Thank you all so much for your support. It really means the world to me. I appreciate every word of encouragement and please believe me when I say that it has often been the only thing keeping me writing during what is a grim and infinitely sad time of my life.
I suspect that this will be my last chapter before Christmas so I would like to wish you all a Happy and Safe holiday season and hope that you all stay healthy in what are challenging times. (MHS, this means you!)
It is hot here, and unusually humid, with not a breath of wind but, as I know many of you are in the middle of winter, its probably not easy to imagine Christmas in the middle of summer where, for us, the idea of going to the beach seems infinitely preferable to turning the oven on and making the house even hotter!
Thanks so much again and Meri Kirihimete to you and your families.
I'm aware that institutions can be intimidating places but in an odd sort of way they suit me; austere and impersonal, clinical and cold, I've known little else since I was a small boy. My breath condenses as I exhale, the air reeks of dampness and it strikes me that even the most dismal of environments can be somewhat reassuring, if the discomfort is familiar enough. Outside, the rain is coming down in sheets, and a thousand pairs of shoes have tracked much of the deluge inside. A cleaner with a mop steps aside, briefly abandoning his efforts to swab the floor dry, as I push through in haste. His call for caution is superfluous however, I need no reminder that any moisture spread over this type of ancient linoleum, it's surface made glasslike by decades of highly polished wax, renders it as slippery as glacial ice.
I increase my speed, elbowing my way past a crowd of students, bulldozing through the double doors as a particularly timorous woman leaps from my path, uttering a shrill shriek of surprise as she fumbles her bag and flattens herself to the wall. I am in no mind to reprimand her over who has right of way. I have far more pressing matters to think about, decisions that require my complete and absolute concentration. It is in these crowded public spaces that I feel the most comfortably alone; reserved, aloof and safe from interruption. Even in the most busy and bustling of corridors, hospitals provide ample opportunity for detachment; only the most foolhardy would dare make eye contact with me, only an idiot would expect a consultant to give them the time of day. With every step, a ferocious sense of purpose seems to urge me onwards. This fight, too, is familiar. I must focus on saving what I can of my career with the same grim determination I once called on to retrieve my textbook-filled satchel from the slippery roof of my prep school, the same imperturbability required to intubate a hypoxic child at the end of sixteen hour shift, and the fierce concentration required to dissect the neuro-vascular structures at the outset of a carotid endarterectomy.
The adrenaline rush of my confrontation soon subsides, but I am left with the residue, an unsettled edginess that sees me pace the room in agitation before I force myself into action, packing my things angrily into a box. The reality now dawns on me, and I wrestle with the enormity of what I've done. Five days duration, possibly the shortest tenure ever recorded and I'm starting to present as if I'm in hypovolemic shock. The phone rings more than once but I ignore it, intent only on wrapping the components of my espresso machine in newspaper, systematically opening every drawer and cupboard, ensuring I leave nothing behind. I pour myself a glass of water but I don't drink it, distracted by the need to clean my teeth before I pack my toiletries away for good. A sense of betrayal has left my throat bitter and my mood similarly astringent; in some way I feel more wary, more mistrustful, and more threatened than I've ever felt before. I had believed these feelings long consigned to history but it now seems that hope was rather premature.
Perhaps though, Zalman is more of a diplomat than I've given him credit for. There is a sharp rap on the door and, being so utterly focused, I'm startled, jumping at the sound as he barges without invitation into my office. Facing off across the brightly lit room, he tells me we needed to talk, a faint tremulousness apparent in his voice. I glance at him, disinterested, a clear indication I have nothing further to say. But the blandishments begin to flow unabated; the cajolery, the honeyed words pour from his throat like warm sweet treacle from a sterling silver jug. Regardless, I proceed with my task, utterly unimpressed and unmoved, ignoring his flannel and flummery until the moment where I can simply stand it no longer. I pause, placing my instrument cases slowly and carefully on my desk before turning toward him, inhaling deeply and glaring into the middle distance, impatient, mutinous and insubordinate. His expression is equally defiant but my powers of observation do not let me down; his shallow breathing, slumping shoulders and anxious hands reveal only too clearly his actual state of mind.
"Frankly, I find your attempts to jolly me along, as if I am some sort of imbecilic child, nothing less than tedious and insulting." I tell him, and even I'm surprised at how cold I sound, how dismissive, how curt. "I rather think it's time you put your cards in the table, don't you, Mr. Goldsmith? Do you believe I had any involvement at all in this trial debacle, hmm?"
"Martin…" he says, fulsomely, reminding me of a housemaster, about to launch into the usual 'this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you' spiel, before wielding the cane across my buttocks with agonising proficiency.
"Just answer the question." I interrupt, and I stare at him, aware that I sneer, knowing how I smoulder with rancour, my mouth sour, and my jaw firmly clenched.
Of course, he struggles to meet my eye but, strangely, it now feels emancipating, as if in some way it is now my time to have the ethical upper hand. And, having been relegated to professional rock bottom by this man and his perfidious chief, it's almost liberating to feel I have nothing left to lose. He stares at the floor, and then looks at his hands, and all the time I know he avoids my eye because of one simple fact: I am clearly in the right. Observing him, I wonder cynically if this is what it takes to make the leap from brilliant consultant to Head of Department. To assume a condescending, mealy-mouthed tone and talk disingenuously down to your colleagues as they nurse their wounds. Is this the result of attending endless management courses, I want to know, is this what they teach you, projecting an image of infallibility, regardless of the moral and professional cost? It is as if he reads my mind, and he sighs and shakes his head sadly.
"Um…no. Of course I don't…" he replies, after a moment, his voice a crisp contrast to the stark, heavy silence. "And, honestly, I don't think Sholto believes a word of it either. But, my god, the walls of Jericho have come down on him this week…you must see that….and this…trial debacle as you put it… it's…well, it's just the tip of the iceberg, in terms of what has crawled out of the Imperial woodwork since he stepped im to the role…so, Martin, I'm here to ask you, please,to reconsider your position. It really doesn't have to be this way…"
I listen of course, attempting to maintain my objectivity, albeit in a frozen and disconnected way. After a while though, I realise that, instead of being folded angrily across my chest, my arms are now behind my back, my hands clasped together thoughtfully. My scepticism ebbs, my anger abates and, even if I'm not entirely placated, my demeanour starts to thaw. I will not let this go unpunished, however, I have punitive demands of my own but, if we can reach some sort of compromise, it might be a preferable alternative to watching my career disappear down the lavatory. Truth be told, his suggestions do have some appeal and it is only with the slightest residual hint of caution I accept his outstretched hand, returning his lightweight grip with a single, firm, perfunctory shake of my own.
"The best use of your time is in theatre, Martin," he urges as he pauses in the doorway, "Leave the rest of this mess for someone else to sort, you're well out of it in the meantime."
And so I find myself suddenly reenergised; he has barely left the room and I am on the phone to Bernard, driven by a tremendous sense of urgency, feeling as if I've been offered some sort of tenuous lifeline, as if there is finally a vaguely illuminated path out of this degrading, humiliating mess. He greets me warmly, my approach is somewhat awkward but my tentative suggestion is, in the end, rather well-received. In fact, my old tutor seems almost grateful, stammering effusively at me as I outline my offer of help. If he wonders why I suddenly have unaccounted for time on my hands, he makes no comment and I allow myself a slight grimace of relief; the wheels are now firmly in motion and the agonising sense of impotence that has been suffocating me begins at last to dissipate. Momentum seems to build and, as the day progresses, every call I place is returned threefold, every suggestion I make elicits a cautious optimism, and I spend what remains of the afternoon negotiating surprisingly reasonable terms.
"Delighted to have you…you…you back on board, Martin," Bernard says enthusiastically, on our last conversation for the day, chortling to himself rather musically, as he confirms my new role. "We'll get all this..this…this jolly admin sorted before then but I'm delighted to confirm that I will see you on Monday! Back in the trenches together, digging in for the…the…the fight. That's the spirit!"
"Mm." I reply, knowing my own response to be rather more subdued by comparison.
Because, the fact is, I am under no illusion about the task that lies ahead. I am fully cognisant of how demanding this will be, how formidable, how exhausting. But I am also aware that it is not forever and, most importantly, it is in the best interests of the patients that there be no further disruption to their care. In the meantime, I will be busy, I can keep myself occupied, and work toward reinstating my career, in whatever form that might now take. And, while I must grasp the opportunity with both hands, I know the person that will be impacted upon most is Louisa, though I am confident that, in this of all things, I can rely on her understanding. She might challenge me frequently about my rigid opinions and my lack of tact but she does seem to possess an almost endless well of empathy and tolerance when it comes to the demands of my job.
And so I have arrived at the same conclusion once more, an outcome that might already have been in progress had not the nefarious activities of the unprincipled and the immoral rather unavoidably got in my way. My feelings are crystal clear on the matter, if anything the last few days have merely served to reinforce that opinion: If I am in the world, I need her beside me. Should I depart it, then almost everything I have will be hers. Contemplating my decision somehow makes me calmer; of course it is another enormous leap forward, but it is a progression that binds me to her even more closely and, most importantly, ensures her future will always be as secure as I possibly can make it. To that end, it is all the more imperative that I place one last call this afternoon. Hoping that I might catch him before he departs for the day, I locate the business card of Alan Leslie, my solicitor, intent on instructing him to amend my will. And, if I can speak to him in person, I have another, more onerous task for him to take on, one that will require all of his professional judgment as well as his not-inconsiderable discretion.
Whatever complications he thinks might ensue, however convoluted the trail, he listens in impassive silence, asking well considered questions and making detailed notes of my answers. If he has formed an opinion, or he has a gut feeling, at this point, he gives nothing away. Our conversation is, like any professional consultation; for him it is a fact gathering exercise, and an agreement that he will undertake further research. Years ago, when Ruth had suggested I employ his services, she had again helped me out of a bind. As a student, I'd had the determination to liberate myself from my parents, if not the wherewithal or the connections. To my relief, my aunt had quietly intervened, recommending this fellow highly and with a confidence that, so far, had not been misplaced. Since the first time I sat opposite him in his somber, respectable office, a gauche young man searching for guidance, I had felt as if I could trust him, appreciating his succinct way of communicating; his manner clear and calm and straight to the point.
"I'd prefer to come to your office, to sign it." I tell him. "And, obviously, I would like to have this sorted as a matter of haste."
"Yes, of course." He intones pleasantly before he pauses, and I notice a certain lightness has crept into his voice. "As a matter of fact, I've just gone through a similar process myself, Martin. Ah…got engaged on the August Bank Holiday and we're to be married in the spring…"
I clear my throat as my body prickles with discomfort. The truth is, I have no idea what to say when such personal topics are raised, principally because I have neither the skill nor the intention of feigning interest where none exists. As much as I detest platitudes, they are now all that spring to my mind and it is painfully obvious how heavily I have come to rely on someone who knows, inevitably, the appropriate way to respond, a virtue that compensates hugely for my own significant deficiency of character. I cannot imagine how it must it feel to find saying the right thing at the right time so effortlessly easy. In desperation, I ask myself what she would she say now, if she were here, how much enthusiasm would she allow herself to show? But still my mind is blank and, I growl at myself in frustration.
Say something, Ellingham!
"Right…yes…umm…congratulations…" I mutter with the same painful awkwardness that always ties my tongue in knots. "Well done."
"Thank you, Martin!" He replies, his tone now positively jovial as he hesitates and appears to consult his notes. "And what about you and…..umm….Lou…ise…ah…Louisa….have you set a date yet?"
I wince, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as the discomfort hits me like a colon spasm. An innocent remark, but one that is as piercing as an arrow shot at close range yet, to all intents and purposes, a justifiable assumption considering I have just amended my will to make her the beneficiary of almost all my worldly goods.
"Um, no." I reply huskily, feeling myself blush, the flesh of my ear febrile where it touches the receiver.
"Well, if I can give you any advice, it would be to agree to everything she wants when it comes to organising the nuptials. I don't know what it is about ladies and spring weddings though. I told her, it's bound to rain but she won't have it. She says it won't dare!" He adds, chuckling happily to himself until I feel a surge of embarrassment, an inexplicable disquiet that makes it crucial that I terminate the call as quickly as I can.
I leave him gushing into thin air, dropping the receiver, almost panic-stricken, into the cradle as I gather my diary, suddenly in a hurry, snatching at my papers and pushing them into my briefcase. I would ask her to marry me in a heartbeat, if I might only presume that she'd actually say yes, I think, as I press the clasps home and run my thumbs over the lock combination numbers. As long as I live there will never be anyone else for me but I have to acknowledge my terror; that my proposal might be too much, too soon, the actions of a pathetically needy man who cannot bear the thought of existing in this world without her. I take a quick glance around the room, knowing that I will soon return to fight another day, taking a deep breath before firmly closing the door. I am as committed to her as it is possible to be but, honestly, she is so young, so casual, so unfettered. Searching for my keys, I lock the door behind me. What if even the mere suggestion petrifies her, what if the thought of an engagement, a lifelong obligation, only serves to achieve the opposite, and frightens her away? I jog down the stairs, nervously energetic, and out into the rain, hesitating as I get to the taxi stand, before deciding to walk. Without a secure job, and with the accusation of fraud still hanging over my head, I am an idiot to think I am in any position to ask for her hand. But, with my back to the street, as I open my umbrella, it occurs to me that there is no harm in being somewhat well prepared. After all, planning is a strong suit, a cornerstone of the successful career I used to have.
Despite being buffeted by wind gusts, I am enveloped, too, by a certain warmth. The recollection of a sensation, a particular look in her eye; her hair soft against my bare skin, that low, suggestive laugh that saw me putty in her hands. I cannot solve the riddle of how a woman as warm and desirable as Louisa can find anything appealing in me. That anyone so radiant and light hearted might persevere with the dour, emotional black hole that I know myself to be is an enigma that I defy anyone to decipher. And though I fear the infinite complexities of adult relationships are almost beyond me, inside there is a selfish child who wants her, stubbornly, for himself. Whether it be when we are out in public, or even as she wanders casually around the flat, I can barely take my eyes off her, almost shaking my head in wonderment that she seems contented to just be there with me. She is everything I ever wanted, but never dared allow myself to hope for, and if the events of the last week have taught me anything, it is that I could stomach the loss of my entire career more easily than I could contemplate a life lived without her by my side.
The rain drives in sideways and I shift the angle of my umbrella. Traffic is almost at a standstill and, beside me, a motorist angrily sounds his horn. The footpath is packed solid; cross, impatient pedestrians who march grim faced and sodden toward their destination. Guttering overflows and soggy, discarded detritus piles up like snow drifts in doorways, gusts of wind pick up sandwich boards and slam them to the ground, and amongst all this, the manners of the Great British public begin to appear rather frayed. I edge closer to the shopfronts, once again glad of my size as I manage to elbow my way through the oncoming throng, ignoring the disapproving looks and darkly muttered comments in order to get where I expressly want to go. I have made my decision, it's just a matter of when and so, with a odd and vague but still rather exquisite surge of anticipation, I pause at the window, frowning as I stare at the display. It is a scenario I have never envisaged, a situation, I could never have contemplated but yet, here I am, on a bleak and unpleasant Friday afternoon, taking another decisive forward stride. The time has come for Martin Ellingham to familiarise himself with the unknown territory that is the purchase of diamonds, and that is exactly what I intend to do.