'It's about your house, Graham. In France.' She sat down, frowning. 'There's something fishy about it. There was a man who came to look at it, just before I left yesterday. A Frenchman, a very nasty piece of work. He arrived in a Citroлn with two others, who looked like thugs. Apparently…well, apparently you don't own the place at all. Lord Cazalay does. He's been 'selling' it to a dozen different people. Oh, Graham, I'm so sorry! It must be awful to have lost all that money.'
25
For a week Graham read the morning and evening papers with eagerness and apprehension. But the Press stayed infuriatingly bare of facts, reassuring or deadly. Lord Cazalay and ferrety-faced Arthur were remanded in custody by the Bow Street magistrate on some comparatively trivial charge, a detective-superintendent implying from the witness box that all hell was in store for them once it could be properly documented. The disgraced Fred Butcher was announced by his distraught secretary as having entered an unnamed nursing-home for 'nerves'. He had sent his passport to Scotland Yard, though purely as a matter of courtesy.
The Tory party, squashed for a couple of years under Mr Attlee's majority, fell like bluebottles on the festering wound in the pure-white body of socialism. They even stripped the friable wrappings from the mummified first Lord Cazalay, recalling with glee that his disgrace had occurred under the sway of Ramsay MacDonald. There was a dreadful fuss in the House of Commons. The Speaker twice suspended the sitting, leaving the chamber like a despairing headmaster shaming his boys with a display of dignity. Two more Ministers resigned (but kept their passports). Then the Government neatly announced an investigatory tribunal to be established, under a judge of unassailable wisdom and impartiality. The matter was henceforward _sub judice,_ and could not with propriety be raised in public at all. The House simmered down, the legislators turning their vigilance to the raising of the school- leaving age to fifteen.
After ten days of uncertainty, paralysing all his activities and most of his thoughts outside his professional ones, Graham ran into John Bickley in the Cavendish Clinic. He had just finished his last case of the afternoon, loosening a Dupuytren's contracture in the palm of a stockbroker (the deformity interfered badly with his shooting). As he pushed open the door of the surgeons' room to change, he found the anaesthetist in his long green theatre gown, packing away rubber masks, tubing, swabs, syringes, and other tools of oblivion into a square black-leather bag.
'That was the best advice anyone's given me in my life,' Graham said at once.
John looked up. 'About not operating on that spiv fellow?' He gave a smile. 'You know, I hadn't the slightest expectation that you'd take it.'
'If I had, I'd be well and truly up the creek by now, wouldn't I? With all this fuss, all these political people getting interested, trying to outdo each other scratching up the dirt. The ridiculous aspect of the whole affair is that I'd nothing to worry about from Cazalay. Nothing at all. He simply swindled me out of my money. He didn't even buy those pernicious francs in the first place.'
'How much did you lose?'
'Five thousand quid.'
John's eyebrows shot up.
'Yes, I'm a mug,' Graham admitted. 'Cazalay might as well have sold me a gold brick or the Eiffel Tower-didn't some bright Frenchman flog it to the Germans for scrap during the war?' He undid a length of bandage round his waist, and slipped the white linen operating trousers from his spindly legs. 'But perhaps it was a reasonable fee to pay for the shock treatment. I've learnt my lesson. Henceforward Trevose sticks to the straight and narrow path.'
'Oh, come, Graham! You're making yourself sound like an old lag, not an ornament to one of our Orders of Chivalry.'
Graham threw his trousers into the corner with an impatient gesture. 'You know what I mean. Well, you ought to. You don't imagine I'm unaware of your going about referring to me as 'Flash Harry'?' John laughed. 'By the way, I'm giving up my private practice,' Graham added.
The anaesthetist paused in packing away his apparatus and stared at him. 'You're not serious?'
'I'm perfectly serious. I'm abandoning the private racket for a full-time job. On the new unit Haileybury's always talking about. I'm to be its first Director.'
'But Graham-your whole life's been built round your private work. Everyone in London is green with envy at your reputation. You already get patients sent to you from all over the country. Once things get really back to normal you'll be getting them from all over the bloody world. Surely you can't throw all that away?'
'My life wasn't built round private work during the war, and that was the only time I was happy.' He pulled on his grey suit in silence. As John snapped the two catches of his leather case, Graham continued, 'Perhaps the Government are right to set themselves against fee-paying medicine. It's immoral really, if you look at it carefully. It didn't matter so much even thirty years ago, when the doctor could generally do damn all whether you paid him or not. Besides, I want to think. Perhaps to write. Rushing round nursing homes chasing guineas, you haven't a chance to do either. Perhaps I've an academic streak in me somewhere-don't forget my father was a professor. He left a massive volume on the synovial membranes as his tombstone, which is more than I shall ever achieve.'
'I still can't take you seriously, Graham.'
'Then wait and see. You won't even have to wait long. The appointment's being announced by the Ministry at the beginning of next month. I'll have to resign from Blackfriars, of course, which will be a wrench, though mainly a sentimental one. There doesn't seem the slightest prospect of the place being rebuilt in my own lifetime. And the staff there will all be working for the Government anyway, whether they like it or not. I'm giving up my flat-I've got to economize and I want something smaller, nearer the site, to organize things.' Graham's face suddenly lit up. 'It'll be like those early days at the annex, all over again. Except this time everyone will be on
John stood looking at him, his bony long-fingered hands resting on the top of his case. 'It must have been a sacrifice. Or at least a horribly difficult decision.'
'Not really. Like most of the big steps in my life, I didn't think twice about it.' As John slipped the green gown from his shirt, Graham added as off-handedly as possible, 'You know, I really would rather like to see Clare again.'
'That's the best news you've given me today.'
Graham felt this sounded vaguely condescending, but asked, 'Do you think she'd respond to some sort of social invitation? To dinner, a show, something like that?'
'Why don't you come and find out? I'm just off to the Kenworth to do a case. I know for a fact she's on duty. Are you free?'
Graham hesitated. Then his natural impulsiveness made him say, 'All right. You can give me a lift.' As John picked up his instrument-case he added, 'After all, I've nothing to lose, have I? If I admit to you now that I treated Clare quite disgustingly, it's something which I have only just come to admit to myself.'
'Quite so,' said John.
It suddenly struck him how much Graham was starting to sound like Haileybury.
It was fortunate for the reputation of Sister Mills at the Kenworth Hospital that she had charge of a children's ward. Unlike the adult patients, who had little to do except listen to _Workers' Playtime_ through the headphones and intensely observe the personal behaviour of the staff, the youngsters saw nothing remarkable-only some welcome entertainment-in a wide-eyed little man bursting among them, a startled cry from Sister, a whispered conversation, glances between bewildered nurses, a brisk retreat to Sister's office, a slamming of the door. Graham reflected afterwards he could as well have telephoned, but his unexpected appearance was much more dramatic and much more satisfying. In the office, they were far too confused and embarrassed to say very much, nor even to approach within arm's length of each other. Graham told her he must see her, it was desperate-couldn't he even take her to dinner? She demurred, trying to adjust her mind to the situation. But he was never a man to lose the advantage of a woman's hesitation.
'All right,' Clare agreed doubtfully. 'All right, Graham. For old times' sake.'
'That's wonderful! We'll have so much to talk about. It's almost three whole years since we-' He wondered how
