He suggested it might somehow hold him up to ridicule, particularly in the eyes of his cousin Alec, Edith’s child, who was arriving to study at Smithers Botham the same autumn. Desmond arranged to live in the hospital itself, as one of the dozen-strong students’ ‘Emergency Squad’ under the direct orders of Captain Pile—though for what emergency this squad was held in readiness, and how it would tackle it when it arose, everyone had long ago forgotten.
Graham dismissed all this as the self-dramatization to which the young were so distressingly liable. Desmond had probably been mixing with the wrong sort of people at college. Though perhaps the son’s disinterest was partly the father’s fault, Graham admitted. He had never taken overmuch care in Desmond’s upbringing. Before the war he was too busy making money and amusing himself. During it he was too busy with the annex. Anyway, the lad seemed to step along confidently enough by himself. But now there was another factor. The war would certainly be grinding along in 1945, when Desmond was due to qualify, to sweep him with the others into the medical branches of the Forces. Why, he might even find himself under the orders of Haileybury! Somehow, Graham determined, he must get the young man into the Navy.
Graham set the scene of Desmond’s enlightenment carefully. He had anyway been remiss about standing the boy treats. He made the effort of booking a couple of stalls for Blithe Spirit—as Russians were then being bombed instead of Britons, a seat in a London theatre was as hard to come by as a seat in a long-distance express. After the show they went to an Italian restaurant in Soho. In the first black nights of the war Graham had sometimes cheered himself up there by toasting Allied victory in Chianti at the insistence of the proprietor, who by 1942 had been caged up for a couple of years in the Isle of Man. But the elderly head waiter remembered him, and even laid the establishment open to immediate prosecution by letting them consume not only soup and chicken but a slice of fish as well.
Over the meal, they talked about their work. Now Desmond was growing up in medicine, Graham could enjoy the singular satisfaction of a medical parent in watching his child emerge as a professional colleague. They met often enough at Smithers Botham on perfectly easy terms, though coming to talk less of personal things than their cases, or to dissect the characters, abilities, and errors of the other consultants.
‘Anything interesting in the annex at the moment, Dad?’ Desmond asked across their corner table in the restaurant.
‘A lot of oddments.The by-products of the war, mostly. There’s a man from the Desert who gave himself a rub-down with petrol—they’re short of water, you understand. Then the idiot fit a cigarette. He was an awful mess. There’s a naval rating who was working in the engine-room of a destroyer when some fool turned on the superheated steam. Tragic cases. There’s not much glory in being run over by your own tank. Anyway, war’s a horrible business.’
‘Are you getting sick of it?’
‘I’ve never had time to pause and think. I suppose when I get back to bobbing noses, it’ll be a relief knowing the patients’ real suffering is only in the pocket.’ Graham added after a moment, ‘Sometimes it’s difficult for me to realize our present highly abnormal form of life won’t go on for ever. I suppose the same goes for all our generals.’
‘Do you expect a lot of changes after the war?’
‘I can tell you one.’ Graham picked up his small glass of sloe gin, doing wartime duty for cognac. ‘I’m going to obtain a divorce from your mother.’
Desmond considered this for some moments. ‘That comes as something of a surprise, I must say. After all this time.’
‘But surely my decision doesn’t mean much to you, does it?’ Graham asked, rather over-anxiously. ‘Your mother’s been ill for so long. You were only a child when she first had to go into hospital. You can hardly remember her when she was... well, as she used to be.’ Desmond said nothing. Graham wondered what Maria would be like had she kept her wits and her money. Doing something energetic in the war, doubtless. She was always the busy type.
‘She’s a complete wreck of her former self,’ Graham added. ‘Only I can appreciate the change.’
‘She’s not in very good shape, admittedly.’
‘That’s a mild way of putting it, Desmond. I assure you it makes not the slightest difference to your mother if I remain her husband or not. The whole conception of marriage is far beyond her ability to grasp. She’s certified, you understand—certified as insane. Of course, I’ll see she’s looked after. Just as I do now. She’ll stay in that home in comfort until the end of her days.’
‘But why, Dad?’ Desmond looked more solemn than ever. ‘Why this sudden decision?’
‘Because I’m going to marry Clare. Surely you must have expected that?’
‘No. Not really. I didn’t think you felt it necessary.’
‘It’s decidedly necessary,’ said Graham, nettled by the remark. ‘Clare’s pregnant.’
Desmond stared at him.
‘It’s going to call for a measure of mental readjustment in both of us,’ Graham continued. ‘But it’s a demonstrable fact. The embryo has been created. Your baby half-brother or sister already exists, ectoderm, endoderm, mesoderm, yolksac, amnion, the lot. Two or three millimetres long, snug in the mucosa of Clare’s uterus. We can’t get away from that.’
‘What’s Alec going to say?’
‘Why do you always bother what Alec’s going to say?’ Graham asked irritably.
‘He’s always trying to get some sort of hold over me. He’s got a nasty tongue when he likes.’
‘I’m sure you can cope with Alec.’
‘It’s bad enough his taking my money.’
‘I’m certainly not going into that again now,’ Graham told him promptly. ‘If the cost of his education is coming from your trust fund, it was the least I could do for both the family and for Aunt Edith.’
Alec’s father, the medical missionary, had maintained that the rewards of his vocation were to be found not in this world but the next, where presumably he had been enjoying them for seven years since dying, flat broke, in Malaya.
‘Anyway, it’s only a loan,’ Graham pointed out. ‘Alec’s supposed to pay it all back once he’s qualified. In the end you’ll be no worse off.’
‘What do you suppose Aunt Edith is going to say about your marrying again?’
Graham raised his eyebrows. That delicate little complication hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Desmond, I’m afraid I’ve got to go ahead with this divorce. I hope you’ll come to see it as the right step.’
‘I only see it as being rather hard on mother.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Graham became angry. ‘You know perfectly well most of the time your mother hasn’t even the first idea who I am.’
‘Still, she is my mother. I feel sorry for her.’
He really had little affection for his mother. But he was desperately frightened about doing the ‘wrong thing’. He was becoming aware of inner forces which could drive him along the same devious paths as his father, and that must be avoided at all costs. Graham’s life had already made his son an easy target for ridicule, not only from Alec but from any of the other students disposed to a bit of ragging. For security he must fly into conventionality.
‘Now you’re just being pompous,’ said Graham curtly. Desmond turned red, and Graham rebuked himself. He’d been too savage. Desmond was really very young, and confused with the ways of the world. Just as he had been himself at the same age. ‘Come, Desmond,’ he added more kindly. ‘Try and adjust yourself. Clare won’t be more to you than a stepmother in name. She’ll be terribly tactful. I promise you that. You’ll come to like her tremendously.’
Desmond hesitated, and said, ‘I think I prefer to make up my own mind about people, Dad.’
Graham called for the bill. Desmond really could be terribly difficult when he wanted. Just like Maria.
Everyone at Smithers Botham seemed to know about the baby from its conception. Graham had confided in John Bickley, and he suppose
d Denise had spread the news with enthusiasm. Crampers had grunted something at him—congratulatory, Graham hoped. Even Captain Pile had made the point of repeating that no woman whatever was permitted to give birth within the hospital’s glass-topped walls. Graham didn’t care about the notoriety. He rather enjoyed it. He told himself more forcibly every day he was delighted with their child. A young life, something to perpetuate himself right to the end of the century, was an anodyne for any painfully intruding ideas about death and extinction. He could have no possible reservations about it whatever, he decided. And it would be wonderful for Clare. He treated her with the greatest tenderness, physical and mental. As for the effect on the mother-to-be of her circumstances in general, and her standing in the eyes of everybody at Smithers Botham in particular, it never crossed his mind to enquire.
All this happened in the busy fortnight following the Sunday when they rang the church bells. Then he had a letter from the Ministry terminating his contract at the annex.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘I WANT TO SEE Brigadier Haileybury,’ said Graham to the sergeant in the hall. ‘My name’s Trevose. I’m a surgeon. The brigadier knows me well.’
‘Have you an appointment, sir?’
‘No. But I’m aware that he’s in the building and I don’t intend to leave until he gives me an interview.’
The sergeant looked uneasy. The wild-eyed civilian seemed an unlikely crony of the austere brigadier. ‘If you’ll wait here, sir, I can but pass on your message.’
‘Please do.’
He left Graham alone in the hall, which like the inside of all requisitioned houses had bare walls and floor, was furnished with trestle-tables and fire-extinguishers, and had the decorations badly knocked about. Haileybury now held sway in a country mansion fronting the River Itchen south of Winchester, in preparation for the ‘Second Front’, Graham supposed, whenever that might be established. Within a minute the sergeant came clattering down the oak staircase, announcing that the brigadier would be delighted to receive his visitor at once.
The office upstairs was large, warm, and bright, overlooking the river, where in season Haileybury amused himself fishing for trout. There was a neat, busy-looking desk, filing cabinets, maps and charts on the wall. A lieutenant with twined-serpent R.A.M.C. badges, who hovered in attendance, was gently waved from the presence.
Haileybury extended his large red hand. ‘An unexpected pleasure, Trevose.’
‘Is it so unexpected?’
The brigadier pursed his lips. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ Graham took a small hard chair and began, ‘Haileybury, do you know the one thing the powers-that-be in this war could do with me? They couldn’t court-martial me. They couldn’t put me in jail. They couldn’t even tell me off. The only way they could save themselves the nuisance of my existence was to sack me. They have.’ Haileybury put his finger-tips together and blew on them, rather noisily.
‘You’re perfectly aware of that, of course,’ Graham added accusingly.
‘It has come to my ears.’
‘Why did you do it? Why did you throw me out?’ Haileybury looked shocked. ‘I?’
‘I’ve a certain right to know, you must admit.’
‘But, my dear fellow, I couldn’t possibly be responsible for your dismissal. That would be a civilian matter, quite outside my province.’
‘In all the years we’ve been squabbling, Haileybury, you’ve invariably done two things that I often enough have not. Told the truth and been honest.’
There was a silence. ‘I see,’ said Haileybury.
He got up, crossed silently to a filing cabinet, and still without speaking removed a folder.
‘Your suspicions are correct, Trevose, I must agree,’ he admitted, sitting down. ‘Though only partly correct. I certainly made representations to the proper authorities. And I can hardly pretend otherwise than that my views were bound to carry some weight.’
He opened the file. My God! thought Graham, he’s more of my cuttings than I’ve collected myself. He imagined Haileybury painstakingly snipping each one out, muttering to himself and shaking his head sorrowfully.
‘Very well, the annex has been getting some publicity,’ said Graham. ‘And what of it? It’s cheered the patients up. It’s encouraged my staff to keep working flat out. It’s given the civilian population something to feel proud of. Hasn’t it put up the morale of your own men? At least they know there’s a unit to look after them efficiently, if they get their faces smashed up. It’s made a hell of a difference in the R.A.F., I happen to know for a fact.’
‘That isn’t the point,’ said Haileybury.
‘You don’t imagine it’s done me any personal good, do you?’ demanded Graham irritably. ‘I’ve neither the desire nor the need to push my own interests. I’m only concerned with those of my patients.’
‘I think we know each other’s views on these matters too well for the need of repetition. I will only emphasize that mine have remained quite unchanged by the war.’
‘Oh, you’re stupid, ridiculous, blind, smug. Of course I can’t help getting into the papers. I’m part of the scene. Nobody objects if General Montgomery or Vera Lynn or whoever you like gets photographed for the front pages, do they?’
‘I think you’re putting it rather extravagantly, Trevose.’
‘Then tell me why you’re getting me kicked out? No, don’t bother. I know. Through spite, that’s all.’ Haileybury drew a deep breath. ‘You must be perfectly aware,’ he said calmly, ‘that there has been a great weight of complaint. However understandable your enthusiasm—perhaps even commendable—you have rather created the impression... well, the impression that nobody else in our profession is doing anything for the war at all. It has been brought very sharply to the notice of the Ministry and the Service departments. And to myself personally.’
‘By whom? Twelvetrees at Smithers Botham, Graham thought, perhaps even Crampers.
‘You might prefer me not to name names. The last time I unwittingly did so, I understand it led to a good deal of remorse on your part.’
The reference to Tom Raleigh made Graham shift uneasily in the chair. He continued in a more subdued voice, ‘You might at least tell me why the Ministry should have chosen this particular moment to pounce. It couldn’t have come at a more awkward time for me personally.’
Haileybury reflected that most times were awkward for Trevose personally. ‘I fancy people had to decide when matters had gone a little too far,’ he declared. He paused and added, ‘As I have been frank, will you perhaps let me make my motives clear?’
Graham nodded curtly.
‘I assure you there was no suggestion of spite on my part. Surely you don’t really think that of me? Not in your heart? There was no spite on anybody’s part. But medicine is entering upon difficult times. You must know that, if only from the newspapers. When we raise our eyes from the war, what do we see? The future of our profession is in the balance. The politicos are concocting a large number of recipes for cooking our goose, believe you me. There’s talk of forcing us into some sort of State health scheme—pure socialism.’ Haileybury seemed to shudder. ‘That would never do. We should lose our professional freedom. We should become mere civil serants, with the Government our taskmaster. The doctor-patient relationship, as we have known it for centuries, would be lost for ever.’
‘All that’s nothing to do with me.’
‘But it is.’ Haileybury leaned forward earnestly, his eyes shining. ‘We shall have to fight these people. Fight them at every turn. And what shall be our weapons? We shall need every scrap of dignity, of integrity, of professional correctitude that we can muster. We must make it plain to the public that we stand above the ordinary commercial motives of life, that we seek no vainglory for ourselves, that we have no thought but for the welfare of our patients. None of us must falter—or appear to falter—from the rigorous discipline we have imposed on ourselves. None of us! We must fight not as individuals, but as a profession. Oh, politicians
are slippery people, Trevose. I know. I’ve had dealings with plenty of them. We mustn’t give them the smallest stick to beat us with.’
Graham replied by holding his hands before his face. ‘So that is why these must be lost to the country like a torpedoed munition ship?’
‘You’re taking too dramatic a view, as usual,’ said Haileybury shortly. ‘Your unit will continue as before. That Canadian Tudor Beverley is a perfectly sound man. You should be the first to admit that none of us are indispensable. If I may say so, in peacetime you had rather a procession of assistants. Anyway, you remain on the staff of Blackfriars. Some beds will be found for you, either at Smithers Botham or elsewhere. Perhaps the Ministry of Pensions would have something to offer. You might like to know that I have made a point of assuring myself you wouldn’t be left in the cold.’
‘I am not going to treat a single casualty outside the unit that I have built up.’
‘Then I fear you will find little else to do. Women are not given much to having their faces remodelled these days.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Graham got up. ‘Once released from my contract, I’m allowed to take on as much private practice as I can handle. Right? Well, women are continuing to give a great deal of thought to the new area I’m treating. I’ve been working with O’Rory at Smithers Botham on a reconstruction procedure for congenital absence of the vagina. It isn’t a particularly unusual condition, you know. The operation’s extremely interesting. You dissect the pelvic tissues from below, then put in a skin-graft on a mould. Sometimes it takes, sometimes it doesn’t. You have to cut the graft extra thin or you’ll get a crop of hair, which would be highly uncomfortable for all concerned. So, Haileybury. You don’t want me. Nobody does. I shall therefore spend the rest of the war making new pussies.’
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