The Private Patient

  ‘And it doesn’t?’

  ‘I’d better tell you some family history if it won’t bore you. It goes back a long way. I’ll try to make it brief. It’s about money, of course.’

  ‘It usually is.’

  ‘It’s a sad, sad story about a poor orphan boy who’s thrown penniless on the world. It’s a pity to wrench your heart with it now. I wouldn’t like salt tears to fall into your delicious dressed crab.’

  ‘I’ll take the risk. It’s as well to know something about the place before I go.’

  ‘I wondered what lay behind this invitation to lunch. If you want to go prepared, you’ve come to the right person. Well worth the cost of a good meal.’

  He spoke without rancour but his smile was amused. She reminded herself that it was never prudent to underestimate him. He had never before spoken to her about his family history or his past. For a man so ready to communicate the minutiae of his daily existence, his small triumphs and more common failures in love and business, recounted usually with humour, he was remarkably unforthcoming about his early life. Rhoda suspected that his childhood might have been deeply unhappy and that this early trauma, from which no one totally recovers, could be at the root of his insecurity. Since she had no intention of responding to confidences with a reciprocal candour, his was a life she had had no compulsion to explore. But there were things about Cheverell Manor which it would be useful to know in advance. She would come to the Manor as a patient and, for her, this implied vulnerability and a certain physical and emotional subservience. To arrive unbriefed was to put oneself at a disadvantage from the start.

  She said, ‘Tell me about your cousins.’

  ‘They’re comfortably off, at least by my standards, and about to be very rich by anyone’s standards. Their father, my Uncle Peregrine, died nine months ago and left them about eight million between them. He inherited from his father, Theodore, who died only a few weeks before him. The family fortune came from him. You have probably heard of T. R. Westhall’s Latin Primer and First Steps in Learning Greek – something like that anyway. I didn’t come across them myself, I wasn’t at that kind of school. Anyway, textbooks, if they become standard, hallowed by long use, are amazingly good earners. Never out of print. And the old man was good with money. He had the knack of making it grow.’

  Rhoda said, ‘I’m surprised there’s so much for your cousins to inherit with two deaths so close together, father and grandfather. The death duties must have been horrendous.’

  ‘Old Grandfather Theodore had thought of that. I told you he was clever with money. He took out some form of insurance before his last illness started. Anyway, the money’s there. They’ll get it as soon as probate is granted.’

  ‘And you’d like a part of it.’

  ‘Frankly, I think I deserve a part of it. Theodore Westhall had two children, Peregrine and Sophie. Sophie was my mother. Her marriage to Keith Boyton was never popular with her father, in fact I believe he tried to stop it. He thought Keith was a gold-digging indolent nonentity who was only after the family money, and to be honest he probably wasn’t far wrong. Poor Mummy died when I was seven. I was brought up – well, it was more like being dragged around – by my dad. Anyway, in the end he gave up and dumped me into that Dotheboys Hall of a boarding school. An improvement on Dickens, but not much. A charity paid the fees, such as they were. It was no school for a pretty boy, particularly one with the label charity child hung round his neck.’

  He was grasping his wineglass as if it were a grenade, his knuckles white. For a moment Rhoda feared that it would shatter in his hand. Then he loosened his grip, smiled at her and raised the glass to his lips. He said, ‘From the time of Mummy’s marriage the Boytons were cut off from the family. The Westhalls never forget and they never forgive.’

  ‘Where is he now, your father?’

  ‘Frankly, Rhoda, I haven’t the slightest idea. He emigrated to Australia when I won my scholarship to drama school. We haven’t been in touch since. He may be married or dead or both for all I know. We were never what you’d call close. And he didn’t even support us. Poor Mummy learnt to type and went out to earn a pittance in a typing pool. An odd expression, typing pool. I don’t think they have them now. Poor Mummy’s was particularly muddy.’

  ‘I thought you said you were an orphan.’

  ‘Possibly I am. Anyway, if my father’s not dead, he’s hardly present. Not even a postcard for eight years. If he isn’t dead he’ll be getting on. He was fifteen years older than my mother, so that makes him over sixty.’

  ‘So he’s unlikely to appear demanding a little financial help from the legacy.’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t get it if he did. I haven’t seen the will but when I rang the family solicitor – just out of interest, you understand – he told me he wouldn’t give me a copy of it. He said I could get a copy when probate had been granted. I don’t think I’ll bother. The Westhalls would leave money to a cats’ home before they left a penny to a Boyton. My claim is on the grounds of justice, not legality. I’m their cousin. I’ve kept in touch. They’ve got more than enough cash to spare and they’ll be very rich once probate is granted. It wouldn’t hurt them to show a little generosity now. That’s why I visit. I like to remind them that I exist. Uncle Peregrine only survived thirty-five days after Grandfather. I bet old Theodore hung on as long as he could just in the hope of outliving his son. I don’t know what would have happened if Uncle Peregrine had died first, but whatever the legal complications, nothing would have come to me.’

  Rhoda said, ‘Your cousins must have been anxious though. There’s a clause in all wills saying that the legatee has to survive twenty-eight days after the death of the testator if he is to inherit. I imagine they took good care to keep their father alive – that is if he did survive for those vital eight days. Perhaps they popped him into a freezer and produced him nice and fresh on the appropriate day. That’s the plot of a book by a detective novelist, Cyril Hare. I think it’s called Untimely Death, but it may have been published originally under a different name. I can’t remember much about it. I read it years ago. He was an elegant writer.’

  He was silent and she saw that he poured the wine as if his thoughts were elsewhere. She thought with amusement and some concern, My God, is he really taking this nonsense seriously? If so, and he started pursuing it, the accusation was likely to finish him with his cousins. She could think of few allegations more likely to close Rose Cottage and Cheverell Manor to him for ever than an accusation of fraud. The novel had come unexpectedly to mind and she had spoken without thinking. That he should take her words seriously was bizarre.

  He said, as if shaking it off, ‘The idea is daft, of course.’

  ‘Of course it is. What do you envisage, Candace and Marcus Westhall turning up at the hospital while their father is in extremis, insisting on taking him home and popping him into a convenient freezer the moment he dies, then thawing him out eight days later?’

  ‘They wouldn’t need to go to hospital. Candace nursed him at home for the last two years. The two old men, Grandfather Theodore and Uncle Peregrine, were in the same nursing home outside Bournemouth but were such a trial to the nursing staff that the management said one of them would have to go. Peregrine demanded to be taken in by Candace and there he stayed to the last, looked after by a doddery local GP. I never saw him during those last two years. He refused all visitors. It could have worked.’

  She said, ‘Not really. Tell me about the other people at the Manor apart from your cousins. The main ones, anyway. Whom shall I meet?’

  ‘Well, there’s the great George himself, naturally. Then there’s the queen bee of the nursing services, Sister Flavia Holland – very sexy if uniforms turn you on. I won’t worry you with the other nursing staff. Most of them come in by car from Wareham, Bournemouth or Poole. The anaesthetist was an NHS consultant who took as much as he could stomach from the Health Service and retired to an agreeable little cottage on the Purbeck coast. A part-time
job at the Manor suits him very well. And then, more interestingly, there’s Helena Haverland, née Cressett. She’s called the general administrator, which covers practically everything from housekeeping to keeping an eye on the books. She came to the Manor after her divorce six years ago. The intriguing thing about Helena is her name. Her father, Sir Nicholas Cressett, sold the Manor to George after the Lloyd’s debacle. He was in a wrong syndicate and lost everything. When George advertised the job of general administrator Helena Cressett applied and got it. Anyone more sensitive than George wouldn’t have taken her on. But she knew the house intimately and, I gather, she’s made herself indispensable, which is clever of her. She disapproves of me.’

  ‘How unreasonable of her.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? But then I think she disapproves of practically everyone. There’s a certain amount of family hauteur there. After all, her family owned the Manor for nearly four hundred years. Oh, and I should mention the two cooks, Dean and Kim Bostock. George must have filched them from somewhere rather good, I’m told the food is excellent, but I’ve never been invited to taste it. Then there’s Mrs Frensham, Helena’s old governess, who’s in charge of the office. She’s the widow of a C-of-E priest and looks the part, so it’s rather like having an uncomfortable public conscience on two legs stalking the place to remind one of one’s sins. And there’s a strange girl they’ve picked up from somewhere, Sharon Bateman, who’s a kind of runner doing unspecified jobs in the kitchen and for Miss Cressett. She mooches around carrying trays. That’s about all as far as you’ll be concerned.’

  ‘How do you know all this, Robin?’

  ‘By keeping eyes and ears open when I’m drinking with the locals in the village pub, the Cressett Arms. I’m the only one who does. Not that they’re given to gossiping with strangers. Contrary to common belief, villagers don’t. But I pick up a few unconsidered trifles. The Cressett family in the late seventeenth century had a fiendish row with the local parson and no longer went to church. The village sided with the parson and the feud continued down the centuries, as they often do. George Chandler-Powell has done nothing to heal it. Actually it suits him. The patients go there for privacy and he doesn’t want a lot of chat about them in the village. A couple of village women come in as part of the house-cleaning team, but most of the staff come from further afield. And then there’s old Mog – Mr Mogworthy. He worked as gardener-handyman for the Cressetts and George has kept him on. He’s a mine of information if you know how to get it out of him.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Believe what?’

  ‘I don’t believe that name. It’s totally fictitious. Nobody can be called Mogworthy.’

  ‘He is. He tells me there was a parson of that name at Holy Trinity Church, Bradpole, in the late fifteenth century. Mogworthy claims to be descended from him.’

  ‘He could hardly be. If the first Mogworthy was a priest, he would be a Roman Catholic celibate.’

  ‘Well, descended from the same family. Anyway, there he is. He used to live in the cottage which Marcus and Candace now occupy, but George wanted the cottage and kicked him out. He’s now with his aged sister in the village. Yes, Mog’s a mine of information. Dorset is full of legends, most of them horrific, and Mog is the expert. Actually he wasn’t born in the county. All his forebears were but his dad moved to Lambeth before Mog was born. Get him to tell you about the Cheverell Stones.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘Oh, you will if Mog’s around. And you can hardly miss them. It’s a Neolithic circle in a field next to the Manor. The story is rather horrible.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘No, I’ll leave it to Mog or Sharon. Mog says she’s obsessed with the stones.’

  The waiter was serving their main courses and Robin was silent, contemplating the food with gratified approval. She sensed he was losing interest in Cheverell Manor. The talk became desultory, his mind obviously elsewhere until they were drinking their coffee. Then he turned his eyes on her and she was struck again by the depth and clarity of their almost inhuman blueness. The power of his concentrated gaze was unnerving. Stretching his hand across the table, he said, ‘Rhoda, come back to the flat this afternoon. Now. Please. It’s important. We need to talk.’

  ‘We have been talking.’

  ‘Mostly about you and the Manor. Not about us.’

  ‘Isn’t Jeremy expecting you? Shouldn’t you be instructing your clients on how to cope with terrifying waiters and corked wine?’

  ‘The ones I teach mostly come in the evening. Please, Rhoda.’

  She bent to pick up her bag. ‘I’m sorry, Robin, but it’s not possible. I’ve a lot to get through before I go to the Manor.’

  ‘It is possible, it’s always possible. You mean you don’t want to come.’

  ‘It’s possible, but at the moment it isn’t convenient. Let’s talk after the operation.’

  ‘That might be too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘For a lot of things. Can’t you see that I’m terrified that you might be planning to chuck me? You’re making a big change, aren’t you? Perhaps you’re thinking of getting rid of more than your scar.’

  It was the first time in the six years of their relationship that they had ever spoken the word. A taboo never acknowledged between them had been broken. Getting up from the table, the bill paid, she tried to keep the note of outrage from her voice. Without looking at him, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Robin. We’ll talk after the operation. I’ll be taking a cab back to the City. Is there anywhere that you would like to be dropped?’ That was usual. He never travelled by underground.

  The word, she realised, had been unfortunate. He shook his head but didn’t reply and followed her in silence to the door. Outside, turning to take their different ways, he suddenly said, ‘When I say goodbye I always fear that I may not see that person again. When my mother went to work I used to watch from the window. I was terrified that she might never come home. Do you ever feel that?’

  ‘Not unless the person I’m parting from is over ninety and frail or suffering from a terminal illness. I’m neither.’

  But as they finally parted she paused and for the first time turned to watch his retreating back until he was out of sight. She had no dread of the operation, no premonition of death. Mr Chandler-Powell had said that there was always some risk in a general anaesthetic, but in expert hands that could be discounted. Yet, as he disappeared and she turned away, she shared for a moment Robin’s irrational fear.

  5

  By two o’clock on Tuesday 27 November Rhoda was ready to leave for her first visit to Cheverell Manor. Her outstanding assignments had been completed and delivered on time, as they always were. She was never able to leave home even for a single night without rigorous cleaning, tidying, emptying of bins, locking up of papers in her study and a final check of internal doors and windows. Whatever place she called home had to be immaculate before she left, as if this punctiliousness could guarantee that she would return safely.

  She had been sent instructions for the drive to Dorset with the brochure about the Manor, but as always with an unfamiliar route, she listed the route on a card to be placed on the dashboard. The morning had been fitfully sunny but, despite her late start, getting out of London had been slow and by the time, nearly two hours later, she left the M3 and had joined the Ringwood road, darkness was already falling and with it came heavy squalls of rain which within seconds became a downpour. The windscreen wipers, jerking like living things, were powerless to cope with the flood. She could see nothing ahead but the shine of her headlights on rippling water which was fast becoming a small torrent. She saw few other car lights. It was hopeless to try to drive on and she peered out through a wall of rain, looking for a grass verge which might offer firm standing. Within minutes she was able to drive cautiously on to a few yards of level ground fronting a heavy farm gate. At least here there would be no risk of a hidden ditch or soft wheel-sucking m
ud. She turned off the engine and listened to the rain battering the roof like a hail of bullets. Under the assault the BMW held a cloistered metallic peace which intensified the tumult outside. She knew that beyond the cropped invisible hedgerows lay some of the most beautiful countryside in England, but now she felt immured in an immensity both alien and potentially unfriendly. She had switched off her mobile phone, as always with relief. No one in the world knew where she was or could reach her. No cars passed and, peering through the windscreen, she saw only the wall of water and, beyond it, trembling smudges of light which marked the distant houses. Usually she welcomed silence and was able to discipline her imagination. She contemplated the coming operation without fear while recognising that she had some rational cause for anxiety; to be given a general anaesthetic was never without risk. But now she was aware of an unease which went deeper than worry about either this preliminary visit or the impending surgery. It was, she realised, too close to superstition to be comfortable, as if some reality formerly unknown to her or thrust out of consciousness was gradually making its presence felt and demanding to be recognised.

  It was useless to listen to music above the competing tumult of the storm, so she slid back her seat and closed her eyes. Memories, some old, some more recent, flooded into her mind unresisted. She relived once again the day in May six months ago which had brought her to this journey, this stretch of deserted road. Her mother’s letter had arrived with a delivery of boring post: circulars, notifications of meetings she had no intention of attending, bills. Letters from her mother were even rarer than their brief telephone conversations and she took up the envelope, more square and thicker than the ones her mother normally used, with a slight foreboding that something could be wrong – illness, problems with the bungalow, her presence needed. But it was a wedding invitation. The card, printed in ornate script surrounded by pictures of wedding bells, announced that Mrs Ivy Gradwyn and Mr Ronald Brown hoped that their friends would join them to celebrate their wedding. The date, time and name of the church were given and a hotel at which guests would be welcome at the reception. A note in her mother’s handwriting said, Do come if you can, Rhoda. I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned Ronald in my letters. He’s a widower and his wife was a great friend of mine. He’s looking forward to meeting you.