Strong Medicine (37 page)

When the tray was set down, Martin put his arm around his father. "Dad

does everything for mother--dresses her, combs her hair, feeds her, and

some other things less pleasant. There was a time, Celia, when my father

and I weren't the closest of friends. But we are now."

"Tha's right. Used ter have a lot of hot arguments," Martin's father

said. He addressed Celia. "You want milk in the tea?"

"Yes, please. "

"Was a time," the older man said, "when I din't think much of all them

scholarships Martin an' his ma was set on, I wanted 'im to go to work wi'

me. But 'is ma got the best of it an', the way it worked out, Vs been a

good lad to us. Pays for this place, an' most else we need." He glanced

at Martin, then added, "An' over at that college, I hear he ain't done

bad."

"No," Celia said, "he hasn't done badly at all."

It was almost two hours later.

"Is it okay to talk while you're doing that?" Celia inquired from the

comfortably cushioned seat where she was reclining.

"Sure. Why not?" As he spoke, Martin, who was standing, thrust a long

punt pole away from him; it found purchase on the river's shallow bottom,

and the awkward flat-bottomed craft they were sharing glided easily

upstream. Martin seemed to do everything well, Celia thought, including

handling a punt-something at which few people were skilled, judging by

others they had passed

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on the river and who, by comparison, were bumbling their way along.

Martin had rented the punt at a Cambridge boatyard and they were now on

their way to Grantchester, three miles southward, for what would be a

late picnic lunch.

"This is personal," Celia said, "and maybe I shouldn't ask. But I was

wondering about the difference between you and your father. For example,

the way you each speak-and I don't just mean being grammatical . . ."

"I know what you mean," Martin said. "When my mother was talking, before

she forgot how to, she spoke much the same way. In Pygmalion, Bernard

Shaw called it an 'incarnate insult to the English language.'"

"I remember that from My Fair Lady, " Celia reminisced. "But you managed

to avoid it. How?"

"It's one more thing I owe my mother. Before I explain, though, there's

something you have to understand about this country. In Britain, the way

people speak has always been a class barrier, a social distinction. And

despite some who'll tell you otherwise, it still is."

"In the academic world too? Among scientists."

"Even there. Perhaps especially there."

Martin busied himself with the punt pole while considering his next

words.

"My mother understood that barrier. Which was why, when I was very small,

she bought a radio and made me sit for hours in front of it, listening

to the BBC announcers. She told me, 'That's the way you'll speak, so

start copying those people. It's too late for your Dad and me, but not

for you,' "

Listening to Martin's pleasant and cultured, though unaffected, voice,

Celia said, "It worked."

"I suppose so. But it was one of many other things she did, including

finding out what interested me at school, then discovering what

scholarships there were, and making sure I went after them. That was when

we had those fights at home my father talked about."

"He believed your mother was overreaching?"

"He thought I should be a stonemason, like him. My father believed in

that English rhyme that Dickens wrote." Martin smiled as he quoted:

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V let us love our occupations~

Bless the squire and his relations,

Live upon our daily rations,

And always know our proper station&

"But you don't hold a grudge against your father for that?"

Martin shook his head. "He simply didn't understand. For that matter, nor

did 1. Only my mother understood what could be accomplished through

ambition-and through me. Perhaps you realize now why I care so much about

her."

"Of course," Celia said. "And now that I know, I feel the same way."

They lapsed into a contented silence as the punt progressed upriver between

green banks and leafy trees on either side.

After a while, Celia said, "Your father said you pay for most of what both

your parents need."

"I do what I can," Martin acknowledged. "One thing I do is send in an

agency nurse two mornings a week. It gives my father a break. I'd like to

use the nurse more often, but . . ." He shrugged, left the sentence

unfinished, and expertly brought the punt alongside a grassy bank under the

shade of a willow tree. "How's this for a picnic site?"

"Idyllic," Celia said. "Straight from Camelot."

Martin had packed a hamper with some prawns, a Melton Mowbray pork pie, a

fresh green salad, strawberries and thick, yellow Devonshire cream. There

was wine-a respectable Chablis-and a thermos of coffee.

They ate and drank with gusto.

At the end of the meal, over coffee, Celia said, "This is my last weekend

before going home. It couldn't have been nicer."

"Was your trip here a success?"

About to reply with a platitude, she remembered Andrew's advice on the

telephone and answered, "No."

"Why not?" Martin sounded surprised.

"Sam Hawthorne and I found the ideal director for the FeldingRoth research

institute, but he didn't want the job. Now, everyone else seems

second-rate."

After a silence, Martin said, "I presume you're talking about me.,,

"You know I am."

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He sighed. "I hope you're going to forgive me for that delinquency, Celia."

"There's nothing to forgive. It's your life, your decision," she assured

him. "It's simply that, thinking about it just now, there were two things

. . ." She stopped.

"Go on. What two things?"

"Well, a little while ago you admitted you'd like to be first in finding

answers about Alzheimer's and mental aging, but others might get there

ahead of you."

Martin leaned back in the punt, facing Celia; he had folded his blazer

behind him and was using it as a pillow. "Others are doing similar research

to mine. I know of someone in Germany, another in France, a third in New

Zealand. They're all good people and we're pursuing the same objectives,

exploring the same trail. It's impossible to know who, if anyone, is

ahead."

"So it's a race that you're in," Celia said. "A race against time."

Unconsciously, her voice had sharpened.

"Yes. But that's the way science is."

"Do any of those others you mentioned have better facilities or more staff

than you?"

He considered. "Probably 'yes' to both in Germany. I don't know about the

other two."

"How much laboratory space do you have now?"

"Altogether"-Martin calculated mentally-"about a thousand square feet."

"Then wouldn't it help you get closer, faster, to what you're searching for

if you had five times that space, plus equipment to go into it--tverything

you needed, and all for your project-plus a staff of maybe twenty people

working for you, instead of two or three? Wouldn't that move things along,

and not only find the answers, but get you to them first?"

Suddenly Celia was aware that the mood between them had changed. This was

no longer a social occasion; whatever innocence there had been had fled.

Subtly, it was now a challenge of intellect and wills. Well, she thought,

this was why she had come to Britain, and to Cambridge today.

Martin was staring at her in amazement. "Are you serious about all that?

Five thousand square feet and twenty people!"

"Dammit! Of course I'm serious." She added impatiently, "Do you think, in

the pharmaceutical business, we play games?"

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"No," he said, still staring, "I didn't think that. You said there were two

things. What's the other?"

Celia hesitated. Should she go on? She sensed that what she had just said

had made a deep impression on Martin. Would she now destroy that, wiping

out any advantage gained? Then, once more, she remembered Andrew.

"I'll put this crudely and bluntly, in the usual crass American way," Celia

said, "and I'm saying that because I know dedicated researchers like you

aren't motivated by money and can't be bought. But if you worked for

Felding-Roth, became director of our institute and brought your project

with you, you'd most likely be paid twelve thousand pounds a year, plus

bonuses, which can be substantial. I've reason to believe that's about five

times what you're earning now. Furthermore, having met your parents and

knowing what you do for them, and having an idea that there's more you'd

like to do, I think you could use that extra cash. You could certainly send

a nurse in more than twice a week, move your mother to better surroundings

. . ."

"That's enoughl" Martin had sat up and was glaring at her; he had become

intensely emotional. "Damn you, Celia! I know what money can do. What's

more, don't hand me that bilge about people like me not caring for it. I

care like hell, and what you've just told me is mind-boggling. You're

trying to undermine me, tempt me, take advantage

She snapped, "That's ridiculous! Take what advantage?"

"Of meeting my parents, for one thing. Seeing how they live and how much I

care. So, using that, you're offering me a golden apple, playing Eve to my

Adam." He glanced around them. "In Paradise, too."

"It isn't a poisoned apple," Celia said quietly, "and there's no serpent in

this boat. Look, I'm sorry if-"

Martin cut her off savagely. "You're not sorry at all! You're a

businesswoman who's good at her job-bloody good; I can testify, to-that!

But a businesswoman going all out, no holds barred, to get

what she wants. You're quite ruthless, aren't you?"

Now Celia was surprised. "Am IT'

He answered emphatically, "Yes."

"All right," Celia said; she would give back as good as she got, she

decided. "Supposing I am. And supposing all of what you said is true. Isn't

it what you want too? The answers to Alzheimer's!

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That brain peptide you're searching for! Scientific glory! Is any of that

cheating you?"

"No," Martin said, "whatever else it is, it isn't cheating." He gave his

twisted smile, though this time with a touch of sourness. "I hope they pay

you well, Celia. As a crass American, which is what you called yourself,

you do one helluva job." He stood up and reached for the punt pole. "It's

time to go."

They returned downstream in silence, Martin thrusting the punt forward with

a fierceness he had not shown on the outward journey. Celia, busy with her

thoughts, wondered if she had gone too far. Near the town and the boatyard,

Martin stopped his poling and let the craft drift. From his perch on the

stern above her, he regarded Celia solemnly.

"I don't know the answer. I only know you've unsettled me," he told her.

"But I still don't know."

It was early evening when Martin dropped Celia at the Cambridge railway