by A. J. Cronin
Llewellyn did not smile. After the faintest pause he said:
‘Come in here a minute, my dear chap.’ And he drew Andrew into the sitting-room. ‘We’ve been trying to find you, on your round, all morning.’
Llewellyn’s manner, his hesitation, the strange sympathy in his voice, shot a wave of coldness over Andrew. He faltered:
‘Is anything wrong?’
Llewellyn looked through the window, his glance travelling towards the bridge, as if searching for the best, the kindest explanation. Andrew could bear it no longer. He could scarcely breathe, his breast was filled with a stifling agony of suspense.
‘Manson,’ Llewellyn said gently, ‘ this morning – as your wife was going over the bridge – one of the rotten planks gave way. She’s all right now, quite all right; but I’m afraid –’
He understood even before Llewellyn finished. A great pulse of anguish beat within him.
‘You might like to know,’ Llewellyn went on, in a tone of quiet compassion, ‘that we did everything. I came at once, brought matron from the hospital, we’ve been here all day –’
There was a bar of silence. A sob broke in Andrew’s throat, another, then another. He covered his eyes with his hand.
‘Please, my dear fellow,’ Llewellyn entreated, ‘who could help an accident like that? I beg of you – go up and console your wife.’
His head lowered, holding to the banister, Andrew went upstairs. Outside the door of the bedroom he paused, scarcely breathing, then, stumblingly, he went in.
Chapter Fourteen
By the year 1927 Doctor Manson of Aberalaw had a somewhat unusual reputation. His practice was not prodigious – numerically his list had not greatly increased since those first nervous days of his arrival in the town. But everyone upon that list had a convincing belief in him. He used few drugs – indeed, he had the incredible habit of advising his patients against medicine – but when he did use them he prescribed in shattering style. It was no uncommon sight to see Gadge drooping across the waiting-room with a prescription in his hand.
‘What’s all this, Doctor Manson? Sixty-grain doses of K Br for Evans Jones! And the Pharmacopoeia says five.’
‘So does Aunt Kate’s dream-book! Go ahead with sixty, Gadge. You know you’d really enjoy knocking off Evan Jones.’
But Evan Jones, epileptic, was not knocked off. Instead he was seen, a week later, his fits lessened, taking walks in the Public Park.
The Committee ought to have cherished Doctor Manson tenderly because his drug bill – despite explosive incidents – was less than half that of any other assistant. But alas! Manson cost the Committee three times as much in other directions, and often there was war because of it. He used vaccines and sera for instance, ruinous things which, as Ed Chenkin heatedly declared, none of them had ever heard of. When Owen, defending, instanced that winter month when Manson, using Bordet and Gengou vaccine, had arrested a raging epidemic of whooping cough in his district when all over the rest of the town children were going down with it, Ed Chenkin countered: ‘How do we know this new-fangled thing did it! Why! When I tackled ’im myself, he said nobody could be sure!’
While Manson had many loyal friends, he also had enemies. There were those on the Committee who had never completely forgiven him for his outburst, those agonised words hurled at them, over the matter of the bridge, as they sat in full session three years before. They sympathised, of course, with Mrs Manson and himself in their bereavement, but they could not hold themselves responsible. The Committee never did things in a hurry. Owen was then on holiday, and Len Richards, who had been given the job, was busy at the time with the new houses in Powis Street. It was preposterous to blame them.
As time went on Andrew had many heartburnings with the Committee for he had a stubborn desire for his own way which the Committee did not like. In addition there was a certain clerical bias against him. Though his wife often went to church he was never seen there – Doctor Oxborrow had been the first to point this out – and he was reported to have laughed at the doctrine of total immersion. He had, moreover, a deadly enemy amongst ‘the chapel’ folk – no less a person than the Reverend Edwal Parry, pastor of Sinai.
In the spring of 1926 the good Edwal, newly married, had sidled, late, into Manson’s surgery with an air, thoroughly Christian, yet ingratiatingly man of the world.
‘How are you, Doctor Manson! I just happened to be passing. As a rule I attend with Doctor Oxborrow, he’s one of my flock, you know, and he’s handy at the East Surgery also. But you’re a very up-to-date doctor by all accounts and purposes. You’re in the way of knowin’ everything that’s new. And I’d be glad – mind you I’ll pay you a nice little fee too – if you could advise me –’ Edwal masked a faint priestly blush by show of worldly candour. ‘You see the wife and I don’t want any children for a while yet anyhow, my stipend bein’ what it is, like –’
Manson considered the minister of Sinai in a cold distaste. He said carefully:
‘Don’t you realise there are people with a quarter of your stipend who would give their right hand to have children. What did you get married for?’ His anger rose to a sudden white heat. ‘Get out – quick – you – you dirty little man of God!’
With a queer twist of his face Parry had slunk out. Perhaps Andrew had spoken too violently. But then, Christine, since that fatal stumble, would never have children, and they both desired them with all their hearts.
Walking home from a call on this, the 15th of May, 1927, Andrew was inclined to ask himself why he and Christine had remained in Aberalaw since the death of their child. The answer was plain enough: his work on dust inhalation. It had absorbed him, fascinated him, bound him to the mines.
As he reviewed what he had done, considering the difficulties he had been obliged to face, he wondered that he had not taken longer to complete his findings. Those first examinations he had made – how far removed they seemed in time, yes, and in technique.
After he had made a complete clinical survey of the pulmonary conditions of all the workmen in the district and tabulating his findings, he had plain evidence of the marked preponderance of lung diseases amongst the anthracite workers. For example, he found that ninety per cent of his cases of fibrosed lung came from the anthracite mines. He found also that the death-rate from lung troubles amongst the older anthracite miners was nearly three times that of miners employed in all coal mines. He drew up a series of tables indicating the ratio-incidence of pulmonary disease, amongst the various grades of anthracite workmen.
Next, he set out to show that the silica dust he had found in his examinations of sputum was actually present in the anthracite headings. Not only did he demonstrate this conclusively, but, by exposing glass slides smeared with Canada balsam for varying periods in different parts of the mine, he obtained figures of the varying dust concentrations, figures which rose sharply during blasting and drilling.
He now had a series of exciting equations co-relating excessive atmosphere concentrations of silica dust with excessive incidence of pulmonary disease. But this was not enough. He had actually to prove that the dust was harmful, that it was destructive to lung tissue and not merely an innocuous accessory after the fact. It was necessary for him to conduct a series of pathological experiments upon guinea-pigs, to study the action of the silica dust upon their lungs.
Here, though his excitement rose, his real troubles began. He already had the spare room, the Lab. It was easy to procure a few guinea-pigs. And the equipment required for his experiments was simple. But though his ingenuity was considerable he was not, and never would be, a pathologist. Awareness of this fact made him angry, more resolved than ever. He swore at a system which compelled him to work alone and pressed Christine to his service, teaching her to cut and prepare sections, the mechanics of the trade which, in no time at all, she did better than he.
Next he constructed, very simply, a dust chamber, in which for certain hours of the day the animals were exposed to concentrati
ons of the dust, others being unexposed – the controls. It was exasperating work, demanding more patience than he possessed. Twice his small electric fan broke down. At a critical stage of the experiment he bungled his system of controls and was forced to begin all over again. But in spite of mistakes and delays he got his specimens, proving in progressive stages the deterioration of the lung and induction of fibrosis from the dust.
He drew a long breath of satisfaction, stopped scolding Christine and, for a few days, was fit to live with. Then another idea struck him and he was off again.
All his investigations had been conducted on the supposition that the damage to the lung was produced in response to mechanical destruction by the hard sharp silicate crystals inhaled. But now, suddenly, he asked himself if there was not some chemical action beyond the mere physical irritation of the particles. He was not a chemist but he was, by this time, too deeply immersed to allow himself to be defeated. He devised a fresh series of experiments.
He procured colloidal silica and injected it under the skin of one of his animals. The result was an abscess. Similar abscesses could, he found, be inducted by the injection of aqueous solutions of amorphous silica which was, physically, a non-irritant. While, in triumphant conclusion, he found that the injection of a mechanically irritating substance, such as particles of carbon, produced no abscess at all. The silica dust was chemically active.
He was now almost out of his mind with excitement and delight. He had done even more than he had set out to do. Feverishly he collected his data, drew up in compact form the results of his three years’ work. He had decided, months ago, not only to publish his investigation but to send it in as his thesis for the degree of MD. When the typescript came back from Cardiff, neatly bound in a pale blue folder, he read it exultantly, went out with Christine to post it, then slumped into a backwash of despair.
He felt worn out and inert. He became aware, more vividly than ever, that he was no laboratory worker, that the best, the most valuable part of his work was that first phase of clinical research. He recollected with a pang of compunction how often he had raged at poor Christine. For days he was dispirited and listless. And yet, through it all, there were shining moments when he knew he had accomplished something after all.
Chapter Fifteen
That May afternoon, when Andrew reached home, his mood of preoccupation, this oddly negative phase which had persisted since the dispatch of his thesis, caused him to miss the look of distress upon Christine’s face. He greeted her absent-mindedly, went upstairs to wash, then came down to tea.
When he had finished, however, and lit a cigarette he suddenly observed her expression. He asked, as he reached out for the evening paper:
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
She appeared to examine her teaspoon for a moment.
‘We had some visitors today – or rather I had – when you were out this afternoon.’
‘Oh? Who were they?’
‘A deputation from the Committee, five of them, including Ed Chenkin, and escorted by Parry – you know, the Sinai minister – and a man Davies.’
An odd silence fell. He took a long pull at his cigarette, lowered the paper to gaze at her.
‘What did they want?’
She met his scrutiny for the first time, fully revealing the vexation and anxiety in her eyes. She spoke hurriedly. ‘They came about four o’clock – asked for you. I told them you were out. Then Parry said it didn’t matter, they wanted to come in. Of course I was quite taken aback. I didn’t know whether they wanted to wait for you or what. Then Ed Chenkin said it was the Committee’s house, that they represented the Committee and that in the name of the Committee they could and would come in.’ She paused, drew a quick breath. ‘I didn’t budge an inch. I was angry – upset. But I managed to ask them why they wished to come in. Parry took it up then. He said it had come to his ears, and the ears of the Committee, in fact it was all over the town, that you were performing experiments on animals, vivisection, he had the cheek to call it. And because of that they had come to look at your workroom and brought Mr Davies, the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals man, along with them.’
Andrew had not moved, nor had his eyes left her face.
‘Go on, my dear,’ he said, quietly.
‘Well, I tried to stop them, but it was no use. They just pushed past, the seven of them, through the hall and into the Lab. Whenever they saw the guinea-pigs Parry let out a howl – “Oh, the poor dumb creatures!” And Chenkin pointed to the stain on the boards where I dropped the fuscine bottle, you remember, dear, and shouted out, “’Ave a look at that. Blood!” They prowled round everything, went through our beautiful sections, the microtome, everything. Then Parry said, “I’m not leavin’ those poor suffering creatures to be tortured any more. I’d rather have them put out of their pain than that.” He took the bag Davies had with him and shoved them all into it. I tried to tell them there was no question of suffering, or vivisection or any such rubbish. And in any case that those five guinea-pigs were not going to be used for experiments, that we were going to give them to the Boland children, and to little Agnes Evans, for pets. But they simply wouldn’t listen to me. And then they – they went away.’
There was a silence. Andrew’s face was now deeply flushed. He sat up.
‘I never heard such rank impertinence in all my life. It – it’s damnable you had to put up with it, Chris! But I’ll make them pay for it!’
He reflected a minute then started towards the hall to use the telephone. But just as he reached it the instrument rang. He snatched it from the hook.
‘Hullo!’ he said angrily, then his voice altered slightly. Owen was on the other end of the line. ‘Yes, it’s Manson speaking. Look here, Owen –’
‘I know, I know, doctor,’ Owen interrupted Andrew quickly. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon. Now listen. No, no, don’t interrupt me. We got to keep our heads over this. We’re up against a nasty bit o’ business, doctor. Don’t say any more on the telephone. I’m comin’ down to see you now.’
Andrew went back to Christine.
‘What does he mean,’ he fumed, when he had told her of the conversation. ‘Anyone would think we were to blame.’
They waited for Owen’s arrival, Andrew striding up and down in a passion of impatience and indignation, Chris sitting at her sewing with disquieted eyes.
Owen came. But there was nothing reassuring in his face. Before Andrew could speak he said:
‘Doctor did you have a licence?’
‘A what?’ Andrew stared at him. ‘What kind of licence?’
Owen’s face now seemed more troubled. ‘ You’ve got to have a licence from the Home Office for experimental work on animals. You knew that, didn’t you?’
‘But damn it all!’ Manson protested hotly, ‘ I’m not a pathologist, I never will be. And I’m not running a laboratory. I only wanted to do a few simple experiments to tie up with my clinical work. We didn’t have more than a dozen animals altogether – did we, Chris?’
Owen’s eyes were averted. ‘You ought to have had that licence, doctor. There’s a section of the Committee are tryin’ to play you up pretty bad over this!’ He went on quickly. ‘You see, doctor, a chap like you, that’s doin’ pioneer work, who’s honest enough to speak his mind, he’s bound to – well, anyhow, it’s only right you should know there’s a section here that’s dyin’ to put a knife in you. But there now! – it’ll be all right. There’ll be a regular old shindy with the Committee, you’ll have to come before them, like. But you’ve had your troubles with them before. You’ll come out on top again.’
Andrew stormed. ‘ I’ll bring a counter-action. I’ll sue them for – for illegal entry. No, damn it, I’ll sue them for stealing my guinea-pigs. I want them back, anyway.’
A pale amusement twitched Owen’s face. ‘You can’t have them back, doctor. Reverend Parry and Ed Chenkin they allowed they’d have to put them out their misery. In the cause of ’umani
ty they drowned them with their own hands.’
Sorrowfully, Owen went away. And the following evening Andrew received a summons to appear before the Committee in one week’s time.
Meanwhile the case had flared into prominence like a petrol blaze. Nothing so exciting, so scandalous, so savouring of the black arts had startled Aberalaw since Trevor Day, the solicitor, was suspected of killing his wife with arsenic. Sides were taken, violent factions formed. From his rostrum at Sinai, Edwal Parry thundered the punishments meted out, in this life and the hereafter, to those who tortured animals and little children. At the other end of the town, Reverend David Walpole, chubby minister of the Established Church, to whom Parry was as pig to good Mohammedan, bleated of progress and the feud between the Liberal Church of God and Science.
Even the women were aroused to action. Miss Myfanwy Bensusan, local president of the Welsh Ladies’ Endeavour League, spoke to a crowded meeting in the Temperance Hall. It is true that Andrew had once offended Myfanwy by failing to take the chair at the WLE Annual Rally. But her motives, otherwise, were unquestionably pure. After the meeting and on subsequent evenings young lady members of the League normally active in the streets only upon flag days, could be seen distributing gruesome anti-vivisection folders each bearing an illustration of a partially disembowelled dog.
On Wednesday night Con Boland rang up with a joyous tale.
‘How are ye, Manson, boy? Keepin’ the old chin up? Good enough! I was thinking ye might be interested – our Mary was comin’ home this evening from Larkin’s when one of them simperin’ flag sellers stopped her with a pamphlet – these cruelty falderals they’ve been shovin’ around against ye. Do ye know – ha! ha! Do ye know what the bold Mary did! She up with the pamphlet and tore it into bits. Then she up with her hand, boxed the flag-sellin’ female’s ears, tugged the hat off her head and said – ha! ha! – what do you think our Mary said: “If it’s cruelty you’re after,” says she – ha! ha! – “If it’s cruelty you’re after – I’ll give ye it!”’