The pay-phone in a converted cupboard down the corridor was unoccupied, and he went inside and dialled. Kathy’s voice sounded wonderfully normal. ‘How is it, Brock?’
‘Dreadful,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how much of this I can take.’
‘But you’ve only just got there.’ She sounded a good deal less than sympathetic.
‘Do you know what they’ve just given me for dinner? A glass of water! Oh, it had a slice of lemon in it, too.’
She laughed. ‘Well, it’ll do you good. Anyway, I haven’t had time for anything to eat all day.’
‘Yes, but that’s your choice.’ He found himself extremely irritated by her lack of sympathy. ‘Look,’ he snapped, ‘get out that list of who was here last October and I’ll read you the names of who’s here now.’
‘I’ve got it.’
He began to read through the names. At the end of it they had found only three which appeared on both lists: Martha Price and Sidney Blumendale, plus a Grace Carrington.
‘And Martha Price was on the list that Beamish-Newell gave me of patients who had particularly asked for Petrou,’ Kathy added.
‘Right, I’ve met her. There’s a Jennifer someone …’ Brock scanned his list. ‘It must be this one, Jennifer Martin, who stood up to Beamish-Newell this evening. Are you sure she wasn’t here then?’
‘Sorry, no, she wasn’t. What do you think of him, Brock?’ Kathy’s voice was serious.
‘I don’t know, Kathy. He’s quite a performer. I imagine he could be a bastard if he didn’t get his own way. Did anyone say anything to you about sheep and goats when you were here?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. I’d better go.’
‘See you Thursday?’
‘If I survive that long.’
As he slammed down the receiver he realized he was still annoyed with her, and he recollected his earlier irritation with Martha Price. He thought of Beamish-Newell’s sermon and wondered if the poisons were already preparing to leave his toxic vessel.
12
Whether they were or not, he slept remarkably well, having resisted the temptation of the bottle of Teacher’s in his suitcase. Next morning he made sure he was one of the first in the dining room for breakfast, and went down the line of trays on the long table, identifying the one marked for Grace Carrington. He sat himself beside the tall windows and gazed out over the gardens while he waited to see who took up the tray. He was directly on the central axis of the original house, an imaginary line which was acknowledged a couple of hundred yards away by an obelisk, a ghostly needle floating on the undisturbed white surface of the ground. On each side the snow-laden shrubs and hedges shone in the early morning sunlight, which glittered on the icicles suspended from the upper branches of trees and for a few moments flashed in reflection from the glass doors hidden among the dark foliage on the hillock over to the left.
Brock sipped at his water and lemon, and allowed himself a little glow of self-righteousness. The feeling didn’t last long, as his mind turned to the first session marked on his timetable: ‘Hydrotherapy’ and, ominously, ‘Room B52’. His mind again returned to his first day at big school, waiting for the first fearful Latin lesson, and the sudden anxiety that he wasn’t dressed properly or had come without some essential item that everyone else would certainly have.
It was half an hour before Grace Carrington finally claimed her tray. She was in her early forties, he guessed, a slender figure in a lime-green tracksuit, with a lean, attractive face, one which he didn’t remember seeing the previous day. Her hair was brown, cut to her jaw-line and lightly curled, and her eyes were intelligent and sad. They met his briefly as she turned from the long table, and then she moved to a corner table and sat alone, fingering a glass of orange juice, preoccupied. He didn’t feel inclined to disturb her.
Room B52 seemed to live up to its explosive name when Brock opened the door, as clouds of steam burst out and enveloped him. He stripped as he was told, and after the first numbing shock found the alternating hot and cold hip-baths of the Sitz bath treatment surprisingly bearable. He was moved on to soak for a while in a warm mineral bath, and finished the session in a Scottish douche, with jets of hot and cold water pulsing over his spinal column. At each stage his supervisor explained the theory of what was happening to him, the opening and cleansing of the pores of his skin, the improvement to his circulation and stimulation of the underlying muscles. By the time he got dressed again and went upstairs for the mid-morning break, his body was tingling all over in a remarkably pleasant way.
‘How are we this morning?’ Martha Price’s voice piped out from the huddle around the long table where herbal tea was being poured, and he found himself sounding extraordinarily cheerful as he waved a greeting and said he felt good.
‘Physiotherapy, B16’ came next. At first Brock thought it might be in the subterranean gym he had visited with Rose the previous day, but instead found a bright, sunlit room at the far end of the basement, below the west wing. Couches, a couple of exercise bikes and some exercise frames were arranged round the edge, and there were two physiotherapists who ran the session for half a dozen new patients, beginning with breathing and mild stretching exercises for the whole group, and then going on to individual massage on the couches.
He saw Grace Carrington again in the dining room at lunch-time. He began to make his way towards her with his pathetic tray, but was stopped by a call from Martha and Sidney, whom he hadn’t noticed as he threaded between the tables.
‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ he muttered, taking the chair they offered him.
‘Perhaps you were wanting to sit with someone else,’ Martha said coquettishly, raising her eyebrow suggestively in the direction of Grace Carrington’s corner.
‘Not at all.’ Brock felt his spleen return. It was hard to decide which of her little acts was more aggravating, the Tartar or the tease.
‘You seemed to be more cheerful today, when we saw you earlier.’
‘Yes, I feel reinvigorated,’ he said. ‘I had hydrotherapy first, then physiotherapy. Stress management this afternoon.’
‘They’re breaking you in gently, David. Will you be having acupuncture later, do you think?’
‘Ah.’ Brock’s sense of well-being suffered a further deflation. Somehow, every time the word ‘acupuncture’ was mentioned, his mind jumped to Kathy’s description of the punctured eyeball of the corpse on the mortuary table. ‘Yes, it’s on the timetable for later in the week. Thursday, I think.’
‘And osteopathy for your shoulder?’
‘Yes, that too. Why? Is it uncomfortable?’
‘No, no, no.’ She patted his arm with the reassuring smile of a veteran, exaggerated enough to raise serious doubts. ‘And the fast, how are you coping with that now?’ She stared fixedly into his eyes.
‘Oh, fine. I think I’ve more or less come to terms with that.’
‘That’s splendid. You’ll find your stomach will shrink and you’ll lose your appetite after a while.’
She smiled winsomely and lifted her fork to her mouth.
‘What have you got there?’ Brock regretted hearing himself say.
‘Golden Slice. It’s quite delicious, and so very simple to do yourself. Some finely grated carrot and cheese, and some rolled oats, about equal quantities of each to make up to about a pound in all, then an egg, a couple of ounces of margarine and a little rosemary. Mix them all up with seasoning to taste, but only a little salt of course, and press the mixture into a greased tin and bake at gas mark four for twenty minutes or so until quite browned. Then cut it into slices and serve with a parsley sauce. Isn’t it good, Sidney?’
Sidney nodded, scraping up the last of the sauce on his plate.
‘And he’s a very fussy eater. You must buy some of the Stanhope recipe books before you go, David, so you can try them all at home.’
Brock cleared his throat and sipped at his glass of water. The name Stanhope …’ he began slowly, then pau
sed.
‘Yes?’ she chirped.
‘It was familiar to me, before I came. I wasn’t sure why, but then I remembered: it was in the papers last year. Didn’t a member of staff have a nasty accident or something? You must have been here then, weren’t you?’
‘Oh yes, we were here.’ Martha lowered her eyes for a moment as if contemplating whether he was yet enough of an insider to be confided in. Mrs Thatcher took over from Mae West as she made up her mind and continued. ‘I will not encourage prurient gossip, David,’ she said sharply.
‘Prurient?’ He raised his eyebrows in innocent surprise. ‘Was there something . … unsavoury about it?’
‘I sometimes think that Stanhope is like a ship in many ways, don’t you? Self-contained, somewhat detached from the everyday world, especially at this time of the year with the countryside so silent and white all around.’
Brock wondered if the thought of prurience had made her lose track of the conversation, but she continued. ‘And on a ship, it is not uncommon for gossip to get out of hand, to become … overheated. I’m afraid there was some of that here. You may hear stories about Alex Petrou’s death which you must simply ignore.’
‘Really.’ Brock shook his head sadly. ‘What sort of stories?’ He looked at Sidney encouragingly.
‘Well,’ Sidney spoke up for the first time since Brock had arrived, ‘he was found hanged in the Temple of Apollo, out there in the grounds. Have you been there? Spooky sort of place. And the story is that he not only did it in the middle of the night, but that he first dressed himself up in these -’ Sidney cast around for a term he might use ‘- fetish sort of clothes.’
‘That’s the sort of unseemly gossip -’
But Brock broke in before Martha’s scathing voice could entirely dampen Sidney’s prurient imagination. ‘That’s right, I remember now. It was mentioned in the papers. So he was involved in some kind of sexual perversion, then?’
Martha gave a squawk of protest. Sidney raised his eyes towards the chandelier as if to say, man to man, what would you think?
‘With the patients, do you mean?’ Brock persisted.
‘David!’ Martha’s outraged voice stopped the conversations at the surrounding tables. ‘That is precisely the sort of speculation that makes for an unhappy ship!’ she spluttered, then registered the puzzled expressions on the faces turned her way.
‘But, Martha,’ Brock said, in a reasonable tone, ‘what was the explanation, then? It seems an odd sort of thing to do to yourself.’
With an effort she brought herself under control and spoke with suppressed indignation. ‘Drugs,’ she hissed. ‘The poor man had come under some very bad influence, outside of the clinic of course, and had taken drugs. He didn’t know what he was doing.’
‘Ah.’ Brock noticed the sceptical pursing of Sidney’s mouth. ‘Didn’t I read that he was gay?’ Martha’s nostrils flared again and he hurriedly added, ‘Nothing wrong with that, of course. So,’ he beamed, ‘you don’t think he was making a bit of extra cash selling drugs and bizarre sex to the patients, then?’
Martha brought her fork down so hard it nearly broke her plate. She rose to her feet.
‘How dare you’ - she struggled to keep her voice down -’suggest such a vile, vile thing, about a Stanhope person you never even met!’
She tossed back her head and marched towards the door. Sidney half rose from his seat as if to follow her, then thought better of it and sank down again.
‘You’re a game sort of chap, aren’t you?’ he said after a moment.
‘Oh dear. As bad as that, eh?’
‘Martha’s very strong on loyalty, especially to the dead, I’ve noticed. And to the clinic, of course.’ ‘I went too far. I’ll apologize to her.’ ‘I’d leave it for a bit if I were you. Just my advice.’ Brock nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘I never liked him, myself. Couldn’t stand him touching me, for some reason. Wouldn’t really have surprised me if he had been up to something odd.’
‘Could that have had anything to do with the “goats” among the patients that Martha was talking about yesterday, do you think?’
Sidney’s eyes, invariably watery and distant, snapped suddenly into focus, and a worried expression passed across his face. Then he looked away and began to push himself to his feet again. ‘No idea,’ he muttered. ‘Best to drop the subject, old chap, eh?’
Brock smiled and watched him walk stiffly out of the room. Looking round, he saw that Grace Carrington had already gone.
A one-hour rest period was scheduled for the clinic after lunch each day, and Brock, having no postcards to write or good books to read, was uncertain what to do. The nagging deadline of his forthcoming paper in Rome was making him increasingly uneasy, but he found it hard to think about it in the present circumstances. He wanted to visit the Temple of Apollo, but wasn’t sure how to go about getting there across the snowy gardens, dressed as he was. He crossed the hall to the reception desk and asked if he could see Ben Bromley, the Business Manager of the clinic, but was told he was away that day. Brock settled for an appointment on the following day and made his way to the library instead.
This was a much smaller public room, next to the dining room and also facing north across the gardens. It was lined with glass-fronted bookcases, and a leather-topped table occupied the centre. Most of the shelves carried well-worn paperbacks donated by past patients, but one bookcase was marked ‘Reference - Not to be Removed’ and contained a collection of hardback books, among them a black-bound volume with the title A History of Stanhope on its spine. Brock took it from the case and sat down with it at the end of the table.
Though not old - the dedication was dated July 1978 - it belonged to the days just before photocopiers and word processors became ubiquitous, when people still used carbon paper and foolscap sheets, and it had a prematurely dated air about it. It comprised the yellowing carbon-copy pages of the typewritten account of the history of Stanhope House, and more recently of Stanhope Naturopathic Clinic, as compiled by one Felicity Field. It had clearly been a labour of love. Chapter headings such as ‘A Herb Garden is Born’ and ‘The Invalid is Nursed Back to Health’ brimmed with coy enthusiasm, and the text was illustrated by many black-and-white photographs glued into the pages. The first was a picture of the south front of the house, with a small figure of Stephen Beamish-Newell just visible between the columns at the top of the entrance stairs, chin up, like Mussolini surveying a party rally. It accompanied the dedication by the Director, which commended the unflagging efforts of Miss Field to record the past of a great landmark of English social and architectural culture at this moment standing at the threshold of an exciting new future.
Miss Field had begun with Stanhope House itself, originally the home of Sir William Stanhope (1698-1752), a member of Lord Burlington’s circle. Like Burlington, Stanhope had visited Palladio’s buildings in Italy and had determined to promote the revival of his work in England by designing his own Palladian house in the Weald. Where Burlington had taken the Villa Rotonda as the model for his house at Chiswick, Stanhope had chosen the Villa Foscari, known also as the Malcontenta, as Miss Field explained:
Some would have it that the name Malcontenta was local to the site long before Niccolò and Luigi Foscari built their house there. Much more romantic is the story of an ungovernable daughter of the family who was exiled there from the temptations of Venetian society, and whose ghost is said to haunt the house still. Lord Stanhope certainly preferred this latter account. Whichever explanation you choose, the name seems to evoke perfectly the spirit of its setting in the Veneto, so often wreathed in mists and vapours, and it may have been this which persuaded Lord Stanhope when he came to build upon the meadows beside the River Strood.
Stanhope had begun his version of the Malcontenta shortly after Isaac Ware published his translation of Palladio’s Four Books on Architecture (as Miss Field noted, ‘from Scotland Yard, in 1737’), which was dedicated to Richard, Earl of Burlington, and for whic
h Stanhope was one of the original subscribers. After Stanhope’s death, his son commissioned Humphry Repton to landscape the estate in 1796, and followed his father’s taste for things both classical and elegiac by instructing Repton to include in his scheme a series of monuments, ‘modest yet sublime’, on the theme of memento mori. Miss Field helpfully provided a list of these, and a little map showing where they might be discovered about the grounds. One of them was to be a ruin of four Ionic columns standing on a knoll to the north-west of the house, based on Palladio’s drawing of the ancient Temple of Fortuna Virilis in Rome. These columns later became incorporated as the front of the Temple of Apollo, built, along with the west wing, by the architect Albert Fusy in 1910 for the industrialist who then owned Stanhope House. Miss Field obviously relished the quotation which she provided from Pevsner’s Buildings of England series concerning these additions, as ‘unfortunate efforts which, taken with Fusy’s contemporaneous remodelling of much of the interior of the original house, can only be described as mutilations of what had been one of the finest neo-classical houses in the country’.
Brock skimmed to the end of Miss Field’s account of the history of the building, with its decline into neglect after the Second World War, ‘a home for spiders and mould’. At this point the library door opened and a man came in. He nodded to Brock and went over to one of the bookcases. His hair was longish and wavy over a pugnacious, fleshy face, and his dressing gown looked as if it had been tailored in Savile Row, a piece of double-breasted power-dressing which gave him none of that air of comfortable domestication that most patients quickly slipped into. From the top pocket he drew out a pair of spectacles which he brought up to his face with a flourish, accompanied by a frown of concentration and thrust of the chin, all of which looked to Brock more like a display of male dominance than a serious attempt to focus on the paperback titles.
Brock resumed his reading, skipping through the herculean efforts of Dr and Mrs Beamish-Newell to restore the house, to clear the jungle which they found within the walled garden and re-establish the organic cultivation of vegetable and herb beds in soil which had never known modern chemical herbicides or pesticides, and to rationalize the land holdings around the house.
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