SURGEON AT ARMS

particular argument. The Press was continuing in the Second War its policy of the First, bringing the exploits of Lord Arlott's countrymen repeatedly and enthusiastically to the attention of the British public. Its office was by then more or less roofless, weatherproofed by tarpaulins, standing amid buildings apparently gnawed by giant rats, or simply replaced by holes in the ground, or revealing themselves on a second glance as blackened shells like burnt-out fireworks. Graham found Lord Arlott had installed himself in a shored-up room in the basement, which he had fitted out like a military headquarters with telephones of various colours, charts, and large maps, all of great complexity. Val Arlott liked to spread the notion that the Press could manipulate any national movement of importance, from which he saw no reason to exclude the war.

'Zip-fasteners?' Val exclaimed, Graham coming to the point of his visit at once. His thick grey eyebrows shot up. 'What the hell would you want those for?'

Graham explained.

'Sounds like a good cause,' said Val. 'Fix it up, Geoff, will you?'

'Certainly, Val.'

There was a third person in the basement room, who from the humility with which he conducted himself Graham passed off as some sort of secretary. He was startled to discover a little later that the man was the paper's editor.

'Well, Graham-how are you going along?' Val Arlott leaned back in his swivel-chair, smiling but eyeing Graham with a shrewdness he turned impartially on prime ministers and messenger boys. 'By God, you're looking fit. And ten years younger.'

Graham laughed. 'It's the simple country life. Think what a fortune it would have cost to enjoy before the war.'

'Don't you get bored?'

'Not much. I just work and sleep.'

'You must notice the change-patching up our national heroes instead of our national beauties.'

'I do. It's much more gratifying.'

'I suppose it should be gratifying to me, too. I'm the one who gave you your start, aren't I?'

'Of course-no Val Arlott, no Graham Trevose.'

In the nineteen-twenties Val had run a crusade in the Press to install not only London's first plastic surgery unit in near-by Blackfriars Hospital, but its first plastic surgeon embodied in Graham Trevose. Graham's father-in-law had owned half the paper, which stimulated the benevolence. But Val's interest had quickly turned to some other campaign for lightening the burden of humanity-the opening of cinemas on Sundays, if Graham remembered aright.

'Making much money?' asked Val.

'No, but there's nothing to spend it on.'

'That's true. Not these days.'

'You must have had a pretty bad time of it up here in London,' observed Graham.

'It certainly hasn't been a picnic. Any bombing down your way?'

'Our only casualty has been a cow. I think they mistook us for Biggin Hill.'

'Now the bastards are turning their attention to the provinces. Swansea had a nasty time of it last night.'

'Is the damage serious?' It warmed Graham to talk again to someone important, a man who not only knew the inside story of the war but who, from the look of the room at least, might even affect the turn of the plot. 'I mean, taking the country as a whole.'

'It could be worse. They get the railways running again pretty smartly, and production all round has been hit much less than we feared. The U-boats are a stickier problem, between you and me. But civilian morale has stood up to it. It might have gone the other way, you know. Could have been panic, demands for peace. He confided in me he's genuinely relieved about that'

'Who is?' asked Graham.

Val Arlott seemed surprised at the question. 'Churchill.' His look turned to annoyance as Graham gave a laugh. 'What's funny?'

'Nothing, Val, nothing.' The Captain Piles and Mrs Sedgewick-Smiths of Graham's new world shrank into their true inconsequence. 'I don't move in such circles, I'm afraid.'

'Geoff, fix up some drinks, will you?' ordered Val Arlott.

'Certainly, Val.'

When they were alone, Val asked Graham, 'How's your wife taking the war?'

'Maria wouldn't begin to understand. The clock of her mind stopped somewhere in the thirties.'

'I ran into her brother the other day.'

'The second Lord Cazalay?'

'Yes, God help us. There was some unpleasantness between the pair of you, I gather?'

'Yes. Cazalay and that fellow Haileybury were in it together, trying to get me struck off.'

'You mean about the actress? What's her name-Stella Garrod?'

Graham nodded. 'I'll concede that Haileybury moved against me through his usual high-mindedness or his hypocrisy-I've never really decided which it is. But I can't understand why Cazalay started him off. Through spite, I suppose.'

'Did you know he's got himself some sort of job in the censorship? Through the title, doubtless. I can't think of any other qualifications.'

'I wouldn't trust him even to deliver the morning post,' Graham said sourly.

'Yes, they're twisters, the Cazalays, all of them,' Val said amiably. 'Though it was sad about the father. To be reviled and ruined after enjoying power is bad enough. To face death in exile is heartbreaking. Even the sick rabbit can crawl back to its own burrow. I suppose it can all be forgotten now. Even the muddiest little eddies in our history have been submerged by the tidal wave. Not that I came out of the Cazalay crash badly,' he continued more cheerfully. 'I picked up his share of this paper dirt cheap. I suppose you've some pretty little girl tucked away there in the country?' he added.

'No.'

'You've turned over a new leaf? I don't believe it.'

'Let's say I haven't time. I'm worked off my feet, you know. I've a hell of a lot of worry. Particularly over one of your compatriots-Bluey Jardine.'

Val frowned. 'I wondered what had happened to him. He just dropped out of the news. Badly smashed up?'

'With patience on both sides and a couple of years I'll get him looking human.'

'Poor bastard.' Val rubbed his chin. 'How about our doing a story on your little show? I'd like to remind people about Bluey.'

Graham looked doubtful. 'Would anyone be interested? Plenty of men have suffered worse. And my boys aren't particularly pretty objects to come across in your morning paper.'

'Yes, people would be interested,' said Val decisively. 'We could send down Martha Raymond. Do you know Martha?'

'She wrote a bitterly unkind story about me and Stella Garrod in your gossip column before the war.'

Val shrugged his shoulders. 'These things happen. She's a game kid.'

Martha Raymond's physical courage matching the flintiness of her mind, she was then scaling cliffs with the newly raised Commandos, defusing unexploded parachute mines with the Royal Engineers, flying in the empty bomb-bay of Wellingtons with the R.A.F., or diving into the waters of Weymouth harbour with the Navy, all for the enlightenment and entertainment of Val Arlott's readers. But Graham wondered if even she would be game enough to drag a story from his patients.

'Geoff, what's Martha doing?' Val asked, as the editor reappeared.

'On an Army cookery course, Val.'

'Fix her to meet Graham when she's free.'

'Certainly, Val.'

'I hope my boys won't resent her,' said Graham doubtfully. They can be prickly with strangers.'

'Martha's a real professional, Graham. She can get round anyone. Like you.'