His life was a mess. Some part of his nature, timid, indolent, lacking in confidence, had led him into this pattern of indecision, of leaving things to sort themselves out, as if he put his faith in a benevolent providence which would operate on his behalf if left alone. In the three years he had spent at the Manor, how much of that was loyalty, gratitude, the satisfaction of learning from a man at the top of his profession, not wanting to let him down? All those had played a part, but essentially he had stayed because it was easier than facing up to the decision to leave. But he would face up to it now. He would break away, and not only physically. In Africa he could make a difference, more profound, more lasting than anything he had done at the Manor. He had to do something new, and if this were running away, he would be running away to people who desperately needed his skills, to wide-eyed children with appalling and untreated harelips, to the victims of leprosy who needed to be accepted and made whole, to the scarred, the disfigured and the rejects. He needed to smell a stronger air. If he didn’t face Chandler-Powell now, he would never have the courage to act.

He got up stiffly and walked like an old man to the door, then, after pausing a moment, stepped with resolution towards the Manor like a soldier going into battle.

10

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?”

“I suppose a serious talk.”

“Then 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.