“Is that the time already? Must rush … Splendid party … Enjoyed myself immensely … Keep it up …” and he was gone, heading for the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce - which waited outside the front of the medical school, under a “No Parking” sign!
It was a quarter-past seven, and the evening stretched pleasurably ahead ...
Amid the hum of relaxed conversation, the laughter and the chink of glasses, I paused for reflection: Monday was Christmas Eve, and I would be going home to Oban Road for a few days, to spend Christmas with the family.
Chapter Twenty - February, 1958
Nineteen fifty eight was the year Prince Charles was inaugurated as Prince of Wales, the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) was formed, and there were race riots in West London. The last debutantes were presented to the Queen; double yellow lines and parking meters were introduced throughout the United Kingdom, and the first motorway was opened. In that year the deaths occurred of Pope Pius XII, Ralph Vaughan Williams (the composer), Mrs Christobel Pankhurst (the suffragette), and Dr Marie Stopes (the birth control pioneer); twenty three passengers and crew were killed in a plane crash at Munich airport, among them eight Manchester United footballers.
Monday, 4th February: Once more we stood in the hospital entrance hall awaiting the arrival of a consultant: this was the first day of the Cardiology Firm. Although I now considered myself a seasoned campaigner, I still experienced a thrill of anticipation, as the hands of the clock moved to half past nine.
The hall porter opened the double doors with a flourish: in strode the cardiologist, Dr Harvey Bridgeman, his registrar at his shoulder. He gave us the briefest of nods; then, ignoring the lift, he made straight for the wide main staircase; he bounded up the stairs, chased by his retinue of houseman and students; the cardiology registrar - who had seen this all before - followed at a more leisurely pace.
On the fourth floor, Dr Bridgeman passed through the open doors of MacKenzie Ward, without breaking stride; finally, he came to a halt at a bed half-way down the ward; he turned to the house physician, who was still panting for breath after his climb.
“Tell me about this patient, Mr Andrews.”
Dr Bridgeman - dark-haired, with a pencil moustache - was the junior of the two cardiology consultants, and prided himself on his fitness. Like his more senior colleague, he wore a formal suit for ward rounds - the white coat being the preserve of the lower ranks!
The houseman spent some time retrieving the patient’s folder from the notes trolley, allowing his breathing to quieten, while the pert young sister stood behind him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Finally:
“This is Miss Patricia Ames, Sir, a twenty-two year old hairdresser. She gives an eighteen-month history of shortness of breath on exertion. For the last two months, she has had a cough, worst during the night … and bringing up frothy pink sputum. She has needed three pillows at night, and wakes up breathless if she slips down in bed. She has noticed some ankle swelling by the end of the day. She gives a history of rheumatic fever when she was twelve …” A pause. The story brought back vivid memories of my very first patient, Mavis Watson, from the introductory course. I wonder how she’s getting on …
“Carry on, Mr Andrews.”
“Right, Sir … On examination, she had a malar flush and her lips were blue - that is to say, cyanosed. There was mild pitting oedema of her ankles. Pulse was 92, irregularly irregular - a water hammer pulse. BP 130/60. Jugular venous pressure elevated two inches (with the patient reclining at forty-five degrees). The heart was enlarged, with a left ventricular heave. The apex beat was displaced two inches outside the mid-clavicular line. On auscultation, at the apex there was an opening snap, pre-systolic and mid-diastolic murmurs. In the aortic area there was a blowing early diastolic murmur …”
“Right … Let me have a listen now … Afraid I’ve left my stethoscope behind. May I borrow this one?” And he pounced on Michael Ffrench.
He extracted the Specialist stethoscope from around the owner’s neck; he placed the ear-pieces in his ears, warmed the bell and diaphragm on the palm of his hand, and approached the patient, who had been listening with interest to the proceedings.
“I want to listen to your heart, my dear. Don’t worry, these are all senior medical students …”
But the patient was not in the least worried, as sister helped her off with her night dress: she sat forward, proud of her well-formed breasts, the rosy areolae and nipples at attention.
Until that moment, I had completely forgotten spiking Ffrench’s stethoscope; the hapless student had continued to use it, commenting in detail on the subtle sounds he was supposed to hear, unaware anything was wrong … I exchanged glances with Pete Jackson; my heart pounded uncomfortably: too late to do anything now!
Meanwhile, the consultant was concentrating hard through the tubes, eyes closed theatrically, as if at a séance:
“I hear a first heart sound, a second sound and an opening snap … No third or fourth heart sounds; there is no pre-systolic murmur Mr Andrews (remember the heart is fibrillating) … There is a harsh mid-diastolic murmur of mitral stenosis, and (when I lay her on her side) a soft murmur throughout systole - just a whiff of mitral regurgitation.
Now, if you will just sit forward, my dear, (we listen at the aortic area and down the left edge of the sternum) … Breathe out, and hold your breath … Ah, a soft early diastolic murmur, but no significant aortic systolic murmur - pure aortic incompetence, accounting for the water hammer pulse.”
Was it a tour de force, or a coup de theatre? Bearing in mind that one could hardly hear a thing through the blocked stethoscope, I was inclined towards the latter option. There had been rumours that Dr Bridgeman checked the phonocardiogram tracing on each patient, the night before his ward round, which might account for the almost legendary accuracy and detail of his auscultatory findings.
I vowed to remove the paper strips from Michael Ffrench’s stethoscope at the earliest opportunity.
Chapter Twenty One - March, 1958
Sunday, 2nd March: We returned to our train at Calais; in our sleeper compartments we found the bunk-beds made up; though it was still only six o’clock, the lights were on and it was pitch black outside.
“Come along,” suggested Sebastian Clark. “Let’s find the rest of the group. I hear there’s a bar at the rear of the train.”
We had met under the clock at Victoria Station - eight young men, all members of the London Hospital Medical Students’ Ski-Club - bound for Kitzbuhel in Austria on the Snow-Sports Express. Michael Ffrench was in animated conversation with Henry Cork - the badminton captain - and two other senior students, whom I recognized only vaguely.
“M-My father’s General Ffrench, of course.”
I chatted to Sebastian and Bob, while Malcolm Conway stood slightly apart, perfectly at ease, observing us all sardonically. We piled into the train, and found our compartments; hardly had we stowed our luggage, when a whistle blew, and we were away: twelve noon precisely! The express ambled through the Kent countryside, swathed in a gentle drizzle; however, in our excitement, we hardly noticed the weather, the scenery or the passage of time.
At Dover, we had boarded the ferry, and soon the white cliffs were lost in the mist.
Now, I found that a whole carriage had been cleared for dancing; empty of all seating, it was surprisingly wide; with the exception of Ffrench (who was dining alone in the restaurant car), we all congregated here. Most of us clomped about in ski-boots - less weight to carry in our suitcases; I’d left my anorak on the bunk in our carriage, but still felt uncomfortably warm in my ski-wear.
We bought beer from the bar, before joining the dancers in this densely packed space. The music from the record player could hardly be heard above the voices, the laughter, and the rattle of the train; the lights were subdued; outside, through the windows, occasional buildings were picked out by the moonlight, as the train raced through the night. I found myself in the tight embrace of a jolly plump girl in
ski-pants and a white roll-neck jumper, who was murmuring endearments in my ear …
Monday, 3rd March: I awoke in my upper bunk bed, fully clothed, with a throbbing headache and a dry mouth; however, my hangover was soon dispelled by the sight of the sun rising from behind the snow-covered mountain peaks, amid violet, rose and orange-tinted clouds; I watched the daylight rushing down the valleys, while the express train raced relentlessly onwards; perched on the mountainside were chalets (like dolls’ houses), and an occasional quaint baroque church, with curved dome and pointed spire. Is this still Switzerland, or are we already in Austria? As the landscape unfolded in the brightening light, my spirits soared: the roofs, the trees, the fields, everything was decked in a sparkling blanket of fresh snow …
A motor-coach took us from the railway station, over a vertiginous mountain pass, into the centre of Kitzbuhel. Even here, snow covered the ground and was piled up on the side of the roads; in a small square amid modest timbered hotels and inns, the coach set us down; before the buildings, expensive foreign cars - many with skis strapped to their roofs - were neatly parked in diagonal parking slots. It was past noon: the sun was dazzling, and deep shadow intersected one corner of the square.
“This way!” The tour guide beckoned us. “It’s another mile down the valley.”
Apart from our small group, there was no sign of life - everyone was either having lunch, or was still out on the ski-slopes. Picking up our luggage, we followed the Ingham’s lady, bronzed and begoggled, down the snowy path: I felt grateful I was wearing my ski boots.
Our chalet had accommodation for eight guests in four bedrooms (the chalet-girl slept in a box room at the back); the ground floor was open-plan, the front door giving directly into the lounge/ dining area; from here, a staircase curved upwards to the sleeping quarters; there was a cloaks corner by the front door,with space for boots, and a rack for skis; in the rear, were the kitchen and utility room.
The whole place was furnished - efficiently rather than comfortably - in pine; the downstairs floor was covered in brown linoleum, over which were scattered a handful of chocolate-and-cream rugs; at the windows, there were bright floral curtains; on the walls - in white frames - were several large oil paintings of Alpine scenes; flowers were arranged in a vase on a side table, and a welcoming log fire crackled in the open hearth.
As we staggered inside with our luggage, we were met by a petite girl with huge dark eyes, black hair and a fabulous tan; she wore a white pinafore over what looked like national costume: I assumed she was Austrian or Italian - until she announced in impeccable English:
“Welcome. I’m Fiona, your chalet-girl. You must be starving after your long journey. Lunch will be ready in half an hour. Your rooms are upstairs; you’ll have to sort yourselves out - two to each room.”
I shared a rear bedroom with Sebastian; it was small and cold, and the beds were hard; however, when we had opened the shutters, the views through the large double-glazed windows were spectacular: mountains towered over us, dominating the landscape and dwarfing all man-made structures - the scattered chalets, a church, and the thin thread of a distant train; all was purest white, and all was brilliant in the blinding sunshine.
Tuesday, 4th March: Our ski instructor was a middle aged man with a pot-belly; he spoke adequate English, though with a strong Austrian accent.
“Good morning. My name is Hanzi, and I am your teacher for zis veek …”
The first essential to learn was how to get up after falling over; next, more difficult, how to turn around on the ski slope:
“Lift ze leg as high as it can … ze back of ze ski into ze snow, like zo, mit ski upright; and zen svivel it round … Next, ze same mit ze oder leg …”
Looking down, the valley seemed far below; however, after a few practices, I became adept at this manoeuvre, and my vertigo passed.
This morning, Bob and I had joined the beginners’ class on the nursery slopes; Sebastian and the rest of the group - all more advanced - had disappeared up the mountain. I was fully equipped for the cold and the snow: I wore a red anorak over a vest, a Canadian lumberjack shirt and two jumpers; also long-johns, black ski-pants, two pairs of socks, and ski-boots. Blue waterproof mittens over woollen gloves, a blue bobble-hat, and orange goggles (to combat the glare) completed my outfit.
We had hired skis at the first ski shop we found on our way to the slopes; we allowed only minimal waxing of the skis - so that they wouldn’t run away with us!
There were ten in our class - eight men and two women - all in our teens or early twenties. We descended a gentle slope (which, to me, appeared like a precipice) - using our recently acquired snow-plough technique to decelerate. Or alternatively:
“Ven you can’t viz ze snow-plough to stop, you zitst down on ze bottom!”
Whilst we practised, rather self-consciously, tiny children, accompanied by their nanny/ski-instructors, shot past us on short truncated skis.
Next, the class was taught the snow-plough turn: “Veight on ze outside ski … Bend ze knees …”
By the end of the first day, we were able to zig-zag down the shallow gradient at the foot of the nursery slopes. I was exhilarated!
Wednesday, 5th March: At lunch time on the second day, I returned to the chalet to collect my lift pass: this afternoon, we would be taking the chair-lift to the upper levels of the nursery slopes. Fiona was dusting - she kept the place immaculate! Her hair was piled up under a headscarf (nineteen-forties style), yet - beneath her pinafore - I glimpsed a flared black skirt and fashionable calf-length leather boots.
“Hullo, please don’t let me disturb you … Just came to collect something … Incidentally, I’m Edwin Scott.”
“I know. I’m Fiona Henderson-Scott … Are we related?” The ultimate chat-up line!
“I’m not sure … My family’s from Oban, West of Scotland.”
“Well, my people are from Hertfordshire, though I live in Chelsea …”
“In Hertfordshire, Herefordshire and Hampshire …” (Had I got that right?)
“Hurricanes hardly ever happen …” (She, too, had seen My Fair Lady.)
She had been to finishing school in Switzerland, and had developed a taste for snow-sports; she decided on her present job to get in some more ski-ing (and après-ski), before she “came out” next season, as a debutante. However, the work had turned out much more time-consuming than expected: she had to keep the place clean, make the beds, and wash the towels and linen; each day she provided us with superb Cordon Bleu dinners, a cooked breakfast, and a packed lunch for the ski-slopes.
Her voice was low and slightly husky, the cut-glass tones melodious; she observed me candidly, with the hint of a smile.
“Just as well you’re not family - could complicate things … I rather fancy you …”
“I must go up to my room to get my lift pass, or I’ll be late, and miss my group at the ski-lift.”
“Absolutely … But why not come up for a drink in my room this evening?”
I was tempted, but memories of Jill intervened. I struggled to justify a refusal to Fiona.
“After two ski classes, a tea dance, and a party this evening, I’ll be worn out.”
“Tiredness should be my excuse!”
Friday, 7th March: We had progressed to Stem-Christie turns, at the top of the nursery slopes. Six new beginners had been added to our class, so that it was bulging at the seams; Hanzi seemed uneasy and preoccupied: his instructions were becoming perfunctory, and he kept looking up the piste, as if searching for something. Finally, a figure in scarlet and white came hurtling down the slope, stopping before us in a spray of snow.
“You are too good for ziss class, now. So you go today viz Max,” Hanzi informed us with obvious relief.
Bob and I, and all but two of our original class were dispatched; we followed our new instructor about twenty yards down the slope, where we regrouped.
“Good day. My name is Max - zey call me Maxie! Jetzt ve vill take ze cable car to ze top o
f ze Hahnenkamm Mountain … From dort ist lovely view.”
He was blond, fresh-faced, about sixteen; he cultivated a rather dashing manner: he did everything with a flourish, adopting dramatic poses, throwing up copious snow each time he came to a stop.
The cable-car ride was spectacular, as we sailed high above the pine trees; at the top was a plateau, with a restaurant and shop. The sun shone benignly, a gentle breeze brushed my cheek, and I felt on top of the world; I took off my hat and gloves, and sat on a reclining chair, basking in the warm sunlight, and enjoying the view. Through a fine haze I could see - in the valley below - two tiny villages; distant mountain-ranges sparkled with snow. Some of our group were buying soft drinks, a few were taking photographs; I relaxed, savouring the moment, awaiting the time when we would have to take the cable-car down again ...
“Now vee vill ski down! You are Maxie’s Mad Brigade …”
The relaxed holiday atmosphere evaporated in an instant; I felt a block of ice in the pit of my stomach.
Maxie’s English was even worse than Hanzi’s, but his meaning was perfectly clear.
“Vee make small stages in zig-zag …” He traversed and zig-zagged along the steep slope, coming to rest on a small flat area about twenty yards away.
“Komm, follow me, von at a time.”
Inge, a handsome - apparently fearless - German girl in her mid-twenties, led the way, and arrived safely next to him …
“Next … Next …”
I went third: there was a steep drop as I went over the top; I managed four turns - I couldn’t remember how - and stopped safely behind the other two, heart thumping, limbs weak and shaky. All eight made it successfully. There was a burst of excited chatter - until we were asked to repeat the performance! Maxie demonstrated a further four effortless turns, ending at another, larger, plateau; he turned to face uphill towards the group.
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 16