In the Blood. Philip Loraine
why?’
‘I’ve got a board-meeting, I’m late. Look at page four of The Times, column three. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Be in touch.’ His receiver was replaced.
Page four of The Times, column three, contained a brief report headed, ‘Raynor’s Breakthrough’. It appeared that Dr Wesley Allard of the Blake Clinic, Oakland, California, had just released information which seemed to prove that two of his patients suffering from the rare nervous condition known as Raynor’s Syndrome were showing signs of total recovery. Treatment had been long and arduous, had included physical and drug therapy, and, in both cases, surgery involving the central nervous system. Though the disease was rare and had hitherto baffled the medical profession, Dr Allard’s claim would, if substantiated, bring hope to hundreds of sufferers worldwide.
Astounded, Kate had to read the few paragraphs twice. The news was so unexpected that it shocked her; for a moment or two she felt nothing at all. Then excitement, hope, joy broke over her in a glittering wave; but as the wave withdrew came the instant thought of cost. Useless to pretend that ‘long and arduous’ treatment at a clinic in California was going to be cheap; but surely there were ways, there had to be ways.
She knew she’d be able to think of nothing else all day, and so took the precaution of showing the article to Alex. Though delighted, he tried to warn her of a few of the setbacks and disappointments she might have to face, but Kate was beyond reason, lost in a euphoria of determination and optimism.
After long and agonizing inquiry, she found a telephone number where she could reach the surgeon who had first operated on Daniel and who had returned to the fray three times since then. Yes, he’d heard about the putative cure and was keeping his fingers crossed for Dr Allard whom he knew and liked. But the great difficulty was going to be the matter of cost. Like Alex, he could sense that this overexcited girl had to be seized and bound into the straitjacket of expediency. ‘Kate, the Blake Clinic isn’t a charitable institution, and it isn’t funded by the state. Wesley Allard’s research on this project lasted for eight years, and it’s got to be paid for.’
‘We’ll manage somehow, we’ve got masses of good friends.’
‘My dear, will you listen to me? In both the cases cited, treatment lasted about ten months. The Blake charges, say, three-hundred dollars a day, excluding any treatment, drugs or therapy, and excluding surgery which was appallingly protracted. We’re talking about something well over a third of a million dollars, much more if there are complications, and you’d have to be financially prepared for complications.’ He could tell from the silence on the other end of the line that he had at last got through to her.
In a much duller voice she replied, ‘But you hear of it all the time. People, children, being sent off for incredibly expensive operations—funded by generous neighbours, all that.’
‘And rarely costing a quarter of what this would cost. I’m not trying to put you off, God forbid, I’m only trying to save you a lot of wasted time and heartache.’
She telephoned Daniel’s two specialists; and then his National Health doctor in the country. She telephoned various medical men she barely knew (one of them an infrequent guest at Hill Manor) and several more who were complete strangers. She even called the Ministry. Everywhere she met with the same kindness—there was no mistaking her desperate anxiety—and the same warnings. At the end of it, exhausted, she went for a long walk, barely noticing the heavy mist which soaked her.
Alex had money of course, and would probably lend her some, even if it meant postponing a dream cherished for seven years: six new bedrooms and a new kitchen created from the stables. No, she could never ask him. Steve earned a lot of money, but had a mother to keep and was desperately trying to save for what he called his ‘disaster fund’. Her mother had a small income of her own which, added to Alistair’s army pension, enabled them to live decently, without extravagance, in Aberdeen.
By the time she returned to the hotel, steeled to cope with Friday evening, always a hassle, the idea had entered her mind. By the time she reached Daniel at Woodman’s late on Sunday it had possessed her; she knew exactly what she must do.
Her brother, who had long ago heard about Dr Allard’s cure, was appalled to find that she had now discovered it: doubly appalled by her proposed solution: ‘The Cousins! Kate, you can’t!’
‘Watch me.’
‘I’d rather … Kate, I mean this—I’d rather go on the way I am.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t.’
‘I would. Please listen to me. I know it’s a … a spineless attitude, but I’m … used to myself now. It’s taken a bit of doing but I’ve done it. I don’t think I could take being in hospital again, for months—all that change and confusion. Also, I’m afraid of drugs—you know I am, and I’ve had enough bloody surgery to last me a lifetime. I’m a coward.’
‘That’s the last thing you are. You’re just scared of the cost like everyone else.’
‘Not half as scared as The Cousins are going to be!’
‘They wouldn’t even notice it, they’re stinking rich. And I’m not asking for charity, I’m asking for a loan. They’ll get it back, every penny. I’m going up to Longwater first thing in the morning.’
Daniel made a face. ‘I found out where Rosemary Howard lives—Bournemouth. I hoped we could drive down and see her first thing in the morning.’ He looked like he had at the age of eight, a disappointed small boy, but she was adamant. ‘Later, we’ll do that later.’ And then, overcome by exhaustion, by what seemed to be the opposition of the entire world, and now by her brother’s maddening disinterest: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Daniel, this is important, it’s the most important thing in our whole lives. Finding that letter was just a … a crazy chance.’
Daniel nodded; then said, as much to himself as to her, ‘“A fool must now and then be right, by chance.” Cowper—at least I think it is.’
In her grandfather’s day, and even in the years when Lydia had lived there alone—after her husband’s death but before the accident which changed her life—the drive at Long-water had always seemed friendly, arousing excited anticipation; now, under the aegis of Mark and Helen Ackland, that same drive had subtly changed its character; though it remained exactly the same, the new intention was simply to impress: curving around the serpentine lake which gave the house its name, crossing the famous Palladian bridge, climbing the hill before plunging into a stand of ancient beeches, and only then granting the arriving guest a first, breathtaking glimpse of the north front with its splendid pillars, classical architrave and all the rest of it. Or perhaps, Kate thought, the change was in her own attitude, and in the difference between childhood and growing up.
Whatever the reason, she had no intention of approaching The Cousins via the enormous front door. This would be opened by their noxious butler, Smart, who would regard her with a disdain which out-cousined The Cousins, making them seem hospitable by comparison. She parked her car in the shade and plunged into a shrubbery to the east of the house, remembered intimately as the scene of countless adventures in Amazonian forests or tiger-haunted Indian jungles, according to the whim of her inventive brother. This way she would approach the garden front, wandering up on to the terrace, and so, unannounced, into their lives. For God’s sake, she’d telephoned and made an appointment, wasn’t that enough?
However, she nearly laughed out loud when she reached the topmost terrace to find The Cousins disposed about the lily-pool as if the curtain had just risen on an old-fashioned West End play. Mark and Helen sat at a white cast-iron table on which reposed a silver coffee-pot with accoutrements, including, she noticed, an extra cup for herself. Her uncle had thickened and coarsened since she’d last seen him, and his fairish hair was receding which made his red, admittedly handsome, face seem larger. Her aunt had not changed at all; her dark hair, which never looked dyed, was