Again Sarah said nothing. And she was preparing to leave when Turner changed the subject abruptly, and in an unexpected direction.
Or was it unexpected?
“I couldn’t help seeing the articles in the newspapers... and the department was talking about them.”
Sarah nodded.
“Would it mean a lot to you if they found who murdered your mother?”
“What do you think?” The tone of her voice bordered almost on the insolent, but Turner interpreted her reply tolerantly, for it was (he knew) hardly the most intelligent question he’d ever formulated.
“Let’s just wish them better luck,” he said.
“Better brains, too!”
“Perhaps they’ll put Morse on to it this time.”
Sarah’s eyes locked steadily on his.
“Morse?”
“You don’t know him?”
“No.”
“Heard of him, perhaps?” Turner’s eyes grew suddenly shrewd on hers, and she hesitated before answering:
“Didn’t my mother mention she’d nursed him somewhere?”
“Would you like to meet him, next time he comes in?”
“Pardon?”
“You didn’t know he was diabetic?”
“We’ve got an awful lot of diabetics here.”
“Not too many like him, thank the Lord! Four hefty injections a day, and he informs me that he’s devised a carefully calibrated dosage that exactly counterbalances his considerable daily intake of alcohol. And when I say considerable... Quite a dab hand, too, is Morse, at extrapolating his blood-sugar readings — backwards!”
“Isn’t he worried about... about what he’s doing to himself?”
“Why not ask him? I’ll put him on your list.”
“Only if you promise to come along to monitor me.”
“With you around? Oh, no! Morse wouldn’t like that.”
“How old is he?”
“Too old for you.”
“Single.”
“Gracious, yes! Far too independent a spirit for marriage... Anyway, have a good weekend! Anything exciting on?”
“Important, perhaps, rather than exciting. We’ve got a meeting up at Hook Norton tomorrow at the Pear Tree Inn. We’re organizing another Countryside March.”
“That’s the ‘rural pursuits’ thing, isn’t it? Foxhunting—”
“Among other things.”
“The ‘toffs and the serfs.’”
Sarah shook her head with annoyance. “That’s just the sort of comment we get from the urban chattering-classes!”
“Sorry!” Turner held up his right hand in surrender. “You’re quite right. I know next to nothing about foxhunting, and I’m sure there must be things to be said in favor of it. But — please! — don’t go and tell Morse about them. We just happened to be talking about foxhunting the last time he was here — it was in the news — and I can’t help remembering what he said.”
“Which was?” she asked coldly.
“First, he said he’d never thought much of the argument that the fox enjoys being chased and being pulled to little pieces by the hounds.”
“Does he think the chickens enjoy being pulled to little pieces by the fox?”
“Second, that the sort of people who hunt do considerably more harm to themselves than they do to the animals they hunt. He said they run a big risk of brutalizing themselves... dehumanizing themselves.”
The two of them, master and pupil, looked at each other over the desk for an awkward while; and the Professor of Diabetes Studies thought he may have seen a flash of something approaching fury in the dark-brown eyes of his probationary consultant.
It was the latter who spoke first:
“Mind if I say something?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m surprised, that’s all. I fully, almost fully, accept your criticisms of my professional manner and my strategy with patients. But from what you’ve just said you sometimes seem to talk to your patients about other things than diabetes.”
“Touché.”
“But you’re right... Robert. I’ve been getting too chatty, I realize that. And I promise that when I see Mr. Morse I’ll try very hard, as you suggest, to instill some sort of disciplined regimen into his daily life.”
Turner said nothing in reply. It was a good thing for her to have the last word: she’d feel so much better when she came to think back on the interview. As she would, he knew that. Many times. But he allowed himself a few quietly spoken words after the door had closed behind her:
“Oh Lady in Pink — Oh lovely Lady in Pink! There is very, very little chance of a disciplined regimen in Morse’s life.”
Chapter seven
Whoever could possibly confuse “Traffic Lights” and “Driving Licence?” You could! Just stand in front of your mirror tonight and mouth those two phrases silently to yourself.
Disabilities, like many sad concomitants of life, are often cloaked in euphemism. Thus it is that the “blind” and the “impotent” and the “deaf” are happily no longer amongst us. Instead, in their respective clinics, we know our fellow outpatients as those affected by impaired vision; as victims of chronic erectile dysfunction; as citizens with a serious hearing impediment. The individual members of such groups, however, know perfectly well what their troubles are. And in the latter category, they tend to prefer the monosyllabic “deaf,” although they realize that there are varying degrees of deafness; realize that some are very deaf indeed.
Like Simon Harrison.
He had been a six-year-old (it was 1978) attending a village school in Gloucestershire when an inexplicably localized outbreak of meningitis had given cause for most serious concern in the immediate vicinity. And in particular to two families there: to the Palmer family in High Street, whose only daughter had tragically died; and to the Harrison family in Church Lane, whose son had slowly recovered in hospital after three weeks of intensive care, but with irreversible long-term deafness: twenty-five percent residual hearing in the left ear; and almost nothing in the right.
Thereafter, for Simon, social and academic progress had been seriously curtailed and compromised: like an athlete being timed for the hundred-meters sprint over sand dunes wearing army boots; like a pupil, with thick wadges of cotton-wool in each ear, seeking to follow instructions vouchsafed by a tutor from behind a thickly paneled door.
Oh God! Being deaf was such a dispiriting business.
But Simon was a fighter, and he’d tried hard to make the best of things. Tried so hard to master the skills of lip reading; to learn the complementary language of “signing” with movements of fingers and hands; to present a wholly bogus facial expression of comprehension in the company of others; above all, to come to terms with the fact that silence, for those who are deaf, is not merely an absence of noise, but is a wholly passive silence, in which the potential vibrancy of active silence can never again be appreciated. Deafness is not the brief pregnant silence on the radio when the listener awaits the Greenwich time-signal; deafness is a radio set that is defunct, its batteries dead and nonrenewable.
Few people in Simon’s life had understood such things; and in his early teens, when the audiographical readings had begun to dip even more alarmingly, fewer and fewer people had been overly sympathetic.
Except his mother, perhaps.
And the reason for such lack of interest in the boy had not been difficult to fathom. He was an unattractive, skinny-limbed lad, with rather protuberant ears, and a whiny, nasal manner of enunciating his words, as though his disability were not so much one of hearing as one of speaking.