches was fresh off the bone. Three middle-aged women dressed as parlour maids served them with a disarming cheerfulness. Strong tea was poured from an immense pot and, after a certain amount of whispering between the bride and groom, a variety of drinks was brought in from the bar. The conversation, which had so far been as hushed as if they had recently attended a funeral, became more lively and glasses, some containing liquids of a highly ominous hue, were raised. After much anxious consultation between her mother and the barman, champagne flutes were brought in with some ceremony. There was to be a toast.

  The proceedings were in the hands of the vicar who had conducted the service, a red-haired young man who, divested of his cassock, now wore a dog collar with grey trousers and a sports jacket. He gently patted the air as if to subdue a hubbub and made a brief speech. Ronald, apparently, was the church organist and there was some laboured humour about pulling out all the stops and the two of them living in harmony to their lives’ end, interspersed with small harmless jokes, now unremembered, which had been greeted by the braver of the guests with embarrassed laughter.

  There was a crush at the table so, plate in hand, she moved over to the window, grateful for the moment when the guests, obviously hungry for the food, were unlikely to accost her. She watched them with a pleasurable mixture of critical observation and sardonic amusement – the men in their best suits, some now a little stretched over rounded stomachs and broadening backs; the women, who had obviously made efforts and had seen an opportunity for a new outfit. Most, like her mother, were wearing floral summer dresses with matching jackets, their straw hats in pastel colours sitting incongruously on newly set hair. They could, she thought, have looked much the same in the 1930s and ’40s. She was discomforted by a new and unwelcome emotion compounded of pity and anger. She thought, I don’t belong here, I’m not happy with them, nor they with me. Their embarrassed mutual politeness can’t bridge the gap between us. But this is where I came from, these are my people, the upper working class merging into the middle class, that amorphous unregarded group who fought the country’s wars, paid their taxes, clung to what remained of their traditions. They had lived to see their simple patriotism derided, their morality despised, their savings devalued. They caused no trouble. Millions of pounds of public money wasn’t regularly siphoned into their neighbourhoods in the hope of bribing, cajoling or coercing them into civic virtue. If they protested that their cities had become alien, their children taught in overcrowded schools where ninety per cent of the children spoke no English, they were lectured about the cardinal sin of racism by those more expensively and comfortably circumstanced. Unprotected by accountants, they were the milch-cows of the rapacious Revenue. No lucrative industry of social concern and psychological analysis had grown up to analyse and condone their inadequacies on the grounds of deprivation or poverty. Perhaps she should write about them before she finally relinquished journalism, but she knew that, with more interesting and lucrative challenges ahead, she never would. They had no place in her plans for her future just as they had no place in her life.

  Her last memory was of standing alone with her mother in the women’s cloakroom, gazing at their two profiles in a long mirror above a vase of artificial flowers.

  Her mother said, ‘Ronald likes you, I could see that. I’m glad you could come.’

  ‘So am I. I liked him too. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’

  ‘I’m sure we shall. We’ve known each other for four years now. His wife sang in the choir. Lovely alto voice – unusual in a woman really. We’ve always got on, Ron and I. He’s so kind.’ Her voice was complacent. Gazing critically into the mirror she adjusted her hat.

  Rhoda said, ‘Yes, he looks kind.’

  ‘Oh he is. He’s no trouble. And I know that this is what Rita would have wanted. She more or less hinted at it to me before she died. Ron has never been good at being alone. And we shall be all right – for money I mean. He’s going to sell his house and move into the bungalow with me. That seems sensible now that he’s seventy. So that standing order you have – the five hundred pounds a month – you don’t have to go on with that, Rhoda.’

  ‘I should leave it as it is, that is unless Ronald isn’t happy about it.’

  ‘It isn’t that. A little bit extra always comes in useful. I just thought you might need it yourself.’

  She turned and touched Rhoda’s left cheek, a touch so soft that Rhoda was only conscious of the fingers shaking in a gentle tremble against the scar. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to flinch. But she didn’t draw back.

  Her mother said, ‘He wasn’t a bad man, Rhoda. It was the drink. You oughtn’t to blame him. It was an illness, and he loved you really. That money he sent you after you left home – it wasn’t easy finding it. He spent nothing on himself.’

  Rhoda thought, Except on drink, but she didn’t speak the words. She had never thanked her father for that weekly five pounds, had never spoken to him after she left home.

  Her mother’s voice seemed to come out of a silence. ‘Remem
ber those walks in the park?’

  She remembered the walks in the suburban park when it seemed always autumn, the straight gravelled paths, the rectangular or round flowerbeds thick with the discordant colours of dahlias, a flower she hated, walking beside her father, neither speaking.

  Her mother said, ‘He was all right when he wasn’t drinking.’

  ‘I don’t remember him when he wasn’t drinking.’ Had she spoken those words or only thought them?

  ‘It wasn’t easy for him, working for the council. I know he was lucky to get that job after he’d been sacked from the law firm, but it was beneath him. He was clever, Rhoda, that’s where you get your brains. He won a scholarship to university and he came in first.’

  ‘You mean he got a first?’

  ‘I think that’s what he said. Anyway, it means he was clever. That’s why he was so proud when you got into the grammar school.’

  ‘I never knew he’d been to university. He never told me.’

  ‘Well he wouldn’t, would he? He thought you weren’t interested. He wasn’t one for talking, not about himself.’

  None of them had been. Those outbursts of violence, the impotent rage, the shame, had done for them all. The important things had been unsayable. And looking into her mother’s face, she asked herself how could she begin now? She thought her mother was right. It couldn’t have been easy for her father to find that five-pound note week after week. It had come with a few words, sometimes in shaky handwriting, which simply said, With love from Father. She had taken the money because she needed it and had thrown away the paper. With the casual cruelty of an adolescent she had judged him unworthy to offer her his love, which she had always known was a more difficult gift than money. Perhaps the truth was that she hadn’t been worthy to receive it. For over thirty years she had nursed her contempt, her resentment and, yes, her hatred. But that muddy Essex stream, that lonely death, had put him out of her power for ever. It was herself she had harmed and to recognise this might be the beginning of healing.

  Her mother said, ‘It’s never too late to find someone to love. You’re a handsome woman, Rhoda, you should do something about that scar.’

  Words she had never expected to hear. Words which no one since Miss Farrell had dared to speak. She remembered little of what happened afterwards, only her own reply spoken quietly and without emphasis.

  ‘I shall get rid of it.’

  She must fitfully have dozed. Now she woke into full consciousness with a start to find that the rain had passed. Darkness had fallen. Glancing at the dashboard, she saw that it was four fifty-five. She had been on the road for nearly three hours. In the unexpected quiet the noise of the engine as she bumped cautiously from the verge jarred the silent air. The rest of the journey was easy. The turns of the road came where expected and her headlights on the signposts lit up reassuring names. Sooner than expected she saw the name Stoke Cheverell, and turned right for the final mile. The village street was deserted, lights shone behind drawn curtains and only the corner shop with its bright crowded window, through which two or three late shoppers could be dimly seen, showed signs of life. And now there was the sign she was looking for, Cheverell Manor. The great iron gates stood open. She was expected. She drove down the short avenue which widened into a half-circle, and the house was before her.

  There had been a picture of Cheverell Manor in the brochure handed to her after her first consultation, but it was only a pale-coloured similitude of the reality. In her headlights she saw the outline of the house, seeming larger than she had expected, a dark mass against the darker sky. It stretched each side of a large central gable with two windows above. These showed a pale light, but most were blank except for four large mullioned windows to the left of the door which were brightly lit. As she drove carefully and parked under the trees the door opened and a strong light streamed out over the gravel.

  Switching off the engine, she got out and opened the back door for her overnight case, the cold damp air a welcome release after the drive. A male figure appeared in the doorway and moved towards her. Although the rain had stopped, he was wearing a plastic mackintosh with a hood that reached over his head like a baby’s bonnet, giving him the look of a malevolent child. He walked firmly and his voice was strong but she could see that he was no longer young. He took the case firmly from her and said, ‘If you give me the key, madam, I’ll park the car for you. Miss Cressett doesn’t like to see cars parked outside. They’re expecting you.’

  She handed over the key and followed him into the house. The unease, the slight sense of disorientation she had felt sitting alone in the storm, was still with her. Drained of emotion, she felt only a mild relief at having arrived and, as she passed into the wide hall with its central staircase, she was aware of a need to be again solitary, relieved of the necessity of shaking hands, of a formal welcome, when all she wanted was the silence of her own home and, later, the familiar comfort of her bed.

  The entrance hall was impressive – she had expected it to be – but it was not welcoming. Her suitcase was placed at the foot of the stairs and then, opening a door to the left, the man announced loudly, ‘Miss Gradwyn, Miss Cressett,’ and, picking up her suitcase, made for the stairs.

  She entered the room and found herself in a great hall which brought back pictures seen perhaps in childhood or on visits to other country houses. After the darkness outside, it was full of light and colour. High above, the arched timbers were blackened with age. Linen-fold panelling covered the lower part of the walls and, above it, a row of portraits, Tudor, Regency, Victorian faces, celebrated with varying talents, some, she suspected, owing their place more to family piety than artistic merit. Facing her was a stone fireplace with a coat of arms, also in stone, above it. A wood fire was crackling in the grate, the dancing flames casting gules over the three figures who rose to meet her.

  They had obviously been sitting having tea, the two linen-covered armchairs set at right angles to the fire, the only modern furniture in the room. Between them a low table held a tray with the remains of the meal. The welcoming party consisted of a man and two women, although the word ‘welcome’ was hardly appropriate since she felt like an intruder inconveniently late for tea and awaited without enthusiasm.

  The taller of the two women made the introduction. She said, ‘I’m Helena Cressett. We have spoken. I’m glad you’ve got here safely. We’ve had a bad storm but sometimes they’re very local. You may have escaped it. May I introduce Flavia Holland, the theatre sister, and Marcus Westhall who will assist Mr Chandler-Powell with your operation.’

  They shook hands, faces creased into smiles. Rhoda’s impression of new people was always immediate and strong, a visual image implanted on her mind, never to be totally erased, bringing with it a perception of basic character which time and closer acquaintanceship might, as she knew, be shown to be perversely and sometimes dangerously misleading, but which rarely was. Now, tired, her perception a little dulled, she saw them almost as stereotypes. Helena Cressett in a well-tailored trouser suit with a turtleneck jumper which avoided looking too smart for wearing in the country while proclaiming that it hadn’t been bought off a peg. No make-up except for lipstick; fine pale hair with a hint of auburn framing high prominent cheekbones; a nose a little too long for beauty; a face one might describe as handsome but certainly not pretty. Remarkable grey eyes regarded her with more curiosity than formal kindliness. Rhoda thought, ex-head girl, now headmistress – or, more probably, principal of an Oxbridge college. Her handshake was firm, the new girl being welcomed with circumspection, all judgement deferred.

  Sister Holland was less formally dressed in jeans, a black jumper and a suede jerkin, comfort clothes proclaiming that she had been released from the impersonal uniform of her job and was now off duty. She was dark haired, with a bold face that conveyed a confident sexuality. Her glance, from bright large-pupilled eyes so dark that they were almost black, took in the scar as if mentally assessing how much trouble could be expec
ted from this new patient.

  Mr Westhall was surprising. He was slightly built with a high forehead and a sensitive face, the face of a poet or academic rather than a surgeon. She felt none of the power or confidence which had so strongly emanated from Mr Chandler-Powell. His smile was warmer than those of the women but his hand, despite the warmth of the fire, was cold.

  Helena Cressett said, ‘You must be ready for tea, or perhaps for something stronger. Would you like it here or in your own sitting room? Either way, I’ll take you there now so that you can settle in.’

  Rhoda said that she would prefer to have tea in her room. They mounted the broad uncarpeted stairs together and passed down a corridor lined with maps and what looked like earlier pictures of the house. Rhoda’s suitcase had been placed outside a door midway down the patients’ corridor. Picking it up, Miss Cressett opened the door and stood aside as Rhoda entered. The two rooms allocated to her were shown to her by Miss Cressett rather, she thought, as a hotelier might briefly indicate the conveniences of a hotel suite, a routine too often undertaken to be more than a duty.

  Rhoda saw that the sitting room was both agreeable in its proportions and beautifully furnished, obviously in period furniture. Most of it looked Georgian. There was a mahogany bureau with a desk large enough for comfortable writing. The only modern furniture were the two armchairs before the fireplace and a tall angled reading lamp beside one of them. To the left of the fire there was a modern television on a stand with a DVD player on a shelf beneath it, an incongruous but presumably necessary addition to a room which was both distinctive and welcoming.