I dozed off …
I awoke to the sight of two large black gasometers, stark against the pale sky; momentarily disorientated, I found we had been joined by two other coaches; after a short while our cavalcade slowed, then stopped: we had arrived at the Richmond rugby ground!
On the way home, we were jubilant. After a shaky start, we had beaten St Thomas’ by twenty two points to thirteen; Dan Ravenscroft had scored two superb solo tries on the wing, and Bill Chop, our full-back, had kicked a penalty and converted two tries. Yet the hero of the day had been our hooker, Mick O’Malley, who, after a pushover try, had emerged from the bottom of a pile of bodies with the ball, hurling it high in the air in his triumph, and shouting Irish obscenities in his joy. My animosity towards him was temporarily forgotten!
Unusually for me, the high spot of the match had been the pitched battle between the opposing supporters, during the half-time interval; clutching dustbin lids, and chanting slogans, we had thrown toilet rolls, bags of flour and soot at them; my ancient raincoat was stained with gentian violet from the missiles they had hurled in return. When the match resumed, I had found myself in an unfamiliar part of the stand, in a group I didn’t recognise. Quickly I had settled into my chant of “London, London …”; I stopped: around me, all the voices were calling “Tommy’s, Tommy’s!” My neighbours began regarding me strangely, and I realized that their scarves - though superficially resembling ours - were of a subtly different pattern. Before their suspicions could harden into certainty, I had fled to the London Hospital end of the pitch ...
Now was the time for singing! As the convoy of coaches moved smoothly through Wandsworth, even I joined in. Our battle hymn, was sung to the tune of I don’t want to join the Army, I don’t want to go to War:
“I don’t want to go to Tommy’s, I don’t want to go to Bart’s/
And the Royal Free is not the place for me/
Telling all your love-life to some high-born lady.
UCH is very draughty, and Charing Cross is buried in the Strand.
So if you want some treatment, some very special treatment/
You’d better come to The London right away, Cor blimey/
You’d better come to The London right away.”
I gazed out of the window: the occupants of all three coaches were singing joyfully; the streets were golden with the reflection of the dying rays of the sun, and the mean suburban houses had been transformed into palaces.
I sat alone in the medical school bar. I pondered over my dead romance with Vicky, but brightened at memories of the match - and my pre-match activities!
News had soon spread that - in retaliation for the defacing of St Thomas’ river façade - their students had kidnapped two of our nurses and a medical student, and had left them in adjoining cubicles of a Lambeth men’s public lavatory. Someone had had a field-day with Plaster of Paris: the nurses had been immobilised by encasing their legs in a single slab; they had been stripped to the waist, and their chests painted with the St Thomas’ colours; this didn’t matter much, as the colours were virtually indistinguishable from our own! The medical student - the hapless Michael Ffrench - had been left lying on the floor of his cubicle with legs in a frog-plaster, toes pointing to the ceiling, and one hand secured to the lavatory chain. All had soon been rescued by our orthopaedic houseman, with a pair of plaster-shears.
There was an additional rumour that Tommy’s students intended to gatecrash this evening’s At Home, and we were all on our guard to prevent a disruption of our celebrations.
I took a sip from my pint. Though it was still early, the bar and the adjacent dance-floor were packed; the buzz of excited conversation all around me was interrupted by occasional bursts of laughter. Mick O’Malley, Dan Ravenscroft and Chris Platt sat nearby, drinking and chatting amicably with two big men; I couldn’t place these, but eventually discovered that they were the opposition, members of the St Thomas’ rugby team. Even Bob Parsons and Pete Jackson - who hardly ever came to At Homes - were here, in a group with Dave Wallis, Joe Knowles and Sebastian Clark.
Perhaps I’ll join them in a few minutes. I took another sip …
Still deeply engaged in my thoughts, I felt a light touch on my sleeve; the scent of forget-me-nots wafted over me, and a soft female voice whispered in my ear:
“‘What was the curious incident of the dog in the night time?’”
I turned, face burning, heart suddenly pounding in my chest - and there stood Jill Pritchard, smiling gently down at me.
“‘But the dog did nothing in the night time.’”
“‘That was the curious incident.’”
“Silver Blaze - The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes!” we chanted in unison.
Transfixed, I sat staring at her, now lost for words, until she broke the spell:
“How did you get on in 2nd MB?”
“Passed.”
“Wonderful!”
Her frizzy brown hair and her striking figure were unchanged, but a dash of eye make-up and lipstick had transformed her; she had lost her vague look, and her dark grey eyes gazed back at me confidently.
“I wear contact lenses now …” She could still read my thoughts.
She was dressed in burnt umber - a cable-knit roll-neck jumper and a flared calf length skirt - the outfit embellished by a broad purple belt and a necklace of chunky purple beads.
“’Fraid I’m a gate-crasher … Got into Tommy’s … Passed 2nd MB (just heard) … Pity about the result of the rugger, but it was a jolly good game anyway … Won’t you buy me a drink, Edwin? … Pint of bitter, please.” She paused for breath.
There was a little good natured banter with the few St Thomas’ students who had turned up; but they were well supplied with beer, and the atmosphere remained benign, even amicable. We could hear music; thus I carried our drinks over to the dancing area, and placed them on a couple of empty chairs.
“Once I had a secret love …” (They’re playing our tune.)
We danced, and she followed perfectly to the strict tempo of the foxtrot. I fell into a pleasant reverie.
“Now I sang it from the highest hills, even told the golden daffodils …”
“Why did you walk out on me at that Inter-Sixth Form Dance, Edwin?”
Instantly I was wide awake. I squirmed with embarrassment and shame; for a long moment I was tongue-tied; then the words came tumbling out, tripping over each other in their haste: I tried to explain how naive I had been, frightened of getting stuck in Putney if I took her home - and then unable to get home myself; how (in the cloakroom), I had sought advice from my friends; how I had emerged, and found the place deserted; how mortified I’d been; how much I had regretted it ever since … She listened in silence.
“ … Now my heart’s an open door, and my secret love’s no secret any more …”, and Doris Day’s dreamy voice trailed away.
We remained on the floor, as the foxtrot was succeeded by a waltz. While my rambling account had progressed, I had felt her body relax, and slowly she melted into my arms; tears glistened in her eyes - but they were shining, and I saw that she was smiling happily.
“I’ve always loved you.”
“Me too …”
All memories of Vicky and Jenny had been totally erased from my mind.
“I’ve got to catch the last train to Waterloo; I’m in digs just around the corner from Tommy’s … Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to take me home!”
It was eleven-thirty, and this time it was Jill in Cinderella mode; I accompanied her to Whitechapel Station, received a quick peck on the cheek, and watched her dash for the westbound train, as it rumbled out of the tunnel.
Chapter Fifteen - April, 1957
Thursday, 12th April: The sun was shining through a chink in the curtains, as I surfaced slowly from a deep sleep; for a while I was disorientated; then I realized that I was in my own bed in Oban Road: outside, birds were singing; our Kerry Blue bitch, Lucky, was moving around restlessly in her kennel, and whimpering s
oftly to be let into the house. I was home for a few days, for today was my twentieth birthday; 2nd MB was behind me, and I had not a care in the world! After a few more minutes of leisurely contemplation, I swung my legs out of bed, drew the curtains, and got dressed.
My father was still asleep, upstairs, but the rest were waiting for me in the breakfast-room: Mum with a welcoming smile; my little sister Jane, now eight years old, trying - unsuccessfully - to hide her happiness; and Lucky, tail wagging furiously, jumping up at me, and then (when stroked behind the ear) rolling over in ecstasy.
“Happy birthday!”
From the kitchen came the sound of bacon and eggs sizzling on the cooker, and their aroma mingled with that of freshly-ground coffee: these were ceremoniously placed before me by my mother, Jane following with the toast and marmalade.
While I ate in solitary splendour, I noted the piles of cards, packages and parcels on the other side of the table. From the extended family, I found the usual collection of ties, books, handkerchiefs and book-tokens. Jane had bought me a white silk scarf for evening wear, and waited with suppressed excitement, while I unpacked and admired it. From my parents I received a dress shirt and a pair of gold and mother-of-pearl cuff links - great!
Next, I opened an envelope post-marked “Brecon”; inside were two £1 notes, a birthday card, and a letter:
“Dear Edwin,
Time has flown, and your birthday is here again. I didn’t know what you would want - you are grown up now - so I am sending you some money. I have slowly come to terms with Uncle Dafydd’s death, though I still miss him terribly. My nephew, Danny, now runs the farm. You may remember him. I don’t know what I would do without him. Now Spring is here, and we are all busy with the lambing. The weather is mild and sunny.
Do you still remember your time in Llangammarch? Are you still at Medical School? Perhaps you will find the time to visit me here one day.
Lots of love,
Your Aunty Bronwen.
xxx
Friday, 20th April: Although we were high in the upper circle, we had an excellent view of the stage, and the seats were surprisingly comfortable. The Royal Festival Hall - a solid grey architectural mass on the South Bank of the Thames - was only a few minutes walk from the flat, which Jill shared with two other St Thomas’ medical students; it had been built only six years ago for the Festival of Britain, and was said to have the best acoustics in the country. The huge auditorium was crowded, but air conditioning kept it pleasantly cool. The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra was already in place, resplendent in white ties and tails, the few female members in long black dresses; they were tuning up or chatting together casually. The audience, also, was formally dressed: evening attire in the boxes and the front few rows of the stalls; lounge suits elsewhere (myself included).
As the time approached seven-thirty, the general hubbub subsided, and the atmosphere took on an air of expectancy; at seven-forty, the leader of the orchestra entered (to modest acclaim); then absolute silence, while he retuned his violin; there was animated applause when a portly figure emerged from the wings, and strode briskly to the rostrum; he bowed to the audience, eyes twinkling mischievously; then turned back to the orchestra, raised his baton, and - without pause - they embarked on the opening piece. So this was the legendary Sir Thomas Beecham: balding head, small trim beard, upright stance, exuding charisma and joie-de-vivre.
The piece was by Delius, one of Sir Thomas’s favourite composers: I had never heard his music before, and found the dense textures, sensuous (almost perfumed) harmonies, and faint dissonances novel and strange; the rhythms were exciting, and soon the fervour of conductor and orchestra communicated themselves to the entire audience: Jill was in a trance, eyes unfocussed, a soft smile playing on her lips; I felt myself being carried away by the music … and then it was over! I glanced at the programme: “In a Summer Garden.”
The audience - though less musically sophisticated - was more polite and less raucous than the Promenaders at the Albert Hall, with whom I was more familiar; however, the conductor’s delight infected us all, and I found myself clapping fanatically, as the orchestra was waved to its feet …
There was a pause in the proceedings, while the house lights came on and a grand piano was moved forward on the stage; finally - to renewed applause - Sir Thomas re-appeared, leading a slight figure, who seated himself diffidently at the piano. The lights dimmed, the murmuring of the audience stilled, there was a short drum roll, and then the piano leaped into the fray; I had heard that the pianist, Peter Katin, came from Clapham - near my own home - and this created an instant bond of sympathy; though he looked young and vulnerable, he played with concentration and a restrained brilliance: the audience seemed to hold its breath, as his fingers raced over the key-board through the opening movement of Grieg’s Piano Concerto.
The lovely slow second movement was one of my favourite pieces, and I had to concentrate hard to prevent myself from humming an accompaniment ...
Like everyone else, I was ecstatic at the conclusion of the concerto; the applause built up to a crescendo, so that Beecham had to bring the pianist back three times - beaming and triumphant - before we would let him go.
During the interval, Jill and I got up to stretch our legs; we walked down the couple of flights of stairs to one of the bars - forgoing use of the lift; the concert hall was airy, spacious and cool; even the upper levels felt opulent. We stayed at the periphery of the smoky crowded bar area, while people queued for their drinks; we couldn’t ourselves afford the additional expense of a beer - on our student grants, we could just about manage the price of our tickets.
Flushed, her dark hair slightly dishevelled, Jill looked altogether enchanting! At her throat - contrasting with her black cocktail dress - hung the obligatory double strand of pearls; she wore a new perfume for the occasion, and I caught the faintest whiff of gardenias, as she bent towards me, eyes sparkling:
“Wasn’t that the most magnificent performance …” Though we had discussed music before, this was the first musical experience we had actually shared.
We watched men jostling for their drinks at the counter with increasing impatience, the barmen hastening to fill their orders, before bells all around the hall announced the end of the interval; immediately we heard the chimes, we began to retrace our steps - to beat the rush from the bar; we watched the auditorium fill, as the audience resumed their seats. On the stage, the piano had been removed and the seating rearranged; the orchestra filed in, closely followed by their leader; and the ritual tuning of instruments began again; the bells became silent.
After a suitable pause, the conductor bounced in, bowed jauntily to his audience, turned to the orchestra - and they were into the opening bars of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony: this started with two orchestral hammer blows, and then proceeded straight to the first theme. I found it less melodious than the Grieg, but there was a far greater concentration of energy and power; I was soon absorbed in the intricacies of the piece, and Beethoven’s total technical mastery.
The longest movement of the symphony - the Funeral March - was the slow second movement; yet Sir Thomas rattled through it at a fine pace; initially, I was completely thrown by the tempo of this performance: I knew this symphony well (I possessed a recording of it by Bruno Walter and the Boston Symphony); however, such were the virtuosity and ardour of conductor and orchestra, that I was gradually converted to the merits of this version, and allowed myself to be swept away by it. The Scherzo and Finale followed at break-neck speed, but losing none of their clarity, power or majesty, and I was left breathless in the thundering applause at the end; I looked at my programme:
“This was one of Beethoven’s greatest conceptions, initially dedicated to Napoleon (the heroic human being of the title), with whose republican ideals Beethoven empathised. However, when Napoleon declared himself Emperor and invaded Austria, the dedication was torn up in rage!”
“Apparently Grieg wrote that lyrical theme of the final movemen
t on his honeymoon …”
The rain had cleared when we emerged onto the Embankment, but clouds still hid the moon and stars; the air smelled clean and fresh, and the pavements shone in the lamp-light. We paused on the edge of Westminster Bridge, gazing into the black waters of the River Thames, hands tightly entwined, minds still on the magical performance - the brilliance of Peter Katin, and the genius of Sir Thomas Beecham; I looked up at the clock-face of Big Ben, on the other side of the river: ten-fifty! We strolled slowly back to Jill’s flat …
Part II - The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
Chapter Sixteen - May, 1957
The time had come for us to be inaugurated into the mysteries and magic of Medicine, and we were cast in the role of the Sorcerer’s Apprentices. From now on, we would sit at the Master’s feet, and follow in His footsteps around the wards and into the operating theatres, learning from His example: we were about to become Clinical Students (Clinical Clerks or Surgical Dressers).
Monday, 7th May: There were sixty of us gathered in the large seminar room, proud yet self-conscious in our dazzling starched white coats; stethoscopes and patella hammers stuck prominently from our coat pockets; one or two of the more avant-garde displayed their stethoscopes around their necks, in the manner of the senior clinical student, but I considered this far too showy.
I had visited the medical school shop as soon as I had confirmation of my 2nd MB results; after examining all the models on display, and discussing them with my friends and the shop assistant, I had bought the standard stethoscope (with thick rubber tubing, a bell for heart sounds, and a diaphragm for breath sounds); I also purchased a shining white Keeler ophthalmoscope, for examining the retina of the eye: this - my most expensive item of equipment - now nestled in a thin red case with a velvet lining, rather like a small musical instrument; in the same case, I kept the large “neurological” hat-pin, its white head used for checking visual fields, the sharp end for testing skin sensation. I had spent a long time choosing a patella hammer (for eliciting tendon reflexes) - weighing it in my hand for balance, estimating the whip of the slim wooden shaft - finally selecting one with a thick but soft rubber head, mounted on a stainless steel rim like the tyre on a wheel.
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 12