The Private Patient by P. D. James Read Free Book Online Page A

He thought you weren’t interested. He wasn’t one for talking, not about himself.”
    None of them had been. Those outbursts of violence, the impotent rage, the shame, had done for them all. The important things had been unsayable. And looking into her mother’s face, she asked herself how could she begin now? She thought her mother was right. It couldn’t have been easy for her father to find that five-pound note week after week. It had come with a few words, sometimes in shaky handwriting:
With love from Father.
She had taken the money because she needed it and had thrown away the paper. With the casual cruelty of an adolescent, she had judged him unworthy to offer her his love, which she had always known was a more difficult gift than money. Perhaps the truth was that she hadn’t been worthy to receive it. For over thirty years she had nursed her contempt, her resentment and, yes, her hatred. But that muddy Essex stream, that lonely death, had put him out of her power for ever. It was herself she had harmed and to recognise this might be the beginning of healing.
    Her mother said, “It’s never too late to find someone to love. You’re a handsome woman, Rhoda, you should do something about that scar.”
    Words she had never expected to hear. Words which no one since Miss Farrell had dared to speak. She remembered little of what happened afterwards, only her own reply, spoken quietly and without emphasis.
    â€œI shall get rid of it.”

    She must have dozed fitfully. Now she woke into full consciousness with a start to find that the rain had passed. Darkness had fallen. Glancing at the dashboard, she saw that it was four-fifty-five. She had been on the road for nearly three hours. In the unexpected quiet, the noise of the engine as she bumped cautiously from the verge jarred the silent air. The rest of the journey was easy. The turns of the road came where they should and her headlights on the signposts lit up reassuring names. Sooner than expected she saw the name Stoke Cheverell and turned right for the final mile. The village street was deserted, lights shone behind drawn curtains and only the corner shop with its bright crowded window, through which two or three late shoppers could be dimly seen, showed signs of life. And now there was the sign she was looking for,
Cheverell Manor.
The great iron gates stood open. She was expected. She drove down the short avenue which widened into a half-circle, and the house was before her.
    There had been a picture of Cheverell Manor in the brochure handed to her after her first consultation, but it was only a palecoloured similitude of the reality. In her headlights she saw the outline of the house, seeming larger than she had expected, a dark mass against the darker sky. It stretched each side of a large central gable with two windows above. These showed a pale light, but most were blank except for four large mullioned windows to the left of the door, which were brightly lit. As she drove carefully and parked under the trees, the door opened and a strong light streamed out over the gravel.
    Switching off the engine, she got out and opened the back door for her overnight case, the cold damp air a welcome release after the drive. A male figure appeared in the doorway and moved towards her. Although the rain had stopped, he was wearing a plastic mackintosh with a hood that reached over his head like a baby’s bonnet, giving him the look of a malevolent child. He walked firmly and his voice was strong, but she could see that he was no longer young. He took the case firmly from her and said, “If you give me the key, madam, I’ll park the car for you. Miss Cressett doesn’t like to see cars parked outside. They’re expecting you.”
    She handed over the key and followed him into the house. The unease, the slight sense of disorientation she had felt sitting alone in the storm, was still with her. Drained of emotion, she