It was a room-shaped room with furniture-shaped furniture, and dainty curtains. The bed was provided with an electric blanket. There was a vase containing three marigolds beside the bed and a book called
Mr Joshua Wain had a firm, dry handshake and a resonant, encouraging voice. He had a lot of bushy grey hair above an unlined brow, soft, clear brown eyes, and a sincere and Christian smile. He appeared to be genuinely pleased to see Bond and to be interested in him. He wore a very clean smock-like coat with short sleeves from which strong hairy arms hung relaxed. Below were rather incongruous pin-stripe trousers. He wore sandals over socks of conservative grey and when he moved across the consulting room his stride was a springy lope.
Mr Wain asked Bond to remove all his clothes except his pants. When he saw the many scars he said politely, ‘Dear me, you do seem to have been in the wars, Mr Bond.’
Bond said indifferently, ‘Near miss. During the war.’
‘Really! War between peoples is a terrible thing. Now, just breathe in deeply, please.’ Mr Wain listened at Bond’s back and chest, took his blood pressure, weighed him and recorded his height, and then, after asking him to lie face down on a surgical couch, handled his joints and vertebrae with soft, probing fingers.
While Bond replaced his clothes, Mr Wain wrote busily at his desk. Then he sat back. ‘Well, Mr Bond, nothing much to worry about here, I think. Blood pressure a little high, slight osteopathic lesions in the upper vertebrae – they’ll probably be causing your tension headaches, by the way – and some right sacroiliac strain with the right ilium slightly displaced backwards. Due to a bad fall some time, no doubt.’ Mr Wain raised his eyes for confirmation.
Bond said, ‘Perhaps.’ Inwardly he reflected that the ‘bad fall’ had probably been when he had had to jump from the Arlberg Express after Heinkel and his friends had caught up with him around the time of the Hungarian uprising in 1956.
‘Well now.’ Mr Wain drew a printed form towards him and thoughtfully ticked off items on a list. ‘Strict dieting for one week to eliminate the toxins in the blood-stream. Massage to tone you up, irrigation, hot and cold Sitz baths, osteopathic treatment and a short course of Traction to get rid of the lesions. That should put you right. And complete rest, of course. Just take it easy, Mr Bond. You’re a civil servant, I understand. Do you good to get away from all that worrying paper-work for a while. ’ Mr Wain got up and handed the printed form to Bond. ‘Treatment rooms in half an hour, Mr Bond. No harm in starting right away.’
‘Thank you.’ Bond took the form and glanced at it. ‘What’s Traction, by the way?’
‘A medical device for stretching the spine. Very beneficial.’ Mr Wain smiled indulgently. ‘Don’t be worried by what some of the other patients tell you about it. They call it “The Rack”. You know what wags some people are.’
‘Yes.’
Bond walked out and along the white painted corridor. People were sitting about, reading or talking in soft tones in the public rooms. They were all elderly, middle-class people, mostly women, many of whom wore unattractive quilted dressing-gowns. The warm, close air and the frumpish women gave Bond claustrophobia. He walked through the hall to the main door and let himself out into the wonderful fresh air.
