Surgeon at Arms Read Free Page A

into various medical administrative jobs, an intolerance of even healthy ones had made all of them short. But in the Army he felt he was fulfilling himself, having command of all Service patients finding themselves in Smithers Botham and charge of the general running of the place. He rose, and inspected himself carefully in the giltframed mirror over the mantelpiece. Red-cheeked, dark-moustached, well built, if inclined to be stoutish for the late thirties, he felt he filled his new uniform stylishly. He placed his cap on his well-brilliantined head, took his gloves, leather-bound stick, and greatcoat, and opened the door on the hall.
    ‘Mr. Trevose?’ He found the caller slight, pale, and fortyish, with large eyes in a large head, wearing under his overcoat a double-breasted chalk-striped grey flannel suit cut with smartness—flashiness, the captain might have said. ‘I know nothing whatever about plastic surgery,’ he told Graham proudly. ‘And frankly I’m too busy to start learning such subjects now. I suppose you make women new noses and that sort of thing?’
    ‘That sort of thing,’ said Graham.
    ‘Must be very profitable.’
    They went on to the broad front steps, Captain Pile giving a quick glance up and down. There might be a soldier or two about to award him a salute. But there were no soldiers, only a schizophrenic cutting the grass. t Annex D has been empty for a while,’ he explained. It s not one of the best wards, but your other people from Blackfriars have bagged those already. I’m afraid you’ve rather missed the bus.’
    They started across the lawn.
    Captain Pile unlocked a heavy teak door in another yellow-brick wall with more broken glass on top. Graham’s spirits, already sinking under the weight of Smithers Botham’s massive ugliness, plunged further. The annex was ghastly. It looked older and bleaker than the rest of the hospital. It was as narrow as a ship, two stories high, a hundred yards long. Slates were missing from the roof, a good many windows were broken, and all of them were backed with stout iron bars. A jumble of small buildings sprouting iron stove-pipes were tacked on one end as an afterthought. The garden had for some seasons clearly been left to its own devices. Even Captain Pile looked faintly apologetic.
    Inside was dark, damp, and empty. On the bare floor were sheets of newspaper, streaming toilet rolls, a pile of black-chipped enamel mugs, and other wreckage beyond Graham’s powers of identification. Something scampered in the corner. The smell was strange, but predominantly faecal.
    ‘Do you mean human beings actually lived here?’ Graham exclaimed. ‘And not so very long ago?’
    ‘It’s a bit musty,’ Captain Pile agreed. ‘I gather they used to keep their senile dementias in the place. You can’t expect those sort of cases to take much notice of their surroundings.’
    Graham eyed a wooden partition dividing the long room, its door swinging ajar. ‘What’s through there?’
    ‘The night ward. This would be the day room.’ Graham picked his way gloomily through the rubbish to the far end of the annex. Of the tacked-on buildings, one revealed itself as the kitchen, with a stone floor and a black iron range. The second contained some cracked washbasins and three large bath-tubs raised proudly on pedestals in the middle. In the third, Graham found himself facing what appeared to be a row of horse-boxes.
    He discovered the half-doors opened inwards, to disclose lavatories with no seats and the chains encased in lengths of pipe running from cistern to handle.
    ‘The patients have hanged themselves on the chains,’ Captain Pile told him informatively.
    Graham stuck his hands in his pockets. After turning down Haileybury’s offer he had signed a contract with the Emergency Medical Service, and was committed to install and run a plastic surgery unit at Smithers Botham. Though he was always able to see a new face in the battered and bleeding remains of an