“Guess,” she murmured. “Begins with an E …”
(Edwin, I thought hopefully.)
“Elvis,” she said.
Wednesday, 13th January: I had delivered her a week ago. Mrs Kristofouros lived in a seedy three-storey house, in an alley just off Cable Street; the place was notorious at the London Hospital as a brothel, and was a steady source of deliveries for the obstetric students. Today I was on a follow-up visit, to check both mother and baby. I climbed the stairs to the first floor in semi-darkness, although outside it was a pleasant sunny afternoon; all traces of the snow had, long since, vanished.
The room was surprisingly spacious: it was dominated by a massive brass double bed, unmade, and smelling of bodies; there was a cooking/ eating area, containing a small table, a couple of chairs, and a gas ring on a ledge; in a corner stood a small wooden cot, with a new-born infant asleep inside, wrapped in a shawl.
The patient sat on the edge of the bed, in a red see-through nightie, her bulky nursing bra clearly visible; she wore powder, rouge and heavy eye make-up; her lips were scarlet, the lipstick extending well beyond their margins in a cupid’s bow; I could smell her powerful musky perfume across the room. This was her second baby: a daughter weighing 6lb 8oz at birth, an easy uneventful delivery; the first child had been sent away for adoption. She was still quite young, and would have been pretty, but for her make-up, unkempt hair, and unwashed state.
There was no sign of the midwife, and I felt uneasy at the lack of a chaperone.
“Good morning, Mrs Kristofouros. How are you feeling today? How’s baby?”
“We’re fine, luv.” Despite her name, she had a broad Cockney accent. “She’s takin’ er feeds well … Sleeps most o’ the time.”
“We’ll just wait a few minutes for the midwife, Mrs Kristofouros.”
“I was near forgettin’ … She phoned - can’t make it today … Said to tell you to carry on … Can you listen to me ’eart today, Doc: I gotta bit o’ pain.”
“Let’s check baby first. Have you found a name for her yet?”
“Naw, not yet … Me ’usband likes ‘Sophie’, but I ain’t so sure.”
I examined the infant: I gave her a finger to grip in each of its little fists; I checked her feet, the fontanelles on her skull, and her palate; I placed my stethoscope on her chest; all was well. She hardly stirred, and was soon fast asleep again.
Finally, I turned my attention to the mother. I had her lie flat on the bed; I felt her abdomen to check the state of her uterus; next, I got her to sit up, so that I could listen with my stethoscope to the back of her chest; in a trice, she had whisked off her night dress; the buttons of her nursing bra were swiftly undone, and the bra expertly removed.
“The pain’s ’ere, Doc,” she pointed to the left side of her chest. I moved round to face her: her breasts were heavy, milky-white, with blue veins and deeply pigmented areolae and nipples; she sat waiting, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips. I raised my stethoscope; the door opened, and her “husband”, Mr Kristofouros, entered - reputed to be the brothel keeper! I took in a thickset balding man, a pock-marked face, and a mat of black hairs on the back of his hands; he wore a creased black suit; his collar was undone, but a tie with a colourful picture of a nude was knotted some way down his shirt-front; he had a guttural voice with a strong Greek accent, almost a caricature:
“Watta you do here, eh? Ah, issa the doctor, no?”
I nodded, feeling myself turn scarlet; at that moment there was a “ping” : the rivet on the cross-piece of the stethoscope flew off; the ear-pieces collapsed, and fell from my ears. I stood rooted to the spot, my embarrassment compounded.
When I was again capable of coherent thought, I fled from the room, mumbling “Goodbye”, and collecting my bag, instruments, scarf and coat on the way. Was it my imagination, or could I hear laughter, as I hurried down the stairs?
Chapter Thirty Three - February, 1960
Monday, 1st February: The Morris Minor had been Bob’s twenty-first birthday present from his parents. It shone with polish, inside and out, and was painted a stylish racing green. It was his pride and joy! Bob drove cautiously up the City Road towards Islington; we were headed for Bedford, fifty miles away, and one month’s obstetric elective at the Queen Alexandra Hospital. I had hoped that I would be allowed to drive a stretch of the way; however, my trial run through the back-streets around the hostel had not been an unqualified success: I was unable to get out of second gear!
We navigated laboriously (but uneventfully) to Apex Corner, where we came onto the main A1 - the Great North Road. It was ten o’clock, and we had been travelling about three quarters of an hour; the sun shone encouragingly, though the car’s heater still struggled to combat the winter’s cold.
There was now very little traffic: Bob put his foot down on the accelerator, and the speedometer needle slowly climbed to sixty miles an hour. Soon we were in open country, fields turning around us, the wind rushing exhilaratingly past the car’s windows.
Bedford was bigger than I had expected. We had passed a church, crossed the Great Ouse River, and caught a glimpse of a second, more ancient, church; we had paused in a market square to ask directions, before finally finding ourselves in front of a handsome red-brick Edwardian edifice: the Queen Alexandra Maternity Hospital. The wrought iron gates were open; Bob drove in, and parked in a vacant area marked “Staff”; he switched off the engine, and we sat for a moment in the deafening silence, still feeling as though the car were in motion ...
The hospital porter showed us to our room in the midwifery tutors’ quarters, where we left our cases and Bob’s tape recorder. Matron awaited us in the School of Midwifery: she was an angular humourless middle aged lady in a dark green uniform, with a tall frilly white cap and white cuffs, but no apron; on her chest was a medal - the cross of Charing Cross Hospital, where she had trained.
“Welcome to Queen Alexandra Hospital,” she intoned solemnly. “This is one of the finest maternity hospitals in the Country, and the midwives we train are in demand everywhere ... Now, we have some house rules, to which you must adhere - or I will come down on you like a ton of bricks! (Goodness me, I thought.) Firstly, we have a policy of performing episiotomies. These small incisions are designed to prevent the serious third degree tears from vagina into rectum, which have such devastating consequences. We expect you to sew up the episiotomies on all our patients: this should occupy you during daylight hours. Secondly, our midwifery students have priority for delivering babies between 8am and 6 pm; so most of your deliveries will take place at night. Consequently you will be on call, and must not leave the hospital during this time ... Thirdly, we have midwifery lectures every week-day morning, from nine to ten-thirty, which you are expected to attend. Dr Spinks himself lectures on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and you will find these sessions most instructive.
Finally, please take special note: I do not tolerate any fraternization with the pupil midwives. They live in Helen MacKenzie House, and you have accommodation in Florence Douglas House. You will be summarily discharged if any of them are found in your room, or if you are found in theirs. The guilty girls would - of course - be severely disciplined as well ... Now, we had expected you earlier, but you should just catch lunch, in the main dining-room, if you hurry … Enjoy your stay! ”
We were dismissed.
They had saved an unexpectedly sumptuous meal for us: roast chicken, sage-and-onion stuffing, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, and tiny peas; followed by fruit salad and ice cream, and coffee, cheese and biscuits. We had dined alone - it was almost two o’clock, and normal service had finished.
Afterwards, we found our way back to unpack. We had been allocated a large ground-floor room, with views of woods from the windows, and wall-to-wall carpeting; at one end were a decent-sized table (suitable as a desk for us both), two hard chairs, two easy chairs, and a book-case; at the other end were two single beds with bedside tables, on one of which stood a telephone. The food was great, the surroundings lovely: w
e were going to enjoy our month, in spite of the old battle-axe!
The phone rang: “Doctor Spinks here. Could you make your way to my office - soon as you can … in the main hospital … The porter will show you.”
His room was at the rear of the main hospital building, again on the ground floor; it was spacious, comfortable, even opulent, with a high ceiling, an elegant fire-place, and French doors to a garden terrace; there were views of flower beds, and a lawn stretching to a piece of woodland (a few patches of snow still lay on the grass); on the parquet floor was an expensive-looking Persian rug; the walls were covered with embossed green and gold Regency-striped wallpaper, which matched the curtains; blazing wall lights on brass brackets, and a large standard lamp augmented the bright daylight from outside; a coal fire hissed and crackled in the hearth; there was a large Edwardian writing desk, with a green leather top, backing on to the windows; three leather armchairs were placed randomly around the room; one wall was lined with books there appeared to be complete collections of the works of Charles Dickens and Thomas Hardy, bound in green leather; above the mantelpiece was a large portrait of Queen Alexandra, in oils; on the opposite wall, a similar-sized framed photograph of our present Queen.
We were beckoned to sit; we surveyed our surroundings, while Dr Spinks continued writing with a gold fountain pen. Finally, he raised his head.
“I had expected you somewhat earlier,” he began in a surprisingly resonant voice, with just the trace of a northern accent. He regarded us through watery spaniel eyes for a further two minutes, before rising from his chair, and moving around his desk towards us. His bulbous red nose was covered in a fine network of broken blood-vessels; his chin was weak, and his scrawny neck was partly obscured by a paisley scarf; although obviously quite old, he had a full head of jet black hair, and sported black mutton-chop side-boards and whiskers; he wore a navy blazer, with brass buttons and a London Hospital Medical College badge; a yellow silk handkerchief protruded from its breast pocket; beige cavalry twill trousers, yellow socks, and battered brown suede shoes completed the ensemble.
“I’m Doctor Leonard Spinks,” he had a rather staccato delivery. “Came here in ’thirty-five straight from The London; set up in general practice. Lah: life was pretty rum in those days - found all sorts of missed diagnoses - even missed by the local consultants: remember I picked up a brain tumour, an aortic aneurysm, thyrotoxic heart failure, and several cases of pulmonary tuberculosis. Soon got quite a reputation as a diagnostician, don’t you know … Missed the war - gammy leg … Offer you a drink: sherry, brandy?”
Politely, we declined. Dr Spinks approached the book-shelves. (Is he going to give us a reading? I wondered.) He pressed one of the volumes, and a whole section swung out, revealing a neat cocktail cabinet with mirrors and an integral light: the books were just a façade!
“Lah: think I’ll have just a small one.”
He extracted a decanter, with an enamelled disc on a silver chain around its neck, labelled “Cognac”; he poured the contents into a large balloon glass, and added a small squirt of soda from a siphon.
“Needed more beds at Luton, because of the war - closed their Obstetric Unit, and transferred t’cases here … I was always interested in obstetrics: set up midwifery unit here - gone from strength to strength; now the best in t’ Country, don’t you know … Established a reputation with the mothers for infallibility in predicting the sex of the babies … Tell you how I do it: I notify the mother it will be a girl - but in my diary I write, ‘Mrs Smith - boy.’ If it turns out to be a girl, she’s impressed. If it’s a boy, she will say, ‘You were wrong - you told me it would be a girl.’ ‘I don’t think so,’ I reply, ‘Just let me check in my diary.’ Then I show her my diary entry: ‘Mrs Smith - boy.’ And Lah: my reputation is secure … Still do an occasional forceps delivery myself; but they bring in a consultant from down the road, for Caesars - I’m one of the last of the GP Obstetricians.”
Dr Spinks’s performance was histrionic, but polished: as though, like Matron, he had practised it many times before. He finished his brandy, and seemed disappointed that the decanter was empty.
Tuesday, 2nd February: After breakfast, we made our way to the class-room, situated in a hideous modern annexe. We arrived at the stroke of nine o’clock, the time the lecture was due to commence; there was a stir, and a giggle went around the room from the assembled pupil midwives; we sat down at the back.
Dr Spinks made an entrance shortly after, in a dazzling white coat; he stopped dramatically at the front of the room, surveying his audience.
“This month, we are honoured with the presence of two medical students from the London Hospital, don’t you know - Mr Parsons and Mr Scott … Come to the front, gentlemen, take a bow; we have reserved for you the best seats in the house!”
To a further flurry of unwanted attention, we made our way to the empty desks indicated.
The lecturer sat on a table facing his audience, his legs dangling: “Today, I shall discuss third degree tears - and how to prevent them!”
He spoke well, and the audience hung on his every word; he made an occasional joke, at which the pupil midwives laughed sycophantically; he was clear, and easy to follow; unfortunately the subject matter was frequently at variance with what we had already learned at The London: much of it seemed to be either contentious or out of date. He finished to enthusiastic applause from all - except Bob and me.
Tuesday, 9th February: We had few deliveries, but were kept busy sewing up the midwives’ episiotomies. We both quite enjoyed the suturing - except when we were woken up for it - and were soon quite proficient. This afternoon, when I had just completed one of these tasks, I was stopped by a midwifery tutor as I was about to leave.
“They’ve a birth in the delivery room next door - should be finished soon; you might as well hang on … Save coming back for the episiotomy.”
I thanked her, and strolled across. (Strictly speaking, it was Bob’s turn - but he wouldn’t mind.) Casually, I pushed open the swing doors. There appeared to be a problem: the patient was on the delivery table, eyes screwed up, face scarlet, pushing desperately; the pupil midwife had been stood aside, and sister tutor was delivering the baby herself.
At my entrance, the patient stopped pushing, and turned her head towards me.
“Thank heavens you’re here, doctor!” she cried, in obvious relief.
Sister was stunned; however, she recovered herself admirably:
“As you’re here, young man, and as the pupil midwife can’t quite manage, you’d best carry on … Mrs Clarkson is a primigravida, it’s a vertex presentation, foetal heart is okay … Off you go - she’s fully dilated, and the membranes have long since ruptured.”
I scrubbed hastily: “Right, Mrs Clarkson, at the next contraction, I want you to take a deep breath, hold it, and then push for as long as you can … Don’t worry; everything is going to be fine.” I held her hand; at the same time, I felt for the next contraction ...
After two minutes, the baby was delivered smoothly, without setback, and much to everyone‘s relief; I had no time for the usual episiotomy; the cord was clamped, tied and cut; the mother lay back, smiling contentedly, cradling her newborn baby.
“Boy; weight 6lb2oz,” intoned the tutor midwife.
Casually I laid my hand on the patient’s abdomen; I sat up, suddenly alert again: what’s this bulky mass? Surely it can’t be the placenta?
“There’s another one in here,” I announced. “You have twins!”
The second baby boy, though a breech presentation - my first - was delivered without complication, and weighed in at six pounds exactly. The placenta emerged intact, and the womb contracted into a healthy ball.
Holding a twin in each arm, Mrs Clarkson kissed me full on the mouth, thrilled at the unexpected bonus; the watching pupil midwives clapped; sister tutor managed a wintry smile.
I was happy. I was due to see Jill for the evening. I put away my books, donned my duffle-coat and college s
carf. I left the library, and exited the medical school by the back door. I was late!
Immediately I glimpsed Jill, waiting by the statue of Queen Alexandra. My heart lifted. I waved, but she didn’t see me. Then I stopped, frozen with fear: out of the shadow of the statue emerged a hideous figure in a hood. It was Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man. As I watched, he pounced; now he had his fingers around Jill’s throat, and was throttling her.
“You swine,” I shouted, as my legs finally started to work, and I found myself running towards them. However, all that emerged from my dry mouth was a diminutive croak. Jill remained silent; she fought valiantly, but was slowly sinking to her knees. Hard as I ran, I made little progress: they appeared as far away as ever.
The sinister figure was still unaware of my approach. A scalpel gleamed evilly in his hand.
“You swine,” I yelled again. “Leave her be!”
This time he heard me. He turned as I reached the statue. I felt the scalpel blade slice through my clothes and embed itself in my chest. The pain was excruciating. I knew I was dying. I had been unable to save Jill ...
I woke with a racing pulse, a parched mouth, a heavy weight crushing my epigastrium, unable to shake off the dread and terror of my recurrent nightmare. The cold light of day was creeping around the curtains; in the next bed, Bob snored gently.
Because we were on call for deliveries every night, we were unable to get out to the local pub; instead - when not working - we stayed in our room. Here I gained new insights into my friend’s character: Bob had a passion for the music of Richard Wagner and the macabre writings of Edgar Allan Poe, recordings of which were played (at full volume) with amazing clarity, on his bulky Grundig tape recorder. I had tried revising my obstetrics, or relaxing with some light reading, but had been unable to concentrate because of the racket; bowing to the old adage, “If you can’t beat them …”, I was compelled to join Bob.
In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1) Page 26