‘Oh, ages. 1970.’ Brock wondered if this was really necessary. He was beginning to feel like a suspect.
Beamish-Newell questioned him at length about his diet and eating habits and then moved on to his health record, confirming that he hadn’t smoked for ten years and querying his estimate of his alcohol intake. ‘Did you bring any alcoholic drinks here with you?’
‘I did as a matter of fact.’ Brock felt absurdly guilty. ‘A bottle of whisky.’
Beamish-Newell nodded. ‘Many people do, the first time they come here, David.’ The confession seemed to have earned the use of the first name. ‘But I don’t want you to touch it. What you drink is part of your diet, and diet is central to what we do. Abstinence is an important tool in the control of diet, as in the control of self. I shall invite you to embrace abstinence willingly, David. Forgoing the whisky will be the first step. All right?’
Brock nodded. This was going to be more serious than he had thought.
‘You say you want to achieve general physical well-being. Apart from the shoulder, how do you feel about your physical state, would you say?’
‘Oh … a bit flabby, I think. Need to lose a few pounds.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. In fact I’m not sure how much I weigh normally. But I’d say I’m up a bit at present.’
Beamish-Newell went on at some length, discussing sleeping patterns, headaches, stiff joints, until he returned to Brock’s shoulder.
‘I got it a long time ago, when I was in my twenties. Had a fall.’
‘Sporting accident?’ He was adding notes on the back of Brock’s questionnaire.
‘No. I was in the army. Malaya.’
‘Really?’ Beamish-Newell looked up. ‘Wouldn’t have taken you for the military type.’
Brock smiled amiably, the picture of an unmilitary civil servant. ‘I took a short-service commission when I finished university, rather than do National Service. More eventful than I expected. Malaya, Cyprus, Aden.’
‘Did you enjoy that?’
‘Yes, I did as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?’ ‘Just curious. Did you kill anyone?’ He was staring at Brock intently.
Brock looked back at him, surprised. ‘No. Not directly, at any rate. But then the hand that pulls the trigger isn’t the only one that kills, is it, doctor?’
‘Indeed. Does it ever trouble you, what you were involved in doing then?’
‘Only my shoulder. As I said, I had a fall. Broke the collarbone et cetera, and was laid up for a couple of months. Ever since, it plays up from time to time.’
‘Take your dressing gown off, will you?’
Brock did as he was told and made to get up.
‘It’s all right. Sit down.’ Beamish-Newell came round the desk, moved behind Brock and began to probe his shoulder and spine. Brock winced.
‘Here?’
‘Yes, and closer to the spine … Yes, there.’
‘Which university did you go to before the army?’ Beamish-Newell continued feeling as he spoke. ‘Cambridge.’
‘Really? So did I. Which college?’ ‘Trinity.’
The fingers stopped prodding and Brock began to relax. ‘I was at King’s.’
Suddenly Beamish-Newell’s arms came round Brock’s head, gripping it hard and violently twisting it to the left. For a moment Brock thought he was trying to kill him. Then the arms abruptly released him.
‘Try moving your head and arm now,’ the doctor said, as if nothing had happened.
Brock did. ‘It feels … different.’
Beamish-Newell nodded and returned to his seat. He began writing again. ‘Should relieve it a bit. But you’ll need physiotherapy. And acupuncture — ever had that?’
‘No, never.’
‘Well, it’ll be a new experience. But not for the first few days. First we’re going to get rid of some of the accumulated poisons in your system.’
He began writing rapidly on another sheet, which looked like a chart of some kind. When he had finished he looked up.
‘What’s your real reason for coming here, David?’
Brock wondered if the surprise showed on his face. He had been finding it unexpectedly difficult to lie, something he had assumed that, having studied so many experts, he would have no problem with.
‘I, er… I mentioned the reason on the form there. My health…’
‘Is that the real reason?’
‘I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘People come here for many reasons, David. Not always the ones they put on the form. Companionship, perhaps, or time to get away, resolve some problem.’
‘Ah, yes. There may well be something of that. Sometimes one’s motives aren’t altogether clear, even to oneself.’
‘Exactly. And if we are to help you in any real way, we must come to an understanding of what it is you are really seeking here.’
Brock nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, yes, I see that.’
‘How did you come to choose us, by the way?’
‘Someone at work told me about you.’
‘Oh really? Who was that?’
‘A colleague. Not one of your patients, but they knew of you through people who had been here. I wouldn’t have thought of it except I was suddenly told by Personnel to take some of my back leave, and when someone mentioned Stanhope I thought, why not?’
‘Interesting. Some of our most important decisions are made spontaneously, you know. Let’s hope you find that this is one of them. Many of our patients have found exactly that, and they’ve then wanted to become more involved in the clinic, feel more a part of it. If you came to that view, you would find many advantages in talking to Ben Bromley, our Business Manager.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He has developed a number of highly tax-effective packages for people who would like to support what we do here and at the same time invest in their own health.’
‘Well, I’ll certainly do that.’
‘Good. Now, I’ll introduce you to my wife. She’ll be supervising the treatment regime which I’ll work out for you, and she’ll want to meet you and show you round the treatment facilities.’
He lifted the phone. While he waited, Brock looked around the room. Near the door he spotted a small framed picture, and he got to his feet to have a closer look. It was a coloured etching, the view of a classical house in a parkland landscape. Beneath it was a title: The Malcontenta.
‘You recognize it?’ the voice said behind him. ‘It looks familiar.’
‘You just walked through that portico. It’s this house, when it was first built, in the eighteenth century. Without the west wing, of course.’
‘Ah yes. And the title?’
‘That’s the name of an Italian house it was modelled on. You’ll find a history of the place in the library if you’re interested.’
Beamish-Newell tried another number. ‘Laura’s probably still tied up with the afternoon sessions. Hello? … Ah, Rose, is Mrs Beamish-Newell with you? … No? Well, I wonder if you could come up to collect a new patient … Yes, my office.’ He put down the receiver. ‘Are you interested in architecture, David?’
Brock shrugged. ‘I sometimes wonder how we manage to persuade ourselves to go to all the trouble of making such permanent things, knowing our own time is so limited.’
‘That’s a particularly apt observation as it happens. The gardens here were laid out as a kind of architectural discourse on the theme of mortality, a sort of eighteenth-century conceit about life and death. If you look closely at the etching, you’ll see a small ruined pyramid under that tree to the right. It’s actually out there, if you search for it, at the end of the avenue of cypresses. And there are other things scattered about, reminders of what’s in store for us.’
‘From my room just now I could see a rather forbidding-looking temple hidden among the trees at the back. Is that one of the reminders?’
‘In a way. At least it was originally. When the garden was set out they built just the four columns and the pediment on that little hill as a folly, a ruin. Then much later, early this century, the owner of the house had the temple building constructed behind the ruined front. Resurrecting the imaginary original building, if you like — the building that had never been there.’