We made our way around the house to an almost hidden side entrance; here, Jill unlocked the door with a Yale key, and we plunged into a gloomy semi-basement hall.
“We’re here!”
Jill’s call echoed in the empty house. Weren’t we expected? She led me up a small flight of stairs, and into a spacious sunlit living-room: I noted the comfortable chintz furniture, the open French doors, the full length green velvet curtains, the standard and table lamps with gold-tasselled shades, the display cabinets and book cases.
Almost immediately, a small dumpy figure in a sleeveless floral sun-dress appeared through the French doors, and I was ushered into the garden.
“You must be Edwin,” she began by way of introduction. “I’m Jill’s mother - please call me Eileen.” She had Jill’s frizzy brown hair and large breasts, and gazed at me short-sightedly.
On the terrace stood four deep wicker chairs with floral-patterned cushions (which appeared to match Mrs Pritchard’s dress); and a low cast-iron table with a glazed-tile top, upon which were painted brightly cloured peacocks.
On a chair, slightly apart, sat a lean deeply tanned middle-aged man, with a pencil moustache, apparently engrossed in the Sunday Telegraph newspaper; the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, and his collar was loose; he wore cream flannel trousers and white shoes; in his mouth was an un-smoked pipe. He uncoiled himself from his chair, and came across to shake my hand.
“How-de-do …”
His pipe stayed clamped in his jaws, and was only - finally - removed, to kiss Jill’s cheek.
“ … Neville Pritchard … Have a seat.”
The South-facing garden sloped gently uphill, and was alight with golden sunshine; it was broad and deep, with a wide close-cropped lawn almost blue in the intense light, and a sweep of flower beds on either side; three ancient apple trees, weighed down with fruit, gave shade to the end of the garden. A stone balustrade surmounted the terrace, and four steps led down to the lawn.
Jill and I seated ourselves side by side in the wicker chairs. After a few minutes of tentative conversation, Jill’s mother excused herself, and left to prepare tea. There was a pause, while Neville Pritchard surveyed us, an amused - yet affectionate - expression on his face.
“Are you in Medicine, too, er … Neville?” I ventured.
“Good Lord, no … I’m in Banking. I’m the one who keeps the money rollin’ in.”
Mrs Pritchard brought the tea on a large tray, which she deposited on the low table: the obligatory plate of cucumber sandwiches, a fruit cake; and a delicate decorated tea set of teapot, milk-jug, sugar-bowl, and four cups and saucers (with tiny silver teaspoons). She poured for us all, helped us to milk and sugar; then she passed around the sandwiches - cool, moist, delicious.
“So, how are you getting on with your studies, Edwin?”
I gave a long rambling account of my clinical course, culminating rather lamely with “the excitement of my Casualty experience”. They listened politely. Then:
“You have known Jill quite a long time, on and off,” began Mrs Pritchard, and I wondered where this was leading. “She told us how you met, when you were still at school … Promise me you will never hurt her like that again! She is our only child, and very precious to us.”
She had drawn herself up to her full five foot two, and, with crimson face and flashing eyes, looked down at me, still semi-recumbent in my deep wicker arm-chair.
“I promise …” said a small husky voice - which, I realized with surprise, was my own.
The sound of a car horn, from the front of the house, broke the spell. Mrs Pritchard sat down, with a diffident, slightly apologetic smile, the genie once more back inside the bottle.
The birdsong and the bright sunlight returned; a soft breeze caressed my cheek, and the scent of honeysuckle wafted up to me; a bumble-bee buzzed in a flower bed; I could see a small red squirrel digging at the end of the garden - burying nuts, I supposed.
Mr Pritchard was now on his feet. From behind his chair, he had produced with a flourish a couple of tennis racquets in their covers, and a cylindrical box of tennis balls.
“Have to be goin’ … Glad to have met you, young man … May see you in a couple of hours, when I get back - if you’re still here!”
He shook my hand firmly, pecked his wife on the cheek, and gave his daughter a fond smile, before disappearing into the house ... A car-door slammed, there was another hoot, a powerful engine revved up, and he was gone. Mrs Pritchard was the benign cheerful hostess again.
“We live above the shop,” she was saying, “ … or, more accurately, behind the shop. I run a single-handed general practice … sometimes it gets a bit hectic.”
“Then who’s Dr Hughes?” I remembered the brass plate at the surgery entrance.
“That’s me - I use my maiden name, professionally.”
She described her struggle to get into medical school, and her delight at being accepted by the Royal Free Hospital, one of the few establishments taking female medical students, at that time. The corollary of this was that they had no male students at the hospital, and very few male teachers.
“Life was tough for medical students before the war - especially for women ... We followed the doctors around the wards: it was a true apprenticeship in those days, with very little formal teaching … There was a high moral tone at our medical school: no men allowed in the students’ hostel … everyone in by ten o’clock. The only good thing about the system was the exams - nobody ever failed … Another cup of tea, Edwin?”
She stood up; and, as she leaned forward to pour the tea, I found myself looking straight down the front of her summer dress at her large, perfectly formed breasts. I was mesmerized: though I felt guilty, I couldn’t tear my eyes away; I wondered whether she was aware of the display; and when I saw her eyes fixed intently on mine, and the secret smile on her lips, I knew - beyond doubt - that she was.
She passed the tea; my hand shook as I reached for it, and, before I could grasp the saucer, she had let go; I watched with horror, as - in slow motion - the cup and saucer plunged to the ground, spilling tea on my trouser leg, before shattering into fragments.
“Oh, my lovely Minton cup,” wailed Mrs Pritchard.
I remained imprisoned in my chair, in a state of shock.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Pritchard - Eileen … I don’t know how it happened …” (But I did, of course.) “I’ll replace them … If I could just take the pieces of the saucer to match it … Minton, you said?”
Jill had dashed to the kitchen for a tea-towel, and was now dabbing at my trousers. Mrs Pritchard had regained her composure:
“Don’t worry about it - it was nothing!” Nevertheless, she wrapped up the fragments of broken saucer in newspaper, and gave them to me. After a while, she cut the fruit cake, and we continued eating, Jill making valiant efforts to salvage the conversation.
When - after what seemed an eternity - we finally finished our tea, Mr Pritchard had still not returned.
“Probably popped into the pub …”
I thanked our hostess for the lovely afternoon, and promised to come again, soon. We shook hands, Jill kissed her mother, and we departed with sinking hearts and unnecessary haste. Out in the street, she rallied, took my hand.
“Cheer up!”
Yet try as I might, I couldn’t muster a smile - the day had not been an unqualified success.
Chapter Twenty Five - October, 1958
Monday, 6th October: It was half-past one. Sister and the anaesthetist were already geared up in gown, theatre cap and rubber boots, masks dangling around their necks.
We waited in the small out-patients operating theatre; this was our first experience of Minor Ops - known euphemistically as Lumps and Bumps. At last the surgeon appeared (also in cap and boots), his shirt sleeves rolled up, pin-stripe trousers sporting bright red braces: it was Freddie Hawkins, the middle grade registrar from Mr Treves-Greene’s surgical firm. Brisk and confident, he seemed to fill the
place.
“Come along, you chaps. Get changed into theatre garb next door, while I scrub. The ladies will have to share with the gents … Fortunately for you, in this theatre we keep our trousers and shirts on,” he chuckled.
We all trooped into the tiny surgeons’ room; Sandy Sunalingam, and Heather Smythe occupied one corner, appropriating the only two chairs: to get our boots on, and tuck our trouser ends in, each of the men had to balance precariously on one leg. By the time we had returned to the theatre, Mr Hawkins was scrubbed, gowned, masked and gloved; the first patient was lying anaesthetised on the theatre table, turned half-way on to his front; the operating light was focussed on an angry red swelling over his right shoulder blade; and the surgeon was in the process of cleaning the area with an iodine-soaked swab in a swab-holder. He spread the sterile off-white towels around the operating site, and clipped them in place; at the same time he motioned Sebastian Clark to scrub and assist him.
“Okay your end?” he asked the anaesthetist, who gave a barely perceptible nod. “Well then … scalpel and forceps, please, Sister …” and he was away!
The scalpel sliced through the surface of the abscess; a quantity of greyish-yellow pus squirted out, mingled with a little bright red blood.
“Swab, please; and let’s take a sample for culture, shall we?”
In a short time, the abscess had been evacuated, and he had supervised Sebastian, as he sutured the neat incision. (From the side-lines, I marvelled at my friend’s dexterity.) By this time, the porter was already standing by with the theatre trolley, to take the patient next door to the recovery room.
There were eight cases on this afternoon’s list: a collection of warts, ganglions, sebaceous cysts, and a further abscess. Hawkins demonstrated how to perform the operations, and then supervised the students, as - with varying degrees of success - we emulated him. It certainly wasn’t as easy as he had made it look!
The patients were given a light anaesthetic through a mask:
“Halothane and nitrous oxide (‘laughing gas’) with oxygen … We don’t need any muscle relaxation for these operations. I just like the patients asleep. And no pre-med … they have to recover quickly, so that they can go home afterwards.”
My case was a seventeen-year-old girl; she walked into the theatre under her own steam, while her mother was sent back to the waiting-room. The girl, looking slim and vulnerable, was dressed only in a light theatre gown; she was asked to climb up onto the theatre table, and lie on her side. The anaesthetist switched on his gases; while encouraging her to breathe deeply, he slowly advanced the mask; by the time it was firmly over her nose and mouth, she was asleep, face slightly flushed, breathing easily and regularly; her left arm was slipped out of her gown and raised above her head, exposing a smooth lump, two or three inches in diameter, nestling between her breast and axilla.
I stood waiting - gowned, scrubbed, and apprehensive - while the skin was painted, and towels were draped around the swelling.
“Notice the black punctum in the centre of this lump: typical of a sebaceous cyst,” Freddie Hawkins proceeded cheerfully. “Now make your incision boldly - just here!”
I felt the skin part smoothly under my scalpel. With a little help from the surgeon, I dissected it out, tied off a few small blood vessels, and removed the cyst.
“Let’s have a pot for Mr Scott’s specimen, staff-nurse. Could you please label it, and send it for histology … Thanks, awfully.”
I sewed up the skin with eight silk stitches, priding myself on a job well done. The iodine solution was cleaned off, the wound was dressed, and the patient - already showing signs of waking - was transferred on to the theatre trolley; staff-nurse and I accompanied her to the recovery room, to wait until she was fully conscious; with a gauze swab, the nurse wiped the beads of perspiration off the girl’s forehead; her eyes fluttered, and then opened; she looked up at us vaguely; after a while, she smiled:
“Is it all finished? I had such a lovely dream …”
Friday, 10th October: We joined the short queue at the box-office, hoping for some ticket returns for tonight’s performance: La Boheme was playing at Covent Garden, and my excitement was tempered with anxiety that we might not get in.
“Would you like this pair of tickets?”
The man seemed to have singled us out from the rest of the queue. He was well dressed, and had a pleasant, cultivated voice.
“They’re quite good - the seats, that is. My wife’s unwell, so we can’t come tonight.”
“How much …” I enquired, though the man didn’t conform to my mental picture of a ticket tout.
“Why, nothing … We just wanted to give them a good home. Someone who’d appreciate the performance.”
Jill and I had taken our seats in the centre of the third row of the stalls. We had eaten well in a modest café-restaurant around the corner; but the meal and small carafe of house wine had almost cleaned us out financially. It was just as well we hadn’t had to pay for our tickets - otherwise we would be washing dishes all evening, instead of attending the opera.
We had got back early to the Royal Opera House, and now watched as the auditorium gradually filled. Those immediately around us were in evening dress (whereas I wore a lounge suit, and Jill her black cocktail dress); though I fancied we were regarded with disapproval - as interlopers - I was determined not to let this spoil the evening. I surveyed the scene: the place, ablaze with a thousand lights, was opulent in crimson and gold; a fairyland!
There was a hush, as the lights dimmed; I became aware of the conductor - within touching distance of my seat - rising from the orchestra pit, and picked out by the spot-light. Colin Davies, fresh faced with a mass of dark curly hair, appeared incredibly young, as he bowed, and brought the hitherto invisible orchestra to its feet; he raised his baton, and they embarked on the prelude to Act I: the curtain rose, and we were in a mean garret on Christmas Eve, overlooking the rooftops of Paris.
Giuseppe Di Stefano, the tenor, took the part of the poet Rodolfo. With his Sicilian good looks and his soft yet passionate voice, he dominated the set from the start; he drew rapturous applause from the audience after almost every aria.
After his three flat-mates have left, Rodolfo remains alone in the garret, working on a poem. He is interrupted by a timid knock on the door; and the seamstress, Mimi, makes her entrance. I could just make out my programme notes in the darkness: “Unfortunately Maria Callas is indisposed. Her place has been taken by Una Hale - the Australian soprano - making her debut at Covent Garden.” Miss Hale was lovely, nay enchanting, with a wonderful, lyrical voice. I had no time to consider the absence of the prima donna, or to regret the substitution: in seconds I was captivated. Puccini’s lilting tunes transported me to another world. I felt for Jill’s hand in the darkness, but she brushed me away - our neighbours might disapprove …
I found the opera achingly sad, and was overwhelmed by the beauty of the music. The drama drew to its close: Mimi has died of consumption - Rodolfo falls tragically on her body - and the last strains of the orchestra fade away. I joined in enthusiastically, as the auditorium erupted with applause; there was a lump in my throat, and I struggled to keep the tears from my eyes.
We arrived back at Jill’s flat as Big Ben was striking eleven o’clock; she unlocked the door, but didn’t invite me in:
“I’m very tired.”
I felt a fleeting kiss; then she was gone, and the door closed behind her.
Monday, 20th October: We sat around the card table, in the Athenaeum - Joe Knowles opposite Malcolm Conway, and Bob Parsons partnering me.
“Three hearts.”
“No bid.”
“Four hearts.”
“No bid.”
“Six hearts!”
I had become a Bridge addict - we all had; increasingly, the game was taking up our lunch hours.
Joe’s face was momentarily serious, as he led his first card. Bob laid down his dummy hand; I concentrated on the cards in dummy and in
my own hand, before playing low from table. Malcolm’s chair was tilted back and balanced on its hind legs; he rocked forward, played his Jack of Spades, and rocked back again; I took the trick in hand with the Queen of Spades. While we played, Knowles resumed his commentary, still striving for the apt phrase to raise a smile, but now I found him irritating rather than amusing. As I began playing out trumps, I became aware of the medical school porter at my shoulder:
“Gentlemen, you’re needed in the minor ops clinic - quite urgent, Sister says.”
“Thank you, Chapman, we’ll be right along …”
I consulted my watch: ten to two.
“Just let’s finish this game.”
I went one down in my small slam, outwardly angry and cursing the interruption; yet, at the back of my mind, there was more than a trace of guilt and anxiety. Leaving the cards on the table, we dashed to out-patients: it was after two o’clock - the latest we had ever been!
“There may be troubles ahead …” quipped Joe, an uncertain grin on his face.
Chapter Twenty Six - November, 1958
Monday, 3rd November: The coach drove us past Pentonville Jail; then down cobbled side streets, until we found ourselves in a dusty Georgian Square; large iron gates swung back, and we entered an overgrown parkland, screened from the outside world by a high brick wall and massive elms; we came to a halt on a weed-strewn gravel turning-circle in front of an imposing, though today somewhat dilapidated, ivy-covered mansion: we had arrived at St Sebastian’s on the first day of our psychiatric firm.
Now, seated in the seminar room, we could see the rear grounds of the hospital: lawns, more elm trees, a small duck pond, and an allotment, on which several inmates and male nurses were busy at work.
“I’m Dr Smellie …” A snigger travelled around the room, but he appeared oblivious. “… the Medical Superintendent … Welcome to St Sebastian’s Hospital. I trust you have had a pleasant journey … First, I will show you some cases, here, in the seminar room; subsequently you will split up into pairs, to see patients individually in their rooms.”
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 20