Arthur Hailey - Strong Medicine

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

Beside her, Martin announced quietly, "King's College Chapel the 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, "Many 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 effect 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 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-"Didn't know as you was coming, 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, Peat-Smith, 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.

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. When the tray was set down, Martin put his arm around his father.”Dad does everything for mother--dresses her, combs her hair, feeds her, and some other things less pleasant. There was a time, Celia, when my father and I weren't the closest of friends. But we are now.”

"Tha's right. Used ter have a lot of hot arguments," Martin's father said. He addressed Celia.”You want milk in the tea?" "Yes, please.” "Was a time," the older man said, "when I din't think much of all them scholarships Martin an' his ma was set on, I wanted 'im to go to work wi' me. But 'is ma got the best of it an', the way it worked out, Vs been a good lad to us. Pays for this place, an' most else we need.”

He glanced at Martin, then added, "An' over at that college, I hear he ain't done bad.”

"No," Celia said, "he hasn't done badly at all.”

It was almost two hours later. "Is it okay to talk while you're doing that?" Celia inquired from the comfortably cushioned seat where she was reclining. "Sure. Why not?" As he spoke, Martin, who was standing, thrust a long punt pole away from him; it found purchase on the river's shallow bottom, and the awkward flat-bottomed craft they were sharing glided easily upstream. Martin seemed to do everything well, Celia thought, including handling a punt-something at which few people were skilled, judging by others they had passed on the river and who, by comparison, were bumbling their way along. Martin had rented the punt at a Cambridge boatyard and they were now on their way to Grantchester, three miles southward, for what would be a late picnic lunch. "This is personal," Celia said, "and maybe I shouldn't ask. But I was wondering about the difference between you and your father. For example, the way you each speak-and I don't just mean being grammatical...”