I sat down … and once again the musicians struck up Happy Birthday. Picked out by a spotlight, a head waiter, red-faced and flustered, made his way across the floor, carrying a large iced cake with twenty-one lit candles; there was a smattering of applause, as he placed it on our table.
“Happy Birthday, Mr Scott.”
A sigh of relief: he had succeeded at the second attempt …
Thursday, 24th April: In the background, classical music played softly and soothingly on the radio; as there was no viewing gallery for this theatre, the whole Firm gathered around the operating table, craning our necks to see the action: the ophthalmic surgeon sat at the head of the table, chatting amicably to the scrubbed theatre sister, and addressing an occasional word in the direction of the patient. I was astonished and alarmed to hear the patient reply: he was awake!
Mr Hector Livingstone was unimposing and rather scruffy, with half-moon glasses, over which he peered benignly at the world; greying hair poked out from under his surgical cap. He stubbed out his last cigarette in an ash-tray brought by staff nurse; he pulled up his mask, and went to the sink to scrub.
“As you can see, boys and girls, we don’t need a general anaesthetic for squint surgery: local anaesthesia is all that’s necessary - apart from a bit of pre-medication.”
Once more he turned to the patient:
“That’s right, Mister …er … White … Just keep looking up at the ceiling. You won’t experience any pain … You’ll just feel a little pushing.”
He inserted a small retractor to keep the eye-lids open.
“Forceps, Sister … Scalpel, please … Thank you.”
I watched in mounting horror. Mr Livingstone had a pronounced intention tremor: the hand shook more and more as it approached the patient’s eye. Yet Sister remained impassive and unconcerned; sure enough, three inches from the eye, the fine scalpel became steady as a rock; having made an accurate incision in the eye-ball muscle, the hand resumed its shaking (as the scalpel was withdrawn). The tiny muscle was repositioned, and stitched accurately in its new location (the trembling returning as violently as ever, between each delicate manoeuvre). The whole operation took about fifteen minutes. At the end, a dressing was applied over the eye, the patient was given a word of encouragement by the surgeon, and was wheeled out of theatre by a porter.
The ophthalmic surgeon peeled off his gloves, cool and relaxed; while I was bathed in perspiration, still shivering from tension and anxiety.
Mr Livingstone turned to Sister.
“May I have my cigarettes back, please?” he asked mildly. While they sent for the next patient, he resumed his chain-smoking …
Chapter Twenty Three - June, 1958
Saturday, 7th June: I was at home in Clapham, for a long week-end. I reclined on a deck-chair in the back garden, sun-bathing amid a sea of pink and red geraniums, golden marigolds, and purple fox-gloves; grasped loosely in my hand was the latest James Bond adventure, Dr No; a blackbird serenaded me sweetly from the garden fence. My eyes were closed; I drowsed in the heat: not a breath of air stirred the trees …
“Edwin!”
My mother’s voice - shrill with anxiety - brought me instantly out of my reverie.
“Can you come and have a look at Jane? She’s not well.”
Jane lay on her bed in her vest and pants. Over recent years, her light brown hair had darkened, and she had grown taller and slimmer. Today, she was flushed, her face was pinched, and her sunken eyes were preternaturally bright; she appeared to have lost weight.
“What’s the matter, Jane?”
“I feel sick and I have a tummy-ache ...”
“It’s been coming on gradually, since yesterday - but today she’s hardly eaten a thing,” Mum interrupted. “I’ve brought you a thermometer, in case you want to check her temperature.”
I put my hand on Jane’s forehead: it felt hot and dry; I inserted the thermometer under her arm and took her pulse at the wrist (one hundred and four per minute, thready in character); after two minutes I read the temperature: 101.5 degrees Fahrenheit.
“Open your mouth and put out your tongue.” The glimmer of a smile; but her lips were dry and chapped, her tongue was coated white.
“Now, let’s look at your tummy.”
She lay there - good as gold - helping me pull up her vest to expose her abdomen. I was about to proceed, when I remembered the advice from our introductory course. I went to the bathroom, and warmed my hands under the hot-water tap; back in her bedroom, I lay my hand very gently over her umbilicus - yet still she flinched and gasped in pain; tears welled up in her emerald-green eyes.
“Where does it hurt?”
She pointed low down on the right of the abdomen.
With my finger-tips, I pressed slowly and firmly on the spot she had indicated; abruptly I released the pressure: again she winced - a positive test for rebound tenderness! For several minutes, I stood silent, pondering, while mother and daughter waited anxiously for my decision. Finally:
“You’d better call the doctor, Mum. I think she has appendicitis.”
“It’s alright - I’ll do that!”
Dad had woken early; he stood by the door, sombre but assured - how long he’d been there I couldn’t tell …
Doctor Hill, our GP, arrived within half an hour, informal in a sports jacket, sandy hair dishevelled, gripping his bulky black leather bag.
“So you think your sister has acute appendicitis …”
Suddenly, I felt embarrassed and apprehensive: supposing I’d got the diagnosis wrong, and brought the doctor out on a wild goose chase - I’d never live it down!
“Let’s have a look at the patient.” Without ceremony, the doctor started up the stairs.
“You come, too,” he nodded towards me.
On the way, he stopped off at the bathroom to wash his hands, while I filled him in with the history; then, without needing instructions, he zeroed in on Jane’s room.
“Hello, young lady … Soon have you feeling better.”
Briskly, he examined her, and then listened intently with his stethoscope over her abdomen.
“Temperature raised, tender in right iliac fossa, very poor bowel sounds …”
I waited in suspense.
“Well … I agree with you - it’s an appendix alright … Better get a surgeon to have a look at her … Phone in the sitting room, is it?”
I followed him to the bathroom, where he washed his hands once more:
“Well done, young man. How long before you qualify … the London Hospital, I seem to remember …”
In the sitting room, he pulled from his jacket a thick pocket-book, and riffled through the pages until he found the correct entry; he dialled a number, and we waited while the phone rang and rang at the other end. (What if the surgeon was away for the week-end …)
“Hello, Dr Hill here. Could I speak to Mr Taylor-West, please. So sorry to disturb him on a Saturday afternoon … Ah, Mr Taylor-West, Dr Hill speaking. I wonder if you could see a patient on a domiciliary visit. A child of nine … I’m afraid it’s rather urgent …”
Mr Taylor-West was a consultant surgeon at King’s College Hospital. He arrived in Oban Road at five o’clock in a shiny black and grey Rover Saloon: he was tall and elegant in a dark blue pin-stripe suit; however, with his boyish face and twinkling grey eyes, he looked too young to be a consultant.
Dr Hill met him at the front door, where they shook hands and exchanged courtesies; I watched through the front-room window, while the GP gave a short presentation of the case; Mr Taylor-West stood silent and serious, head slightly to one side, concentrating on the history. After a couple of minutes, they both came inside; the surgeon greeted us in the hall, a dazzling smile briefly lighting up his face:
“With your permission, Mrs Scott, Dr Hill will show me the patient … Perhaps your son would like to join us. I understand that he made the diagnosis.”
I blushed scarlet, but followed the two doctors silently up the stairs; I pointed
out the bathroom on the mezannine landing, and watched while the consultant washed his hands, and then carefully dried them on the fresh towel (laid out for the purpose by my mother). We entered Jane’s room.
The young girl immediately took to Mr Taylor-West, and visibly relaxed under his soothing chatter. He examined her quickly and efficiently, eliciting the physical signs with a minimum of pain or discomfort; she even managed a brave smile when he had finished.
“Well, no doubt about the diagnosis - acute appendicitis. Better not waste any time. I’ll tell the parents, and we’ll take it from there … Don’t worry Jane, we’ll soon have you better.”
After a further hand-washing ritual on the way down, he held a short discussion with my father in the sitting room; next - while the family waited in the hall - he made a terse phone call; before asking us all back in, and inviting us to sit.
“I have arranged to admit Jane to Belgrave Children’s Hospital. Do you know it? It’s almost opposite the Oval Underground Station … When was the last time she had anything to eat or drink … Good! Well, now, time is important - so I will take Jane and you, Mrs Scott, in my car right away. Perhaps one of you could follow with her night things and a tooth-brush in a small case … She’ll be in Annie Zunz Ward, on the third floor.”
He nodded courteously to my father and me; and ushered the flushed patient (now dressed in her raincoat), and her pale silent mother out of the house; Dr Hill followed, continuing their murmured conversation, tying up loose ends.
Car doors slammed, the engines of two powerful cars roared into life, and they were gone! In the sudden silence, Dad and I exchanged glances; and then mounted the stairs to pack.
I sat in the corridor of Annie Zunz Ward on a hard chair, lost in thought, blind to the colourful murals - scenes from Toy-Town and Noddy - and the ragged toys and torn children’s books, scattered all around. My father had arranged for his second chef to cover for him for a few hours; now we all waited anxiously for news of Jane. It was ten-fifteen in the evening - over three hours since she had been taken to theatre: we had heard nothing since.
“Why won’t they tell us what’s happening?” Mum was becoming increasingly agitated, was on the verge of tears.
“I’ll see if I can find out …” I got up and stretched my stiff limbs, relieved to be doing something positive. I opened the swing doors to the main part of the darkened ward, and walked stealthily to sister’s office; here the night staff-nurse sat writing at a desk, an angle-poise lamp throwing a circle of light on her work, a cup of cocoa at her elbow. When I had knocked softly and entered, I sensed she was about to make a sharp comment; however, at the sight of my troubled countenance, her face softened.
“I’m Edwin Scott,” I half-whispered. “My sister, Jane, was taken to theatre at seven o’clock for an appendicectomy … Can you tell me what’s happened? Is she alright?”
“She’s not back yet.” The young nurse spoke very quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping children in the beds and cots, nearby. “I’ll ring theatre to find out how she is.”
There followed a murmured telephone conversation; at last she replaced the receiver, and looked up at me.
“The operation was fine …” I let out a breath of relief … “but she’s had an unusual reaction to her pre-medication, and is taking a long time to wake up. So she’s still under observation in the anaesthetic room … Her breathing is alright now, and they’ve taken the airway out … She should be coming back to us soon … Would you or your parents like a drink while you’re waiting: tea, coffee, cocoa?”
Jane slept peacefully; however the cot-sides were still up, and the screens still drawn around the bed; the Scott family sat, watching her rhythmical breathing and her serene, though still flushed face; our fear had evaporated, and now relief mingled with joy. When she was transferred from the theatre trolley into her bed, Jane had opened her eyes; she had registered the faces of her parents, murmured something, and had immediately gone back to sleep.
Now Dad had to get to work - he rose quietly to his feet. Mum and I settled back on our chairs: it was going to be a long night …
Sunday, 15th June: It was half-past ten on an overcast June morning; there was a chill in the air, and I wondered whether I should have brought an overcoat; Jill, somewhat subdued, stood huddled next to me; behind us, Big Ben struck the half hour; we waited on Westminster Embankment, as the boat carefully nosed its way to the pier to tie up; then we strode up the gangway, hand in hand, amid the dozen other passengers. The poor weather seemed to have put off the expected crowd of tourists.
“Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome aboard the Greenwich Maid …”
The loud-hailer had spluttered into life, and then - as suddenly - faded away. We showed our tickets, and then (optimistically) took seats on the top deck, near the front. The boat cast off, and moved smoothly into the middle of the slate-grey Thames; we passed several old sailing ships, complete with rope ladders, masts and rigging, moored on the Embankment - amongst these HMS Discovery, the vessel of my namesake, Captain Robert Falcon Scott, on the doomed British Expedition to the South Pole. The great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral dominated the sky-line on our left; ahead were the twin towers of a Scottish baronial castle.
“Tower Bridge, built in 1894 …” the loud-hailer informed us.
The bridge had been raised, and cars waited patiently on either side; I wondered whether their occupants would eventually be rewarded with sight of a majestic ocean-going liner passing into the Pool of London; for the moment, however, it remained a ghost ship - the river remained empty!
Our boat was slowing down, and eventually pulled into the North bank; it stopped beside a battlemented light grey edifice.
“The Tower of London: built by William the Conqueror as a fortress to overawe the citizens of London …”
A solitary bulky figure in a khaki great-coat descended the gang-plank from the deck below; when it stepped onto dry land, it paused for a moment to remove its red-peaked cap, and scratch its close-cropped scalp. Though greatly changed, I recognised my old school-friend, Brian Pitt! Without glancing back, he marched briskly towards the fortress.
“Ships that pass in the night …” The thought came unbidden to my mind.
“What’s that?” (I must have said it aloud.)
“It’s nothing, Jill. Just someone I thought I knew ... In the military police.”
The boat cast off ...
A few spots of rain heightened the sense of gloom; we found ourselves alone on the top deck, as the other passengers scampered for shelter. Putting up the collar of her corduroy jacket, Jill snuggled up against me - and I felt a sudden surge of happiness. Apart from a few sea-gulls, there was not another living soul in sight: this whole stretch of the River Thames belonged exclusively to us! A shaft of sunlight from behind the purple-black cloud picked out a quaint old tavern on the quay-side: the Prospect of Whitby.
The boat was now navigating St Katharine, West India and East India Docks. The river banks were lined with cranes and warehouses - some in use, some derelict; narrow waterways led off the river to the bustling dock area, where we observed tankers and cargo ships being loaded with supplies; small tramp steamers with rusting sides were tied up against the piers or to one another; a large passenger ship - pristine and newly-painted in gold and white - dominated the scene: the P&O liner Chitral (on which I would briefly reside myself one day).
As we rounded a bend in the river, the pure yet imposing lines of Sir Christopher Wren’s Royal Seamen’s Hospital came into view at the water’s edge; the sun emerged from behind the thinning clouds, and the sandstone edifice blazed into gold. We had arrived at Greenwich!
We followed the passengers off the Greenwich Maid - heading for the Royal Observatory on the slopes of Greenwich Park - suddenly hungry for our sandwiches.
The world has forgotten me - has obliterated from its memory my very existence. You all assume I’m dead. But I live, oh yes, I live! I sit at the centre of my
spider’s web, and spin, and spin, and plan. I am not yet ready. But when I am, I shall return. Then, I shall wreak my vengeance; and you will all rue the day you chose your destiny, the day that would seal your miserable fate, the day you ignored the echoing footfalls of the Whitechapel Slasher ... Even now, I prepare for my resurrection.
Chapter Twenty Four - September, 1958
Friday, 5th September: The drink was sweet and scalding hot. I sat in sister’s office, sharing tea and biscuits with Bryan Phillips (the RRO), and the casualty staff-nurse; I felt part of the team, and experienced a sense of modest pride. It was seven o’clock in the evening, and there was a lull in the activity of the receiving room - the calm before the storm!
Dr Phillips was in the middle of an improvised tutorial to me, on head injuries; however, half his attention was on the voluptuous blonde nurse, who listened, serious and wide-eyed to his dissertation - as though she’d never heard it before.
The distressed crying of a toddler interrupted us:
“Another customer …”
I started up, but the other two continued with their tea. Through the partially open door, I observed a student nurse taking details from the mother, and then ushering her and her child into a curtained cubicle; at length, the junior nurse entered our office, with the child’s casualty card:
“Boy aged three years and two months, with a bloody discharge from the left nostril for two days … Simon Sparks …” read the casualty officer. “Come on, Mr Scott, let’s have a look … May have to call the ENT houseman if we have no joy, but we’ll see …”
Accompanied by the student nurse, I followed him into the cubicle, where the little boy’s cries were gradually abating.
“Good evening, Mrs Sparks. I’m just going to have a little look at Simon. I won’t hurt him. Just hold him on your lap, that’s right … Please take his temperature, Nurse, and then fit up the ENT light for me.”
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 18