Strong Medicine (36 page)

usual family talk, Celia told Andrew about Dr. Peat-Smith, the

disappointment concerning him, and her exchanges on the subject with Sam.

She also informed Andrew that she was meeting Mar-tin the following day.

"Do you think he might change his mind?" Andrew inquired.

"I've an instinct it could happen," Celia answered. "Perhaps under

certain circumstances, though I've no idea what they might be. What I

don't want to do, when we talk tomorrow, is handle things badly."

There was a silence on the telephone and she could sense her husband

ruminating, turning things over in his mind. Then he said, "Sam's partly

right in what he's said, but maybe not altogether. In my experience

you'll never insult anyone by letting them know they have a high monetary

value. In fact, most of us rather like it, even if we have no intention

of accepting the money offered."

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"Keep talking," Celia said. She respected Andrew's wisdom, his knack of

going directly to the nub of any situation.

He continued, "From what you tell me, Peat-Smith is a straightforward

person."

"Very much so."

"In that case, I suggest you deal with him the same way. By being

complicated, trying to outguess him, you could defeat your own purpose.

Besides, deviousness isn't your style, Celia. Be yourself. That way, if

it seems natural to talk money-or anything else -just do it."

"Andrew darling," she responded, "what would I do without you?"

"Nothing important, I hope." Then he added, "Now that you've told me

about tomorrow, I'll admit to feeling a mite jealous about you and

Peat-Smith."

Celia laughed. "It's strictly business. It will stay that way."

Now it was Sunday.

Alone, in a first class no-smoking compartment aboard an early morning

London-to-Cambridge train, Celia allowed her head to fall back against

the cushion behind her. Relaxing, she began using the hour-and-a-quarter

journey to order her thoughts.

Earlier, she had taken a taxi from her hotel to Liverpool Street

Station-a grim, cast-iron-and-brick Victorian legacy, frenetically busy

from Mondays through Fridays but quieter at weekends. The quietness meant

that few people were aboard the diesel-electric train as it rumbled from

the station, and Celia was glad of her solitude.

Mentally she reconstructed the past two weeks' events and conversations,

wondering once more whose advice she should take today-Andrew's or Sam's.

The meeting with Martin, while outwardly social, could be important for

Felding-Roth as well as for herself. Sam's warning came back to her:

"Let's not blow it by being crass!"

The rhythmic sound of wheels over rails lulled her, and the journey

passed swiftly. As the train slowed and pulled into Cambridge, Martin

Peat-Smith-his welcome expressed in that broad, cheerful smile-was

waiting on the station platform.

At age forty-one, Celia knew she looked good. She also felt it. Her soft

brown hair was trimmed short, her figure slim and firm, her

high-cheekboned face tanned and healthy from recent weeks

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out of doors and the unusually benevolent British summer, which was

continuing today.

Nowadays her hair held beginning strands of gray. This reminder of time

passing rarely bothered her, though occasionally she camouflaged the gray

with a color rinse. She had used the rinse the night before.

She was dressed for a summer's day in a cotton voile dress of green and

white, with a lacy petticoat beneath. She had on white, high-heeled

sandals and a broad-brimmed white straw hat. The entire outfit had been

bought in London's West End the preceding week because, when packing in

New Jersey, it had not occurred to her she would need such warm-weather

clothes in Britain.

As she stepped down from the train she was aware of Martin's admiring

gaze. For a moment he seemed lost for words, then, taking her extended

hand, he said, "Hello! You look wonderful, and I'm glad you came."

"You look pretty good yourself."

Martin laughed and flashed a boyish smile. He was wearing a navy-blue

blazer, white flannels and an open-necked shirt. "I promised you I'd wear

my suit," he said. "But I found this old outfit which I haven't had on

for years. It seemed less formal."

As they walked from the station, Celia linked her arm in his. "Where are

we going?"

"My car's outside. I thought we'd drive around a bit, then walk through

some colleges, and later we'll have a picnic."

"It all sounds great."

"While you're here, is there anything else you'd like to do or see?"

She hesitated, then said, I 'Yes, there is one other thing."

"What's that?"

"I'd like to meet your mother."

Martin, surprised, turned his head to look at her. "I can take you to my

parents' home right after we've done our tour. If you're sure that's what

you want."

"Yes," she said, "it's what I want."

Martin's car was a Morris Mini Minor of indeterminate age. After they

squeezed themselves in, he drove circuitously through old Cambridge

streets and parked on Queen's Road by the "Backs." He told Celia, "We

walk from here." Leaving the car, they followed a footpath to King's

Bridge over the River Cam.

At the bridge, Celia stopped. Shading her eyes from the bright

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morning sun, she said with awe, "I've seldom seen anything more lovely."

Beside her, Martin announced quietly, "King's College Chapelthe noblest

view of all."

Immediately ahead were serene lawns and shady trees. Beyond was the great

chapel-a vision of turrets, sturdy buttresses and lofty spires rising over

a glorious vaulted roof and stained-glass windows. The pale stone buildings

of colleges on either side conveyed a complementary sense of history and

nobility.

"Let me do my tour guide act," Martin said. "It goes like this: We're an

old foundation. In 1441, King Henry VI began what you see here, and

Peterhouse, over to the south, is even older. It started 'the Cambridge

quest for knowledge' in 1284."

Without thinking, Celia said impulsively, "How could anyone who truly

belongs here ever leave this place?"

Martin answered, "Na ny never have. There were great scholars who lived and

worked at Cambridge until they died. And some of us-younger and

living--have a similar idea."

For two more hours they alternately walked and rode, and in the process

Celia imbibed the lore and love of Cambridge. Place names stayed with her:

Jesus Green, Midsummer Common, Parker's Piece, Coe Fen, Lammas Land,

Trinity, Queens', Newnham. The list seemed endless, as did Martin's

knowledge. "As well as scholars who stayed, others have taken this place

elsewhere," he told her. "One was an M.A. from Emmanuel College, John

Harvard. There's another place of learning named after him." He gave his

familiar, twisted grin. "I forget just where."

At length, as they eased back into the Mini, Martin asserted, "I think that

will do. We'll save anything else for another time." Abruptly, his face

became serious. "Do you still want to see my parents? I have to warn you-my

mother won't know either of us, or why we're there. The elffect can be

depressing."

"Yes," Celia said, "I still want to."

The terraced house, small and undistinguished, was in a district called the

Kite. Martin parked on the street outside and used a key to go in. From a

small, dimly lighted hallway he called out, "Dad! It's me, and I have a

guest."

There was a sound of shuffling footsteps, a door opened, and an elderly

man, wearing a faded sweater and baggy corduroy trousers, appeared. As he

came closer, Celia was startled by the physical

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resemblance between father and son. The older Peat-Smith had the same stocky

solidity as Martin, a similar rugged, square-jawed face -though more seamed

with age-and even a quick, shy smile as they were introduced seemed a

duplicate of Martin's.

When the older man spoke, the similarity ceased. His voice revealed a

discordant, coarse, provincial twang; his sentences, roughly framed,

suggested little education.

"Pleased to meet yer," he told Celia. And to Martin-"Din't know as you was

comin, son. Only just got yer ma dressed. She ain't bin none too good

today."

"We won't stay long, Dad," Martin said, and told Celia, "The Alzheimer's

has been a big strain on my father. That's often the way it is-it's harder

on the families than the patient."

As they moved into a modest, nondescript living room, PeatSmith, Senior,

asked Celia, "Yer wan' a cuppa?"

"That's tea," Martin translated.

"Thank you, I'd love some tea," Celia said. "I'm thirsty after our tour."

While Martin's father walked into a tiny kitchen, Martin went to kneel

beside a gray-haired woman who was seated in a baggy armchair with a

flowered cover. She had not moved since they came in. Putting his arms

around her, he kissed her tenderly.

Once, Celia thought, the older woman had been beautiful and even now was

handsome in a faded way. Her hair was neatly combed. She was wearing a

simple beige dress with a row of beads. At her son's kiss she appeared to

respond a little, and gave the slightest smile, but not, it seemed, of

recognition.

"Mother, I'm your son, Martin," Martin said; his voice was gentle. "And

this lady is Celia Jordan, She's from America. I've been showing her around

Cambridge. She likes our little town."

"Hello, Mrs. Peat-Smith," Celia said. "Thank you for letting me visit your

home."

The gray-haired woman's eyes moved, again with that tantalizing hint of

understanding. But Martin told Celia, "There's nothing there, I'm afraid.

No memory left at all. But where my mother's concerned I allow myself to be

non-scientific and keep trying to get through."

"I understand." Celia hesitated, then asked, "Do you think that if your

research progresses, if you discover something important soon, there might

be a chance . . ."

"Of helping her?" Martin answered decisively, "Absolutely none.

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No matter what's discovered, nothing will revive a dead brain cell. I've

no illusions about that." Standing, he looked down at his mother sadly.

"No, it's others who'll be helped someday soon. Others who haven't

advanced this far."

"You're sure of that, aren't you?"

"I'm sure some answers will be found-by me or someone else."

"But you'd like to be the one who finds them."

Martin shrugged. "Every scientist would like to be first in making a

discovery. That's human. But"-he glanced toward his mother-"it's more

important that someone discover the cause of Alzheimer's."

"So it's possible," Celia persisted, "that someone other than you could

get there first."

"Yes," Martin said. "In science that can always happen."

Peat-Smith, Senior, came in from the kitchen with a tray containing a

teapot, cups and saucers, and a milk jug.