The Private Patient by P. D. James Page A

old man to the door, then, after pausing a moment, stepped with resolution towards the Manor like a soldier going into battle.

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    Marcus found George Chandler-Powell in the operating suite. He was alone and occupied in counting a new delivery of instruments, examining each carefully, turning it over in his hand and replacing it in its tray with a kind of reverence. This was a job for an operating-department assistant and Joe Maskell would arrive at seven o’clock next morning to prepare for the first operation of the day. Marcus knew that checking the instruments didn’t mean that Chandler-Powell had little confidence in Joe—he employed no one whom he couldn’t trust—but here he was at home with his two passions, his work and his house, and now he was like a child picking over his favourite toys.
    Marcus said, “I wanted to have a word with you, if you’ve got time.”
    Even to his own ears his voice sounded unnatural, oddly pitched. Chandler-Powell didn’t look up. “That depends on what you mean by a word. A word or a serious talk?”
    â€œI suppose a serious talk.”
    â€œThen I’ll finish here and we’ll go to the office.”
    For Marcus there was something intimidating in the suggestion. It was too reminiscent of boyhood summonses to his father’s study. He wished he could speak now, get it over with. But he waited until the last drawer was shut and George Chandler-Powell led the way out of the door into the garden, through the back of the house and the hall, to the office. Lettie Frensham was seated at the computer, but as they entered, she muttered a low apology and quietly left. Chandler-Powell sat down at the desk, motioned Marcus to a chair and sat waiting. Marcus tried to convince himself that the silence wasn’t a carefully controlled impatience.
    Since it seemed unlikely that George would speak first, Marcus said, “I’ve come to a decision about Africa. I wanted to let you know that I’ve finally made up my mind to join Mr. Greenfield’s team. I’d be grateful if you could release me in three months’ time.”
    Chandler-Powell said, “I take it you’ve been to London and spoken to Mr. Greenfield. No doubt he pointed out some of the problems, your future career among them.”
    â€œYes, he did all that.”
    â€œMatthew Greenfield is one of the best plastic surgeons in Europe, probably among the six best in the world. He’s also a brilliant teacher. We can take his qualifications for granted—FRCS, FRCS (Plast), Master of Surgery. He goes to Africa to teach and to set up a centre of excellence. That’s what Africans want, to learn how to cope for themselves, not to have white people going in to take over.”
    â€œI wasn’t thinking of taking over, just of helping. There’s so much to be done. Mr. Greenfield thinks I could be useful.”
    â€œOf course he does; he wouldn’t otherwise want to waste his time or yours. But what exactly do you think you’re offering? You’re an FRCS and a competent surgeon, but you’re not qualified to teach, nor even to cope unaided with the most complicated cases. And even a year in Africa will interfere seriously with your career—that is, if you see yourself as having one. It hasn’t been helpful to you staying here, and I pointed that out when you first came. This new MMC—Modernising Medical Careers—makes training schemes far more rigid. Housemen have become foundation-year doctors—and we all know what a mess the government have made there—senior house officers are out, registrars are specialist surgical trainees, and God knows how long all this will last before they think of something else, more forms to fill in, more bureaucracy, more interference with people trying to get on with their jobs. But one thing’s certain: if you want to make a career in surgery, you need to be on the