I glanced at my watch - eleven o’clock.
“Gosh, Jenny. My last train leaves at eleven-thirty!” I felt like Cinderella at the Ball.
“Don’t worry about seeing me home,” she reassured me. “My flat’s just around the corner, and Cathy, my flat-mate, is here somewhere.” Her eyes travelled briefly over the dance floor.
“Anyway, the night is yet young ... and I can make my own way home, eventually.”
I arranged to take her to the pictures next week - the musical South Pacific was on at the West End: we would meet by the statue of Queen Alexandra, behind the hospital entrance hall, on Tuesday evening at seven.
I collected my coat and briefcase, and dashed for my train.
Monday, 7th November: “This morning we are going to look at blood films.”
From the windows of the histology laboratory I could see the River Thames, and the warehouses, cranes and ships of the busy Port of London. However I had scant time for the vista, as I sat at a work bench on which were ranged sophisticated microscopes, dropper bottles of stains and sealants, and small cartons of glass slides and cover-slips; Hewer’s Textbook of Histology lay unopened in front of me.
“Group yourselves in pairs; you must prick each other’s thumbs to draw blood, and then make a thin film on a microscope slide … I will show you how, but I’ll need a volunteer.”
There was an instant deafening silence, and everyone tried to avoid catching his eye; after a long painful interval, Sandra Sunalingam put up her hand. There was an audible release of breath from the class. The reader in histology was Dr Alistair Brown, a rangy Scot with thinning hair and a dour sense of humour. He demonstrated how to prick the back of the thumb, eliciting only a miniscule wince from the student; he squeezed a drop of blood onto a slide, then spread it by drawing another slide across it, and finally capped it with a cover-slip.
Everyone was issued with small but vicious-looking stylets. I was paired with Bob Parsons, and he elected to start. I looked away; I felt a sharp stab of pain shooting from thumb to fore-arm; when I looked again, there was a large blob of blood on the slide, which Bob was in the process of spreading into an even film; my digit continued to throb painfully.
When the slide had been prepared, we exchanged roles. With a fresh stylet, I stabbed timidly at the back of my partner’s thumb near the nail; this scarcely broke the skin, and drew no blood whatsoever; I tried again - several times - with no better results; Bob didn’t flinch, but was becoming perceptibly paler; yet I still couldn’t bring myself to make a really deep thrust. In the end, Bob pricked my other thumb, and prepared a second slide for himself; by this time, most students had finished examining theirs.
I looked at mine through the microscope, first under low, and then under high power. Next I placed a drop of oil on the coverslip, and tried the oil immersion lens: everything was blurred. Without thinking, I racked down the objective lens; there was a sudden crack: I had done it again - the lens had gone through the coverslip! I would never master the microscope; too late, I remembered I should have racked up.
“Having trouble, Mr Scott?” At my shoulder stood Dr Brown; his voice was flat, and his face expressionless, but there was just the faintest twinkle in his eye.
Wednesday, 9th November: Six o’clock - I was the first to arrive! The out-patients’ hall was cold and empty. Only a few lights burned, and these cast deep shadows into the corners. All the furniture had been moved to the side, and two nets had been erected across the centre of the hall; on close inspection, I detected the markings of two badminton courts in faded red paint on the floor. This was to be my introduction to the London Hospital Badminton Club. I was still in my daytime grey flannels and white shirt, a pair of plimsolls being the only kit I had brought.
In due course I was joined by two girls and another boy, none familiar, though I suspected they were all in my year. There was an awkward silence, and we were relieved when the main hall lights came on abruptly, and in breezed a young man, loaded with badminton racquets and cylindrical tins of shuttlecocks.
“Hello, I’m Henry Cork - badminton captain … and secretary.” I noted the faintest hint of a smile. “ Hm, not too bad an attendance for the first meeting of the year ... You’re all new, so I’ll need to take down your names.”
A door swung open at the other end of the hall, and a girl entered, clad in immaculate whites, and carrying her own racquet: with joyful surprise, I recognized Jenny James.
“Sorry I’m late … had to go home to collect my kit.”
Henry and Jenny watched from the sidelines, while we newcomers practised knocking a shuttlecock back and forth over the net. I had played a little before; I had learnt the rudiments, and was now hitting quite high lobs, without striking the lofty ceiling. It was soon apparent that the other three were complete novices, who could only return shots very sporadically: by contrast I appeared to shine!
After about ten minutes of practice, Henry went through the rules of the game with us; then, the new boy joined the badminton captain on the sidelines, the two girls played each other on one court, and I found myself pitted against Jenny on the other. She clearly was no novice: she thumped her smashes, played delicate drop-shots, and hardly seemed to move from the centre of the court; I - on the other hand - dashed about like a scalded cat, or stood flat-footed as the shuttlecock landed just out of reach.
After a quarter of an hour, we stopped for a break, Jenny still cool and relaxed, the two girls and I, hot, sweaty and bordering on exhaustion. Henry came over.
“Not bad, Edwin - you may well make the team, with a bit of practice and a little coaching ... Jenny, you’ve improved since last time. Have you been practising? Hm, Rebecca and Louise … not bad for a first time. We’ll have to see what we can do for you.”
After Henry had knocked about for ten minutes with Geoffrey, the other new boy, we spent the rest of the evening learning the basic strokes from the badminton captain - ably supported by Jenny. The session finished at half-past eight; I felt tired and ached all over, but was happy with my performance.
“Goodnight, everyone - see you next Wednesday.”
Friday, 11th November: The University of London Union was a modern building in the centre of London, dwarfed by nearby Senate House, the administrative hub of the sprawling University. I had arrived early, and had secured a seat at the centre of the Great Hall, next to the aisle.
I was trembling with anxiety, and my legs didn’t seem to belong to me; I observed everything around me as though from a great height. I had seen a few ULU debates on television, but this was to be my first live one. I had decided to speak from the floor - and now had grave misgivings.
As seven-thirty approached, the hall filled, noise increased, and the place became uncomfortably warm; soon it was full to capacity - not an empty seat to be seen. On the stage, the Union President ushered in the four main speakers: those for the motion on his right, those against on his left; they all seated themselves at a long table facing the audience, a jug of water and a glass before each of them; the president banged his gavel on the table, and the noise gradually abated; when there was complete silence, he glanced briefly towards his companions to right and left, and then rose languidly to his full height. His hair was modishly long; he was elegantly, almost foppishly, dressed in a three-piece beige linen suit, a dark blue shirt and a pink tie; in his button-hole, he wore a pink carnation; he affected an Harovian accent and a slight lisp.
“Welcome to the first debate of the new academic year. I’m delighted to see such a spectacular turnout …” I wondered whether to join in the chuckles from the floor at what appeared to be an in joke. “… The old faithful, and some of the not-so-old not-so-faithful?” (Louder laughter, and a perceptible relaxation of tension.)
“The motion for tonight is that This House refuses to peel potatoes for Queen and Country, and I call upon Mr Herbert Simpkins to propose the motion.”
A jolly, round man with a cockney accent, brown corduroy trousers,
and a baggy canary pull-over took a sip of water, moved from the table to the lectern, and proceeded to entertain the audience with a fifteen-minute speech, laced with wit and sparkling with humour; prolonged applause and a buzz of excited comment greeted the conclusion of his performance.
Next came a more serious - yet well constructed - speech from the opposer of the motion, a strikingly attractive young lady, with auburn hair down to her waist, and wearing a full length crimson evening gown. (Further enthusiastic acclaim.)
Finally, from the seconders for and against the motion came shorter and more pedestrian offerings, which were received with briefer and more formal approval.
An hour had passed, when the president again banged his hammer.
“The motion is now open to the floor …”
Tentatively I raised my hand. I had decided to try my luck early on - to get it over quickly, to be put out of my misery; nevertheless, I was dismayed when the president caught my eye, indicated that I should speak next, and waved me to the lectern; I had expected to deliver my speech from the relative safety and anonymity of the centre of the hall; instead, heart thumping uncomfortably, and face flushed, I grasped my prepared text, rose unsteadily, and started walking towards the stage - suddenly aware of the bright lights of the hall and the almost interminable distance to my destination; I wondered whether my legs would support me. With smiles of encouragement from the president who appeared to be willing me on, I finally found myself on stage, almost hidden by the tall lectern. The hum of voices from the audience continued unabated.
“Please give your name, and state whether you are for or against the motion.”
The audience became silent. In a panic, I wondered whether my larynx would produce any sound; however, after clearing my throat a couple of times, I embarked quite audibly on my speech. I had decided to support the motion on nutritional grounds, and my mild attempts at humour were rewarded with a few sniggers; I finished my short effort to polite though transient applause, and, with a light heart, returned to my seat.
The rest of the evening was a joy, and passed all too quickly: the motion was narrowly defeated. I returned home on the underground in a pleasant glow of retrospection.
Had the debate been televised? I wondered.
Monday, 14th November: I was back in the out-patients hall. It was just after six o’clock. The overhead lights were ablaze, and a young man in full kit was busy arranging the mats in the centre of the floor. It was my first visit to the London Hospital Judo Society. I had arrived early, and had changed (in one of the medical clinic examination rooms) into loose off-white cotton trousers and jacket, with thongs on my feet, and a white belt tied loosely over my jacket.
“Give me a hand with these mats, there’s a good fellow … I’m Keith Walker, judo captain …”
His voice was soft and melodious, and had just the trace of a Northern accent. He was somewhat below middle height, thickset, muscular, but lithe as a cat, with raven hair and deep-set dark eyes; I noted that he wore a brown belt.
“Edwin Scott …” and we shook hands solemnly.
“Well, Edwin, these mats are called ‘Tatame’, and you must always take your flip-flops off before standing on them; but wear them at all other times, to avoid catching athlete’s foot … We’ll just align the mats so that there’s no gap between them, and no overlap.”
While we worked, a few newcomers trickled in, all in their judo outfits. I was pleased to see Jenny arrive; then came another young lady, whom I recognised as a clinical student, and finally, two men together, also senior to me.
“This is Serena Sinclair, Jenny James, both old hands, and this is Basil Spence … and please introduce yourself …” he indicated the last student.
“Bill Owen …”
The two girls stood together; they appeared to know each other, and obviously knew the ropes. Belts came in a range of colours: I was impressed to see that, like Keith, Serena sported a brown belt, Jenny’s was blue, and Basil’s orange; Bill was, like me, a novice - a white belt!
“In case you new boys get any ideas, the girls will practise and spar together, as will you two; in any case they would murder you … First of all, I would like to welcome you to the London Hospital Judo Society. It’s nice to see so many of you at our first meeting of the new academic year.”
I was unsure whether he was being sarcastic, or whether this genuinely represented a good turn-out.
He repeated the rules about the wearing of thongs, and then lined Bill and me up, barefoot on the mats. He showed us how to fasten the drawstring on our trousers, and tuck the bow into the top of the trousers, to avoid it becoming accidentally pulled undone during a contest. Next he retied our white belts for us in the approved manner.
“Hm, that’s better … Now, before you are taught the throws, you must first learn how to fall, so that you avoid injury … Will you do the honours, Jenny?”
Jenny demonstrated the forward, and then the backward break-falls several times, while we watched. Then Bill and I practised them repeatedly, until we were bruised but proficient. An hour had passed, the others watching patiently.
“Right, Bill and Edwin … we will now try our first throw - Tsurikome-ashi, the drawing ankle throw. Watch carefully, while Serena and I demonstrate it, like so … Now it’s your turn: face each other; you must bow, before starting, to show respect … Right, Hajime!”
I am upset and deeply disappointed, oh yes. You appear to be shunning me, your best friend! You have so many other friends, and now you have picked up some cheap floozy. I am revising my opinion of you, Edwin Scott ... But perhaps I’m mistaken. Maybe I’m just a little too hasty - I certainly hope so. Maybe I should just keep an open mind on the subject … Well, I’ll monitor events a little longer, and then we’ll see …
Monday, 21st November: The broken-down old upright piano was thumping out a surprisingly catchy tune. At the keyboard sat Paul Harris, the genius of the first year: having just turned seventeen, he was the youngest in the year - with cherubic features and childish behaviour; his slight figure bounced up and down on the piano stool; his face was red with exertion and excitement; his eyes had a manic brightness. He was in charge of the music for the London Hospital Christmas Show, and had composed most of the tunes himself; his fingers glided lightly over the keys, but he was singing at the top of his voice, seemingly oblivious of the crowd of performers milling uncertainly around him.
I stood in a small group, on the makeshift stage in the nurses’ hall, auditioning for a part in the chorus. Jenny, who was heavily involved in the production, had persuaded me to apply; I had been ambivalent about taking part, as my voice was rather weak, and I was not at all extrovert; however, she’d reassured me.
“It’ll be fun - at the very least it should be an interesting experience, and you’ll get to meet a wider circle of friends!”
Next to me - and towering above me - was Chris Platt, looking as embarrassed as I felt; the rest of the group of about a dozen young men on stage, I didn’t know; they were all, presumably, more senior students.
Bob Parsons, Sebastian Clark and David Feldman had all been given back-stage jobs; indeed David had shown a talent for electrical circuitry, and had been put in charge of lighting. Jenny had already secured a small solo part - as well as being wardrobe mistress. Sandy Sunalingam had decided to audition for a major role.
“Okay - take it over again. All try to sing the same words at the same time … and louder, so that I can hear you from here!”
The producer of the show sat in the shadows at the back of the hall: Daniel Southcote was a charismatic figure, tall and strikingly handsome; he was a mature student, on his pre-clinical course for the third time, having failed 2nd MB twice already; he was financially independent, had a flat in Harley Street, drove an Aston Martin sports car, and was to be found constantly in the company of gorgeous young starlets. He had written and produced, very successfully, last year’s show; this year’s - with his lyrics and Paul Harris’s music
- promised to be even better.
“You’re a right rabble - not one iota of talent amongst the lot of you. Still … you’ll do. Suppose we’ll lick you into some sort of shape by Christmas … Next!”
Relieved, I left the stage.
Chapter Four - December, 1955
Thursday, 1st December: The days were getting shorter; Christmas was approaching and the term was drawing to a close! When I arrived in the Athenaeum just before five o’clock, it was pitch black outside. Charles Witherspoon, the chess secretary, was waiting for me; a chess set was laid out on a card table, Witherspoon taking the white pieces; I sat down opposite him.
“I gather that you made short work of Mr Speed.” (When we had met two weeks before, I had taken only eight moves to beat him.) “Perhaps I will give you a better game.”
We shook hands, and Witherspoon moved his pawn: P - K4.
We were well matched, and our game soon attracted a small crowd of onlookers; the white pieces gave the chess secretary a slight advantage, but I played doggedly and carefully: after two hours, we had reached the end-game with an equal number of pieces and no clear positional advantage; we agreed a draw, shook hands, and the onlookers dispersed. Our positions on the chess ladder remained unchanged, but each had grown in the other’s estimation.
Wednesday, 7th December: There was an air of expectancy in the library. It had been transformed: a rather creaky stage had been built at the far end, and rows of uncomfortable seats were now filled with an audience of students, parents, nurses, and doctors; my mother and sister were hidden somewhere in the midst of this assembly. It was the first night of the Christmas Show!
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 4