SURGEON AT ARMS

'He's wearing well. And he seemed to be enjoying life. Or trying to convince himself that he was.'

'I'm glad he's all right.'

'Do you ever hear from him?'

'Oh, no! I would never have expected that. Not with Graham.'

'He didn't mention you at all,' John volunteered.

'I wouldn't have expected that, either. Once anyone's left his orbit he likes to cut them out completely. To forget about them, as though they'd never existed.'

'Even you, who tried to save him from himself?'

'I wasn't conscious of doing so at the time, but I suppose that's true.'

'It's all part of his selfishness, I suppose. Rejecting even those who've helped him, once they're no more use.'

'I don't think so. Not entirely. We can understand his trying to spare himself the pain of sad memories. He inflicts enough on himself. Anyway, he doesn't know where I am,' she added more briskly. 'He doesn't even know if I'm still in the country.'

'Do you want to see him again?'

She looked at him hard for a moment and said, 'What's the point?'

John nodded understandingly and asked, 'Have you any plans-for getting married, that sort of thing? Anyone in mind? I hope you don't mind my asking, Clare. I've come to feel something of an uncle to you.'

She smiled again. 'A very useful uncle. You found me this job.'

'I felt I wanted to do something for you. If you remember, we were both suffering from the Trevose temperament rather severely at the time.'

'Perhaps it was all something to do with war-weariness.'

'You haven't answered my question.'

'No, I haven't anyone in mind. I don't suppose I shall. I've got my work.'

'At which you're extremely efficient.'

'Thank you. Everyone regards me as a dedicated and completely sexless ward sister. There're plenty of them about. The backbone of any hospital. The whole system would fall to bits without such women. When I was in training, I often wondered exactly what created them. Now I know.'

'That sounds a gloomy prognosis for yourself.'

'Perhaps someone will turn up. You never know. Otherwise I shall sister on, until I'm pensioned off and go to live in a seaside boarding-house.'

'But don't you bear any resentment? Towards Graham?'

'How can one bear any resentment towards a maladjusted child?'

'I daresay you're right, 'John told her.

22

The government was out of luck. The worst snowfall of the century was followed by the worst floods that could be remembered at all. The cascade began in the middle of March 1947, the rivers spilt disastrously across the countryside, swamping the roads and railways, drowning the sheep, ruining the potato crop and countless carpets. Two years after victory the people who had given blood, toil, tears, and sweat were left standing in queues holding damp ration-books.

The postwar disgruntlement which affected everyone began to depress Graham. He was starting to confess himself bored and disgusted with his brother-in-law and his cronies. The girl Liz was really a shocking creature, though he felt disinclined to ditch her with no replacement in sight. Perhaps there never would be, he reflected. He was becoming a shade elderly to play the rake. He would have liked to stay at the villa after Sheila Raleigh came home, he craved for luxury and sunshine, but he had too much private work in London. There seemed to be a dammed-up demand for plastic surgery, as for other prewar luxuries like chocolates and cars, and plastic surgery was readily obtainable for your money. And at least, he reflected, he passed most of his time in hospitals and nursing homes, where it was warm and there was plenty of hot water.

He was still living alone, and trying to reconcile himself to it. To make his evenings more bearable he started to write a textbook on the surgery of burns. He had never written much before, though he felt that if he could paint he was equipped with the right sort of mental muscles for self-expression. He turned out a trunkful of notes from the annex, sorted them into bundles, and started work with his portable typewriter. Progress was slow. As he read his scribbled pages, he found himself drawn back to the atmosphere of the bungalow where he had jotted most of them down. He found the composition becoming dominated by Clare. He remembered exactly what she was saying or doing when he had drawn up some particular account of a patient or an operation. It disturbed him. He had thought about her often enough since they separated, but he told himself she was in the past, finished and done with, like Edith. He determined to put her resolutely out of his mind. It was the only way. Anyway, if he didn't, the book would never be finished.

He was working alone one evening towards the end of March when the telephone rang. It was Lord Cazalay.

'I say, Graham, are you still at home? We were expecting you tonight.'

'I'm sorry, but I couldn't make it.' Another one of his damn parties. 'Didn't you get the message? I asked the Clinic to phone you.'