“Dear Dr Middleton, re Mrs Heather Bradley, aged 52, of 3 Manley Close, Hitchin. Kindly see and advise, c/o long-standing cough and dyspnoea ? Cause. With kindest regards, Michael Cumberbatch.”
I had no time to peruse the other notes – I would see them as they came ... I got up and poked my head around the door. I cleared my throat.
“Please ask Mrs Bradley to come in,” I muttered to the waiting staff-nurse ...
I had been working away non-stop for about an hour, and was just about to call in my last new patient, when sister knocked and entered briskly.
What have I done now? I wondered. However, she gave me a wintry smile, which I took to mean encouragement:
“Dr Middleton would like to see you in Consulting Room One, Dr Scott ...”
I put down the GP letter I had been perusing, and followed her next door. The room was empty, but my eyes were drawn to the jacket, overcoat and black silk scarf which hung on the back of the door; the door to one of the examination rooms was ajar, and through it I could see a patient on the couch, wearing a gown and covered by a blanket; a staff nurse stood by her side, in the the role of chaperone. Dr Middleton smiled as I entered.
“Ah, Dr Scott, this is Mrs Edith Hendry, a lady of thirty-seven ... I'd like you to have a look at her neck – you don't mind, do you Mrs Hendry? Notice first the exophthalmos, her warm skin ... and the fine tremor ...
“See the smooth swelling – a thyroid goitre ... Now listen over it with your stethoscope ... what can you hear?”
“A bruit, Sir ...”
“Quite right, good man ... a sign of increased vascularity of the thyroid gland ...”
When I had finished seeing all my patients, just after four-thirty, I was called in to Dr Middleton's room again, where tea and cakes were laid out on his desk.
“Draw up a chair and join me for tea, Edwin ... You've made an excellent job of it this afternoon, after being thrown in at the deep end like that for the second time. How did you enjoy it?”
“It was most interesting, sir. I think I'm getting the hang of it ...”
I had seen two old patients whom I recognised from the wards, and three follow-ups of Brian Root's. I had had to call the consultant in for one of these, as she didn't appear to be responding to treatment; with some trepidation, I had queried the original diagnosis; fortunately Dr Middleton had agreed, and decided to admit her (very soon) for further investigation. Overall, I was pretty satisfied with my afternoon ...
13
Thursday, 28th October: “Name six causes of droopy eyelids – that is to say 'ptosis' ...”
William Boyd had arrived as Brian Root's locum, after the latter's dramatic departure. He had been accommodated in the overflow doctors' quarters, which he now shared with Russ Potter, Claud Guillam, Imran Shah and Paula Howard. He was in his late thirties, a handsome, elegant bachelor with a brand new E-type Jaguar sports-car. He reminded me of Daniel Southcote, the producer of our Christmas shows at the London Hospital Medical College when I was a student.
“Er, Number One – third nerve palsy, Number Two – sympathetic palsy producing Horner's syndrome, Dr Boyd ...”
My response petered out into an embarrassed silence.
“Quite correct ... But there's also Number Three – tabes dorsalis, Number Four – congenital ptosis, Number Five – muscular causes, namely myasthenia gravis, thyrotoxicosis, dystrophia myotonica, facio-scapulo-humeral muscular dystrophy, ocular muscular dystrophy, and finally Number Six – hysterical ...” He rattled off the answers like a machine gun, leaving me breathless. “And you'd better call me 'Bill', or if you prefer 'Hopalong' ...”
“Hopalong?” I was intrigued.
“After the cowboy film star Bill Boyd, who played the part of Hopalong Cassidy ...”
In a flash, it all came back to me. I recalled the old black and white Westerns of my childhood – immediately after the war – shown in the Saturday morning picture club. For a long moment we sat in silence in Bill's utilitarian room, each in his own world ...
“Right, Edwin. What are the nine causes of tremor of the hands?”
Boyd had failed the examination for Membership of the Royal College of Physicians three times already, and was determined to pass this time. He couldn't rise to become a consultant physician without it. He had just completed Papworth's Membership Course, and was now armed with lists on every topic likely to come up in the clinical exam, which he was trying out on me. His eyes glinted, and he smiled at me encouragingly ...
14
Sunday, 31st October: I passed East Putney Station, and turned left into Felsham Road, a hidden leafy world of large Edwardian houses, with an occasional Daimler or Bentley parked at the kerb. I stopped outside number fifty-seven, an imposing double-fronted edifice, switched off the engine of my Morris Minor, waited a few moments to let my pulse settle, and stepped out into a steady drizzle.
I examined the brass plate by the front door: “Dr E.D. Hughes, M.B., B.S.” Jill's mother ran a single-handed general practice, I recalled, and still used her maiden name professionally.
I made my way around the house to the much smaller side entrance, and rang the bell. The door was opened almost immediately by Mrs Pritchard herself, small and dumpy, dressed in black. She embraced me (the softness of her body strangely familiar, strangely like Jill's), and I felt a long wet kiss on my cheek. I was ushered up the flight of narrow stairs to the spacious living-room, where Neville Pritchard was waiting to shake my hand.
After Jill's funeral, I had shared a lavish buffet with the other mourners, in a room over a superior pub in the Upper Richmond Road. Today was the first time I had been back to the Pritchard home since September 1958, when Jill and I were still at medical school ...
“We're here!”
Jill's call echoed in the empty house. Weren't we expected? She led me up a small flight of stairs into a spacious sunlit living-room: I noted the comfortable chintz furniture, 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 brown frizzy 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; before these was placed a low cast-iron table with a glazed-tile top, upon which were painted two brightly coloured peacocks.
On one 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 unsmoked 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.”
Silence reigned o
nce more. Eventually, Mrs Pritchard brought the tea on a large tray, which she deposited on the low table: the almost obligatory plate of cucumber sandwiches, a fruit cake, and a delicate decorated 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 on me, still semi-recumbent in my deep wicker arm-chair.
“I promise,” said a small husky voice – which I realised 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 again firmly back inside the bottle. The birdsong and bright sunlight returned; a soft breeze caressed my cheek, and the scent of honeysuckle wafted up to me; a bumble-bee buzzed in the 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 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, gave his daughter a fond smile, before disappearing into the house ... Outside 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 inside 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 poured and passed the tea; I reached out for it, but, 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 ... I'll replace them, of course ... 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 shards 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 ...
Eileen passed me the tea and fruit-cake. Neville Pritchard cleared his throat.
“You're honoured, Edwin ... you've got the prize of our collection – our special Minton cup and saucer ...”
I had found a replacement for the broken items at Harrod's after a long search of London's department stores, but had no idea that the Pritchards regarded them as special. I looked out at the back garden through the closed French windows – the rain had stopped, and the sun was peeping out from behind a cloud. I brought my gaze back to the couple sitting opposite me: tears were flowing down Eileen's cheeks, while Neville was trying valiantly to keep a stiff upper lip.
“You are the only one we have left since Jill died, Edwin ... Please come and visit us again sometime. It means so much to us both ...”
Part Six
November 1960
1
Thursday, 4th November: I parked in the turning circle of a large gravel drive, next to a navy blue Austin Cambridge saloon; I was in front of a Victorian mansion, in an exclusive leafy suburb of Hitchin.The momentary silence when I switched off the ignition was broken by a chorus of blackbirds. I waited for my pulse to slow, before alighting from the car and climbing the three broad white steps to the dark maroon door. Ignoring the lion's head knocker, I pressed the door-bell. I heard a faint ringing somewhere deep inside the house. Almost at once the door opened, and I was facing a delicate bird-like lady in a full length black satin dress. Informally attired in my sports jacket and flannels, I wondered whether I had come to the right address.
“Hello, Dr Scott ... Do come in ... I've heard so much about you ... Oh, what lovely chocolates!”
She ushered me into the hall. She seemed to be as nervous as I was. There was a slight tremor to her voice, but it was soft, warm, with an appealing hint of the Welsh valleys.
“I'm Gwen Middleton ... do let me take your coat ...”
As I moved forward to comply, I trod on something soft – it was Dr Middleton's black scarf, which had fallen out of the open cloaks cupboard. I hastily picked it up, dusted it down and returned it to my hostess.
“Sorry. So clumsy of me ...”
The interior of the house was dark and gloomy, illuminated only by a couple of wall lights. Uncle Peter descended the stairs slowly and deliberately, a mournful expression on his face.
“Ah, punctual as ever, Edwin. Come into the drawing room ... I'm sorry you've missed my old mum. I've had to take her upstairs to her room ... She's a little indisposed, perhaps a little over-excited. She's resting, now. Perhaps she'll come down before you leave ...”
“What a lovely home you have, Mrs Middleton.”
In contrast to the hall, the sitting room was spacious, light and airy, the furniture comfortable. A huge blank television set dominated one corner. A coal fire hissed and crackled merrily. French windows gave a stunning vista of the back garden, with tall smooth-stemmed beech trees along one edge, a well-kept lawn, massed flower beds (empty of blooms at this time of year), and an ornamental pond. Beyond the crumbling rear fence, I could see brown and white cows grazing in a field.
Gwen Middleton disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, leaving her husband to dispose of his scarf and my coat. Now he ushered me to an armchair near the fire. I had hardly had time to settle, before Mrs Middleton reappeared with a tea-tray; she served the tea and cakes on to a low table, before joining her husband on the sofa, on the opposite side of the fireplace.
“It's so nice to see you at last,” she resumed. “And how have you been enjoying St Peter's Hospital ... and Hitchin?”
I was about to reply with the usual platitudes, when Dr Middleton cut in:
“I'm not exactly a close friend of the Dean's, Edwin, but I have known him a long time.”
For a moment I was disorientated, and didn't know whom he meant; then I realised he must be referring to the Dean of The London Hospital Medical College.
&
nbsp; “I thought he had retired ...” I blurted out. I realised I was repeating myself.
“Oh, no ... Dr Turnbull-Clark decided to stay on; probably felt that activity was the best way to cope with his tragedy ... Anyway, I have written him a letter as I think I promised, strongly supporting your application to return there as a house surgeon ... I have never done this before for any of my house physicians; but you have distinguished yourself during your time here – you have been dedicated, hard-working, and I believe you have the makings of a fine doctor.”
His broad balding forehead gleamed in the fire-light, and a ribbon of viscid mucus stretched between his lips as he spoke, making him blow tiny bubbles and lisp slightly in his enthusiasm. He continued to beam at me after he had completed his pronouncement. I found myself blushing scarlet in the ensuing silence. Across the room, Mrs Middleton was smiling shyly but encouragingly at me.
“Er, thank you so much, Uncle ... that is to say ... Dr Middleton ... It's really kind of you ... I really appreciate ... I hope I won't let you down.”
2
Sunday, 7th November: Once more I was having tea in the doctors' sitting-room. However, instead of Teddy, Peggy and Sally-Ann, the centre of attention was Paula Howard, who had replaced Teddy as paediatric senior house officer just a week before. She was dressed in a tight white sweater and black pleated skirt, her ash-blond hair gleaming; she smiled demurely, while she fiddled with a newspaper, bathed in the admiration of the assembled males. Russ Potter, Imran Shah and Steve Bolton, all within touching distance of her, vied with each other in extolling the beauties of the Hertfordshire countryside. Even Olly Kumar was trying – shyly – to get in on the act. I had begun to feel jealous, until she gave me a wink of complicity from across the room.
Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2) Page 16