The performance was due to start at half-past seven, but we were already twenty minutes late because of an unexpected hitch with the lighting; throughout the bustle and panic, the producer, Daniel Southcote, remained calm and serene, encouraging the stage hands, and keeping the cast out of the way; at length, David Feldman emerged, flushed but triumphant from mortal combat with a junction box; finally the footlights blazed, the house lights dimmed, and the piano began to play.
The curtains parted to reveal Mandy Royston in matron’s uniform, centre-stage, backed by the male chorus dressed as nurses; after a few seconds of discord and disunity, our voices blended, growing stronger and more tuneful, as we bashed out the opening number, Welcome to the London. I was at one end of the front line, almost hidden by the side curtain; the foot-lights dazzled me, and I could make out only the vaguest suggestion of pale faces in the black abyss of the hall; however, I was less nervous than expected, and grew steadily more confident. The piano crashed to a halt: there was a heart-stopping silence, and then a round of warm encouraging applause.
Sandy Sunalingam was a revelation as Cindy, the female lead: she looked stunning in her sequined outfits, had a considerable stage presence, and amazed everyone with the power and purity of her voice; she was clearly enjoying herself enormously, and her performance grew in stature as the show progressed.
The script-writing had continued up to the last minute; new lyrics had been set to a popular cricketing song; each verse featured one consultant, and would be inserted on the night that he attended. Only one phrase had so far been censored by the medical school authorities: the line, “Pull my jumper over my head and vanish up my arse,” had had to be changed to “... vanish in the grass.”
On that first evening Mr Brass, the gastro-intestinal surgeon, was expected in the audience.
“I am a rectal surgeon,” we sang with a pronounced cockney accent.
“I have a load of Class,
I pull my jumper over my head and vanish in the grass.”
All but a handful of the audience appeared to know the original version, and the roar of laughter and approval was in no way lessened by the substitution.
The tempo was gradually cranked up: boys and girls rushed about in rugger shirts, or white coats and stethoscopes; the obligatory reference to the VD (Special) Clinic, “If you need some treatment, some very special treatment,” was introduced artfully; there was a sketch featuring articulated skeletons; the boys - again in nurses uniforms - carrying bedpans and urine bottles, sang and danced the Bedpan Boogie; following this, the chorus of boys and girls - garishly dressed and made up - presented The Boys and Girls of the Wolfenden Report (a recently published report on Vice and Immorality).
In the next scene, I appeared centre-stage in boater and a striped blazer far too large for me; beside me stood the giant figure of Chris Platt in an outfit far too small; the male chorus sang “Our Alma Mater now we quit, we will remember every bit ...” There were lengthy giggles from the audience: Chris and I had found our niche in comedy!
The entire ensemble performed a skit on My Fair Lady - called “Mayfair Lady”; the highlight was the scene where Professor Turnbull-Clock had to teach Cindy, the aristocratic young heroine, to speak East End Cockney:
“The Rhine and spine fall in a curving line …”
The final number had finished to enthusiastic and prolonged applause, the house lights were on, and the curtains were closed; the clatter of the audience filing out (discussing the evening’s entertainment) was finally stilled; the entire cast was assembled on stage to hear the producer’s assessment of the performance:
“Sandy, you were incredible! As for the rest of you … I’m not ecstatic, but it was not bad for a first night - and quite well received. We have another three shows - hope to have you all singing together by the final night.”
Saturday, 17th December: We met at the Windmill Inn, near our old school, and overlooking Clapham Common - a reunion of the Four Musketeers: Brian Pitt and Johnny East had the cropped hair and erect bearing of the military man, and each seemed uncomfortable in a suit; Colin Thomas looked neat in a navy blue blazer and grey flannels, whilst I was attired in my “student’s uniform” of sports jacket and corduroy trousers; our overcoats were draped over a couple of spare chairs.
Outside, the darkness was punctuated by the glow-worm phosphorescence of street lamps tracing paths across the common. There were no other customers in the saloon bar; logs crackled invitingly in a large open fireplace; we sat on padded chairs covered with frayed and faded tapestry, at a small table in a bay window; we spoke in low voices, occasionally looking out onto the dark common, glimpsing our reflections in the window panes, yet all too aware of the landlord at the bar. He was bald, with a ginger moustache, mutton-chop sideboards and a pot belly; he had taken our order with the hearty bellow of his profession. Though he seemed to polish the beer mugs and glasses with intense concentration, I could sense him straining his ears to pick up our conversation. It seemed that we were to provide the entertainment for the early part of his evening.
We sat quietly, sipping our pints of best bitter, glad to be together, yet immersed in our own thoughts. We had left the innocence of our schooldays (of only five months before) far behind. Each felt that he had moved on, but that his friends were unchanged, unsophisticated, unexciting. When the publican finally got bored and moved into the public bar, we broke the silence simultaneously, and had to stop once more. After a burst of laughter and a further hesitation, I was allowed to proceed. I embarked on the story of my life at medical school, exaggerating the challenges of Anatomy and Physiology, but omitting the embarrassments and failures; I described the pathology museum, my girl-friend, the recent Fancy Dress Ball, and my part in the Christmas Show.
Next in the queue came Brian, who had joined up at Aldershot as a regular soldier.
“In the Regular Army there are girls aplenty,” he intoned in a strange voice, as if quoting a recruiting film. “Don’t worry; I have long since lost my virginity …” He had recently been selected for officer training: “I might try for Military Intelligence …” He was on his way to becoming the General “Gentleman John” Burgoyne of The Devil’s Disciple and his schoolboy fantasies!
Colin had undergone a subtle transformation - more fluent of speech, more mature in outlook, more outgoing and assertive; he had been accepted at the London School of Pharmacy and (like me) had just completed his first term.
“Did I see you at the ULU Freshers’ Dance at the beginning of term, Edwin?”
He shared a flat off Russell Square - in the heart of the university district - and he relished the much greater freedom, away from home; the course was interesting but not too demanding; because of the high proportion of female students, the social life was great!
Johnny had been called up, had completed his Army basic training (also at Aldershot - but his and Pitty’s paths would never cross), and was proud to have been accepted into the Parachute Regiment: he had had three jumps already. He extolled the beauty of the Hampshire countryside, and waxed lyrical over the NAAFI parties and dances. With his good looks, I mused, it was no surprise that he had a ready supply of girl-friends. Johnny had secured a place at Furzedown Teachers Training College (in South London), and was due to start his course, as soon as he was demobbed from the Army in eighteen months’ time.
As we chatted the pub slowly filled; our conversation merged with the background noise; we became more lively with the beer and nostalgia: “Do you remember …”
We exchanged news of old friends: Herbert Winthrop was at the London School of Economics, Tommy Budgett had got into Oxford to read English, Chalky White had won a scholarship to the Royal College of Music.
The bar was crowded by the time we got up to leave.
“I have to see someone …” Brian Pitt was slipping on his overcoat.
“We must arrange to meet again at Easter …”
I followed them out into the cold night air; I looked at m
y watch - nine-fifteen: I was late for supper!
I had a whole month at home for Christmas: I treasured the bliss of waking late, and lying in till all hours; and the delights of home cooking - my parents had pulled out all the culinary stops; I was treated with unaccustomed respect by everyone, and was even asked my opinion on “grown-up” matters, such as politics.
My little sister Jane was now almost seven; though a little more reserved than before, she still bubbled with vitality. I sometimes caught her looking at me with speculative eyes, reassessing me, coming to terms with the new Eddie; she still liked to hold my hand when we walked the dog on the Common, and still demanded stories of Super Jane; but her heroine’s setbacks no longer induced tears, and her triumphs were rewarded with more muted joy.
Only Lucky, our Kerry Blue bitch, was unchanged, and her ardour was unbounded at having me back in the family: she charged around on our walks, barking happily, tail wagging furiously, until she was close to exhaustion.
The weather was cold and sunny, but the snow held off. The short days passed swiftly and pleasantly.
Christmas Day had come and gone: Dad had been home, and we had had a wonderful family day and a splendid Christmas lunch. I had had the usual presents from the extended family - clothes, books, book-tokens, and money; from Aunty Bronwen there was a lockable five-year diary and a long sad letter.
From my parents I received a card enclosed in a sealed envelope: “This is to certify that Edwin Scott shall have a complete course of driving lessons for Christmas - You have to be able to drive to be a doctor!” I was thrilled!
At tea-time our lodgers, Mr and Mrs Popescu, had joined us, extravagantly and expensively dressed; they carried a bottle of chilled Veuve Clicquot champagne, five champagne flutes, and presents for the whole family. This year, I was able to enjoy Marguerite Popescu’s lingering kiss - and the wonderful view of her cleavage as she leant over me - without the uncomfortably pounding heart or weak knees of the year before.
Saturday, 31st December: Instead of attending a New Year’s Eve party, I kept mother company at home. Dad was at work at Le Coq Magnifique - one of the busiest nights of their year; Jane had been allowed up until ten-thirty, and then went to bed at the appointed time without fuss. On the television, Mum and I watched a couple of variety shows, a retrospective of the year, and a party to see in the New Year (which we enjoyed despite the stage-managed festive spirit); we drank cherry brandy until we were both rather tipsy.
We mused on the events of nineteen fifty-five: Dad’s unexpected pay rise, Jane’s progress at school, my A-Level results, cousin Eric’s conscription into the Army and my last-minute deferment, my admission to medical school ... What, we wondered, had the future in store for us all?
We staggered to our beds at two o‘clock.
Chapter Five - February, 1956
The year nineteen fifty-six would see the Suez Crisis and the brutal repression of the Hungarian revolt by Russian troops. In that year, the Bolshoi Ballet appeared at Covent Garden, Elvis Presley had his first hit with Heartbreak Hotel, and the film star Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier of Monaco; the Olympic Games were held in Melbourne, and, at home, England retained the Ashes against Australia, Jim Laker taking 19 wickets in the Old Trafford cricket test. The deaths occurred of the authors AA Milne and Sir Max Beerbohm, the painter Jackson Pollock and the star of horror films, Bella Lugosi.
Friday, 3rd February: I ambled down a narrow street of mean terraced houses, about one hundred yards from the hospital. Number fifty-one was neater than the surrounding buildings, with a clean fan-light, a freshly painted black front-door, a brilliant white door-step and an imposing lion knocker. The door was opened by a butler in dove-grey morning suit and white gloves; my coat was taken in the tiny hall, and I was ushered into an opulently furnished and lavishly decorated drawing room, which contrasted dramatically with the street outside: the curtains were a deep crimson velvet, and the embossed wall-paper was striped in pink and cream; on the walls hung sporting prints and heavily framed oil portraits, including a younger version of Dr Beaumont himself; a pair of Georgian mahogany side tables supported lit table lamps; along one wall was placed a bow-fronted display cabinet containing Oriental artefacts; the rest of the floor-space was taken up with deep but comfortable green leather arm-chairs and settees, and a long coffee table; a log fire hissed and crackled in the open hearth. About twenty guests stood about in groups, making tentative conversation: all young, all in their best attire, the majority unknown to me.
Folding doors, communicating with the adjoining dining-room, were thrown open: in the depth of the dim chamber I glimpsed a table laden with food.
The president of the badminton club, stood with his back to the fire, chatting animatedly to Jenny, Louise, Rebecca, Henry Cork, and an older student I didn’t know; as I joined them, I found the butler at my side again, offering me a flute of champagne - Krug I noted with amazement - from a silver tray. He performed all his tasks with an easy, almost lazy efficiency; his grave formal manner was mitigated by a merry twinkle of the eye.
Doctor James Beaumont was a consultant endocrinologist at the London Hospital; like Pointer, his butler, he was middle-aged, tubby and bald, but lacked the other’s gravitas and ramrod stance; he wore a pinstripe blue suit, highly polished black shoes, and a light blue polka-dot tie; a gold watch-chain traversed the front of his waistcoat. He radiated good fellowship: there were smile wrinkles around his grey eyes, but his broken-veined bulbous red nose bore witness to his love of all things alcoholic; he spoke easily and engagingly, encouraging his audience to participate. After the first glass of champagne, we found that the ice was broken. He regaled us with anecdotes of The London in the ’twenties, when there were no female medical students, and nurses were allowed out only until ten o’clock - just once a week! (Could this really be true?) He had played badminton for the hospital as a medical student and a houseman . We learned about his career as an Army Major during the Second World War, in North Africa, and subsequently across Europe after the Normandy landings.
“He’s too modest to mention that he was an England International at badminton in his day … I’m John Tillott,” murmured the senior student standing beside me, during a short pause. “This function is one of the major attractions of the badminton club … Probably keeps it going!”
Just then a brass chandelier in the dining room blazed into light.
“Let’s have a bite to eat.” Dr Beaumont led the way next door.
The twelve mahogany Chippendale chairs were placed against the walls to make room around the table for people to help themselves; the table itself ran the whole length of the spacious high-ceilinged chamber; it was covered with a richly figured ivory cloth, on which were disposed large oval serving plates in white and gold porcelain, almost overflowing with an artfully arranged cold buffet: I saw chicken legs, lamb cutlets (with frilly white paper necks), slices of cold roast beef, smoked ham and venison, smoked salmon, and various salamis; on silver platters were giant prawns, and segments of lobster in opened shells; there were pots of duck and venison pate with Melba toast, bowls of potato salad and green salads, long French loaves, slices of round German rye bread, Greek loaves with anise seeds; at the far end of the table were found an exotic fruit salad, trifles, cakes, and fresh fruit; and a massive cheese board. In a country only just recovering from post-war austerity, the spread was breath-taking.
For a while the conversation ceased while everyone piled their plates high (helped by the ever-present Pointer), and then ate greedily; hardly was there space on our plates again, before the butler was back with trays of scampi in batter (and tartare sauce), small cocktail sausages, and slices of celery and carrots with a selection of dips. He topped up the champagne glasses almost continually, so that I had no idea how much I was consuming.
“What about the Whitechapel Murderer? The papers say he is the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper, but I think that’s rather fanciful, myself …”
As the
hum of conversation had gradually reasserted itself, I found myself standing in a small group with Jenny, Henry Cork and Dr Beaumont himself. I realized that the vehement, strident voice was my own, no doubt fuelled by the drink and the stimulating atmosphere. I paused in mid sentence, distracted by the warm pressure of Jenny’s thigh against mine, which warned that I was heading a little over the top, at risk of making a fool of myself ...
There was the tinkle of fork against glass.
“Congratulations, Mr Scott. I hear you’ve been selected for the hospital badminton team, just in time for our home match against Westminster Hospital.”
The President had caught me completely by surprise, and I stood like a fish - open-mouthed and speechless - with the glass half way to my lips; I became aware that our little group had attracted a wider audience, and felt myself blushing; moreover, I was unable to take Dr Beaumont’s proffered hand immediately, as both mine were full; fortunately, Pointer - hovering nearby - sensed my difficulty, and deftly transferred the champagne flute to his tray; when, at last, I had shaken the President’s hand, I stuttered out a few words of thanks; I looked reproachfully across at Cork: he really should have warned me!
The coffee (in tiny cups) had made the rounds. The fire was burning low, and the conversation was becoming subdued, yet I still felt elated from the effects of the excellent champagne and convivial company; again I experienced a soft pressure against my thigh, and found Jenny gazing at me, her expression unfathomable; together we thanked Doctor Beaumont for the lovely party.
As the front door closed behind us, Jenny took my hand: this delightful day wasn’t over yet ...
That horrible physiotherapist - she has bewitched you, Edwin, oh dear me yes. I have seen the way you look at her. I have seen you holding hands in the dark, as you creep about Whitechapel, trying to hide from the eyes of your friends, from the eyes of the world. I was meant to be your special friend. But that wicked woman has stolen you away from me and all your real friends, has twisted you around her little finger, has supplanted me in your affections.
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 5