Back The Private Patient
Chapters (67)
  1. Cover Page
  2. Title Page
  3. Author’s Note
  4. BOOK ONE
  5. Chapter 1
  6. Chapter 2
  7. Chapter 3
  8. Chapter 4
  9. Chapter 5
  10. Chapter 6
  11. Chapter 7
  12. Chapter 8
  13. Chapter 9
  14. Chapter 10
  15. Chapter 11
  16. Chapter 12
  17. Chapter 13
  18. Chapter 14
  19. Chapter 15
  20. Chapter 16
  21. BOOK TWO
  22. Chapter 1
  23. Chapter 2
  24. Chapter 3
  25. Chapter 4
  26. Chapter 5
  27. Chapter 6
  28. Chapter 7
  29. Chapter 8
  30. Chapter 9
  31. Chapter 10
  32. Chapter 11
  33. Chapter 12
  34. Chapter 13
  35. Chapter 14
  36. Chapter 15
  37. BOOK THREE
  38. Chapter 1
  39. Chapter 2
  40. Chapter 3
  41. Chapter 4
  42. Chapter 5
  43. Chapter 6
  44. Chapter 7
  45. Chapter 8
  46. Chapter 9
  47. Chapter 10
  48. Chapter 11
  49. Chapter 12
  50. Chapter 13
  51. BOOK FOUR
  52. Chapter 1
  53. Chapter 2
  54. Chapter 3
  55. Chapter 4
  56. Chapter 5
  57. Chapter 6
  58. Chapter 7
  59. Chapter 8
  60. Chapter 9
  61. BOOK FIVE
  62. Chapter 1
  63. Chapter 2
  64. Chapter 3
  65. A Note About the Author
  66. Also by P. D. James
  67. Copyright

“My parents had always been poor—not distressingly poor, but every pound counted—and any money I needed had to be saved either from my grant or from working in the holidays. So when I went to London I needed to find somewhere cheap to live. The city centre was obviously too expensive and I had to look further afield. A friend who had gained a place the year before was lodging in Gidea Park, an Essex suburb, and suggested I try there. It was when I was visiting him that I saw an advertisement outside a tobacconist’s shop for a room suitable for a student in Silford Green, only two further stations on the East London line. There was a phone number, so I rang and went to the house. It was semi-detached, occupied by a docker, Stanley Beale, his wife and their two daughters—Shirley, who was eleven, and her younger sister, Lucy, aged eight. Their maternal grandmother also lived in the house. There wasn’t really room for a lodger. The grandmother shared the largest bedroom with the two girls, and Mr. and Mrs. Beale had the second bedroom at the back. I had the third and smallest bedroom, also at the back. But it was cheap, close to the station, the journey was quick and easy and I was desperate. The first week fulfilled my worst fears. The husband and wife were on shouting terms; the grandmother, a sour, disagreeable old woman, was obviously resentful that she was basically a child minder, and whenever we met was full of complaints about her pension, the local council, her daughter’s frequent absences, her son-in-law’s mean insistence that she contribute towards her keep. As I was in London most days and often worked late in the University library, I avoided the worst of the family disputes. Within a week of my arrival, after a quarrel of house-shaking ferocity, Beale finally walked out. I could have done the same, but what kept me there was the younger daughter, Lucy.”

He paused. The silence lengthened and no one interrupted him. He raised his head to look at Dalgliesh, and Kate could hardly bear to watch the anguish she saw.