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

felt only a mild relief at having arrived and, as she passed into the wide hall with its central staircase, she was aware of a need to be again solitary, relieved of the necessity of shaking hands, of a formal welcome, when all she wanted was the silence of her own home and, later, the familiar comfort of her bed.
    The entrance hall was impressive—she had expected it to be—but it was not welcoming. Her suitcase was placed at the foot of the stairs, and then, opening a door to the left, the man announced loudly, “Miss Gradwyn, Miss Cressett,” and, picking up her suitcase, made for the stairs.
    She entered the room and found herself in a great hall which brought back pictures seen perhaps in childhood or on visits to other country houses. After the darkness outside, it was full of light and colour. High above, the arched timbers were blackened with age. Linen-fold panelling covered the lower part of the walls and above it was a row of portraits, Tudor, Regency, Victorian faces, celebrated with varying talents, some, she suspected, owing their place more to family piety than artistic merit. Facing her was a stone fireplace with a coat of arms, also in stone, above it. A wood fire was crackling in the grate, the dancing flames casting gules over the three figures who rose to meet her.
    They had obviously been sitting having tea, the two linen-covered armchairs set at right angles to the fire, the only modern furniture in the room. Between them a low table held a tray with the remains of the meal. The welcoming party consisted of a man and two women, although the word “welcome” was hardly appropriate, since she felt that she was an intruder inconveniently late for tea and awaited without enthusiasm.
    The taller of the two women made the introduction. She said, “I’m Helena Cressett. We have spoken. I’m glad you’ve got here safely. We’ve had a bad storm, but sometimes they’re very local. You may have escaped it. May I introduce Flavia Holland, the theatre sister, and Marcus Westhall, who will assist Mr. Chandler-Powell with your operation.”
    They shook hands, faces creased into smiles. Rhoda’s impression of new people was always immediate and strong, a visual image implanted on her mind, never to be totally erased, bringing with it a perception of basic character which time and closer acquaintanceship might, as she knew, show to be perversely and sometimes dangerously misleading, but which rarely was. Now, tired, her perception a little dulled, she saw them almost as stereotypes. Helena Cressett in a well-tailored trouser suit with a turtleneck jumper which avoided looking too smart for wearing in the country while proclaiming that it hadn’t been bought off a peg. No makeup except for lipstick; fine pale hair with a hint of auburn framing high prominent cheekbones; a nose a little too long for beauty; a face one might describe as handsome but certainly not pretty. Remarkable grey eyes regarded her with more curiosity than formal kindliness. Rhoda thought,
Ex–head girl, now headmistress
—
or,
more probably, principal of an Oxbridge college.
Her handshake was firm, the new girl being welcomed with circumspection, all judgement deferred.
    Sister Holland was less formally dressed in jeans, a black jumper and a suede jerkin, comfort clothes proclaiming that she had been released from the impersonal uniform of her job and was now off duty. She was dark-haired, with a bold face that conveyed a confident sexuality. Her glance, from bright large-pupilled eyes so dark that they were almost black, took in the scar as if mentally assessing how much trouble could be expected from this new patient.
    Mr. Westhall was surprising. He was slightly built with a high forehead and a sensitive face, the face of a poet or an academic rather than a surgeon. She felt none of the power or confidence which had so strongly emanated from Mr. Chandler-Powell. His smile was warmer