by P. D. James
‘That won’t be necessary. I’d rather not establish any kind of tenancy here, but if you could stay on for nine months or so, that would be fine if Helena’s happy about it.’
She said, ‘I’ll ask her, of course. I’d like to make some changes. While Father was alive he so hated any fuss or noise, particularly workmen coming in, that there was no point in doing anything. But the kitchen is depressing and too small. If you’re going to use this cottage for staff or visitors after I’ve left, I think you’ll have to do something about it. The sensible thing would be to make the old pantry into a kitchen and enlarge the sitting room.’
Chandler-Powell had no wish now to discuss the state of the kitchen. He said, ‘Well, have a word with Helena about it. And you’d better speak to Lettie about the cost of redecorating the cottage. It needs doing. I think we could manage some renovations.’
He had finished his coffee and discovered what he needed to know, but before he could get up she said, ‘There’s one other thing. You’ve got Rhoda Gradwyn here and I understand she’s coming back in two weeks for her operation. You’ve got private beds at St Angela’s. London’s more appropriate for her anyway. If she stays here she’ll get bored, and that’s when women like her become most dangerous. And she is dangerous.’
So he had been right. Candace was at the back of this obsession with Rhoda Gradwyn. He said, ‘Dangerous in what way? Dangerous to whom?’
‘If I knew that I’d be less worried. You must know something of her reputation – that is if you read anything other than the surgical journals. She’s an investigative journalist, one of the worst kind. She sniffs out gossip like a pig with truffles. She makes it her job to discover things about other people which give them distress or pain, or worse, and would titillate the great British public if they became known. She sells secrets for money.’
He said, ‘Isn’t that a gross exaggeration? And even if it’s true, it wouldn’t justify me in refusing to treat her where she chooses. Why the concern? She’s unlikely to find anything here to whet her appetite.’
‘Can you be sure of that? She’ll find something.’
‘And what excuse would I give for telling her she can’t return?’
‘You wouldn’t need to antagonise her. Simply say that there’s been a double booking and you find you haven’t a bed.’
It was difficult to control his irritation. This was an unforgiv able intrusion, interfering with the management of his patients. He said, ‘Candace, what’s all this about? You’re usually rational. This seems close to paranoia.’
She led the way through to the kitchen and began washing the two mugs and emptying the percolator. After a moment’s silence, she said, ‘I sometimes wonder about that myself. I admit it does sound far-fetched and irrational. Anyway, I’ve no right to interfere, but I don’t think patients who come here for privacy would be delighted to find themselves in the company of a notorious journalist. But you needn’t worry. I shan’t see her, either now or when she returns. I’m not proposing to take a kitchen knife to her. Frankly she’s not worth it.’
She saw him to the door. He said, ‘I see Robin Boyton is back. I think Helena did mention that he’d booked in. What’s he here for, do you know?’
‘He said because Rhoda Gradwyn is here. Apparently they’re friends and he thinks she might like company.’
‘For a stay of one night? Does he plan to book into Rose Cottage when she returns? If he does he won’t see her, and he won’t see her now. She made it plain that she’s coming here for absolute privacy and that’s what I’ll ensure she gets.’
Closing the garden gate behind him, he wondered what all that had been about. There must be some strong personal reason for an antipathy which seemed otherwise unreasonable. Was she perhaps focusing on Gradwyn the two years of frustration tied to a cantankerous unloving old man and the prospect of losing her job? And now there was Marcus’s plan to go to Africa. She might support his decision but she could hardly welcome it. But striding purposefully back to the Manor he put Candace Westhall and her troubles out of mind and concentrated on his own. He would find a replacement for Marcus and, if Flavia decided it was time to leave, he would cope with that too. She was getting restless. There had been signs which even he, busy as he was, had noticed. Perhaps it was time the affair ended. Now, with the Christmas break coming and the work slowing down, he should steel himself to end it.
Back at the Manor he decided to speak to Mogworthy, who would probably be working in the garden taking advantage of an uncertain period of winter sun. There were bulbs to be planted and it was time he showed an interest in Helena and Mog’s plans for the spring. He passed through the north door leading to the terrace and the knot garden. Mogworthy was nowhere in sight but he saw two figures walking side by side towards the gap in the far beech hedge which led to the rose garden. The shorter was Sharon, her companion he recognised as Rhoda Gradwyn. So Sharon was showing her the garden, a task usually undertaken at a visitor’s request by Helena or Lettie. He stood watching them, an odd couple, as they passed out of sight, walking in intimacy, obviously talking, Sharon looking up at her companion. For some reason the sight disconcerted him. Marcus and Candace’s forebodings had irritated rather than worried him but now, for the first time, he felt a twinge of anxiety, a sense that something uncontrollable and possibly dangerous had entered his domain. The thought was too irrational, even superstitious, to be seriously examined and he thrust it aside. But it was odd that Candace, highly intelligent and usually so rational, had this obsession with Rhoda Gradwyn. Did she perhaps know something about the woman that he didn’t, something she was unwilling to reveal?
He decided not to look for Mogworthy and, re-entering the Manor, he closed the door firmly behind him.
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 seemed 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. For her 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 s
ome 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 re-read, 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 the door 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.’
