“Oh, I don't know ...”
But I did of course: I couldn't have tolerated being cooped up in this B&B for the whole of my pre-clinical studies, watching my uncle play successive rounds of patience, while my aunt cleaned and polished the house endlessly, like the painting of the Forth Bridge. I would have had no private life; I could imagine my friends being discussed – especially the girls – their relative merits dissected in this very back parlour, perhaps even a regular bulletin on my progress being sent to my mother ...
The ancient long case clock in the front sitting room struck eleven. The evening had been convivial, and passed swiftly, my dark thoughts vanishing as suddenly as they had arrived. Despite their wish to control the lives of their lodgers (and me?), I knew that Charlie and Linda loved me, perhaps thought of me as the son they had never had. I had left with further hugs and fond farewells, promising to return soon.
Now I drove by the light of the half-moon from a star-frosted velvet sky. An occasional house-light twinkled in the distance, and a few street lamps glimmered dimly as I passed through a village. The roads, even the large trunk roads, were deserted – I was alone in the immensity of the Universe. Fred roared through the night, his headlights piercing the darkness for many miles ahead, and reflecting off the rows of “cat's eyes” that marked the lanes of the dual carriage-way, and stretched out before me like a silver necklace. The warm night air rushed through the open window. I felt exhilarated, elated. I glanced at the speedometer needle – seventy-five miles an hour! I wished my journey would never end.
10
Sunday, 22nd August: The rain thickened, and the wipers struggled to keep the windscreen clear. The night was an impenetrable black, punctuated only by occasional headlights travelling in the opposite direction.
I had spent a miserable week-end at home in Clapham; my head was still filled with thoughts of Jill, regrets that I had not stayed longer when I visited her. Her face had been so wan, so pale; her voice was weak and filled with despair, her grip had lost its firmness. She had lost hope, lost her will to live.
This evening I remained preoccupied; I had driven almost automatically – a vast change from my previous trip along this route – keeping up a respectable speed, and hardly noticing the other traffic. I was brought back to the present, with a jolt, when the car's engine suddenly cut out, and we coasted in silence into a convenient lay-by.
My heart thudded painfully in my chest: I was all alone on the A1 in the middle of nowhere at eleven o'clock at night, one and a half hours from London and probably another half an hour to Hitchin. There was not a building or a soul in sight, and, to cap it all, the rain was now bucketing down. I waited a long five minutes, while the rain drummed on the car roof, before I tried the self-starter. To my immense relief, the engine started immediately, gave a cough, and then settled into a normal rhythm. I eased into the empty trunk road and drove gently on, keeping to a steady thirty miles an hour.
After ten minutes, the motor cut out again, but gave a couple of coughs, and restarted. At the same time the welcome lights of the Old Clock Inn appeared before me, and I drew gratefully into the spacious, empty car park. The doors of the hostelry were still unlocked, though the saloon bar appeared to be closed, and only a couple of side lights burned. However, inside it seemed comfortable and warm. The landlord was collecting up dirty glasses.
“We're closed ...”
I explained my predicament and my destination; at the mention of St Peter's Hospital, he immediately became more friendly and accommodating:
“There's a garage a few miles down the road, but they won't be open until tomorrow morning ... I could let you have a room for the night, doctor ...”
I decided I would try to ring the hospital first – see if they could help.
“May I use your phone, please?”
“Be my guest ...”
I was reassured by Ernie's voice at the other end – the man was a phenomenon; did he never sleep, did he never go off duty? He listened carefully while I explained my dilemma.
“I'll get Alf, the night porter, to come down to you in the hospital van, Dr Scott. He can tow you back to St Peter's ... If you could just wait for him in the car park, he'll be with you in fifteen to twenty minutes. Goodbye, sir.”
The landlord refused payment for the call; I thanked him, and walked to the car park to wait in my car. The rain had stopped, silence reigned. I gazed at the old clock tower that gave its name to the inn, picked out by floodlights. After twenty long minutes the van arrived, parked next to my car, and Alf jumped out.
“Just try the engine again, Dr Scott ...”
It started perfectly first time.
“Hm ... intermittent problem, probably electrical ... Well, why don't you drive and I'll follow you. I've brought a towing rope along; so if you break down and we can't get you going again, I can always tow you back, sir.”
I drove slowly out of the car park, and maintained a comfortable forty miles an hour along the dual carriage-way, reassured by the van's headlights in my rear-view mirror. With a mixture of relief and embarrassment, after an uneventful journey, I drew into the gates of St Peter's Hospital, just after midnight.
I could see a light in the doctors' common room; so, after depositing my suitcase in my room, I popped my head around the door. The television screen was blank. Olly Kumar sat in a deep arm-chair with a newspaper on his lap, but with his eyes closed. I was about to leave again, when he stirred and opened them.
“Oh, it's you, Edwin ... Have you just returned from your week-end? What time is it?”
His handsome brown face crinkled into a friendly smile; he still wore his white coat, but it was thrown open to display grey flannel trousers, a white shirt and floral tie, loose at the neck.
“Come, do you fancy an omelette? I often have one this time of night.”
He led the way to the small kitchen, just off the sitting room. From the fridge, he extracted eggs, ham, butter and milk; and in a tiny larder, he found mushrooms, tomatoes, cooking oil, a salt cellar and a pepper mill. The omelette sizzled in a frying pan on the solitary gas ring, and was soon emitting a tempting smell. He divided it into two portions. Toast and coffee completed our midnight feast.
“I hear you have met my other half ...”
I was amazed.
“I didn't know you were married, Olly ...”
“Oh no, Edwin, I meant the anaesthetic SHO, Ginny Lund ... She's a very good anaesthetist – almost as good as me! (Giggles.) But, unlike me, she's very shy ... Sometimes can't get a word out of her all day. Her main problem in theatre, though, is the time it takes for her to wind her plait under her theatre cap. It holds up the list, delays the operations ...” He paused, deep in thought. “She has a sad personal history, Edwin: parents separated when she was little. Father's Swedish – a sea captain, apparently – on oil tankers to and from the Middle East; mother's English, an accountant ... She lives with her in London ... Holland Park ...”
We chatted well into the night, long after our plates were empty. The flood-gates had opened: I had never heard so much from Olly before. He regaled me with tales of his native Calcutta, of his mother's attempts at tying him into an arranged marriage, of his life in England as an anaesthetic senior house officer. When we finally parted at two o'clock in the morning, the warm glow of our fellowship evaporated, to be replaced by gloom. I recalled once again my alarm at the car's erratic behaviour tonight, and my inexorable journey toward bereavement. To Olly I had said nothing of these woes.
Mustn't think, mustn't dwell; must just get to bed – busy day tomorrow ...
11
Tuesday, 24th August: The sun shone brightly from a pale cloudless sky, and the deep yellow of the rape fields contrasted with the myriad greens of grass and hedgerows. I had managed to get away for a short time this afternoon. The car stalled briefly once, but I arrived without further mishap. The garage, owned by Mackie Patterson (Poppy's husband), was about two miles outside Hitchin, on the Bedfor
d Road. I would have enjoyed the drive, had I not had the nagging worry that Fred would break down again at any time.
As I arrived in the fore-court, Mackie was emerging from under a ramp, wiping his hands on an oily rag. I noted that he was appreciably older than his wife: the big West Indian had an expanding waist-line and grizzled curly hair. His natty blue overalls were open, exposing a deep chest covered in matching but sparse grey hair. He recognised me when I got out of the car, and a smile lit his face, exposing a mouthful of large brilliantly white teeth.
“Hi, doc. Glad to see you made it, man ...” His voice was deep and musical. “Poppy done give me you message just ten minutes ago.”
He wiped his palm once more – on the thigh of his overall – and shook hands warmly. He stood motionless, towering over me, his head cocked to one side, the smile widening while I tried to explain the problem.
“Hmm, Morris Minor 1000, nineteen-fifty-eight model. Could be electrical problem ... Have to wait and see ... I'll check her over this afternoon; bring her to you at St Peter's when she fixed – probably one or two days ... I see you right-hand turn indicator also stuck – I fix same time ... Want a cuppa tea, doc? After, I drop you back to the hospital.”
12
Thursday, 26th August: I was startled to find someone sitting in my arm-chair, as I opened the door to my room. Dismay turned to curiosity when I recognised the jolly face of Poppy Patterson, the sister on the gynae ward, still in her uniform. It was five o'clock, and I had just finished on the wards.
“How are you, doc? Mackie just phoned ... He workin' late in garage ... can't pick you up today. But car's ready, and you can have it this afternoon if you make your own way down ... said I was to show you way, take you on the bus – if you like ... Otherwise he could collect you tomorrow.”
There was a pause, while I digested this. Tomorrow would be difficult: I was on call for the whole week-end, which included the Friday.
“Do you mean now, Poppy?”
Her dark eyes sparkled. She nodded.
“OK. I'm ready ...”
I removed my white coat, put on my sports jacket, checked that my wallet with money, driving licence and my cheque book were firmly in an inside pocket, and followed her out of the room.
Outside the doctors' quarters,we stepped into bright sunlight. We turned left, passed the administrative building containing Ernie's telephone switchboard, and turned left again before the main hospital gates, heading east downhill towards the Bedford Road. We followed a narrow track through the undergrowth of sorrel, brambles, ivy and stinging nettles; the sunshine was largely cut off by densely packed saplings and adult trees; yet, even in the semi-darkness, I could still discern patches of colour: purple thistles, white cow-parsley, pink rosebay willow-herb; on the air I caught the faint aroma of pine resin. The temperature had fallen sharply in the shade, and I felt a chill through my light clothes; Poppy wrapped her cape more tightly around her shoulders, and strode out, while I lagged behind, walking slowly, deep in thought.
“What's the matter, Dr Scott? You scared to go on?” I found myself blushing, and was glad of the dim light.
“Nursing staff often use this path – it's a short-cut ... About here is where we find the dead tramp ... Mackie meets me here, when I run late – if he can get away – gives me a lift home. He was absolutely livid with that man, calling us “coons and niggers” and I don't know whatever else ... It was all over the hospital ... Mackie would have killed him himself if he could have laid hands on him ... But 'Live and let live,' I say. Life too short for dat sort of thing ...”
By now I had picked up my pace, and caught up with her. We walked together in silence. In a short while, we emerged on the main road, close to the bus stop. We caught the double-decker green-line bus towards Bedford, and were on our way to Mackie's garage.
13
Saturday, 28th August: Dr Thomas Cottar was the second consultant physician at St Peter's Hospital. During the week, I occasionally saw him – youngish, sandy-haired, neatly and rather formally dressed – striding purposefully down the hospital corridors, but he rarely seemed to have time to smile or nod to me. He had reputedly been a high flier at St Thomas' Hospital, but his career as a cardiologist had collapsed when he became deaf in one ear, after an attack of measles. Nevertheless, he seemed quite content as a general physician in a small district general hospital; he possessed a large opulent mansion with a swimming pool a few miles out of town, ran a flourishing private practice, and drove a Bentley. On alternate week-ends, I was on call for his patients from nine o'clock on Friday morning until nine on the following Monday morning, together with his registrar, Steve Bolton.
Occasionally, the consultant would come to see a particularly ill patient or an especially difficult diagnostic problem, and I would be treated to a shy smile and a soft enjoinder to “Let's have the story, Dr Scott – succinctly as possible, please.” He would be dressed in country tweeds and knitted green tie for the week-end. My gaze would be irresistibly drawn to the hearing aid behind his left ear, as I gave my brief sketch of the patient's problems ...
The bedside phone rang on the Saturday morning, dragging me out of a deep sleep. I gazed at the clock, as I picked up the receiver – five-thirty-five.
“It's Night Sister,” came a well-modulated voice. “Sorry to disturb you, Dr Scott. I'm afraid Mr Ransley, the patient you admitted to Ward Eleven, yesterday evening, has deteriorated. He's fighting for breath. We're giving him oxygen ...”
“I'll be right over.”
I was instantly fully awake. I thrust a jumper and trousers over my pyjamas, donned socks, shoes and wrist-watch, grabbed my stethoscope and white coat, and was out of the doctors' quarters, sprinting across the car park towards the wards.
Ward Eleven (Dr Cottar's men's ward) was a scene of controlled pandemonium, as the three night nurses worked to prepare the patients for the hand-over to the day staff. Outside it was still pitch-black, but here all the lights were full on. Some of the fitter men – in dressing gowns – were queuing for the bathrooms or lavatories, while curtains were drawn around several beds, indicating that the occupants were on bed-pans; some patients were already eating breakfast (either in bed or at a long table in the centre of the ward). One had been abandoned part of the way through his blanket-bath.
The cause of the interruption was lying in a bed near the entrance to the ward. Frantic activity could be sensed from the movement agitating the drawn screens, the squeak of the trolley, and the subdued but urgent voices from behind the screens. I peered in: Night Sister, her sleeves rolled up (a sight seldom seen), was helping the night staff-nurse with the sick patient. He had been raised up on the back-rest, and was breathing through an oxygen mask. His pyjama jacket had been removed, and a sphygmomanometer cuff had been attached to his right arm above the elbow. His neck veins were engorged. Behind his mask, his face was blue and sweat gleamed on his forehead. His breathing was rapid and laboured.
“Mr Ransley's pulse is one hundred and ten, regular, respirations forty-three, blood pressure one hundred and five over sixty,” reported the staff-nurse tersely. “I think he's in left ventricular failure ...”
This was clearly a very serious development. The patient, a middle-aged heavy smoker, who had come in with congestive right-sided cardiac failure, was already on digitalis and the new injectable diuretic, mersalyl.
I recalled the spooky feeling of wandering around the deserted pharmacy at dead of night, searching the unfamiliar shelves, and finally the sense of relief on finding the sought-after drugs; then listing, and signing for them in the book hanging on the hook by the door; locking up; and, finally, returning the key to the casualty officer, who threw it casually into the top drawer of his desk.
Now I felt the patient's pulse, and briefly listened to the back of his chest.
“Numerous bubbly crepitations, Sister ... , Mr Ransley. I'll need to take some blood off you to relieve the congestion; soon have you feeling better ... Is the trolley lai
d for a venesection, Sister? I'm writing him up for ¼ grain of omnopon IM – I'd like him to have it straight away, please.”
While sister hurried out to draw up the drug, I put on my mask, rolled up my sleeves, and scrubbed up quickly at the wash-basin. Next, I checked the morphine with sister before she rolled the patient on his side and injected it into his buttock. She rolled him back, staff-nurse adjusted the bedside light and pumped up the blood pressure cuff until the veins on his arm stood up prominently. I felt the front of the elbow for the ante-cubital vein, dabbed it with iodine, and inserted a large-bore needle attached to a length of rubber tubing. Mauve blood squirted into the glass measuring jug, while the staff nurse held the patient's arm steady. As the blood flowed out, the patient's breathing slowed and became less distressed. Mr Ransley relaxed visibly.
When one pint had been removed, the blood-pressure cuff was deflated, the needle removed and a gauze swab strapped over the vein. The patient was moved a little further up the bed. He was no longer blue, and was breathing comfortably through his oxygen mask. The trolley was taken out, and a junior nurse was brought to the bedside to “special” the patient – charting his pulse and respirations half-hourly, and his blood-pressure two-hourly.
Outside the curtains the ward was humming busily, as the remaining nurses laboured to prepare the ward for the hand-over to the day staff at eight o'clock. I put on my white coat and went to the waiting room, where I gave a quick progress report to the patient's wife, who had arrived a few minutes before. When I returned to the bedside a quarter of an hour later to peek at Mr Ransley from around the screens, he appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2) Page 10