A Time to Heal

by Claire Rayner

  He laughed then. “Oh, why do I bedevil you like this? If you could use them as they should be, you wouldn’t be you, I suppose. And you wouldn’t need me, and I’m selfish enough to be glad that you do. So ignore what I’ve said. Don’t see yourself as a heroine. Leave that to me.”

  “Thank you! I’d feel a bloody fool as Joan of Arc, anyway …”

  He laughed again. “You don’t look much like a heroine at the moment, I must admit. So be an ordinary woman and tidy yourself, do, dear heart. There may be photographers, after all, and one wouldn’t wish to launch Brookbank’s answer to Ross-Craigie looking like a windswept—”

  “Not my fault. Dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn!” Obediently she opened her bag, and hunted for comb and lipstick, and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled out her mascara as well.

  “Ah!” Theo murmured, “a gratifying sight. I do like to see a woman getting all feminine. No—do use it. Your first instincts were quite right. You need the defense of a good paint job. I’ll try not to bump you too much.”

  He slowed the car a little, and she put on her makeup, comforted by his presence—the only person in the whole world with whom she could be totally herself in an intellectual sense, to whom she could say what she liked when she liked. Yet dearly as she cared for him and needed him, still there was a flatness about their relationship, a missing level, and it was this that she obtained from Oscar. Only with Oscar could she be physically herself. How much more pleasant and uncomplicated life would be if these two needs could be satisfied by one person! For a moment or two she bathed in an agreeably warm wash of self-pity, before letting amusement dissipate it.

  “How’s that then? Does my armor look sufficiently strong?”

  He glanced at her and smiled. “Formidable! Tr6s formidable. You’ll be fine, my dear. Just keep your head and your tongue and your temper with Oscar, and you’ll be fine.”

  “I won’t lose my temper with Oscar. There’s no need to. I think he’s over the worst about Ross-Craigie. He faced up to that last week, when he got back from the States. He won’t be too upset this morning—or am I just being hopeful? Poor Oscar—he’s having a rough time of it, one way and another, you must admit.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of denying it. Ross-Craigie has treated him abominably, and he’s justified, totally justified, in feeling as he does. Whether he’s quite as justified in his jealousy of you is something quite other, of course.”

  “Jealous! Of me? Don’t be absurd!”

  “I’m not. Just stating facts. Of course he’s jealous, Hattie! Legitimately so, I suppose, when you consider that his own hope of scientific salvation lay in his precious jungle juice. Who’ll care about Bell’s drug research when they can use Berry’s vaccine method?”

  “Hmm. As and when the vaccine method becomes available, that is. Which can’t be for years yet, and you know it. So maybe Bell’s drugs will come into their own all the same—you were right, Theo. There’s a lot of strange cars in the car park.”

  “I’ll drop you at the stores entrance, I think. Then you can go through the kitchens and round by the chemicals store. And don’t worry. Once you’re in the unit, no one’ll be able to get at you without your being warned. I’ve a ward round at nine, and a short list at eleven, but after that, I’m available if you want me.”

  “Isn’t it all too exciting for words?” John Caister dropped his armful of newspapers on her desk. “I had to run a positive gauntlet of newspaper people to get in this morning, truly I did!—I do wish you could have seen Catherine, though! Laying about her with her tongue as though it were an umbrella. Some of them looked positively stunned, really they did.—Oh, good morning, Catherine! And how many did you manage to scalp? You were marvelous—”

  “I’ve brought the post, Dr. Berry.” Catherine put a thick pile of envelopes on top of the newspapers. “And Miss Manton stopped me on the way up. She says Professor Bell wants you in his office to meet someone at ten. I told her you were very busy, and you’d try to manage it. How are you this morning? Did you have trouble getting in?”

  “No. Mr. Fowler brought me very early—oh, Lord, have you seen this?” Harriet looked with dismay at the tabloid she had opened, at the way her own name shrieked across the headline in huge type.

  “That’s the least of it. Most of it’s made up out of whole cloth, mind you. There’s nothing that wasn’t in the Echo last week, anyway, and in yesterday’s papers. There’s a good deal about Ross-Craigie too. Three of them say he’s coming back to Brookbank—had you heard that?”

  “No. Just that he’s coming back to England. Where’s the Echo? I want to see McClarrie’s article—”

  There was a silence as they read newspapers, and then Harriet said, “Not bad. Pretty accurate, in fact. At least he makes a strong point about the treatment being very experimental yet. Maybe that’ll help cool the others down a bit.”

  “I doubt it,” Catherine said. “As far as I can tell, there’s not one of ’em gives a damn about facts. Never saw so much guessing and wild nonsensical statements in my life. Shall I open the post?”

  “Do—John, which one have you got there? Let me see—oh, Lord, this is one of the worst.”

  “If it’s Caister’s favorite paper, it’s sure to be,” Catherine said sourly. “Here, give me a hand with these, will you? There’s enough to sink a battleship. Most of them are marked ‘Personal,’ Dr. Berry.”

  Harriet began to read the letters, and as each succeeding one joined the pile of those she had seen, she felt more and more depressed. Long accounts of relations’ illnesses, appeals for help with husbands and children; in several, signed blank checks accompanied by desperate appeals to give treatment, no matter what the cost.

  “I can’t,” she said abruptly. “Catherine, I can’t possibly cope with all this. What on earth am I to do with them?”

  “I’ll look after them,” Catherine said roughly. “No, don’t read any more. I’ll deal with them this afternoon. Caister, you can help. I’ll work out a form letter and you can type some—”

  John Caister picked up one of the letters and read it, and then another, and then he grimaced. “Not so much fun after all, I suppose. When you think about it. Oh, dear, I do feel all nasty now, and I felt so lovely before! I think I’ll make some coffee. Would you like some?”

  There was a silence for a while after he’d gone, and then Harriet said awkwardly, “Did Miss Manton say who it is that Oscar wants me to meet?”

  “No—not that she’d tell anyone the time of day if she could help it, that one. I’ll check with the front lodge porter, if you like. He usually has a list of people who are expected.”

  “No, don’t bother. I’ll find out soon enough. Oh, God, Catherine, isn’t all this hell?”

  “Yes,” said Catherine. “It is. But it’s worth it. And you can cope. Just stick to your guns, make them put all they’ve got into pushing the work on, and then you’ll be able to do something about all this.” She jerked her head at the pile of letters. “What we need is a bigger unit, a lot more equipment, and a good deal more staff, and we could take on a dozen or more patients at a time. And that’s what we ought to be doing. Pushing on the research and treating them at the same time. We could turn all of them into Ferrises, given the right sort of help. And then, next year, it’ll be you getting the Nobel. Just you push, now, when you get in to Professor Bell this morning. Just you push—”

  “He’s rich,” she thought, as she shook hands in response to Oscar’s punctilious introduction, and then immediately wondered why the thought had leaped into her mind. He wasn’t displaying any obvious signs of wealth, although his clothes were well cut and fitted with insolent perfection. Because he was Sir? That was an atavistic response, if ever there was one.

  “How do you do, Sir Daniel,” she murmured, and he held her hand for a moment longer than he needed to, and then stood back as she sat down in the chair Oscar held for her. She felt his eyes admiringly fixed on her, and was suddenly uncomfort
able. But she lost that almost at once, for she knew perfectly well—without knowing how she knew—that the admiration was spurious, produced because this was the way he always behaved with women when he first met them. “I’m getting almost as perceptive as Theo,” she thought with a spark of amusement.

  “Sir Daniel is the proprietor of the Echo, Harriet,” Oscar said, and she glanced at him quickly; his voice sounded flat and heavy, and then she saw the rigid set of his shoulders and recognized the anger in him, the control he was exercising over it, and understood.

  “I know,” she said. “Mr. Monks mentioned the fact when I met him. I—er—I’m sorry you have had to become so involved with the work I’m doing here, Sir Daniel.”

  “I’m not,” Sir Daniel said promptly and produced a wide smile. “Indeed, I am not. Scientific endeavor has always fascinated me, man in the street though I may be. I was very gratified indeed that Mr. Ferris chose to come to us with his remarkable story. Gratified, but not unduly surprised. We are, after all, the country’s leading newspaper. It’s quite a responsibility, running so—how shall I put it?—so integral a part of our national life. But we take our responsibilities very seriously, which is why I am here this morning. And why I so much appreciate Professor Bell’s and your generosity in giving me some of your valuable time.”

  Harriet blinked, a little stunned by the smoothness of the man, and Oscar moved sharply behind his desk, and cleared his throat.

  “Not at all, Sir Daniel. To be quite candid, we have, of course, little choice. I know from previous experience that newspaper people, once they have their hands on a story, are unlikely to let go. And we would prefer to be involved with what is published for our own safety’s sake and, of course, for the welfare of the people who read the stories. We too have a sense of responsibility.”

  “Ah, you’re angry, Professor Bell!” Sir Daniel raised his eyebrows slightly. “I’m sorry about that. I hope it isn’t because of the way my people handled the story? I sent down two of my very best men.”

  “They behaved as well as any journalist can in such cases,” Oscar said. “Yes, I’m angry. I can’t pretend I like the way popular journals handle scientific matters. At best they confuse the average man who reads their material; at worst they create anxiety, stir up hopes that can’t be fulfilled”—he reached across his desk and pushed a wire basket full of letters toward the other man. “These—you should read these. People asking for treatment, wanting information about the vaccine, offering God knows what in exchange for a private supply. It’s sickening stuff.”

  Sir Daniel didn’t look at the tray, keeping his gaze fixed on Oscar. “Ah, yes. We too have had our share of those. Deeply distressing letters, many of them. My own secretary has wept over several of the most tragic.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs comfortably. “In a way, I must confess I am, shall we say, grateful that you have experienced a certain amount of public pressure. It will help you to see even more clearly how difficult it is for us, who receive so much more.”

  “But you invite it!” Oscar said, his voice sharpening. “Damn it all, you published the stuff that created the demand!”

  “Ah, no. No. I must disagree with you there,” Sir Daniel said gently. “I really must disagree. We merely publish news. No more and no less. You are the people who unleashed the demand by providing the means with which to satisfy it. Neither of us created the demand—it’s always been there, hasn’t it? Why did Dr. Berry embark on a search for a cancer cure if it wasn’t because she recognized the need for such a thing existed? What we must do now is not try to dodge the responsibilities inherent in finding such a cure, but turn our attention to deciding the best way to fulfill them.”

  “Sir Daniel, you really must stop talking about cures,” Harriet said quickly. “That’s what’s wrong with the whole situation! I told your Mr. Monks—”

  Sir Daniel shook his head. “Indeed, Dr. Berry, I understand perfectly well! I know precisely what you mean about the word ‘cure,’ but you must accept that this is merely a semantic point. As far as Mr. Ferris is concerned, he is cured. He was almost dead, and now he’s alive. He isn’t interested in statistics and five-year survival rates—what interests him passionately is the here and now. I seem always to be telling scientists this, and I never seem able to make them understand! You plant trees for tomorrow—well and good. But the Mr. Ferrises of this world—and I include myself in those ranks—are interested in picking apples. You’ve given Mr. Ferris a bushel of apples to enjoy now, and much he or anyone else cares about the apple supply tomorrow! That’s your problem, not his.”

  “So what are you suggesting, Sir Daniel?” Oscar said harshly. “That we should abandon all the principles by which we work, the whole edifice of careful investigation and verification, and leap into the marketplace with a half-completed superficial set of results? Forgive me if I find that—”

  “Immoral? So it would be if I were suggesting such a thing. No, my ideas are quite different. I share with you a concern for tomorrow’s apple supply, even while I identify very closely with those who are eating them now. Which is why I came here to discuss with you, with Dr. Berry”—he sketched a bow in her direction—“a scheme whereby both the public demand for treatment and your scientific demand for careful research could be satisfied.”

  There was a short silence, then Harriet said carefully, “You came to discuss a scheme?”

  “Sir Daniel has already told me that he wants to make you an offer, Harriet. He made it clear that he intended to behave with … perfect propriety—wasn’t that the term you used. Sir Daniel?—and therefore approached you through me, as the head of this Establishment. He’ll explain it to you himself. Do you want to discuss it, alone, and then let me know of your decision? You may certainly do so, if you choose.”

  She looked at him, frowning slightly. “Oscar, I’m not sure I understand. Aren’t you involved with this scheme, whatever it is?”

  He shrugged. “I gather not. As I understood Sir Daniel, it’s you and your work that interest him, and he approached me in a spirit of protocol, no more. You’re perfectly free to discuss with him any matter you choose, with no reference to me.”

  She rubbed her face irritably. “Oh, I must be particularly dense this morning. I really don’t know what you mean. Why should I discuss any Establishment matter without you being involved? You’ll have to be more explicit, really—”

  Sir Daniel moved then, and said easily, “I think Professor Bell is being almost too punctilious, Dr. Berry. He is aware that I am about to offer you the chance to work elsewhere, and though as head of your Establishment he is intimately involved with your work, he is giving you the chance to discuss the offer freely without his presence, which I suspect he thinks may hamper you in some way. It is, if I may say so, very refreshing to find people so—how shall we put it?—so delicate about the rights and needs of others–But there! I’ve embarrassed both of you! Suppose I tell you of my offer, and then let you decide whether you want to discuss it with me alone or with Professor Bell taking part, hmm?”

  “Yes—do,” Harriet said a little sharply, aware of the tension and anger radiating from Oscar and sympathizing with it; this man was undoubtedly the most smoothly devious she had ever listened to, and his excessive politeness made her feel extremely uncomfortable.

  “Well, then. Let me be very straightforward about this.” Sir Daniel’s voice became thinner, crisper, losing the blandness that had so irritated her; it was almost as though he had realized she disliked his manner and was deliberately changing it for that reason. “From what I’ve gleaned of your work, I’ve understood that you’ve achieved a remarkable result not only with Mr. Ferris but with a large series of animal trials. It is clear to me, nonscientist though I am, that this work of yours is a remarkable breakthrough, but will need considerable resources poured into it to make it go forward at the rate it should—indeed, must. I’ve also realized—and I did so long before these pathetic letters appeared on our
respective desks—that there are a great number of people who will gladly lend themselves to aid that research because of their personal involvement with the diseases it hopes to cure—treat, that is. As a straightforward man, it was clear to me that the answer was to put you and your work together with the people who have the resources and the people who want the treatment. I approached colleagues—I needn’t bother you now with who they are, though if you accept our offer, you will of course be told if you want to know—and we have formed a consortium. We’re prepared to provide and equip for you a research unit where you will have all the facilities you require, where there will be an adequate supply of beds, nursing staff, and so on, for you to treat patients while you continue your research, which of course will be furthered by your observations on the treatment you give. We will handle for you all financial considerations, handle all administrative problems, free you completely from the pressures of working on a tight budget as you must do here. Before we go any farther, it may help you to know that you won’t be the only scientist we are prepared to back in this way. Indeed, no. We’ve already made a similar offer to a colleague of yours, and I’m happy to say—in confidence, of course, which I’m sure you’ll respect—that he has virtually made his decision to accept.”

  “Another scientist?” Oscar’s voice cut in sharply. “May I ask who?”

  “Well, it will be public knowledge very soon, so—though it is a little premature—however. William Ross-Craigie is coming to us. This year’s Nobel prizewinner, you know. Ah, of course you know! He was once on the staff here, was he not?”

  7

  THERE WAS a long silence, and then Harriet said stupidly, “But I thought he was coming to Brookbank!” and was immediately angry with herself, for she had in fact thought no such thing; only the newspapers’ wild guesses had put the idea into her mind. But she had felt the need to say something, anything, that would break the painful silence that Oscar had wrapped around himself.