Surgeon at Arms

to sound like Haileybury.
    It was fortunate for the reputation of Sister Mills at the Kenworth Hospital that she had charge of a children’s ward. Unlike the adult patients, who had little to do except listen to Workers’ Playtime through the headphones and intensely observe the personal behaviour of the staff, the youngsters saw nothing remarkable—only some welcome entertainment—in a wide-eyed little man bursting among them, a startled cry from Sister, a whispered conversation, glances between bewildered nurses, a brisk retreat to Sister’s office, a slamming of the door. Graham reflected afterwards he could as well have telephoned, but his unexpected appearance was much more dramatic and much more satisfying. In the office, they were far too confused and embarrassed to say very much, nor even to approach within arm’s length of each other. Graham told her he must see her, it was desperate—couldn’t he even take her to dinner? She demurred, trying to adjust her mind to the situation. But he was never a man to lose the advantage of a woman’s hesitation.
    ‘All right,’ Clare agreed doubtfully. ‘All right, Graham. For old times’ sake.’
    ‘That’s wonderful! We’ll have so much to talk about. It’s only three whole years since we—’ He wondered how to put it. ‘Went our separate ways.’
    She couldn’t prevent herself asking, ‘Did you miss me?’
    ‘Like an amputated limb. You know how the patients get pain in them, don’t you? “A phantom limb.” It hurts worse than ever, even if it isn’t there.’
    She gave a nervous smile and said, ‘You mustn’t forget the limb’s always amputated for the patient’s own good.’
    There was a pause. Neither of them felt entirely sure where the conversation was leading. Both were relieved for it to be frustrated by a knock on the door and the news that a child due for release, overcome by excitement, had vomited copiously over the newly cleaned floor.
    Two evenings later they met. Graham had chosen a restaurant in Soho, whispered among a small and knowing circle as providing with its generous portions not only butter but crisp, white, mysteriously unrationed bread. By then both he and Clare had found time to adjust themselves, and were perfectly charming to each other. They sat in the corner of the small, rose-lighted room, chatting gaily of pointedly inconsequentoal generalities. Graham had really no precise idea what he was going to propose to her, and hoped he could rely on her delicacy to raise nothing that would make him feel too uncomfortable. He picked up the wine-list and suggested champagne, adding half-humorously, ‘This place is terribly black market.’
    ‘Oh, everyone these days knows someone who can get them something.’ Clare smiled. ‘Our theatre porter finds us the most lovely nylons—“They dropped off a lorry” is the story. It must have been an extremely large pantechnicon.’
    ‘I’m growing rather tired of all that, you know. I’ve had some sort of moral conversion. And, like most converts, I was scared into it.’ He picked up the evening paper, beside them on the table. Lord Cazalay and Arthur had been charged that morning with a number of offences from bribery of Government officials to possessing unauthorized sweet coupons. To Graham’s relief, there was still no mention of currency transactions. ‘You’ve read all about this, I suppose?’
    ‘Is there anyone who hasn’t?’
    ‘But I think I can entertain you with some unpublished details.’
    Over dinner he gave a frank account of his life since she had walked out of Cosy Cot, with the exception of Liz. In his penitent mood he was half-inclined to throw her in too, but consoled himself that Clare would certainly suspect he had been mixed up with a woman or two, and through natural female pride and vanity imagine them goddesses. If she became increasingly serious and sympathetic, Graham had been smugly confident of as much. His moral weakness had always been of as much concern to her as his physical ones, he reflected, and she accepted both with the same resignation. She hadn’t changed, he told himself. Though if she had changed towards him was a separate question. When he finished the tale she held his hand under the table, and said, ‘Poor Graham! You did get yourself in a mess, didn’t you?’
    ‘I didn’t have you to keep me out of it.’
    He started to talk about his new job, a conversation which drifted naturally back to the annex and