Kingsley's Touch Page 8

  Mrs Strachan had become like her store – colourful, untidy and all-providing. 'Well, Mr Kingsley. We've not seen much of you these weekends.'

  'I’m keeping busy.'

  'I thought you must be having an epidemic.'

  She lingered over the first and middle syllables, throwing the word into relief. Kingsley smiled. He told her what he needed. She knew the tins like a librarian. Then he bought some fishing flies – a Black Spider, a Bloody Butcher and a Greenwell's Glory.

  As Sheila made tea he sat at the table and made a cast of them, the Butcher on the end of the main strand of nylon, the other two on droppers. Later, at dusk, he assembled his rod and set off across the fields. The cows followed him, inquisitive, mournful lowing shapes in the twilight. Kingsley sat on the river bank and cast upstream. It was a difficult cast. In the light a line fouled in the trees was more or less irretrievable. On the other hand, this pool looked as though it had fish in it. The river took a sharp turn here. The water had gouged into the red clay, deeply undercutting the far bank. His cast dropped well upwater. He saw the nylon line glinting on the surface, then gradually sink along its length as it swept around the corner.

  He performed twenty, thirty such casts, the line chirping above his head, the cast landing on the fast stretch above the pool and drifting past him. Then it came – a sharp tug. He countered by raising the point of the rod and he was into something. His line tightened and fled downstream. Over the sound of the water came the swift rasp of his reel. He allowed the fish a bit of line, then wound in as it gave him slack. It was swimming upstream now, or lying low under the bank. Kingsley waded in up to his knees. Then it was off downstream again. He applied firmer pressure, allowed the fish to tire itself out, then, reeling in, coaxed it into shallower water. It was hardly fighting now, coming towards him in slow zigzags. Kingsley waded in and netted it. It was a big one, probably a cannibal, almost two pounds. On the shore he dug into the net and brought it out, its body arching sideways in rapid muscular spasms, its mouth wide. With the hand which held it Kingsley could feel an unfamiliar irregularity of the body. Holding it up to the light he perceived a ragged line of rough nodular structures running from the ventral fin on one side and extending under its belly. The fish was diseased. Kingsley put two fingers into its serrated mouth and twisted the hook out, pulling against the barb. Then he placed the trout back in the water and it sank out of sight.

  Chapter 10

  Anthony Cullen was a big man. He filled the chair awkwardly, like a lump of granite in a digger. He came from Glasgow but these origins were only part responsible for the timbre of his voice, significantly altered by twenty years of short, fat cigars. When he spoke there emerged from the depths of his dark suit a noise not unlike the growl of a bear.

  'If it isn't the lovely Mrs Kingsley.' He extended a huge hand and she placed her own within it.

  'Have yourself a seat. I've had a wee word with Alistair – you've been having pains in your leg.'

  'Well, actually,' she demurred, 'I've hardly noticed them these past two weeks.'

  'Amazing what a spot of country air'll do for you. You thought it was the knee joint?'

  'Well, I did originally. Then I thought it was a bit higher. I can bend my leg quite painlessly.' She demonstrated.

  'Excellent – you'd get a job as a Tiller Girl; just get behind there and whip your tights off. What's happening with the famous research project?'

  'Nothing much. Alistair's letting his pathologist get on with it. He's more or less washed his hands of it himself.'

  'I don't blame him. I've never understood the fascination of peering down a microscope all day. Spend all your life hunched up contemplating things no one can see – it's like being in church. Are you ready back there?'

  'Yes,' she called. She heard his chair push backwards. Then he swept aside the screens and inspected her.

  'You never had arthritis in the past?'

  'No.'

  'And your family are all free of it?'

  'Yes, as far as I know.'

  'OK. Alistair couldn't find anything on examination?'

  'No.'

  Meanwhile, like a plumber bending a pipe, he put her through the movements Kingsley had performed.

  'Fine pair of legs,' he pronounced. 'In perfect working order. We'll get you an X-ray. I don't think there's anything wrong there at all.'

  She took the slip he gave her and the nurse directed her down to X-ray. She waited fifteen minutes before they called her in, then lay on the couch as a girl manipulated the heavy machine above her. After a while the technician gave her the films in an envelope and she returned to wait outside Tony Cullen's consulting room. The waiting room had filled now. The man in front had one arm supported at right angles to his body on a complex plaster gantry. Of the five people in her row two had their arms in slings, one had his leg in plaster and a third, when she glanced again, had no foot. She felt fraudulent, sitting amongst them with no obvious stigmata of disease. Cullen, ushering the previous patient to the door, called her in immediately, ahead of the others; double fraud.

  'Right,' he said, taking the films from the cardboard envelope. 'Let's have a look at the snaps.' He slotted them into the viewing screen. An iridescent glow illuminated their faces.

  'That's your lower leg. See that? Tibia. Fibula. Down there is the top of your ankle joint. Nothing wrong there. Do you want to keep them?'

  'No thanks.'

  'Fine, fine.'

  The next film was her hip and femur. When he looked at it, Tony Cullen stopped saying fine.

  He took it off the plastic clips and held it up to the window.

  'All OK?' she asked brightly.

  Initially he didn't answer her. He squinted obliquely at the film in his hand, then returned it to the screen. He raised a big hand and stroked slowly at the lower half of his face. Then he cleared his throat. He took a pen from his top pocket and indicated a lobulated, clear area in the upper part of her femur. 'You see this, Sheila – that's . . . not absolutely normal.'

  'No?'

  'I think we want to look at that a bit closer.'

  'What do you think it is?'

  Tony Cullen looked at her directly. He exhaled from an imaginary cigar. 'First of all I'd like to give you a more thorough examination.' He switched off the viewing screen almost with exasperation, like a late night horror film in which he had lost interest. 'At this stage it's difficult to say.'

  She studied his big face. She didn't mention cancer. Everybody had that kind of nightmare. If she said cancer he would roar with laughter and tell her to put the thought out of her head. He'd pat her benevolently and tell her not to be ridiculous. Cancer was like shark attacks, horrible but infrequent.

  'What sort of thing are you thinking of?'

  'Well . . . ,' said Cullen.

  'Could it be cancer?'

  '. . . Yes.'

  In the silence that followed she bit her lip and took a couple of deep breaths, trying hard to keep her eyes wide open. She formed a few words of reply but no sound came into them.

  Tony Cullen put a great branch of an arm over her shoulder. 'It's one possibility of many, but it's a possibility that you should be aware of. It's doubts and suspicion which really wind people up. I know Alistair feels the same. Once I've re-examined you I'll take some blood tests. We'll need to arrange for another picture – a scan. Maybe we'll eventually have to bring you in to take a sample of the bone. Are you all right now?' His handkerchief was the size of a napkin. 'Do you want me to explain things to Alistair?'

  She tidied her hair with one hand.

  'No . . . No, I'll tell him myself first.'

  She looked around foolishly for somewhere to put the handkerchief.

  'Here,' said Cullen, 'I'll take that. Give us a wee smile. Whatever it is we're sure to be able to do something about it . . . one way or another.'

  'It was a disaster.'

  'What's the problem?'

  'Oh, its just awful.'

 
'Looks all right to me.'

  'Well, I suppose there's nothing I can do about it – except the chop.'

  'I'd just let it grow.'

  Rhona pulled at her fringe. 'Well, I suppose I've got to live with it.'

  Richard Short continued to study her with his mouth full and a look in his eye which suggested that he was capable of devouring something more substantial than the ice-cream in front of him. At the moment his attention seemed to be focused on her neck. Unconsciously, she covered it with one hand.

  '. . . and I wish you wouldn't look at me like that.'

  'Like what?'

  'Like you were planning to rip all my clothes off and cover me in treacle.'

  'There's an idea.'

  She smiled. 'Will you get me a coffee?'

  'Is that what they're calling it?'

  Richard Short rose from the table and walked over to practise his charm on the ladies who served behind the canteen. He had originally opposed the plan to merge dining areas for medical and non-medical staff. But the arrangement had its advantages. It certainly made it easier to bump into Rhona pretty regularly without appearing over attentive.

  He walked back with the coffees. Rhona appeared to take a long and rather encouraging look at his crotch. As he sat down again she asked, 'What have you got in your pocket?'

  'Ah – those? – golf balls . . . old golf balls.'

  He seemed eager to expand on this subject but Rhona denied him the pleasure. She had a pretty astute idea now of Richard Short's intentions towards her. There was a fair chance that she might ultimately allow him some success. In the meantime he was childishly eager to impress and it was possible to derive a fair bit of amusement at his expense. So rather than let him tell her what he did at the hospital with a pocketful of used golf balls, she smiled, adjusted her blouse, pushed back a strand of hair and inquired no further. Their feet met under the table. She moved hers away an inch or so.

  'How about dinner tonight?' said Richard Short.

  'That's very kind of you, Richard, but I really don't want to go out in public until I get used to my new hair.'

  'I wasn't talking about eating in public.'

  'Are you a good cook?'

  'Is the Pope Catholic?'

  She gave a little smile, half suppressed by pursing her lips. The net result was a kind of pout.

  'Are you going to attempt to seduce me?'

  'Would you object?'

  'I'm not sure.'

  'It would help your hair curl.'

  'I can always use a heated roller,' she said.

  Rising to her feet she leant lightly on his arm with just enough of a smile to make Richard Short suspect that she had intended the double entendre.

  He watched her bottom disappear through the polished wooden doorway. When the serving lady came to take his plate away he was sitting back in his chair with the air of a poker player who has been dealt what he thinks is a winning hand.

  Sheila Kingsley was curled on the sofa, mentally constructing the coming conversation with her husband – ' "Have a good day, Alistair?" "Yes, fine." "Have a whisky?" "Thanks, what are we celebrating?" ''Not celebrating, I'm preparing you . . ." "Don't tell me you've smashed the car." ''No . . . I saw Tony Cullen." "Oh yes?" "He says . . . he says . . ." '

  Pull yourself together, Sheila. She folded her legs on the sofa and tucked the shirt in to her skirt. ' "Alistair." "Yup." "Guess what?" "Don't know." "Sit down, this is going to be a shock. I've probably got bone cancer." '

  No, she'd leave it till after dinner. She pulled the skirt over her knees and closed her eyes. She had exhausted her fury and despair walking back through town until her leg ached, buying a blue and white dress she neither liked nor needed.

  In their bedroom the new dress lay unopened on the bed. Outside, beyond the foot of their garden, a wind was blowing through the hermitage. The mature trees broke and gathered like the sea. She had wandered through the guest rooms, through Alistair's study with its leather-topped desk and rows and stacks of medical journals. Back through the lounge, the dining room and into the conservatory, even down into the basement to inspect the stack of logs and the rows of homemade wine. She had ended in the upstairs bathroom, crying into the sink. She had cried herself dry and felt much better. She went down to the kitchen, poured a gin, put on Vivaldi and curled up here on the sofa. She had left the television on with the sound down . . . Now she could sleep for days.

  When she opened her eyes there was a picture of an Arab with a rifle. It had grown darker outside.

  Alistair's car on the gravel. The front door opening.

  His call.

  'Hello,' said Kingsley.

  'Hello,' she said. '. . . Kiss.'

  He stooped to kiss her.

  'What did Tony say then?'

  She took a sip of gin, swallowed it too fast and choked.

  'Oh, he doesn't know – there was something on X-ray.'

  'What sort of something?'

  'Oh, you know, a medical sort of thing. A lesion.'

  Kingsley sat on the sofa. His arm came round her, tightened, like a rope round a climber's waist, and she let go, dripping her mascara on his grey and white striped collar.

  Alone in the hall, Kingsley phoned Tony Cullen's house. It rang twice, then Cullen picked the receiver up.

  'Alistair, I was waiting for you to ring. She asked straight off and I had to tell her.'

  'What did you find?'

  'Well, she's probably told you as much as I can. It was the last thing I expected. I thought the X-rays might show a bit of erosion just. But there's something worrying just below the greater trochanter. It's not a bone cyst.'

  He stopped, allowing Kingsley to draw his own conclusions. 'The thing is, Alistair, reviewing the X-rays, I wouldn't be surprised if this is a primary tumour of bone.'

  'It's not very common at her age is it?'

  'Don't see many of them. But it's what I'd put my money on.'

  Kingsley pinched his forehead. He was trying to remember the first time she had complained of pain. She'd joked about getting old and stiff driving to Paris in July. Who could tell how long the thing had been growing in her leg? 'She tells me you've booked her for a bone scan.'

  'Yes, tomorrow or the next day.'

  'Then?'

  'Well, there's no point messing about. I think we'd want to get her straight in for biopsy. Maybe next week. I've also booked a whole body scan. That'll show us straight off if there's a metastic tumour anywhere else.'

  Kingsley laughed dryly.

  'Why do you laugh?'

  'The whole body scanner – I've always regarded it as an expensive research tool.'

  'Well, I'm sorry if it's against your principles.'

  'God no, I'm getting used to discovering my own hypocrisies.'

  'Happens to all of us as we get on.'

  There was a pause.

  'Look,' said Cullen, 'try not to worry about all this. I can't tell you how sorry I feel. She's a great girl . . .'

  'Thanks, Tony.'

  'I'll keep in touch, Alistair.'

  He had given her two sleeping pills. They lay in bed in the semi-darkness. Outside the trees were moving, throwing faint, mobile shadows on the bedroom ceiling. They breathed in unison.

  'What will they do?' she asked.

  'Who?'

  'If it's bone cancer.'

  'Well . . . it depends on the type of cancer. They might have to amputate your leg.'

  She lay against his chest. After a long time she said, 'And that would be it?'

  'Yes, that would be it.'

  He didn't tell her that even after the amputation of her leg her chances of surviving five years were less than one in four.

  'How d'you fancy a one-legged wife?'

  He said nothing, trying madly to conjure a flippant reply. Instead he kissed her. She laughed. 'It would make yoga easier. I can only ever get one leg crossed. I wouldn't be able to dance.'

  'That makes two of us.'

  She press
ed closer and closed her eyes. After a while her breathing became slow and regular.

  Kingsley lay on his back and watched the shadows. His unspoken doubts about Dhangi now surged forwards to haunt him. The healing touch? List the evidence: there was Henley's 'fingerprints'; there was the sensation of warmth which had once flowed from his own fingers; there were documented cures which had convinced a professor of pathology. The phenomena had ended when Dhangi had left. Proof of his complicity?

  Nonsense. Kingsley managed to reach back into his former view of the world. He had observed in many of his patients how the threat of death could fertilize the most ludicrous myths and notions. His speculations were laughable.

  Or had he, until now, been ignoring hard facts?

  Sheila moved quietly by his side. If Cullen's diagnosis was accurate she would die before she was forty. Amputation would only delay the pain.

  Maybe she didn't have cancer. Maybe the biopsy would prove otherwise. But Cullen would never have raised the subject unless he was convinced.

  Dhangi, however insubstantial, was the only hope.

  Kingsley did not sleep. He got up to go to the bathroom three times during the night. The rest of the time he lay on his back with his hands folded behind his head and a great vacuum in his chest. The thoughts repeated themselves, shifting this way and that, like the shadows on the bedroom ceiling.

  Chapter 11

  Within twenty-four hours of Sheila being seen in the Infirmary, the story of her presumptive diagnosis had already reached the Douglas Calder. It accounted for the porter's solemn nod as Kingsley entered that morning, for the nurse's apologetic haste as he started his own clinic. During the coffee break he stayed in his consulting room. The domestic seemed to understand as well, as she brought him the coffee and retired backwards. Kingsley sat alone with a notepad. He looked at it for a while, then drew it towards himself and started to write: evidence for and against. He had jotted down half a dozen items when the domestic knocked on his door.