From Higher Places

by Roger Curtis

  They turned the last corner before her flat at precisely eight-thirty. Sarah could remember that detail because her face was suddenly only six inches from the dashboard clock and her head firmly into Brian’s lap. ‘Drive past,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t stop, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Just do it. Stop around the next corner.’

  Brian brought the car to a halt. ‘Now please explain.’

  ‘Alan Murphy’s car. It’s outside my flat.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  ‘You’ll have to sometime.’

  ‘It’ll spoil a lovely weekend.’

  Brian saw the logic. ‘Then you’d better come home with me.’

  They sat on either side of the kitchen table, with the light out. Reflections of the city speckled the walls like distant galaxies.

  Jeff had left a note to say he was with Alice and would Brian put the coffee on for breakfast.

  ‘He will get hurt, Brian.’

  ‘I know. And he knows. There’s nothing to be done, except let it run its course.’

  ‘Hm. Perhaps that’s what people would say about us.’

  ‘Well, it’s a course full of obstacles, Sarah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, because of the demands of medicine, mainly.’

  ‘We’re both doctors, for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘Yes, but there’s something else.’ He was forcing himself to look at her. ‘This… drive I have.’

  ‘The quest for perfection?’

  ‘That’s part of it, but it goes further.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘A need not just to meet challenges, but to seek them out. That’s why I took the Tommy’s job. It’s one of the most demanding there is.’

  ‘And Harley Street?’

  ‘To give me the flexibility to do things my own way. No health service. No hospital managers. Patients prepared to go the whole way, accepting the risks. Trusting in me.’ He coughed nervously, as if unused to laying bare such inner motives. ‘It’s not the money. That doesn’t interest me.’

  ‘So where’s the problem?’

  ‘I could be difficult to live with.’

  It sounded banal. Suddenly he was looking at her with startled eyes. Sarah saw that, true as his admission might have been, he had realised the danger of compromising the satisfaction of other needs, emotional and physical. And those needs concerned herself.

  ‘I’m an independent sort of person too,’ she said. ‘Freedom on both sides would not be such a bad thing.’

  ‘You think that? You really think that?’

  ‘Yes. But I must tell you that I’m not quite ready to commit myself.’ She laughed. ‘I too have dreams, but they’re not nearly so easy to understand.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I must go. A heavy day tomorrow and Alan must have gone by now. You’ll take me home?’

  ‘Reluctantly, yes.’

  ‘But no coffee this time, agreed?’

  He dropped her at the corner of the block. She waved once, then didn’t look back.

  It was Alice, not Alan, waiting outside her door. Beneath her eyes, moon crescents of smudged make-up told of genuine grief. ‘I rang Brian, but there was no reply. Can I come in?’

  Sarah could see Jeff pacing the pavement further along the street.

  ‘You’d better both come in.’

  They climbed in precise military steps, without speaking. Alice’s platform shoes echoed around the concrete stairwell. The main light at the bottom threw Nosferatu-like shadows on the walls, turning Sarah’s sense that Alice had no ordinary message to deliver to one of dread.

  ‘Sarah, you’d better sit down.’

  She obliged, clasping her knees between interlocking fingers fighting with themselves to achieve rest. ‘I’m sitting down. What now?’

  ‘We’ve lost Debbie.’

  ‘Lost? What do you mean lost?’ The fatuity of the remark hurt her because she knew what was coming.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Alice’s cracked words were little more than a whisper. ‘They found her this morning. She’d been to the drugs cupboard during the night. She had access, of course. No-one thought about that.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘You won’t like this, Sarah.’

  ‘Too bloody right she won’t,’ Jeff said.

  ‘She blamed herself for Alan’s sacking. They were close, apparently. I didn’t know that.’ Alice went to the drinks cupboard and poured each of them a whisky. She set a glass at Sarah’s feet ‘Here. Not sure you deserve it though.’

  Jeff said, ‘Isn’t there something else she should know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Debbie was pregnant,’ Alice said, ‘Alan believes the unborn child was his.’

  ‘Then it will be awful for him not to be sure.’

  ‘Ah, but he still might.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He asked for a sample from the foetus. He has a friend at Leicester researching DNA testing for paternity. Apparently it’s possible now.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Either way the result’s going to hurt him.’

  This was becoming a monumental assault on Sarah’s integrity. She could feel her brain begin to compartmentalise, as it always did when faced with conflict. Guilt was uppermost, for she had been the cause, no doubt. But, against that, had she not been forced into an action that was ethically justified? In fact she’d been put in a position of no choice at all. If anyone was to blame it was Alan himself, with his daft and irresponsible attitudes. Alan, who had all along held a blade to her side, seeing through her as no one else seemed to, relishing her discomfort. Her response was a long time coming but she was powerless to stop it. ‘Good.’

  ‘Sarah, what did you say?’

  ‘Good. Bloody good show! It’s the lesson he deserves.’

  ‘Sarah!’ Alice screamed.

  ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing,’ Jeff said.

  He had been standing by the window, thoughtful, apart from them. Suddenly he leapt across the room, grasped Sarah by her lapels, lifted her clear of the chair and hurled her backwards onto the sofa. ‘Little bitch! He’s still a friend to some of us!’

  It was not within her to deviate now. Quietly she lifted herself to her feet. With as much force as she could muster she slapped Jeff’s cheek. The nails drew blood.

  Alice switched on the main room light and stared at them wide-eyed.

  Within her chest Sarah’s pounding heart found new excursions. ‘You think I’ve taken leave of my senses, don’t you. But I warn you, he’s not the only one who’ll suffer!’

  ‘You’re insane,’ Jeff called, as she raced towards the bedroom. The ice-cold novelty of the remark stopped her dead. She turned and stood in the doorway, watching them, her defences melting away.

  Alice reached for the telephone. ‘I’m going to call Brian. Maybe he can do something.’

  The call was answered immediately. Perhaps he was expecting one. ‘Brian, can you come over? Sarah’s not well. Yes, straight away please.’ She put the phone down.

  ‘Why so abrupt?’ Jeff asked.

  ‘Can’t risk him prevaricating and not coming.’

  Brian arrived ten minutes later. Sarah, flat on the bed, could hear them through the half-open door. ‘She’s in the bedroom,’ Alice told him.

  He stopped within the doorframe, uncertain what to do. She saw he was carrying a bouquet of roses, the blooms numerous and large, the colours subtle. The sentiment seemed out of character. She heard herself say, ‘Ooh, they’re lovely. Thank you, Brian,’ then cringed within herself at the stupidity of her predicament.

  Brian stepped forward sheepishly.
‘But they’re not from me, Sarah. I picked them up from the hall table on the way in.’ As he gave them to her the card bearing her name flicked open. ‘They’re from a Mr Preston and there’s a note with them.’

  8

  At the time, Edwin’s retirement from St Catherine’s passed without much notice: his age was about right, his achievements substantial enough. There was a suggestion of impending ill health, but those close to him thought he’d seeded the idea deliberately in the staff common room. His medical colleagues wished him well and that should have been the end of it.

  A well-intentioned reporter from the Bermondsey Gazette, living locally and in touch with the hospital community, decided to write a piece about him. All might have been well had the investigation stopped with the man himself: the story would have flickered brightly, then died. Instead he started with nursing staff and patients, including two who had been on the ward when Sarah discovered Alan with Debbie. It was only a matter of time before the tabloid press got wind that something was amiss. The Sun had a first page headline: Nurses Having Sex – Your NHS, with photos of a nervous Nurse Trubshaw and a grinning Alan Murphy taken out of context. The Mail ran a longer piece chastising the hospital administration and calling for the Dean’s head. Sarah found herself lauded as a whistle blower, then ostracised by her medical colleagues. Only Brian seemed to have benefited: he was needed to run the unit. Alice, swallowing hard, cultivated Brian from a respectful distance. Alan, meanwhile, had gone to ground.

  The end of Sarah’s house job was approaching at alarming speed. Two applications to other London hospitals had already been turned down. Without Edwin as a reference the task had fallen to Brian and she had no idea what he had said. She asked him: could she stay at Catherine’s? ‘Difficult with Edwin’s shadow still hanging over the unit, Sarah. Besides, you need to widen your experience.’ As he said it he turned away from her, but not before she had seen the curious sideways glance that told her the decision had not been easy.

  It wasn’t difficult to explain Brian’s equivocation. He’d failed her when she flipped, that night six weeks before with Alice and Jeff, after which the claw marks on Jeff’s face had been an embarrassing reminder to him until they – but obviously not the inner scars – had healed. But that was not all that bugged him, as he let slip to Sarah over the theatre table: this man Mark, who knew Edwin, seemed to be constantly hovering in the background. Brian, who seldom visited her at home, happened to be there delivering a research paper when Mark rang.

  ‘Sarah-Jane, it’s Mark.’ She motioned to Brian that the call might take a while; to her relief he picked up his papers and left. ‘I’m wondering why I’ve not heard from you.’

  She was fairly sure the ball had been in his court after their lunch together at L’Atelier Jean-Jacques. One day she would realise that this was a ploy and second nature to him, this casual passing of responsibility, and blame. But now, momentarily clutching the receiver to her chest, the light in the room was already becoming brighter and the flowers outside the window a little more colourful. Stay in control, she told herself.

  ‘Good to hear from you, Mark… yes, very busy… doing what? Well, applying for house jobs for one thing.’

  ‘Yes, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Are you free this evening?’

  She knew she was. ‘Let me just check… yes, any time after five.’

  ‘Six, then, for a ride in the country.’

  ‘A magical mystery tour?’

  ‘Exactly that.’

  ‘Six, then.’

  She threw herself backwards onto the sofa, grabbed a cushion and hugged it. The plaster ceiling decoration above the grubby beige shade, why hadn’t she noticed it before? Her eyes followed its radiations and whirls, absorbing its intricacies. It reminded her of a clock-face and then the time: heavens, it was three already, what on earth to wear. Why hadn’t she asked where they were going? It should still be warm enough for a light blouse, not out of place with the grey trousers, and the matching top if things turned formal. And the amber brooch like the ceiling pattern: that would look great.

  She was standing back from the window as the plum E-type drew stealthily into the kerb. She watched him get out, purposefully, without hesitation. A jacket, but no tie. Informal, good. Clattering down the stairs she felt the euphoria of release. The front door opening was like a prison gate promising freedom. The light flooding around him had a Mediterranean quality she had not experienced for a very long time. He was holding something out to her, but not the expected flowers. ‘From a grateful client this morning, and I thought…’ ‘He’s lovely,’ she said, cradling the toy bear in her arms. She smiled at him and saw that he was watching her reaction with interest and amusement; and something else?

  ‘The thing is, Sarah Jane, a recent sad event has resulted in something quite the reverse. You wouldn’t have known Matthew Bridges, a long-standing business associate. He and Myra, his wife, had a passion for hunting – and for collecting zoological specimens. You remember the rare birds in the Tower, for example. In Tanzania a month ago he was killed by a charging elephant. His shot missed and, well, to come to the point, Myra isn’t coming back and has offered me first refusal on her house at Shirley Hills. You know Shirley Hills, near Croydon? I thought we’d take a look. ‘Ah, I see from your face you were expecting dinner.’

  ‘No, not at all!’ She laughed. Was he being serious?

  ‘So I’ve made provision.’ He raised the lid of the boot, revealing a large wicker hamper. ‘Fortnum and Mason’s finest. The terrace overlooks a lake. A perfect setting.’

  ‘And the weather? You’ve fixed that too?’

  ‘The weather as well.’

  The Dell was a quiet lane lined by chestnut trees, leading nowhere in particular, separating the houses on one side from the golf course on the other. Mansions, villas – she didn’t know what to call them; grand, anyway, set far back, their lawns sloping gently to the road.

  ‘Here it is – Hightower.’

  The name was on a brass plate embedded in the brick pillar. She felt a tingling at the nape of her neck. ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘A connection, yes,’ he replied. ‘Of course.’

  They stood at the door while he felt in his pocket for the key. She thought it might be in his mind to carry her across the threshold. He didn’t, but it wouldn’t have surprised her. Minutes later, sitting on one of the red velvet sofas in the drawing room, she wondered why she had allowed herself to think that. So much was opening up to her. Was it sensible to let her thoughts race ahead?

  Mark returned from an inspection of the garages. ‘Myra never mentioned a vintage Bentley. Maybe we should keep quiet about that.’

  ‘Definitely part of the contents.’

  ‘I’ll check the inventory.’ He sat beside her. ‘I’ve taken the food to the terrace and found a bottle of Château Pétrus in the cellar. Before we eat, though, a little business.’

  ‘Please don’t spoil anything.’

  ‘No, I promise. Sarah Jane, let me first be blunt, I know your situation.’

  ‘That I shouldn’t have blown the whistle?’

  ‘No… no, not that. It’s more that – and don’t take this the wrong way – I’m not sure that a busy London hospital is the right environment for you.’

  ‘How could you possibly deduce that?’

  ‘Through Edwin, and latterly through your friend Brian.’

  ‘Brian?’

  ‘He hasn’t told you? Well, from time to time medical services are required at the Tower. He seemed an ideal choice. Only yesterday one of our companions – you remember companions? – happened to trip and fall. I believe Brian benefitted greatly.’

  ‘Then good luck to him.’ He looked at her sharply with raised eyebrows, querying what he had heard. She changed her tone. ‘I’m pleased for him,’ she said simp
ly, and with relief saw his features relax.

  ‘But we’re digressing. I think… I know, that you may have difficulty finding another appointment. But I also know that you are a caring and potentially competent doctor.’

  ‘Fair so far.’

  ‘To come to the point, I serve on the board of the Beckenham Hospital, where a part-time job has come up in vascular surgery. He took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘Here are the details. Would you think about it?’ He got up, as if to minimise what he said next. ‘There would be strings.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ He held up his palm against her enquiring smile. ‘Let’s go to the terrace.’

  The light was beginning to fade. There were frissons in the creeper trails falling from the trellis above. Stepping onto the sandstone flags Sarah was unprepared for the flickering lamps on the walls and the already laid table with its crisp white cloth, silver cutlery and crystal glass. She was startled to find they were not alone: far back in the shadows, visible only because of her long white dress, stood a girl of oriental caste. Was it Maia? Sarah walked towards her, smiling, and was disappointed that it was only a clone.

  ‘Don’t worry. Jamela will serve us and then retire,’ Mark said. Was it possible that he knew of… no, surely Edwin would have been discreet. Wouldn’t he?

  The girl came forward to light the oil lamp on the table. The flame was curious: its multiple orange components glowed independently in the gentle air, moving this way and that like a miniscule bonfire in the wind. ‘It’s the combination of oils,’ Mark said, ‘chosen so that they don’t mix properly, always in conflict.’

  ‘A bit like me,’ she volunteered.

  Sarah became absorbed by his face in the shifting light: one moment reserved and stern, the next benevolent and impish. It was as if he had set up the lamp to profile himself for her. But wasn’t the reverse more likely: that he was scrutinising her? She began to feel bold in his company, capable of holding her own. ‘Mark, what is it you want to know?’

  ‘Gracious, am I that transparent? Or is it just feminine intuition?’