“Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes, wasn't Cliff good?”
I drove slowly back towards the hospital, deep in thought. What had been the meaning of all that?
On the almost deserted High Street, we were overtaken by a black police Rover, its lights flashing; it stopped a hundred yards on; a uniformed policeman jumped out, and waved us down. Belinda sat, looking rigidly ahead, an unfathomable expression on her face.
I wound down my window, with a nagging feeling of anxiety. He was a big man with a pencil moustache – the police sergeant of my dreams.
“Please step out of the car, sir ...”
There was a lengthy pause, while I complied. For a long time he looked me up and down, assessing me minutely. Then:
“I've just received a telephone message from a female caller ... wanted to remain anonymous ...”
The junior nurses from the back row of the cinema! That was quick.
“What the hell were you doing – messing with my fiancée in the cinema. Just you keep away from her in the future, d'you hear. Elsewise, on duty or off duty, in uniform or out of uniform, if I catch you with Belinda again – I'll punch you on the nose! Now take her straight home.”
I drove slowly back to the hospital, aware of the police car in my rear view mirror, following one hundred yards behind me ...
2
Thursday, 7th October: “You don't need an application form,” the Medical School Secretary had told me on the phone. “But apply in plenty of time – early October should be OK.”
I sat poised at my desk at midnight, with the curtain open and the table lamp casting an oval of yellow light on the ceiling. Outside, a strong breeze rattled the branches of the chestnut trees, and silvery clouds scudded across the full moon. Chill night air crept into the room through the open window vent.
“Dear Sir,” I wrote. “I wish to apply for the post of Thoracic House Surgeon at The London Hospital. I was a medical student at The London from nineteen-fifty-five to nineteen-sixty, and am due to complete my current post of House Physician to Dr Peter Middleton at St Peter's Hospital, Hitchin on the thirtieth of November of this year. I have always been keenly interested in Thoracic Surgery, and feel that this would be a great opportunity for me ...”
The thoracic house surgeon's post was universally agreed to be the most arduous and least popular job at The London; it was the only one I considered I had a realistic chance of winning. It was so tough and physically demanding that no house surgeon in living memory had completed the six months of the post: all had taken sick leave before the end. It was rumoured that even the present locum had refused to apply for the definitive post. I knew that I would have to grit my teeth and take my chances, if I wanted to get a teaching hospital house job, a foot on the first rung of the teaching hospital ladder. My future career probably depended on my being successful in this endeavour. To my surprise and great pleasure, Uncle Peter had not only agreed to support my application, he let slip that he intended to write to the dean personally to recommend me for the job.
“I knew the dean at medical school; we were in the same year, though never close ...”
“I thought that Dr Turnbull-Clark had retired, Sir.”
“No, I gather he was off sick for a couple of months, but is back in harness again ...”
I must remind Dr Middleton, I thought, as I sealed and addressed the envelope. His endorsement would carry considerable weight ... It would be great to see The London again. My mind went back to my carefree student days, the Christmas Show, the Summer Ball, the Brighton Walk. All seemed sunny, joyful and light-hearted in those days. I wonder if any of my friends will be on the house there now ...
3
Tuesday, 12th October: Although I led a frugal life, I was running out of cash and needed to get to the bank. So this afternoon, having finished all my ward work, I jumped into Fred and headed for the centre of Hitchin. The day was sunny and unseasonably warm, as I sailed down the hill, my window open to the balmy breeze. I felt happy – almost elated – as if I were playing truant from school. What was that? From outside came the sound of a powerful motorbike exhaust. Through my wing mirror, I could see a motorcyclist, face obscured by helmet and goggles, and swathed in black leathers, riding point about twenty yards behind me, constantly keeping three cars between us. Who could that be? Is he following me?
On a whim, I turned off the main road, and found myself in the cobbled market. There was no sign in my mirror of the motorcyclist: I had lost him. The place buzzed with activity – dozens of stalls filled the square: fresh fruit and vegetables, flowers, meat and poultry, rugs, vases and ornaments; the hubbub of voices extolling their wares, cajoling, haggling, male, female, loud, soft, hoarse, refined, rich Hertfordshire country accents echoed all around me. The pedestrians had taken over most of the road, and I had to drive at a snail's pace, hooting my horn from time to time to make any sort of headway. I had wanted to alight and look around – perhaps buy a small trifle for my parents or sister. However, there was not an inch of parking space anywhere.
When I glanced at my watch, I found it was twenty-past three – the bank was due to close at half-past! Abruptly my mood changed, as I searched desperately for a side-street to take me back to the main thoroughfare. I felt trapped and regretted bitterly my impulse to explore this woe-begotten place; I wished I had proceeded straight to the Midland Bank. Thankfully, a one-way street opened up in front of me, leading me once more into the High Street. However, I now found myself in a major traffic jam, still travelling at no more than five miles an hour – everyone seemed to be heading for the bank before it closed! I drummed on the steering wheel in frustration and cursed under my breath. To make matters worse, the sun had gone and a fine drizzle was falling, smudging my windscreen, while the wipers laboured ineffectually on the small volume of rain water. I considered parking the car and walking, but yet again there were no parking spaces; in any case I was still a mile from my destination.
The car in front of me skidded on the wet road, stopped suddenly; I jammed on the brakes and came to a halt with a couple of feet to spare; I felt a soft bump; I alighted from the car to check the damage: a moped had driven into the back of Fred. I examined the rear bumper carefully: not a scratch, not a mark. In contrast, the front of the moped had an ugly dent. The rider remained on his seat, goggles pushed up on his helmet, tears streaming down his face.
“I'm a doctor,” I introduced myself. “Are you all right?”
He was a slight chap in a sports jacket and flannels, with a striped scarf looped around his neck. The rain was dripping off him, adding to his woebegone appearance. He had the soft voice and delicate complexion of a young girl.
“I'm not injured ... Hardly travelling fast enough ... I know it's my fault, but I bought the bike less than a week ago, and now look at it.”
Cars laboured to get past us, as we exchanged names, addresses and phone numbers, and I took down his registration number and insurance details. However I didn't expect I would need any of this information ... We were interrupted by the sudden appearance – out of nowhere – of a bulky figure.
“Are you hurt?”
It was a police sergeant with a pencil moustache – Belinda's boyfriend!
“I saw it all ... You were clearly at fault, sir ... Unable to stop in time ... Driving too close to this gentleman's car.”
He was surprisingly conciliatory, and actually smiled at me.
“I've got all the details, and shall make my report, but I shan't need to take any further action, as no-one was hurt. Are you all right to ride that? Off you go then ...”
As the moped moved slowly away in a cloud of exhaust fumes, he detained me with a gesture of his hand:
“Belinda has told me about your tragedy, Dr Scott – that she was only trying to help you, cheer you up, like ... I want you to know that I'm really sorry about the other night ...”
4
Wednesday, 13th October: Unusually, I was summoned to Sir Hum
phrey Golding's out-patient clinic midway through the morning. The great man – elegant in a dark blue three-piece pinstripe suit from Savile Row with a spotted blue tie and matching handkerchief in breast pocket – finished writing, put down his gold fountain-pen, rose to his feet and walked across the room to the couch, where a pale child was waiting to be examined. He was tall and lean with the bearing of an athlete and the grace of a ballroom dancer. I heard that he had been an Oxford blue – Roger Bannister's predecessor as a middle distance runner. The out-patient sister stood beside the child, alert to any wishes or commands, while the parents sat, patient and deferential, by the desk. He finished his careful examination.
“Come and have a look at this little girl's abdomen, Dr Scott ... Don't be frightened, Laura – he'll be very gentle.”
She was small and delicate, with an angelic smile which changed to giggles when I put my palm on her abdomen – she was obviously very ticklish. There were a few bruises and petechial haemorrhages on her trunk, and when I looked further afield, I found them also on her arms and legs. Her spleen was moderately enlarged, soft but non-tender.
“Laura is almost six, and she has felt unwell for two months. She is getting tired, and is short of breath on exertion ... I see you've found the spleen ... She also has general enlargement of her lymph nodes. Have you spotted the anaemia, the petechiae and the bruising?”
He seemed pleased when I nodded.
“These are Laura's parents – Mr and Mrs Parker.”
He smiled encouragingly at them, exerting all his considerable charm to instil confidence and ease their worry.
“I want you to get hold of a bed for Laura in the children's ward, within the next few days. She appears to have a blood disorder, and we shall have to investigate her to establish an exact diagnosis, and to see if she is suitable for treatment.”
After sister had ushered the family out, I joined the consultant at the wash-basin to wash our hands. His face was pained, when he turned to look at me:
“It's almost certainly acute lymphatic leukaemia ... So sad.”
My stomach contracted and I struggled to hold back a tear. All I could think of was Jill ...
5
Friday, 15th October: I set off straight after lunch with a full tank of petrol, having assiduously studied my maps, which now rested on the seat beside me.
The letter had been post-marked “Brecon”, re-addressed in my mother's neat handwriting and forwarded to me from Clapham. The doctors' dining-room was empty, so I had slit open the envelope, and perused its contents during my leisurely breakfast: it was from Danny Thomas in Llangammarch Wells.
“Dear Edwin,” he had written in a neat schoolboy script. “You will be surprised that I am writing to you, but Aunty Bronwen has been very sick. At one stage we wondered if she would pull through. She has recovered now, but wants very much to see you again before she dies, as the doctor said the next attack may be the last one. So I promised I would contact you. Do please come and visit us. Yours truly, Danny.”
I had rung him after breakfast, and arranged to visit on my next week-end off from St Peter's ...
I left the southbound A1 trunk road at Hatfield, headed west and eventually joined the A40; I bypassed Cheltenham, Gloucester and Monmouth, and – after what seemed an eternity – I was in Wales! I stopped at a café in Abergavenny for a cup of tea, a bun, another perusal of my maps, and some time to ease the aching of my muscles and joints; I lingered for a good half-hour, charmed by the Welsh lilt of the voices, the friendly Celtic faces and the profound sense of peace. The stiffness in my neck and back had left me by the time I emerged into the small car-park, where faithful Fred awaited me. Next on to the sleepy small town of Brecon with its grey stone buildings and sparse vehicular traffic; here I left the main road, turned down the narrow B4520 and then the even tighter B4519. Just when I thought I was lost, I found myself in the village of Llangammarch Wells. At half-past five I pulled up outside the old farm-house, and emerged, stiff again but happy, into the soft evening sunlight. Dogs barked, the door opened and Aunty Bronwen stood on the threshold.
“My dear little Edwin ...”
Tears coursed down her cheeks, and soaked my shirt front as she embraced me. Her hair had turned completely white and was sparser than when I had last seen her only a year before. She was almost a head shorter then me, and wore the fawn cardigan I had brought her at my last visit, a light grey skirt and woollen socks. She smelled strongly of lavender and moth-balls.
With my cousin Eric, I had been evacuated to live with her and Uncle Daffyd, throughout World War Two, that is from the age of three until we were eight. The couple were childless, and Daffyd and Bronwen Pugh treated us as their own. Danny Thomas, Bronwen's nephew, had helped out on the farm. I recalled a gangly youth with a shy, but ready smile, who allowed us to join in the hay-making with him, and occasionally to sit on the broad back of the cart-horse. I had been heart-broken when I was told that I would have to return to my own parents at the end of the war ...
Daffyd had died several years before, and now Bronwen lived alone in the ancient farmhouse, while Danny occupied a small cottage on the estate, and worked the farm (with only minimal help from his aunt).
“You remember Sally and Bob, our sheep dogs? Sadly Flash, their dad, passed away last Christmas – he was seventeen, a good age. But I still miss him.”
Chickens pecked in the yard, and in the background sheep bleated in the still air. The mountains stood majestic and misty in the middle distance, as the deep red disc of the sun set behind their peaks; I gazed, enchanted, at the pink after-glow.
Grasping my overnight bag firmly, I followed Aunty Bronwen through the single ground-floor chamber which formed the living-room and kitchen, with its low ceiling, stone-flagged floor, oak beams, small windows, and the kitchen range in which blazed a wood fire. We climbed the narrow staircase to the bedroom at the back of the cottage that I had shared with my cousin so many years ago.
“Make yourself at home, Edwin ... Supper will be ready in half an hour ... Then we can chat ...” The wonderful cadences from so long ago brought a lump to my throat ...
I had washed in the bathroom, Bronwen's pride and joy, plumbed in only a year before. Now I lay between the crisply starched sheets, surveying the old room: the vase of wild flowers on the chest of drawers, the oak wardrobe with one leg missing and propped up instead on layers of cardboard, the well-remembered faded floral curtains which didn't quite meet in the middle, the worn rug of nondescript colour and pattern by the bedside, the tiny bedside table with just room for a lamp and my alarm clock, the circle of light on the ceiling cast by this lamp.
Memories of childhood mingled with a replay of today's journey – I still felt as though I was moving whenever I closed my eyes; I was very tired, and put away my book unread; I switched off the light, and lay on my back. A shaft of moonlight entered the room through the crack in my curtains, and the contents stood out brightly. I listened to the creaking of the old house as it settled itself to rest, and the occasional cough from Aunty Bronwen's room across the corridor. Outside, I became aware of the night noises. An owl hooted, a fox barked (the sound briefly taken up by our farm dogs), and a hapless small animal squealed pitifully in the grip of a predator. The wind sighed in the trees, there was a roll of distant thunder, and then the rain drummed on the roof as I drifted off into a deep sleep.
6
Saturday, 16th October: After lunch, I walked into the village, passing the tiny Victorian school where I had joined in the children's playground games – conkers, milk-tops, marbles – and where Eric had rescued me on innumerable occasions from wrestling matches that I had started, but which I was always going to lose because of my diminutive stature; I headed for the village shop. As I pushed open the door, a bell tinkled somewhere in the rear; inside I was transported into a bygone age: in one corner, was the post-office, with its grill and official-looking wall posters; next to this a smooth marble counter proclaimed the grocery departme
nt, stacked with tins and jars, and hung with hams and cheeses; beside the scales – on the centre of the counter – stood the gleaming chrome ham-slicing machine; in the far corner of the shop was the confectionery section, crammed with tall jars of sweets, toffees, liquorice all-sorts, sherbets, candies – and a large selection of chocolate bars; on a rack in the centre of the shop, with the newspapers and periodicals, were stacked the comics and annuals of my youth. I stood, turning over a magazine in my hands, eavesdropping on the village gossip, imbibing the sounds of my childhood.
“I hear Gwynneth is getting wed next week ...”
“And her not even pregnant – there's posh!”
Finally, I purchased a large bar of hazel-nut chocolate and a Mars-bar for my journey home on the next day; I left the shop with the musical sound of the bell in my ear.
Should I take the track up the mountain? No. I remembered my last attempt, when I had got caught in a dense mountain mist which had descended without warning. For a while I had been lost and totally, scarily, disorientated, until the fog had risen as suddenly as it had come, and the mountain was again bathed in benign golden sunshine. I opted instead to stroll along the stream behind the farm. Last night's rain had cleared; the surroundings had the fresh, clean feel of being newly minted; the scent of new-mown hay mingled with the acrid odour of cow-dung; the sun was shining, yet the air was misty, smoky, autumnal. Birdsong was audible above the gurgling of the shallow brook as it flowed swiftly over stones and boulders, and tumbled in small waterfalls over trapped logs. I searched for the shallow pools where – as a child – I had caught tiddlers and tadpoles in my net, before conveying them home in a large jam-jar. I resisted the temptation to remove my shoes and socks, and paddle in the cool brook. I glanced up: the clouds were building up again, the sun was blotted out; the air became chill. I fastened the toggles of my duffel-coat, turned around on the narrow track and headed back to the farm-house ...
Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2) Page 14