The Private Patient (5 page)

When he arrived at the locked gates and got out of the Mercedes to open them, he saw that the avenue to the house was in darkness. But as he drove past the east wing to park, lights came on and he was greeted at the open front door by the cook, Dean Bostock. He was wearing checked blue trousers and his short white jacket, as was usual when he expected to serve dinner.

He said, “Miss Cressett and Mrs. Frensham went out for dinner, sir. They said to tell you they were visiting some friends in Weymouth. Your room is ready, sir. Mogworthy has lit the fire in the library as well as in the great hall. We thought, being alone, you might prefer to have dinner served there. Shall I bring in the drinks, sir?”

They moved through the great hall. Chandler-Powell tore off his jacket and, opening the library door, threw it and his evening paper on a chair. “Yes. Whisky please, Dean. I'll have it now.”

“And dinner in half an hour?”

“Yes, that'll be fine.”

“You won't be going out before dinner, sir?”

There was a note of anxiety in Dean's voice. Recognising the cause, Chandler-Powell said, “So what is it you and Kimberley have cooked between you?”

“We thought cheese soufflé, sir, and a beef stroganoff.”

“I see. The first requires me to be sitting waiting for it, and the second is quickly cooked. No, I shan't be going out, Dean.”

The dinner, as usual, was excellent. He wondered why he should so look forward to his meals when the Manor was at its quietest. During his operating days, when he ate with the medical and nursing staff, he hardly noticed what was on his plate. After dinner he sat and read for half an hour beside the library fire. Then, fetching his jacket and a torch, he went out by the door in the west wing, unlocking and unbolting it, and walked in the star-pricked darkness down the lime avenue to the pale circle of the Cheverell Stones.

A low wall, more landmark than barrier, separated the Manor garden from the stone circle and he hauled himself over without difficulty. As usual after dark, the circle of twelve stones seemed to become paler, more mysterious and more impressive, even to take on a faint gleam from the moonlight or stars. Seen in daylight, they were clumps of ordinary stone, as commonplace as any large boulder seen on a hillside, uneven in size and oddly shaped, their only distinction the highly coloured lichen creeping in the crevices. A note on the door of the hut beside the parking space instructed visitors that the stones were not to be stood on or damaged and explained that the lichen was both old and interesting and should not be touched. To Chandler-Powell, approaching the circle, even the tallest central stone standing as an evil omen in its ring of dead grass induced little emotion. He thought briefly of the long-dead woman bound to this stone in
1654
and burnt alive as a witch. And for what? An over-sharp tongue, delusions, mental eccentricity, to satisfy a private vengeance, the need for a scapegoat in times of sickness or the failure of a harvest, or perhaps as a sacrifice to propitiate a malignant unnamed god? He felt only a vague unfocused pity, not strong enough to cause even a vestige of distress. She was only one of millions who down the ages had been the innocent victims of the ignorance and cruelty of mankind. He saw enough pain in his world. He had no need to stimulate pity.

He had intended to lengthen his walk beyond the circle but decided that this should be the limit of his exercise and, sitting on the lowest stone, gazed along the avenue to the west wing of the Manor, now in darkness. He sat absolutely still, listening intently to the noises of the night, the small scuffling in the high grasses on the fringe of the stones, a distant scream as some predator found its prey, the susurration of the drying leaves as a breeze suddenly gusted. The anxieties, petty irritations and rigours of the long day fell away. Here in no alien place he sat, so motionless that even his breathing seemed no more than an unheard, softly rhythmic affirmation of life.

Time passed. Glancing at his watch he saw that he had been sitting there for three-quarters of an hour. He became aware that he was getting chilled, that the hardness of the stone was becoming uncomfortable. Easing his cramped legs, he scaled the wall and entered the lime walk. Suddenly a light appeared in the middle window of the patients' floor, the window was opened and a woman's head appeared. She stood motionless, looking out into the night. Instinctively he stopped walking and stared at her, both so motionless that for a moment he could believe that she could see him and that some communication was passing between them. He remembered who she was, Rhoda Gradwyn, and that she was at the Manor for her preliminary stay. Despite his meticulous note-taking and examination of patients before operating, few of them remained in mind. He could have described accurately the scar on her face but remembered little else about her except for one sentence. She had come to get rid of the disfigurement because she no longer had need of it. He had asked for no explanation and she had offered none. And in just over two weeks she would be rid of it, and how she would cope with its absence would not be his concern.

He turned to walk back to the house, and as he did, a hand half-closed the window, the curtains were partly drawn; a few minutes later the light in the room went out and the west wing was in darkness.

7

Dean Bostock always felt a lift of the heart when Mr. Chandler-Powell phoned to say that he would be arriving unexpectedly early in the week and would be at the Manor in time for dinner. This was a meal Dean enjoyed cooking, particularly when the boss had time and peace to enjoy and praise. Mr. Chandler-Powell brought with him something of the energy and excitement of the capital, its smells, its lights, the sense of being at the heart of things. Arriving, he would almost bound through the great hall, strip off his jacket and toss the London evening paper onto a library chair as if released from a temporary bondage. But even the paper, which Dean would later retrieve to read at leisure, was for him a reminder of where essentially he, Dean, belonged. He had been born and brought up in Balham. London was his place. Kim was country-born, coming to the capital from Sussex to begin her training at the cookery school where he had been a second-year student. And within two weeks of their first meeting he had known that he loved her. That was how he had always thought of it: he hadn't fallen in love, he wasn't in love, he loved. This was for life, his life and hers. And now, for the first time since their marriage, he knew that she was happy, happier than she'd ever been. How could he miss London while Kim rejoiced in her Dorset life? She who was so nervous of new people and new places, felt no fear in the dark winter nights. The total blackness of starless nights disorientated and frightened him, nights made more terrifying by the half-human shrieks of animals in the jaws of their predators. This beautiful and apparently peaceful countryside was full of pain. He missed the lights, the night sky bruised by the grey, purple and blues of the city's ceaseless life, the changing pattern of traffic lights, light spilling from pubs and shops over glittering rain-washed pavements. Life, movement, noise, London.

He liked his job at the Manor, but it didn't satisfy him. It made so few demands on his skill. Mr. Chandler-Powell was discriminating about food, but on his operating days meals were never lingered over. Dean knew he would have complained soon enough had the meal been below standard, but he took its excellence for granted, ate it quickly and was gone. The Westhalls usually took meals in their cottage, where Miss Westhall had been caring for their elderly father until his death in February, and Miss Cressett usually ate in her own apartment. But she was the only one who spent time in the kitchen talking to Kim and him, discussing menus, thanking him for special efforts made. The visitors were fussy but usually not hungry, and the non-resident staff who ate the midday meal at the Manor praised him perfunctorily, ate quickly and returned to work. It was all so different from his dream of his own restaurant, his menus, his customers, the ambiance which he and Kim would create. Occasionally, lying beside her wakeful, he would horrify himself with half-expressed hopes that somehow the clinic would fail, that Mr. Chandler-Powell would find it too exhausting and not lucrative enough to work in both London and Dorset, that he and Kim would have to look for another job. And perhaps Mr. Chandler-Powell or Miss Cressett would help them to gain a footing. But they couldn't return to work in the hectic kitchen of a London restaurant. Kim would never be suited to that life. He remembered still with horror that awful day on which she had been sacked.

Mr. Carlos had called him into the cupboard-sized sanctum at the rear of the kitchen, which he dignified by the name of office, and had squeezed his ample buttocks into the carved desk-chair inherited from his grandfather. It was never a good sign. Here was Carlos imbued with genetic authority. A year previously he had announced that he had been born again. It had been a regeneration profoundly uncomfortable for the staff, and there had been general relief when, within nine months, the old Adam had mercifully reasserted himself and the kitchen was no longer a swear-free zone. But one relic of the new birth remained: no word stronger than “bloody” was permitted, and now Carlos himself had made free use of it.

“It's no bloody use, Dean. Kimberley's got to go. Frankly, I can't afford her, no restaurant could. Talk about bloody slow. Try to hurry her and she looks at you like a whipped puppy. Gets nervous and nine times out of ten spoils the whole bloody dish. And she affects the rest of you. Nicky and Winston are forever helping her to plate up. Most of the time, you've only got half your bloody mind on what you're supposed to be doing. I'm running a restaurant, not a bloody kindergarten.”

“Kim's a good cook, Mr. Carlos.”

“Of course she's a good cook. She wouldn't be here if she wasn't. She can go on being a good cook, but not here. Why not encourage her to stay at home? Get her pregnant, then you can go home to a decent meal you haven't had to cook yourself, and she'll be happier. I've seen it time and time again.”

How could Carlos know that home was a bed-sitting room in Paddington, that this and the job were part of a carefully worked-out plan, the putting aside each week of Kim's wages, the two of them working together, then, when the capital was sufficient, finding the restaurant? His restaurant. Their restaurant. And when they were established and she could be spared from the kitchen, there would be the baby she so longed for. She was only twenty-three; they had plenty of time.

The news having been broken, Carlos had settled himself back, prepared to be magnanimous. “No point in Kimberley working out her notice. She may as well pack it in this week. I'll pay her a month's salary in lieu. You'll stay on, of course. You've got the makings of a bloody good chef. You've got the skills, the imagination. You're not afraid of hard work. You could go far. But another year of Kimberley in the kitchen and I'll be bloody bankrupt.”

Dean had found his voice, a cracked vibrato with its shaming note of entreaty. “We've always planned to work together. I don't know that Kim would like to take a job on her own.”

“She wouldn't last a bloody week on her own. Sorry, Dean, but there it is. You might find a place to take the two of you, but not in London. Some small town in the country, maybe. She's a pretty lass, nice manners. Baking a few scones, home-made cakes, afternoon teas, nicely served with doilies, that kind of thing; that wouldn't stress her.”

The note of contempt in his voice had been like a slap across the face. Dean wished he wasn't standing there unsupported, vulnerable, diminished, that there was a chair-back, something solid that he could grip to help control this surging tumult of anger, resentment and despair. But Carlos was right. That summons to the office hadn't been unexpected. He had been dreading it for months. He made one more appeal. He said, “I'd like to stay on, at least until we find somewhere to go.”

“Suits me. Haven't I told you you've got the makings of a bloody good chef?”

Of course he would stay on. The restaurant plan might be fading, but they had to eat.

Kim had left at the end of the week, and it was two weeks later to the day that they saw the advertisement for a married couple—cook and assistant cook—at Cheverell Manor. The day of the interview had been a Tuesday in mid-June of the previous year. They had been instructed to take a train from Waterloo to Wareham, where they would be met. Looking back, it seemed to Dean that they had travelled in a trance, being borne onwards with no consent of will through a verdant and magical landscape to a distant and unimaginable future. Looking at Kim's profile against the rise and fall of the telegraph wires and, later, the green fields and hedges beyond, he longed for this extraordinary day to end well. He hadn't prayed since childhood, but found himself silently reciting the same desperate petition. “Please, God, make it all right. Please don't let her be disappointed.”

Turning to him as they approached Wareham, she said, “You've got the references safe, darling?” She had asked about them every hour.

At Wareham, a Range Rover was waiting in the forecourt with a stocky elderly man at the wheel. He didn't get out but beckoned them over. He said, “You'll be the Bostocks, I'm thinking. My name's Tom Mogworthy. No luggage? No, there wouldn't be, would there? You'll not be staying. Climb in the back, then.”

It wasn't, thought Dean, a propitious welcome. But that hardly mattered when the air smelled so sweet and they were being driven through such beauty. It was a perfect summer day, the sky azure and cloudless. Through the open windows of the Range Rover, a cooling breeze fell on their faces, not strong enough even to stir the delicate branches of the trees or rustle the grasses. The trees were in full leaf, still with the freshness of spring, their branches not yet stagnant with the dusty heaviness of August. It was Kim who, after ten minutes of a silent drive, leaned forward and said, “Do you work at Cheverell Manor, Mr. Mogworthy?”

“I've been there for just on forty-five years. Started as a boy in the grounds, clipping the knot garden. Still do. Sir Francis was the owner then, and after him Sir Nicholas. You'll be working for Mr. Chandler-Powell now, if the women take you on.”

“Won't he be interviewing us?” asked Dean.

“He'll be in London. He operates there on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Miss Cressett and Sister Holland will be interviewing you. Mr. Chandler-Powell doesn't bother himself with domestic matters. Satisfy the women and you're in. If not, pack your bags and you're out.”

It had not been a promising beginning, and on first sight even the beauty of the Manor, standing silent and silvery in the summer sun, was more intimidating than reassuring. Mogworthy left them at the front door, merely pointing at the bell, then returned to the Range Rover and drove it round the east wing of the house. Resolutely Dean tugged on the iron bell-pull. They heard no sound, but within half a minute the door opened and they saw a young woman. She had shoulder-length blond hair, which Dean thought looked none too clean and heavily applied lipstick. She wore jeans beneath a coloured apron. He put her down as someone from the village who helped out, a first impression which proved right. She regarded them with some distaste for a moment, then said, “I'm Maisie. Miss Cressett said I'm to give you tea in the great hall.”

Now, recalling the arrival, Dean was surprised that he had become so used to the magnificence of the great hall. He could understand now how people who owned such a house could get used to its beauty, could move confidently down its corridors and through its rooms, hardly noticing the pictures and artefacts, the richness which surrounded them. He smiled, remembering how, after asking if they could wash their hands, they had been led through the hall to a room at the back which was obviously a lavatory and washroom. Maisie had disappeared, and he waited outside while Kim went in first.

Three minutes later, she was out, eyes wide with surprise, saying in a whisper, “It's so strange. The lavatory bowl is painted inside. It's all blue, with flowers and foliage. And the seat is huge—it's mahogany. And there's no proper flush at all. You have to pull on a chain, like you do in my gran's loo. The wallpaper's lovely, though, and there are lots of towels. I didn't know which to use. Expensive soap, too. Hurry up, darling. I don't want to be left alone. Do you suppose the loo is as old as the house? It must be.”

“No,” he said, wanting to demonstrate superior knowledge, “there wouldn't have been any lavatories when this house was built, not like that anyway. It sounds more Victorian. Early-nineteenth-century, I'd say.”

He spoke with a confidence he didn't feel, determined not to let the Manor intimidate him. It was to him Kim looked for reassurance and support. He mustn't show that he needed them himself.

Returning to the hallway, they found Maisie at the door of the great hall. She said, “Your tea's in here. I'll come back in a quarter of an hour and take you to the office.”

At first the great hall overpowered them, and they moved forward like children beneath the huge rafters, under the gaze, or so it seemed, of Elizabethan gentlemen in doublet and hose and young soldiers arrogantly posed with their steeds. Bemused by the size and grandeur, it was only later that he noticed details. Now he was aware of the great tapestry on the right wall and beneath it a long oak table holding a huge vase of flowers.

The tea was waiting for them, set out on a low table before the fireplace. They saw an elegant tea-service, a plate of sandwiches, scones with jam and butter and a fruit cake. They were both thirsty. Kim poured the tea with shaking fingers while Dean, having already had a surfeit of sandwiches on the train, took a scone and anointed it generously with butter and jam. After a bite he said, “The jam's home-made, the scone isn't. That's bad.”

Kim said, “The cake's bought, too. Rather good, but it makes me wonder when the last cook left. I don't think we'd want to give them bought cake. And that girl who opened the door, she must be a temp. I can't see them taking on someone like that.” They found themselves whispering to each other like conspirators.

Maisie returned promptly. Still unsmiling, she said rather pompously, “Will you follow me, please?” and led them through the square entrance hall to the opposite door, opened it and said, “The Bostocks are here, Miss Cressett. I've given them tea,” and disappeared.

The room was small, oak-panelled and obviously highly functional, the large desk in contrast to the linen-fold panelling and the row of smaller pictures above it. Three women were seated at the desk and motioned them to the chairs set ready.

The taller one said, “My name is Helena Cressett and this is Sister Holland and Mrs. Frensham. Did you have a comfortable journey?”

Dean said, “Very comfortable, thank you.”

“Good. You'll need to see your accommodation and the kitchen before you make up your mind, but first we would like to explain about the job. In some ways it's very different from the usual work of a cook. Mr. Chandler-Powell operates in London from Monday to Wednesday. That means that the beginning of each week will be comparatively easy for you. His assistant, Mr. Marcus Westhall, lives in one of the cottages with his sister and his father, and I usually cook for myself in my flat here, although I may from time to time have a small dinner party and ask you to cook for me. The second half of the week will be very busy. The anaesthetist and all the additional nursing and ancillary staff will be here, either overnight or returning to their homes at the end of the day. They have something when they arrive, a cooked lunch and a meal which one could describe as high tea before they leave. Sister Holland will also be in residence, as, of course, will Mr. Chandler-Powell and the patients. Mr. Chandler-Powell sometimes leaves the Manor as early as five-thirty to see his London patients. He's usually back by one and requires a good luncheon, which he likes served in his own sitting room. Because of his need sometimes to return for part of a day to London, his meals can be erratic, but they are always important. I shall discuss the menus with you in advance. Sister is responsible for all the patients' needs, so I'll ask her now to describe what she expects.”