The Private Patient by P. D. James

need to justify it, or advertise it, or proclaim it to the world. I don’t see why my sexuality should be of interest to anyone except you.”
    He tried to forget the bitterness of the quarrel that followed, Eric’s broken voice at the end, his face smeared with tears, the face of a child.
    â€œIt’s nothing to do with being private; you’re running away. You’re ashamed of what you are, of what I am. And it’s the same with the job. You stay with Chandler-Powell, wasting your skill on a bunch of vain, extravagant rich women obsessed with their looks, when you could be working full-time up here in London. You’d find a job—of course you’d find a job.”
    â€œNot so easily now, and I’m not proposing to waste my talent. I’m going to Africa.”
    â€œTo get away from me.”
    â€œNo, Eric, to get away from myself.”
    â€œYou’ll never do that—never, never!” Eric’s tears, the slamming of the door were the final memory.
    He had been staring at the altar so intently that the cross seemed to blur and become a moving fuzz. He shut his eyes and breathed the damp, cold smell of the place, felt the hard wood of the bench against his back. He remembered the last major operation he had assisted at in St. Angela’s, an elderly NHS patient whose face had been savaged by a dog. She was already sick and, given her prognosis, there must only have been a year of life at most to save, but with what patience, what skill George had put together over long hours a face that could bear the unkind scrutiny of the world. Nothing was ever neglected, nothing hurried or forced. What right had George to waste that commitment and skill even for three days a week on wealthy women who disliked the shape of nose, or mouth, or breast, and who wanted the world to know that they could afford him? What was so important to him that he could spare time on work a lesser surgeon could do, and do as well?
    But to leave him now would still be a betrayal of a man he revered. Not to leave him would be a betrayal of himself and of Candace, the sister who, loving him, knew that he had to break free and urged him to have the courage to act. She herself had never lacked courage. He had slept at Stone Cottage and spent enough time there during his father’s last illness to have gained some idea of what she had to bear during those two years. And now she was left with her job ended, no other in sight, and the prospect of his leaving for Africa. It was what she wanted for him, had worked for and encouraged, but he knew it would leave her lonely. He was planning to desert the two people who loved him—Candace and Eric—and George Chandler-Powell, the man he most admired.
    His life was a mess. Some part of his nature, timid, indolent, lacking in confidence, had led him into this pattern of indecision, of leaving things to sort themselves out, as if he put his faith in a benevolent providence which would operate on his behalf if left alone. In the three years he had spent at the Manor, how much of that was loyalty, gratitude, the satisfaction of learning from a man at the top of his profession, not wanting to let him down? All those had played a part, but essentially he had stayed because it was easier than facing up to the decision to leave. But he would face up to it now. He would break away, and not only physically. In Africa he could make a difference, more profound, more lasting than anything he had done at the Manor. He had to do something new, and if this were running away, he would be running away to people who desperately needed his skills, to wide-eyed children with appalling and untreated harelips, to the victims of leprosy who needed to be accepted and made whole, to the scarred, the disfigured and the rejects. He needed to smell a stronger air. If he didn’t face Chandler-Powell now, he would never have the courage to act.
    He got up stiffly and walked like an