No Cure for Death

by Hazel Holt

  “I am sure,” he concluded, “both the staff and the patients will appreciate its many advantages. As you know our budget is ridiculously limited, given the number of patients we deal with, especially, as we all know, in the holiday period, and the only way we can secure this important piece of equipment is if it is paid for by voluntary contributions. The Hospital Friends have, in the past, done excellent work in this field and I am sure that this will be the latest in a long line of things you have all done to improve the work of this hospital.” He shuffled the papers together. “Any questions?”

  Brian, who prided himself on being a shrewd businessman who let nothing get past him said, “We’ve already got what we were told is a state of the art X-ray machine – bought with money that the Friends raised for it. Why do we need this new thing?”

  Dr Morrison looked at him coldly. “I have already explained the benefits of this new machine and how much more efficient it is. It is digital and can send images to the hospital in Taunton instantly on request, thus saving time that may well be critical in the treatment of a seriously ill patient. It will, as I have also explained, save money in the long run. Science is always moving forward and I feel it is important that we take advantage of the progress that is being made.”

  Not surprisingly, after that, no one else had any questions.

  “I think we are all grateful to Dr Morrison,” Mary Chapman said smoothly, “for taking the time to come and tell us about this marvellous new machine, and we will certainly do our utmost to try to raise money for it.”

  Dr Morrison nodded briefly and got to his feet.

  “We usually have a cup of coffee after our meetings,” Maureen said, “won’t you join us?”

  His refusal was not exactly curt, but it was very plain he had no wish to stay. With another slight nod in our general direction, he picked up his briefcase and left.

  “Well that wasn’t very polite,” Maureen said. “People always stay for coffee.”

  Later that afternoon I had an appointment with Jean. She manipulated my wrist a bit and said, “It’s coming along quite nicely. I do hope you’ve been doing those exercises I gave you.”

  I mumbled something that could be taken for assent and she continued, “I think a couple more sessions should be enough but I’d like you to see Dr Macdonald sometime soon just to get his opinion.”

  “Well I will,” I said, “if I can get an appointment. It’s really difficult and I suppose it’ll be even worse when they start going on holiday. I suppose Joanna Stevenson will be off on maternity leave soon and Dr Porter has youngish children and has to stick to the school holidays. I don’t know about Dr Morrison – does he have a family?”

  “Divorced,” Jean said briefly, fixing the little pads to my wrist and switching on the machine. “I don’t think there were any children though.”

  “Where does his ex-wife live?” I asked.

  “Oh, London, of course. She was at the same big teaching hospital that he was.”

  “Really?”

  “They were both working on this research team.”

  “What sort of research, do you know?”

  “Something very high-powered about genetics – I don’t know the details. Are you still getting the tingling or shall I turn it up a bit?”

  “Turn it up a bit, I think. So what on earth is a man like that doing down here in a country practice?”

  “I don’t really know. They say he was absolutely brilliant in his field, but there was some sort of bad disagreement I believe – I don’t know the details.”

  “Still, if he was that important surely he wouldn’t just give up and retreat into obscurity, not a man like him.”

  “It does seem odd, I agree, but then he’s an odd sort of man altogether.”

  “He’s certainly a bit abrupt. He came to speak to the Hospital Friends today and his manner was, to put it mildly, dismissive.”

  “I know what you mean – it’s no wonder he’s not liked. Well, that’s not entirely true. He does seem to appeal to some women. I gather there are a couple of them who are very keen on him.”

  “Really? Is he in some sort of relationship then?”

  “Nothing permanent, as far as I know, but no one seems to know much about his private life. He lives out at Porlock Weir, one of those houses up on the hill overlooking the sea, quite remote really.”

  “Oh, I have a friend who lives out there, Nora Burton. Your mother would remember her. I wonder if she ever sees him.”

  Jean detached the little pads and wiped the gel off my wrist. “There we go,” she said. “Now don’t forget to have a word with Dr Macdonald and keep up the exercises and I’ll make an appointment for you in about a fortnight’s time.”

  I was pleased to see that Valerie Carter was on the reception desk at the medical practice when I went across to try and make an appointment. I gave her my best friendly smile and said, “Oh Valerie, is there any chance you can make me an appointment to see Dr Macdonald sometime?”

  “He’s very booked up I’m afraid.”

  “Could you squeeze me in anywhere?”

  She fiddled about with the computer for a bit and then said, “Well…well, let me see. I think I can do you 11.30 this time next week, would that be all right?”

  “That’s marvellous,” I said, “thank you so much.” I got out my diary and put down the date. “How’s your father? Has he had his hip operation?”

  “Oh yes, he’s fine thank you, Mrs Malory. Really good now, it’s made all the difference. In fact he and my mother are going to Malta for three weeks at the end of the month.”

  “That’s splendid. It really is a wonderful operation. I know several people who’ve had it and it’s transformed their lives! Do give them both my regards and say I hope they have a lovely holiday.”

  “The time one has to spend oiling the wheels,” I said to Rosemary. “I mean, Valerie’s a nice girl and I like her, but if she hadn’t been on the desk – if it had been Lorna Spear for example – and if I hadn’t known her parents forever, then I might have had to sit there, hanging onto the phone one morning trying to get through to make an appointment on the day.”

  “I know,” Rosemary agreed, “it’s getting worse. Everyone’s got a horror story. It’s nobody’s fault I suppose, just not enough doctors to go round – and I expect we notice it more now we’re getting on and need them more. And it’s not just receptionists,” she went on. “Shop assistants who can’t be bothered to interrupt their conversation to attend to you, repairmen who never come when they say they will, and – oh all sorts of people. I really do despair of the way things are!”

  “I know,” I said with feeling, “I was in the bank the other day and the standard of service there was quite appalling…” I broke off and laughed. “Oh dear, listen to us – change and decay in all around I see!”

  “But it’s true,” Rosemary protested, “things were better when we were young.”

  “Perhaps it’s because we were young,” I suggested. “I suppose you always complain about things more when you’re getting old – look at your mother!”

  Rosemary laughed. “Oh, Mother was born complaining and she hasn’t stopped since. Which reminds me, she was hinting the other day – what do I mean hinting, Mother never hints – she was saying that she hasn’t seen you for ages.”

  “Oh dear, yes, I’ve been meaning to go round, but what with this,” I indicated my wrist, “it’s all been a bit hectic.”

  “I explained about your wrist,” Rosemary said, “but I think that’s an added attraction, she can’t wait to hear all about it. You know what she’s like about accidents or illness of any kind – just like Queen Victoria!”

  “I really will go and see her soon,” I said, “I’ve been feeling a bit guilty that it’s been so long.”

  “Mother is very good at making people feel guilty,” Rosemary said grimly, “but it would be nice if you could find the time. Several of her friends have died just lately – there aren’t
that many left now – and I think she’s feeling lonely. Of course Jilly and I pop in most days, but we’re usually in a rush and on our way to doing other things. It’s not like a visit, you know, someone sitting down and having tea and making conversation, someone, I suppose, to make an effort for.”

  “You’re probably right. Isn’t it funny, though, how different we all are. As I get older I want to make less effort and nowadays I try to avoid anything out of my usual routine.”

  “Oh I do know what you mean,” Rosemary said earnestly. “Anything! Even one’s nearest and dearest. Much as I want to see them, I always feel exhausted when the family’s been round. Not physical exhaustion so much – although Alex is at that noisy age when they can’t keep still for five minutes and it does wear you out – but the sheer mental effort of having to talk to a roomful of people.”

  “Not just people,” I said, “though I do agree about that, but taking on new things. I mean, I can just about manage the things I’ve taken on already. You know, Brunswick Lodge and the Hospital Friends, though those are getting a bit much nowadays – but like a fool I agreed to do a paper for symposium, well it’s a sort of festschrift really, for Margaret Stanford when she retires from her Chair at Cambridge.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “The whole things is called ‘In Sickness and in Health’ and it’s about illness in the Victorian novel – I’m supposed to be doing Charlotte M. Yonge.”

  “It sounds a bit dismal to me,” Rosemary said. “It’s that Queen Victoria thing again I suppose – they really did like to wallow!”

  “Well, there’s certainly a lot of illness in the novels, and quite often one of the characters is the sort of invalid who spends most of the book on a couch being an inspiration or an irritation to everyone else. She was very good at the details – fever, tuberculosis, spinal injuries – one of her female characters even has a foot amputated.”

  “Goodness! It all sounds absolutely ghastly. I can’t imagine why you’re so mad about her!”

  “I suppose it’s because she’s a brilliant storyteller – once you’ve got into the book you can’t put it down. And there aren’t many modern writers you can say that about.”

  After my conversation with Rosemary I felt obliged to get down to work on my paper, though, as always, I kept finding household tasks that simply had to be done first. I prepared the vegetables for supper (to save time later); I put out the papers for the salvage collection (they’d be calling the day after tomorrow and I might forget if I left them), I cooked Foss’s fish (very important), I washed out some dusters (I found a couple in a drawer that looked a bit grubby) and I had a go at cleaning the grill (before the grease got burnt on). Finally, when I could find nothing else to do that could conceivable be called urgent, I went into the study and began to get out the books I needed and sorted out the notes I’d made.

  I sat down at my desk, switched on my computer and looked glumly at what I’d already written. It seemed to me to be trite and boring. Everything that I might want to say on the subject had, it seemed to me, been said by somebody else. I tried to concentrate, flicking through copies of The Daisy Chain, Pillars of the House, The Heir of Redcliffe and Beechcroft at Rockstone and, as usual, getting sidetracked into reading compelling but irrelevant passages.

  I was sharply disturbed from my studies by a loud crash from the kitchen. I got up and went out to find the large jug I kept on the windowsill, with various cuttings I was trying to root in water, on the floor smashed to pieces. There was water and broken pottery everywhere and carnation and begonia cuttings scattered over the work top and floor. There were also wet paw marks where Tris had been investigating the phenomenon. He was sitting, ears cocked, looking at the chaos with interest, but I knew, of course, that it was not his doing. The culprit, as I could see from the smaller paw marks, had already made his escape and was probably already hiding behind the bed in the spare room, from whence he would emerge later with a blandly innocent expression, as if to enquire what all the fuss was about.

  With a sigh, I got down on my knees with a cloth and began to restore the kitchen to some semblance of order.

  Chapter Five

  I was early for my appointment with Dr Macdonald and my heart sank when I went into the waiting room because it was absolutely full, which meant that they were running late and I’d have to wait even longer. I sat down in one of the few remaining seats and picked up a copy of Yachting World (Dr Porter was keen on sailing and kept a boat in the harbour) that was the only literature on offer. It didn’t hold my attention for very long and to avoid looking down at the carpet (why do all doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms have busy patterned carpets that make you dizzy to look at them?) I looked around me. There were three receptionists in the far section, behind their glass pane – Lorna Spear, my little friend Valerie, and Judith Taylor, who I didn’t know very well because she’s only been with the practice for a couple of months. Lorna was on duty at the desk and the other two were drinking coffee with Joanna Stevenson who’d come through from the corridor that led to the consulting rooms.

  From time to time Nancy Williams, the nurse practitioner, or one of the two nurses came through the door at the near end of the waiting room and called someone in – they seemed to be getting through their lists quicker than the doctors, since Dr Macdonald and Dr Morrison only appeared occasionally to summon a patient. Most of the people, as I looked round, seemed to be sunk in a sort of lethargy, a suspended animation, except for an elderly couple who were engaged in a low-toned conversation – at least she was delivering a monologue and he was nodding from time to time but obviously not listening. In the corner where the children’s toys were set out a young mother was rocking a pushchair trying to quieten a fractious toddler, while an older child played with the toys, making occasional forays into the rest of the room, under the feet of the grown ups. I turned back to Yachting World in an attempt to pass the time.

  “Oh dear, it’s going to be a long wait. Are they all behind?” Mrs Fielding had plumped herself down in the seat next to mine. “I can see we’re going to be here half the morning.”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “I’ve been here for ages already. Dr Macdonald seems to be really slow this morning. When’s your appointment?”

  “Oh I’m not here for the doctor. No, I’ve got to see Nancy Williams.”

  “She is good, isn’t she? Everyone seems to like her and she’s very efficient.”

  “What I like about her,” Mrs Fielding leaned forward confidentially, “is the way that when she doesn’t know something, she says so right out and goes and asks one of the doctors. You wouldn’t get most of the doctors doing that, now would you?”

  I smiled and nodded, not pointing out the flaws of logic in that statement.

  “These Nurse Practitioners, I think they’re a really good idea. More human somehow…” She broke off and turned to look at someone who’d just come in. “Now look at that, will you – a real disgrace.”

  I followed her gaze and saw a young man of about twenty, he had several days’ growth of stubble, his nose and eyebrows were pierced, and his dark, greasy hair was caught back in a rubber band. He was wearing torn jeans and a black T-shirt, with some sort of logo on it, which revealed arms that were heavily tattooed. He went over to reception and leaned on the counter.

  Mrs Fielding leaned closer again. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

  “I’ve seen him about the town,” I said, “but I don’t know his name.”

  “He’s Rhys Hampden.”

  “Not – not Stephen and Monica Hampden’s boy!”

  “That’s right. You wouldn’t credit it, would you, such respectable people!”

  “I don’t know them very well, but, yes, I am surprised he’s their son.”

  “He used to be such a nice boy. They live quite near to me and I used to see him around, up and down the road. It all happened,” she lowered her voice, “when he went away to university. Not Oxford o
r Cambridge – one of those up in the Midlands somewhere – got in with the wrong set of people there. Drink and drugs and goodness knows what.” She shook her head. “When I think of his poor parents and what a disappointment he must be to them!”

  “How dreadful. But perhaps he’s getting treatment. I mean he’s here to see one of the doctors, I suppose.”

  “Oh they just come to get their drugs – well, not proper drugs, but something like that. I think it’s a disgrace, taking up the doctors’ time like that, and all the expense.”

  “Still, if it helps them, surely that must be worthwhile.”

  Mrs Fielding sniffed. “If it helps them.”

  Rhys Hampden had moved away from reception and sat down on one of the chairs near the door leading to the consulting rooms. I noticed with some amusement that the elderly lady, who had been sitting in the chair next to him, got up under the pretence of changing her magazine and then took another seat at the far end of the waiting room. Mrs Fielding had noticed it too.

  “I don’t think it’s nice having people like that in here, especially with elderly people, you never know what they might do.” She motioned with her head to a notice on the wall about violence to medical staff. “And the doctors and nurses have enough to put up with, without any more trouble-makers.”

  I was about to make some sort of mollifying remark when Nancy put her head round the door and called Mrs Fielding in. I looked round the waiting room and calculated that there were about three people before me to see Dr Macdonald, which at ten minutes a go (if I was lucky) that meant another half an hour’s wait. I wished passionately that I’d remembered to bring a book with me and got up to look through the scattered pile of magazines at the other end of the room. I managed to find an old copy of Good Housekeeping with some of the recipes torn out and tried to settle down again. After a short while Dr Morrison came out and called in Rhys Hampden. I noticed that there was a perceptible lightening of the atmosphere when the young man had gone. He was only in there for a short time and when he came back through the waiting room he seemed agitated. I saw Lorna Spear leaning forward in the reception area to look at him as he passed through.